Page 18 of Under My Skin

Chapter Eighteen

EVERETT

Weekends in the shop always buzz with energy. Customers usually bring friends or family with them while they get tattooed, each station sounds like it’s catering to a different music request, and even though we ask that our clients are sober, friends and family don’t always abide by that rule.

She never got back to me. I wish she would have at least let me know she was okay. I even texted Simon and asked him to double check the number, which he also said was weird.

But I don’t think it is. I saw what she looked like before she went into that house, and she was barely holding it together. If he saw how tightly wound she was, he’d be worried, too.

My client flinches as I trace one of the longer petals on her ribcage, and I wince with her. “Damn, I was holding my breath through that one,” I say with a laugh. “Almost done.”

“How’s it look?” she asks her friends with a smile.

“So good.” Her friend with blonde hair nods.

“Amazing,” adds her friend with short black hair and dark lipstick.

“Good,” my client answers, the word coming out as she breathes through the pain. Her brown hair is up in a bun as she lies on her side in front of me with her shirt pulled up.

“Everett, are you sure you don’t want to come out with us tonight?”

Without looking up, I know it’s the blonde friend asking.

She’s been the one doing most of the flirting tonight.

I chuckle as I dip the needle in water. “Trust me, you don’t want me crashing the party.

I’m dead inside.” I smile as I say it, so they know I’m joking, but sometimes it doesn’t feel too far off from the truth.

“Something tells me she would happily try to resuscitate you,” the girl wearing lipstick says with a laugh.

Her blonde friend nods, practically bouncing on her toes. “I am CPR certified.”

I huff a laugh and get back to work.

My client grows serious. “Okay, you can stop now. I really need him to draw straight lines.”

“Don’t worry. We . . .” I lean in close as I follow through with the final line.

“Are done.” Sitting up straight on my stool, I set everything down on the nearby tray and roll my neck and shoulders.

The two friends gush over the artwork, and I offer a hand to my client to help her to her feet.

“There’s a mirror over there. Take a look and let me know what you think. ”

She practically skips to the tall standing mirror with her friends in tow. You’d have no idea she recently had her teeth clenched in pain by the way she’s beaming at her reflection.

By the time they’re done, I’ve started cleaning my station. I can usually tell when someone is about to come back and ask for me to add something, but she seems happy with it.

“Thank you so much,” she says with a grin. “Here.” She hands me her folded cash.

“Thank you,” I say as I point to where she can set the money with a gloved hand. “You guys have been great. I hope you like it.”

“I love it!” Now she’s the one bouncing on her toes, but her reasoning is better.

I nod to the table. “Take a seat, and I’ll get it wrapped up for you.”

She does, and every few seconds, she can’t help looking down at her tattoo with a smile. Seeing people this happy with my work is part of what I love most about this job.

Once her tattoo is fully wrapped, they say goodbye. It sounds like they’re headed somewhere to get late night nachos, and I envy them a little.

“Have a good night,” I say with a wave as they head toward the door. Just as they’re about to leave, I spot a familiar blonde at the entrance. She steps aside for the three girls, but one quickly breaks away and jogs back toward me.

“Here,” she says, putting a small paper in my hand. “Just in case.”

Smoothing the paper between my fingers, I read her phone number and name in perfect handwriting. “Thanks, Brittany.”

She grins and hurries back to her friends where she’s met with hushed whispers and more giddy laughter.

Lucy looks between me and them as she slowly makes her way back toward my station, and I do a quick assessment.

She’s wearing the same clothes she was this morning.

Her hair is still up. Overall, she looks exactly the same, but there’s a seriousness about her—a heaviness that looks all too familiar.

It’s the weight that comes with being in your head too much.

When your thoughts are louder than anything else, it’s hard to tap back into the people around you .

She blinks when she gets to me, like she forgot she’d have to speak at some point. “Um, hey.”

I tilt my head, my eyes narrowing slightly. Something is up with her. “Back for your tattoo?”

She takes a steadying breath as she rocks back on her heels. The sleeves of her sweater cover half her hands, but I still catch her wringing her fingers in front of herself. “Actually . . . no.”

My eyebrow arches. “No?” I knew she didn’t want it, but she was hellbent on getting it yesterday. “But I worked so hard on it,” I say, gesturing to her ankle.

Her mouth opens, and a fleeting look of panic flashes across her features.

Grabbing my rolling stool, I take a seat and finish putting some of my things away. “I’m fucking with you, Luce. I know how much you hate tattoos.”

The air she’d been hoarding rushes out of her. “I really do.” I expect that to be the end of it, but she takes a seat on my bench anyway. “I mean, I love the art. It’s beautiful, but the thought of having something on my body? Forever?” She shakes her head. “I just can’t justify it.”

I shrug as I turn to face her. “You don’t have to. Lots of people never get tattoos. It’s not for everyone.”

She studies me, leaning back on her hands. “You knew I didn’t want it.”

“I knew you wanted it for the wrong reasons.” I want to ask her how things went with her parents, but by the looks of her, she’d rather talk about anything else.

“What was your last tattoo tonight?” She looks over her shoulder like the three girls might still be standing at the front of the shop, but they’re long gone by now. They’re probably already halfway to the Mexican restaurant a few blocks down.

“I did a small floral piece on her ribs. Nothing crazy. She wanted something clean—delicate.”

“Did they all get tattoos? ”

I shake my head. “She brought a couple of friends with her.” As I say it, I’m reminded of the phone number neatly written on a slip of torn notebook paper.

I look around my station and see it lying on my tray.

I must have set it there without thinking.

Picking it up, I get to my feet and walk over to the trash can.

The lid opens when I step on the lever, and I drop the paper inside without a second thought before going back to where I was sitting before.

She frowns, looking between me and the trash. “Was that . . .”

“A phone number,” I answer as I open a drawer nearby and put away the Saniderm I used to cover the tattoo.

Even without looking at her, I can feel her eyes on me. “And you threw it away?”

Closing the drawer and turning back to face her, I say, “I don’t date clients.”

She frowns. “But was that the client or her friend?”

“Her friend.”

Sitting up straight, she tucks one leg underneath her. She’s starting to feel more comfortable, and I don’t know why that thought makes me feel good about being here with her. “That doesn’t sound like she should be off-limits.”

I look down at my hands, rubbing some of the ink staining my fingertips. “The business comes first.”

“But don’t you spend most of your time here? How do you meet people?”

I playfully glare at her. “I manage.” Sitting up straight, I add, “You’re one to talk. Don’t you work from home? How do you meet people?”

“I don’t,” she says with a laugh. “Being a graphic designer from my bedroom is a lonely life.”

I chuckle. “See, we’re not so different then.”

She locks eyes with me, and it’s impossible to look away. Her eyes say so much, but I don’t know her well enough to decipher what it means. Which is probably a good thing because there’s a good chance Simon would find that weird, too.

Lucy blinks, like her thoughts are clearing. “Well, I won’t hold up your Saturday night.” She gets to her feet, pulling her sweater down her arms a little more like she wishes it could keep her hidden.

Following her motion, I stand up, too. “The only thing waiting for me is picking a damn paint color for the apartment upstairs.” Out of the two of us, I’m sure her weekend plans are more exciting—even if it’s just tagging along to whatever Simon’s up to tonight.

Lucy’s stare jumps to the narrow staircase at the back of the shop. “You’re picking a paint color? Now?”

I rub the back of my neck. “To be fair, the swatches have been up for a while. They finished repairing the drywall today, though. So, I’m sure Hal will need me to narrow it down soon.”

She glances over her shoulder at the other artists working, or maybe she’s looking at the busy sidewalk waiting for her outside. When she looks my way again, her eyes flick to the staircase behind me once more. “Can I help?”