“MARLEY, YOU’RE UP. Walk in!”
I took one final swig of the tepid coffee I’d reheated at least five times since visiting Ezra—my favorite-but-currently-unavailable-barista—this afternoon, and rubbed my hands along the torn denim covering my thighs. Tossing the cup in the trash, I stood from my station, dramatically marked myself with the sign of the cross, and prayed. Anything but a rose, goddammit. Just not another rose, I beg of you, dear Lord. I caught Darren muffling a chuckle as he worked on a tramp stamp, straddling the thirty-something chick who occupied his chair.
Scowling yet smiling, I flipped him the bird and made my way to the front of the shop. Once at the reception area, I pulled my hair out of my face and into a messy-but-tight topknot. With my tongue circling the inner side of the piercing at the corner of my mouth—a habit I’d probably never abandon as long as I wore the tiny metal ring—my eyes scanned the waiting area. Two teenage girls scrolled through their phones, enthusiastic with rebellion. A couple held hands, an engagement ring on the woman’s left hand, the man’s tattooed arm resting on her knee. An older dude with graying hair displayed an impressive portrait of a pin-up model on his calf. And then there was him. A rugged, blond-haired blue-eyed, all-American dude with virgin skin and a nervous grin, beckoning me toward him. Please let it be him. He definitely doesn’t want a rose.
My eyes darted in a Russian roulette sort of fashion as I awaited the moment of truth. Who would it be? Whose skin would be forever marked by my hand. I loved this part of my job. The meet and greet. There was something strange and beautiful, intimate even, about being the artist designated to permanently decorate another human being. Granted, this was just a run of the mill walk-in and not an appointment in which the client actually went about researching my work and sought me out, but still—my art + their body . . . forever. I found myself eager to discover which of these strangers would grant me the honor.
“Well? Which one of you lucky peeps is my next victim?” I finally blurted, my anxiousness getting the best of me. Anxiousness was a bad word for it. It was more like the adrenaline rush you experience right before riding a roller coaster, and I’d never tire from this particular exhilaration. Even if it is a rose.
After one more pregnant pause of silence, he stood. All-American boy. A grin drew my lips up at the corners. It was a smile I felt tugging at my anatomy. I could barely control my hands from involuntarily clapping and rubbing themselves together.
I walked a footstep closer. He did, too. We stood toe to toe and then he declared, cracking his knuckles, “One scared shitless victim comin’ right up.”
A scaredy cat. How cute. I would’ve never guessed based on his appearance, but then again, I knew all too well that looks could be mighty deceiving. Sixty percent of my milky, freckled skin was covered in ink and I had more holes from piercings than I did from God. But I was a daddy’s girl and my big brother, Milo, meant the world to me. I was a softy at heart—my outer shell did not match my innermost nature. I liked that I could encompass both hard and soft without much effort, and used that power to greet my latest client.
Extending my left hand—my working hand—I stepped closer to him. “Hey, I’m Marley. No reason to be scared. I promise I won’t bite.” It was something I said to all seemingly uneasy clients, but for some reason, this time I meant it. I would take care of him, or at least promise not to laugh if he cried from the pain.
“Hey. Jasper. Nice to meet ya, Marley.” His smile was a mix between charming and terrified. I had to wonder if he was here on a dare. No one this visibly nervous wound up in here of their own accord without bringing someone for moral support.
“Jasper,” I whispered, leaning in closer. “You sure you want to do this?”
Gulping and closing his eyes simultaneously, he nodded. “I’m sure. And I’m sorry for coming off like a . . . well, like a pussy.” He whispered the last part and looked around to make sure no one was listening to our private conversation before his eyes settled on mine again. Innocent. Sweet. Genuine. It wasn’t often someone like him, in packaging like his, came in here looking for ink—from me. Before I could say anything, he opened up to me like a blooming flower, thirsty for what was to come. “It’s just . . . I’m new here. I’m embracing my surroundings, trying new things, livin’ in the moment. Ya’ know? It’s not so much my fear of needles that has me shakin’ in my boots. It’s more the fear of the unknown.”
I almost staggered from his directness. And his drawl. A southern boy. Fascinating. Jasper had piqued my interest within a matter of minutes. I’d totally do him up a rose if that’s what he was into. Even though I smiled—practically giggled, actually, from my personal joke—Jasper’s demeanor still resembled one of a deer in headlights. It was then I contemplated the unthinkable. Maybe I should get him stoned. A puff for me, a pass to him, everyone’s calm and relaxed. But suddenly I remembered. I was a woman. One hell of a badass woman, might I add. He didn’t need a joint to calm his nerves. He had me. And I was about to welcome him to the neighborhood and pop his tattoo cherry all while giving him my very own dose of southern hospitality.
I rose up on tippy toes and curled my arm around his neck. “Come on, Jasper. You’re in good hands. I’ve got you.”