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“Oh.” My eyes scan the room, at the framed images on the wall. The artwork is all amazing. So delicate and intricate. “I’ve never really thought about getting a tattoo before.”

It’s a lie. I’d thought about it, plenty, but it only centered around one idea: getting a tattoo of my boyfriend or future husband’s jersey number, 04 specifically.

Brent’s number.

There is no freaking way I’m admitting that.

“Well, in case you need some inspiration, you can check out the portfolios on the shelves over there.”

I follow his gesture, noticing the stacks of books in the room with the couches. The idea of picking a tattoo out of a book seems impersonal. Twyler has tattoos. They’re on her upper thighs, covering the scars from when she used to self-harm. The designs are important to her, symbols from her favorite band, The New Kings. I don’t have anything in my life that has that kind of importance. I never let myself get that deep into something that wasn’t fashion or boys.

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of unsettling.

Stepping away from the bookshelves, I walk into the other room. It used to be a dining room, but it’s been upgraded to a sleek, clean, tattoo room with three stations. Axel’s in the process of pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his incredible body. His pants are slung low, revealing the cut V between his hips. I’m momentarily struck dumb.

“Damn,” a voice says what I’m thinking. I turn and see a woman come from the back of the parlor. She’s pretty, with heavy eye make up and long black hair with pink streaks underneath. Her body is covered in artwork, tattoos, andpiercings. There’s one above her lip, a diamond, glinting like a beauty mark, and another at the top of her cheek. Her eyes drag away from Axel’s impressive physique. “Sorry, he’s just a goddamn work of art.”

“No need to apologize,” I say, “but yeah, he really is, isn’t he?”

Axel’s busy showing Tony an area on his hip, but he must feel me watching him as he settles in the chair, because he looks up at me and winks.

“Ovaries exploded,” the girl mutters as a warm heat spreads across my limbs. “Make sure you wear protection with that one.”

“We’re not together,” I say quickly.

“Hey, Jasmine,” Axel calls. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” she replies. “Getting a piercing today?”

“Nah, just the ink.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“Me?” My ears were pierced at the mall when I was twelve, and I did a second on my own at Jennifer Mitchell’s house during a slumber party. At eighteen I got my belly button pierced over spring break, but it quickly became infected, and I’d sworn them off. “I’m just here with him.”

“You’ve got those killer cheekbones and gorgeous lips, I don’t really think you need anything. Although,” she touches the row of earrings in the shell of her ear. “A helix or two would probably look good with your hair since you tuck it behind your ear.”

My cheeks burn at the compliment, and Jasmine walks to the adjacent room.

“Yeah,” I hear Axel say, “I think that’s a good spot.”

Curious, I walk back over and take a look at him lying on the chair. He’s on his side, with one arm propped behind his head, and his jeans are unbuttoned and pushed down. I keep my eyes away from the dark shadow of hair, and focus on the exposed tattoos. Under Tony’s bright lights, I can see them more clearly than I have before. There’s no pattern to them, a collageof symbols and imagery. Skulls and pistols combined with butterflies and hearts. Hockey sticks and pucks. There’s a pin-up girl on his bicep and an arrow above his heart. Script fills some of the space. Some single words or others a longer sentence. Most in cursive, making it hard to read. There’s religious iconography, which makes sense with a minister father. There’s a line of tallies on his ribs, the badger logo above it. I reach out and touch his warm skin, running it over the marks.

“Goals saved,” he says, watching my fingers. “I get them updated a few times a season.”

“Is that what you’re doing today?” I ask, looking up at Tony who is holding a small sheet of paper in one hand and a wet cloth in the other. “Adding to the tallies?”

“Nah.” Tony stands over him and presses the sheet of paper on his hip, just inside the defined muscle. “I like to commemorate important things in my life. Events. Success and failures. People.”

After pressing the wet cloth on the paper, Tony pulls it back, revealing the temporary purple ink of a ‘T’. The font is bold, varsity letter style.

“You’re kidding,” I say, gaping at the letter.

“Things have been pretty shitty lately, with the probation and stuff. You’re the only good thing that’s left a mark.”

“Axel…” I say, my words cut off by the harsh buzz of the tattoo gun.

“It’s not a marriage proposal, T,” he says, taking my hand and linking his fingers with mine. “It’s just how I keep track of things. Some people have a diary. I have my body.”