As ridiculous as it seemed, I had spent the last four hours counting the minutes until I was going in for my new tattoo; checking my watch every fifteen minutes hoping somehow an hour had passed, only to find out it had been minutes. After changing outfits no less than six times, I finally settled for jean shorts, my tattered Chuck’s, and a freshly purchased, but vintage appearing Clash concert tee shirt.

I had no way of knowing if my obsessive behavior was normal, or even if it would qualify as obsession for that matter, but I really didn’t care. I felt like my interest in Blake was genuine, without any real motive, and harmless. After convincing myself that no one would be able to schedule when their life presented a person of interest, I dismissed my thoughts and feelings to be nothing more than reaction to a good opportunity.

I hated to call it fate, because the word made everything seem so cliché. Fate, to me, was reserved for romantic comedies, love songs, and a few well written books. Realistically speaking, there was no such thing as fate. The world spins, we stumble forward in life, and if we’re paying close attention, sometimes through the course of our stumbling we bump into someone who catches our interest.

Blake surely caught mine.

I sat in my car waiting for four o’clock to arrive, wondering how much different a person I would be if I had never met Stephen. The summer after my junior year in high school we met, and immediately following, we started seeing each other. Within a year, I had graduated high school, and against the demands of my mother, I moved in with him. He was nine years older than me and had just completed law school two years prior.

At the time, his manner of dress, his many cars, and his attentive nature caused me to yearn to share my time with him. Fairly quickly, I fell in love. In hindsight, I was young, immature, and all too eager to fall for someone who provided me with an ounce of attention. My having grown up in a single parent home with a working mother and no siblings made my appetite for affection far greater than it would have been for anyone else my age.

I clung to Stephen like gum to a shoe. My plans to attend college were soon cast aside after promises that everything I wanted, desired, needed, or required would be provided to me without question as long as I was loyal to him and his needs.

So, the little girl who resided within me looked at him in a fatherly sort of way, and I fell deeply in love with what it was he provided me. Protection, comfort, love, affection, and a good hard fucking a few times a day convinced me he was nothing short of the answer to my dreams. Constantly showered with gifts, money, and clothes, it was difficult for anyone to convince me that my best interest wasn’t exactly what Stephen was furnishing.

I dismissed the violent outbursts to my immature behavior, and told myself as soon as I matured fully, I would stop making the same mistakes, and the abuse would stop. In time, I did mature, yet cruel behavior continued.

I had never, however, had a chance to live life. I had no friends, not even anyone I could call an associate. All of the people I came in contact with were Stephen’s friends and associates, none of which were close to my age, and in no way were any of them interested in me beyond what they expected Stephen would require of them. When we split up, there was no huge argument, no fight, and no text messages or calls following my having left.

As one of the bank accounts had both of our names on it, and was primarily used for my shopping sprees, I drove to the bank and asked about having his name removed from the account. Because we shared the account, and I was listed as the primary account holder, I removed his name without incident. I told myself it was what I was entitled to as his spouse, and although I fully expected him to make an attempt to recover the money, he never made a single effort. The state in which we resided dictated I was entitled to half of what he owned, and the portion I decided to take was more like five percent of his earnings or estate.

We had discussed a prenuptial contract on many occasions, and although I knew from his explaining matters that we were married as a matter of law, I refused to sign a prenuptial agreement, feeling it cheapened the relationship.

I suspected one of the reasons I never heard from Stephen was that I had warned him of my intention if he ever hit me again. The other reason, I was quite certain, was that when I obtained control of the account we shared, he was able to see exactly what I took, identify it, and accept is as a loss, knowing it ended there.

It was apparent he accepted it, as he chose to allow me to disappear from his life without so much as a text message.

If I were able, I would give everything back to him just to have a chance to begin my life again from scratch. If nothing else, I was grateful that I was only twenty-one years old, and had my entire remaining life ahead of me, and shared no children with him.

I glanced at my watch.

Ten after four.

Fuck.

I jumped from the car and pressed the lock button on the key fob. After making my way to the sidewalk I realized I had parked in the same spot, a hundred yards away, and with no good reason. Blake had seen what I drove, and made no real issue with it.

As I walked along the sidewalk toward his shop, he stepped outside and turned my direction. After checking his watch and making me feel even guiltier for bein late, he turned away and walked inside.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I increased my speed to a slow jog and slowed immediately before reaching the window in front of his building. After adjusting my glasses and tugging the bottom of my shorts out of my twat, I pulled the door open and stepped inside. As it had in the past, the shop smelled sterile, causing my nostrils to flare for a moment until they adjusted to the unidentifiable cleaning products.

“You ready?” he asked as soon as I stepped through the door.

“Uhhm yeah. Sorry I’m late. I was actually early, but I was thinking. I think I want a sleeve. I’ve seen some pictures online and I really like the thought of a sleeve,” I said as I began to walk his direction.

“Let’s get this done first, have a seat,” he said as he turned away.

Don’t be mad.

“I’m really sorry I’m late,” I said as I walked toward his work station.

I glanced around the empty shop. The work area adjacent to Blake’s was a mess. The drawers to the tool box were opened and there were tattoo machines, supplies, and drawings scattered about.

“Where’s uhhm,” I paused as I continued to look at the mess.

“Tyler?” he asked.

“Yeah, where’s Tyler?”

“He got mad and left. He was distracting me. You need to use the bathroom or anything?” he asked as he held the stencil in the air for me to see.

A large coiled snake with the scales on the stomach exposed and the mouth partially opened was neatly drawn on the paper.

“Oh wow. I like that. It amazes me you can just draw something like that,” I said.

He widened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He seemed short tempered. I hoped my being a few minutes late didn’t upset him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. No, I’m ready. I brought water and some protein bars, so I’m good to go,” I said.

“Well, have a seat. Actually just lay down on your stomach. We’ll do it a little different than last time. You wear a sports bra?” he said as he pointed to the leather chair.

The leather chair was similar to a dentist’s chair, and was extended to be flat, resembling a wide leather bed elevated on an aluminum frame. I glanced at the chair and thought of lying on my back in my bra while Blake tattooed something on my hip. For whatever reason, the thought of lying down half naked seemed more intimate than sitting upright. After a short study of the chair, I turned toward Blake and grinned.

“Yes, I did. Are you upset with me? Because I was late?” I asked as I placed my purse beside the chair.

“No, I’m not mad at you, I’m pissed off at Tyler,” he snapped back as he pulled rubber gloves onto his hands.

“Take your shirt off and lay down,” he said flatly as he pointed to the chair again.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked.

“About what?”

“Tyler?”

“Tyler’s a fucking idiot sometimes. He was saying shit about you, and it made me mad.”

I didn’t want to act overly interested, but if Blake was sticking up for me when Tyler was talking shit, I wanted to hear about it.

“What did he say?” I asked as I pulled my shirt over my head.

“Just talking shit,” he shrugged.

“Like what? I won’t get mad, I’m just curious. I don’t even know him, it seems funny that he’d say anything,” I said as I lowered myself onto the chair.

“He said if you came in here this morning wearing the clothes you wore, you did it to encourage me,” he said.

Lying flat on my stomach, I pressed my elbows into the leather and rested my chin in the palms of my hands. I fixed my eyes on him and shook my head lightly, taking complete offense to what Tyler had said, but hoping to keep my cool in my display of my anger.

“Encourage you to what? Jesus. I was on my way home from the gym. If I would have gone home and then came back, it would have been like another hour. He’s full of shit. And encourage you? What does that even mean?” I snapped back.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s gone now it doesn’t matter,” he said as he leaned against the side of the chair.

Still upset about Tyler saying anything about me, I rolled to my side and gazed up at Blake. His hair was the same usual adorable mess, just spiked a little higher than normal. His eyes were puffy and he looked exhausted, as if he had slept very little the night before. I didn’t feel it my place to pry into his personal life, and I guessed it was completely possible that his fight with Tyler had worn on his nerves so much that he was simply worn out.

“So what all did he say?” I asked, “Just tell me, I won’t get mad.”

He shook his head lightly, grinned, and eventually started to laugh. As he raised his hand to cover his mouth, I realized he had yet to rub his hands together since I had arrived. I began to wonder just what it was that triggered him to rub his hands together in the manner he did so, and as I was preparing to press him a little harder about Tyler, he began to speak.

“He said you were a slut. He said you were wearing those clothes to encourage me to try and fuck you. I explained you weren’t like that, and he just kept going on and on about it, swearing you were nothing but a skank,” he said.

I sat up in the seat, “A skank? Really? Wow. Wait till I see him.”

He shook his head. “Forget it, really. I made him leave for the rest of the day. He’ll think about what he said, believe me.”

A slut?

Really?

“You know what?” I asked.

He sat on the edge of the chair, reached for my ponytail, and moved it to the side as he studied my back. After a moment of leaning behind me and staring, he sat up straight.

“What’s that?” he responded.

“One guy. Just one. That’s how many people I’ve slept with. One. I was with him from my junior year in high school until last year. One. I wonder what Tyler can say about himself? That fucker,” I growled.

“Wow, that’s impressive,” he said as he stood.

He stood at the side of the chair nodding his head. After a moment of what seemed to be deep thought, he continued.

“Holy shit, I’ll have to tell him how wrong he was. But Tyler? He’s a man whore who’s basically addicted to sex. He fucks anything that moves, so he’s not one to talk. Just forget about it, you ready?”

“Sure,” I said as I relaxed onto my stomach, “That fucker. It just makes me mad. Who’s he to say anything?”

“Exactly. Let’s just both forget it.

The thought of Tyler calling me a slut or saying I was intentionally trying to lure Blake into something sexual was aggravating. I was conscious of what I was wearing, and I was even a little apprehensive to come in with it on. The reluctance, at least in my mind, confirmed my intention as being more wholesome than whorish.

“Okay,” I said.

I closed my eyes as he wiped my back, shaved the area, and pressed the stencil onto my skin. After checking the placement in the mirror, I relaxed onto the chair, and he sat beside me on his stool.

“Ready?” he asked.

I tilted my head to the side and glanced upward. He seemed peaceful and much different than when I arrived. After a few seconds of admiration, I grinned and nodded my head.

“I’m ready. You really enjoy this, don’t you?” I asked.

“If you find something you really enjoy, you’ll never work another day in your life,” he responded. “This isn’t work. For me, it’s therapeutic. It keeps me at peace.”

“I like it. It’s weird, but getting a tattoo seems soothing,” I responded as I lowered my head.

A song I recognized, Pearl Jam’s Yellow Ledbetter, began to play. I realized as I absorbed the guitar solo introduction that the music wasn’t some special “for tattoo shop only” selections. It was probably music that he had personally chosen.

“I like this song,” I said.

“Yellow Ledbetter. I feel that way sometimes,” he said.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Ready?” he asked.

I pressed my face into the leather and nodded my head.

“Ready,” I mumbled.

The buzzing began, and immediately following the sound, the needle pressed against my skin, causing me to jump slightly.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” I responded.

I tilted my head to the side, “What did you mean you feel like that sometimes?”

“Close to the end,” he said over the buzzing, “He says he doesn’t know whether he’s the boxer or the bag. Sometimes I feel like that.”

I thought about what he said, tried to remember the lyrics of the song, and realized for some reason I liked the song despite the fact I had no idea what they were saying.

“I think I feel like that sometimes too,” I said.

I closed my eyes and tried to decide based on the feeling of the needle against my skin exactly where he was tattooing. After some time, I realized I had no idea, and the tattooing, in some respects, caused my skin to feel numb and almost immune to feeling anything with accuracy. It was almost as if I felt the needle in my right arm even though I fully realized it was on my lower left shoulder.

“Have you always been artistic?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said over the sound of the buzzing. “When I was a kid I used to paint the railcars at the tracks downtown. You want to know the coolest thing about that?”

“Sure.”

“Seeing one of the cars being pulled along the tracks a few years later with my mural still painted on it,” he said.

“That’d be pretty cool. I wonder how many people over the entire United States saw that mural. You know, everywhere it had been,” I said.

“Exactly,” he responded. “I thought the same thing. I felt like a celebrity, I don’t know, like I’d made it into the big leagues. I just remember feeling pretty proud.”

“I bet. Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

“So you’ve owned this shop for two years?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“What did you do before this?” I asked.

The buzzing stopped. His stool inched across the floor until he was at my side. As he cradled the tattoo machine in his hand, the expression on his face changed to one of a more serious nature. After a long moment of obvious contemplation, he responded.

“I was a cop,” he said flatly.

I raised myself up in the chair slightly. “A police officer? A cop? Like an actual cop?”

He nodded his head.

His face washed with a look of concern. In a matter of seconds, it was almost as if his mind had slipped into memories of the past, thinking of his former profession. I began to feel guilty for asking, and had only been trying to get to know him, but it was obvious thinking about whatever he was thinking about upset him.

“It’s an admirable profession,” I said softly.

He blinked his eyes, glanced at the tattoo machine, and after a short pause, nodded his head.

“I suppose so,” he said.

“What about you?” he asked as he scooted his stool around to the other side of the chair.

“I’ve uhhm, I’ve never had a job. During school, my mom wanted me to focus on studies, and after school I was in a relationship with a guy who was pretty well off financially. He didn’t really want me out in public, and for sure didn’t want me to work. So, I stayed at home unless I was with him,” I said.

“Didn’t want you out in public? What the fuck was that about? Seriously?” he asked as he began to press the needle onto my back.

“He was pretty protective of me,” I responded.

He stopped the tattoo machine and cleared his throat. “That’s not protective, Riley. It’s controlling, there’s a difference.”

I found his belief on the issue to be comforting. I had originally felt the same way, but Stephen continued to assure me he was protective, not controlling. Over time, he convinced me it was his protective nature that caused him to prevent me from doing anything alone. Having someone agree with my thoughts on his behavior was reassuring.

“You think so?” I asked.

“Fucking know so. What the fuck was he protecting you from by making you stay at home?  I mean, really. Protecting you from life? From exposing yourself to society? Protecting himself from potentially losing you if you bumped into someone who enlightened you into understanding he was a controlling prick, maybe. Ready?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, go ahead. Yeah, he was probably more controlling than most,” I agreed.

As he began to work on the tattoo, he continued, speaking just loud enough for me to hear him over the buzzing of the machine and the music.

“I’ve never really been in a relationship. I’ve been waiting for the right one to come along I suppose. I always told myself when the right one came along, I’d treat her with respect and truly try to act as if we were equal. I’m sure most guys tell themselves the same shit,” he said.

I raised my head slightly, and rested my chin on my clenched fist.

“You’ve never been in a relationship?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Wow.”

“So, what qualities does the right girl have?” I asked.

After a long moment of him continuing to work on the tattoo, he stopped and dipped the needle in the ink. He wiped my shoulder clean, rested his forearm on my side, and paused.

“On the outside? Bold glasses, ponytail, a well-defined waist, but I really don’t care about tits. I prefer unpainted fingernails, and she’s got to have toes that don’t look like little sausages. The toes are important,” he said.

My heartbeat immediately increased ten-fold. He had just described me. As I tried to think of how to respond, he continued.

“On the inside, she needs to be kind, forgiving, understanding, and appreciative of art, music, enjoy eating hot dogs as much as sushi, like riding on the back of a motorcycle, and be willing to be tattooed. As far as I’m concerned, there are only two types of people on this earth: those who are tattooed and those who aren’t; and I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t have a tattoo. I’d say that’s about it,” he said flatly.

“Wow. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just described me,” I said jokingly.

“I did,” he responded.

My mouth immediately went dry, my body began to tingle, and I felt like I was a little girl again.

As I turned my head to the side and gazed in his direction, he stopped the tattoo machine and grinned.

His eyes were hazel. I hadn’t been able to identify the color before, but they were every bit as green as they were brown. As I gazed into his eyes, I felt my heart began to swell with something comparable to pride. I wasn’t really prepared for the feeling I felt, and although I had every intention of getting to know more about Blake, I wasn’t necessarily ready to have an actual feeling of attraction in the sense I was feeling it. Slightly confused, but pleased with what I was feeling nonetheless, I gazed into his eyes and imagined him kissing me softly.

And for that moment, as he sat and silently returned my gaze, I felt as if we had been pulled a little closer to each other.

Yet.

I wanted more.