“No,” I answer softly, unable to pull my eyes from his.

Although something about him feels familiar, I know for a fact I’ve never seen him before. I would definitely remember him. Even though I’ve never been attracted to someone like him before, he definitely has something going on about him that’s warming my insides in a very foreign way and throwing me off my inner axis.

An adorable boyish smile slowly spreads across his lips. “You look so familiar.” He shakes his head, sending his shaggy hair flying around like a black halo. “So, you ready?” His voice is raspy, kinda like when you’ve been at a concert all night screaming.

“I think so,” I reply, smiling back. “This is my first . . . I’m a little nervous.” I clutch the bag I brought with me that has a pair of shorts and socks for me to change into, which he suggested when we emailed earlier this week.

He gestures with his hand for me to follow him behind the dark heavy curtain. “I love virgins. Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine. I’ll go nice and gentle. If you want to change into shorts, there’s a bathroom right through that curtain there. Just make a left.”

I quickly change my clothes and return to his work area, smiling nervously at him as I climb into the chair. He already has all his tools laid out on his workbench: the gun, itty-bitty cups of ink, and paper towels. Rock music is playing in the background, too, which I don’t recall hearing earlier, and incense is burning in the corner. He snaps on a pair of black latex gloves like a gothic surgeon and swivels his stool toward me.

“I have your sketch here,” he says, “ . . . and I gotta say. I really like it, and I think you’re gonna love it.”

He holds up a large piece of tracing paper for me to look at. It bears a design that I simply described to him via email a week earlier—a vine that swirls from the very top of my outer thigh down to my ankle, with swirly pieces that have different colored jewel-like flowers, as well as tiny butterflies and hummingbirds scattered about with wispy fillers. His sketch is an amazing work of art in itself. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I want to frame it and hang it on the wall at home. Somehow, he has captured exactly what I envisioned in my head.

Speechless, I stare at his drawing for a few moments. “Wow . . . it’s perfect.” I’m a bit nervous that it’s such a big tattoo for my first, but I don’t want to get some little tiny meaningless tattoo to ‘practice’ with before this one. I want something that’s worth it, something I’m committed to, that symbolizes the new me.

Grinning, he tapes it up to the wall next to the chair. “I tattoo freehand. That means that I don’t sketch it out on you first, like an outline, and then fill it in. Instead, I tattoo just like I would draw or paint on paper and canvas.”

“Oh . . . so, what if you make a mistake?” I ask.

Laughing a little, he shakes his head. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that.”

Leave it to me to be the first idiot to offend this amazing artist. “I’m sorry.” My eyes glance back to his sketch. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Just curiosity, I guess.”

“Hey, I’m not offended at all,” he answers. “I admire cautious people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, especially about some guy marking their body for life.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Well?” I urge, raising my eyebrows up at him. “What happens if you make a mistake? Is there some kind of like eraser thing?”

He looks at me sideways and winks. “I don’t make mistakes. And if I did? I’d do it so well you wouldn’t even realize it happened.”

“I see,” I say, admiring his confidence.

“Some things in life, you just can’t do over. They’re meant to be permanent, whether they’re what we expected or not. Doesn’t mean they’re a mistake.”

I blink at him, allowing his words to sink in. “Very wise words, Lukas. Impressive.”

“Yeah, I’m like a walking fortune cookie. It’s from reading too much.”

“You can never read too much. How does that saying go? He who reads lives a thousand lives?”

He nods and gives me his crooked yet very charming and still hauntingly familiar grin.

“So much truth in words, Ivy.”

Looking me over, he nods his head to the music and scoots closer. “Okay . . . why don’t you lay on your left side . . . the chair reclines back like a bed.” He flips a lever, leaning the chair back, then puts his hand on me and guides my leg slightly. “Is that comfortable for you, for now?” he asks.

I nod, a little flustered at his hand on my thigh. “Yes, it should be.”

“Alrighty, you let me know if you start to feel uncomfortable or woozy or any stuff like that, okay? I brought you a bottle of water, too, in case you get thirsty.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” I rest my head against my bent-up arm and bite my lip nervously, eyeing him and all his apparatus. I feel like I’m at a strange doctor’s appointment.

As he brings the gun to my flesh, I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the unknown.

The first few seconds, I want to scream and kick him in the face. It burns. It’s noisy. And holy shit, it hurts. How the hell do people do this? WHY do people do this? I try not to move my leg, and wonder how safe this is. It feels like he is literally digging a hole straight through my leg.

He stops and looks up at me, peeking out from under the hair that has fallen across his face, and once again, I’m overcome by that bizarre feeling. My heart just seems to freeze . . . and then jolts back to its rhythm again. I blink at him, trying to bring myself back to normalcy.

“Ivy . . . you doing okay there, doll?” Laying the gun down, he hands me the water bottle, eyeing me with concern. I take it from him and drink slowly. He called me doll. I should be offended, but I’m not. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Jesus. “You’re all tensed up.” A gentle squeeze of my leg meant to comfort me sends a jolt of heat straight up my thighs. “You’re doing great. I know it feels kinda strange, kinda like a bee is attacking you non-stop, but just try to relax, okay? It’s really not as bad as it feels, and it’s not as deep as it feels either.”

I laugh nervously and sip the water again. “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect. It does hurt.” I look at the first part of the vine that he’s started. Even this tiny bit looks really great, and the excitement of seeing it helps distract me from the pain.

“You have to just put your mind elsewhere,” he says. “Separate yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I know you’re probably not used to older women in here being all scared and jumpy.” I ease my body back down, giving him the ‘go-ahead’ to continue.

He picks up his gun and starts again, but it feels like he is being gentler and lighter now. “Old?” he repeats with narrowed eyes, wiping at my leg with a paper towel. “You’re not old.”

“I’m pretty sure I am not your average customer.”

“I have no average customers. How old are you, thirty? That’s not old.”

“Try thirty-six.”

He scoffs and re-positions my leg. “Shit, that’s not old either, and you look great. I see some young girls in here that look awful from doing drugs, abusing their bodies, baking in the sun. Hell, most of them have fake body parts. I don’t know what I’m touching half the time, and what might break off or pop.” He smiles up at me. “You have a really sweet natural beauty.”

Heat rises to my cheeks again, and I quickly look away from him and focus on the far wall. “Thank you for saying that. I guess I’m just starting to feel old. My daughter is almost eighteen, I’m recently separated, and I feel like all the women I see around me are young and thin, with these amazing bodies, looking like they just stepped off the runway.”

“Eh, trust me. Underneath all the makeup and the clothes, they ain’t all that. In fact, they’re pretty fuckin’ boring, too. Most of them can’t even carry a decent conversation, unless it’s about themselves.”

His soft humming to the music as he works his gun back and forth over my leg distracts and lulls me, putting me more at ease. “So how come you wanted to get a tattoo?”

I decide to just be honest rather than tell a silly lie. “I’ve always wanted one, but my ex-husband said they were ugly. He wouldn’t let me get one because he thought I would look like a slutty stripper.”

He wheels closer to his bench and changes something on his gun. “Ugly, huh?” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, his arm muscles flexing and rippling while he does whatever he’s doing, and I have to tear my eyes away before he catches me. “I guess there’s a ton of slutty strippers walking around then. But I don’t see you as one of them.” He wheels back over to me and places his hand on my thigh, once again sending a slight tingle travelling up between my legs. Good Lord! When was the last time I was touched there? Or the last time I felt butterflies?

His voice interrupts my butterfly moment. “And your body is yours—you can do whatever you want with it. No one should ever tell you what you should think, do, wear, or anything else.”

“Easier said than done when you’re married.”

“Well, it sounds like he won’t be inflicting his opinions on you anymore, so now you can spread your wings. Just like this little butterfly right here . . .” He taps my leg, and I follow his gaze to see the beautiful little butterfly he’s etched onto me forever.

“It’s beautiful,” I exclaim. “It looks so real. How do you do that?”

“See? That was supposed to be a bird, but I fucked it up and now it’s a butterfly.”

My mouth falls open until I see the playful grin spread across his lips. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I just wanted to see your face. And it was pretty funny.”