I pulled my car to the curb and stopped a hundred yards from the entrance, being careful to park in a location where no one inside could see what I was driving. I wasn’t ashamed of my car, and in fact, quite the opposite was true; but it wasn’t every twenty-one year old girl who drove an eighty thousand dollar car. It seemed as soon as someone realized what I drove, I was quickly labeled as a gold digger or a spoiled little rich girl, neither of which were true.

My former boyfriend gave me the car as a gift, and as much as he probably expected me to return it after we broke up, I didn’t even consider it as an option. Putting a price on his abusive behavior would be impossible, but if I did, the car was a small price for him to pay for what he did to me over the four-year period we were together.

Each time he touched me he later swore it would be his last, and for whatever reason any woman believes what her abusive boyfriend promises, I believed him. At first, I suspect it was because I was young, immature, and filled with false hope regarding what he would offer me long-term. At the time he was protective of me - sometimes overly so - but it was comforting to have someone care enough to be conscious of where I was going and who I was seeing. Over the next few years, I matured slowly, and his abusive behavior continued. When my level of maturity rose to a level which allowed me to question his behavior as abusive, I quickly did so.

Mentally, I drew a line in the sand on my twenty-first birthday, saying if the abuse continued, I would leave. He gave me the car as a birthday gift, and six months later slapped me so hard he knocked me to the floor.

The next morning, I was gone.

The car did remind me of him, but forgetting Stephen entirely was close to impossible, as his face was plastered all over billboards throughout the city. My best option for forgetting him was changing where I spent my time, who I spent it with, and getting a much needed tattoo depicting my newfound intention of flying solo for a long, long while. My first six months of single life was easy, and I hoped the future remained just as simple.

There was very little risk in encountering anyone meaningful at ten o’clock in the morning at a tattoo parlor other than the overweight former sailor who I expected would tattoo the Latin phrase on my shoulder. As far as I was concerned, I should be able to go get a tattoo without exposing myself to anyone who would tempt me to be in another relationship. Although a relationship wasn’t something I was afraid of or opposed to, I felt it was something I needed to proceed slowly with.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Although my preference was to wear contact lenses, a severe scratch on my right eye - the result of his most recent slap - prevented me from doing so for at least another month. I removed my glasses, placed them on the passenger seat, and gazed into the mirror as I tossed my hair into a cute little mess.

Not knowing for sure how long the tattoo might take, I chose my most comfortable jeans, an open neck tee, sports bra, and my Chuck’s. From what I had read on the internet, being comfortable was the most important thing about getting my first tattoo.

I walked along the rows of shops, peering curiously into the windows of each one as I passed. Living under Stephen’s thumb for the last four years prevented me from seeing certain parts of the city; he preferred the more glamorous and glitzy east side to the artistic regions of down town. 

With the early morning sun shining directly into my face, I walked along the sidewalk and toward the tattoo shop. As the warmth of the sun combined with my nervous stomach began to make me feel slightly uncomfortable, the flashing neon sign in the window to my immediate right caught my attention.

Blurred Lines.

A quick glance through the window and into the shop revealed the back of someone’s head who was seemingly preoccupied with whatever he was studying. Having made my appointment over the phone and not knowing for sure what Blake looked like, I leaned into the door with little expectation of him being anything but a talented tattoo artist.

As I pushed the door open he spoke over his shoulder without turning around.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I nodded my head as I glanced around the eclectically decorated shop.

The interior brick walls differed from the exterior brick in that they were covered with various pieces of painted canvas, framed watercolor paintings, and sketches on transparent paper. Dragons, winged serpents, snakes, flowers, and colorful fish surrounded me. As I seemed to lose myself in the colorful display of artwork, someone stepped between me and the wall I was ogling - well into my personal bubble.

As I began to step back and separate myself from the invasion, I realized in a matter of minutes he would probably be piercing my skin with a mechanized needle, and although it was nothing more than a tattoo, the experience would probably be an intimate one, bonding us together in what I hoped to be a long-term client-artist relationship.

And he meant no harm.

“Riley, my ten o’clock?” he asked.

I stood firm and shifted my focus from the dagger filled skull, nestled in a bed of roses, to the man standing at my side.

Covered in brightly-colored tattoos from his neck to his fingertips, he stood before me rubbing his hands together. As our eyes met, he extended his right hand and smiled, revealing much whiter teeth than I was prepared for.

He was far from the overweight sailor I had expected.

“Blake, I’ll be doing your piece,” he said.

I shook his hand, stared at his teeth, and smiled. “Riley.”

He was tall and appeared thin at first, but as I studied him it became apparent his upper body was proportioned very nicely. The Vans tee shirt he wore - obviously one of his favorites - clung to his well-defined chest. Underneath his shirt, the definition of the cross he wore around his neck was apparent. I shifted my eyes along his body. Where the waist of the shirt met his belt, a few dozen holes adorned the faded black garment, clearly showing its age and his preference to wear it. Although I told myself not to stare, refraining from doing so was becoming increasingly difficult. He seemed to be, at least from what I was able to see, everything Stephen wasn’t. He was attractive, yet cute in a boyish sense where Stephen was demandingly handsome. Instead of an expensive suit, he wore a tee shirt, sneakers and jeans. His hair wasn’t cut perfectly; it was more perfectly un-cut. Instead of barking out orders, he stood and nervously rubbed his hands together. As I began reconsidering my recently adopted “single forever” mantra, I shifted my eyes upward until I met his gaze.

“So, what have you got in mind?” he asked.

Not knowing whether the slight growth of facial hair was the result of having hurried out of his house in the morning, or something he had done intentionally didn’t really matter, it was the perfect complement to his strong jawline and made him even more attractive. He was the exact opposite of what I had expected.

I reached over my shoulder and patted my upper right back with my left hand as I nervously cleared my throat.

“‘She flies with her own wings’, but in Latin,” I said.

He nodded his head and grinned.

“What?” I asked, feeling as if he knew something I didn’t.

He cocked an eyebrow slightly. “You sure?”

“Uh huh,” I responded.

He coughed a laugh and pointed upward. “Pull your shirt down over your shoulder and turn around.”

“What?” I asked as I pulled the neck of my shirt past my shoulder.

He shook his head lightly as he twirled his index finger in a circle. I turned away from him and glanced over my shoulder, still wondering what he found funny about my request.

“What?” I asked again as he stepped closer.

I continued to peer toward him as he raised his hand. With my eyes fixed on his tattooed knuckles, he reached for my shoulder.

He traced along the skin of my upper back with the tip of his index finger.

“Here? Is this where you want it?” he asked.

Goosebumps rose along my arm. I closed my eyes and inhaled a choppy shallow breath. A simple trip to the tattoo parlor was quickly becoming a difficult walk down sensuality lane. I attempted to swallow, opened my mouth, and murmured a response.

“Yeah.”

I wasn’t necessarily prepared for him to touch me when he did so. I really don’t know what I could have done to prepare myself, but whatever it was, I hadn’t done it. He leaned forward, and although I suspected it was innocent, breathed into my right ear as he spoke.

“What I do to you is going to last forever, you need to be sure this is what you want before we go any further,” he said.

You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?

His warm breath against my neck caused me to shudder. I opened my eyes, gazed out the window, and did my best to respond.

“Ah-lees Vo-lat Proh-pee-us,” I said.

And the brief sensual moment I believed we were sharing was instantly severed as he began to laugh out loud.