Or maybe I’m just bedazzled.
Either way, I sign them quickly. I’m anxious to get to the next part.
I slide the papers back across the counter to Hemi and lay down the pen. He takes them, shuffles them into a neat pile and then sets them aside before he looks back up at me.
“Ready?” he asks. He might not know it, but that question holds so much more meaning than simply whether I’m ready to get a tattoo.
And so does my answer. With a single, emphatic nod, I reply, “Yes.”
He tips his head toward the doorway through which he came. “Then let’s do this thing.”
He starts toward the next room and I turn to grab Sarah’s hand. I meet with resistance.
“Oh, no, no, no! You’re not dragging me into this. I’ll pass out, sure as shit.”
“What? I’m the one getting poked with a needle a zillion times. Why would you pass out?”
“Sympathy. That’s why.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Sarah, don’t be ridiculous. I want you to come back with me while I do it.”
She twists her hand free of my grip. “I love you, Sloane, but this floor is probably the perfect place to get Hepatitis. You’ll be in the chair. I won’t. If I go down, it’ll be face first in someone else’s blood. So thanks, but no thanks.”
“Sarah, there’s no blood on the floor. It’s not like that.”
“How do you know? This is the first tattoo parlor you’ve ever been to.”
“So? Look at this place. It’s spotless. It even smells clean, and you know that can’t be easy with all the drunk, smelly people that no doubt come through here.”
“You’re just making my point for me. Nope. No way. I’ll be waiting for you right…” she says, backing away from me toward one of the chrome-and-leather chairs that line one small section of the wall. “Over…here.”
“Fine. Miss this significant life moment. It’s all right. I’ll still love you.”
With a heavy, loud-as-I-can-make-it sigh, I turn toward the door. Hemi has already disappeared into the next room, so I make my way slowly forward.
I hear a frustrated growl from behind me. “Fine.” The word is followed by the clomp clomp clomp of platform-shod feet stomping toward me. “So help me, if I pass out and get some sort of face fungus, you’re paying for all my doctor bills and any necessary plastic surgery.”
I smile broadly and loop my arm through hers when she stops at my side. “I won’t let your face touch the floor. I promise.”
“You don’t promise. You never promise,” she observes, eyeing me skeptically as we enter the next room.
“No, I just don’t make promises I can’t keep. This one, I can keep.”
We stop and look around the room. There are two other people getting tattoos. They both look up at us. They don’t look like they’re being tortured. In fact, one of them looks kind of sleepy. Or drunk. Either way, it makes me feel a little more at ease about the pain I just signed up for.
I tug Sarah forward and we make our way through the room. The overhead lights are still bright, but they are strategically placed over the three reclining tattoo chairs. It makes the rest of the space look intimately dim.
I walk toward Hemi where he’s standing at a little cubby against the back wall. It’s occupied by a small cabinet with a mirror over it, a rolling cart of some sort, and an empty tattoo chair.
I start to climb into it, but he stops me. “Wait. Show me exactly where you want the oyster shell before you sit down. I might have to put you on your stomach or your side, depending.”
Feeling heat rise to my face yet again, I turn my right hip toward Hemi and pat the place where I want the shell. “Here.”
Hemi squats beside me, reaches forward and raises the hem of my cami then drags his fingers up my side. “With the butterflies up through here?”
I feel chills break out behind the warm path of his touch and I bite my lip. When he looks up at me with those amazing blue eyes of his, I nod.
“Okay, then let’s start with you on your stomach,” he says, stepping on a pedal on the floor that raises the foot and lowers the back of the chair, making it flat enough to lie prone. “Hop up there and unbutton your shorts,” he says casually.
“Pardon?”
Hemi’s laughing eyes meet mine. “Which part didn’t you get?”
“You need me to take off my pants? In here?”
“No, I just need you to unbutton and unzip them a little. Just enough that I can comfortably get to the area you want inked.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling like an ass. “Okay.”
I climb up onto the flat surface and reach for my button and zipper. I loosen them and then turn to stretch out on my stomach. I feel like burying my face in my crossed arms, but I don’t. I stare straight ahead until I see Sarah enter my vision and plop down in the chair across from me, promptly ignoring me for the phone in her hands. I watch her for a few seconds, but I’m far too interested in who’s at the other end of me to pay her attention for long. Finally, I turn my head to look down at Hemi, resting my cheek against my folded arms. He’s sitting on a chair with wheels now, facing me at the level of my waist, with a long-necked lamp aimed at my lower body.
I catch and hold my breath when he reaches out and curls his fingers into the waistband of my shorts. Hemi tugs the material down, wiggling it over my hips and lowering it just enough that he can easily access the whole area. The only thing between him and my skin now is my underwear.
I watch as he slips a finger under the lacy elastic of my panties and pulls them down as well, leaving nothing between us but the heat of his hand. Slowly, he rubs his palm over my hip. Back and forth, he does this several times before he looks back at the sketch and then starts to trace one fingertip over my skin, as if he’s drawing it out in his head.
“You know,” he says, looking up at me, his palm coming to a rest, his thumb making an absent arc on my hip. “I think it would be better if we came up a little farther toward your waist with the shell and then let the butterflies spill out, curving to run up your side in a loose serpentine pattern, like this,” he says, moving his fingers up over my ribs in a languid snaking path. “I think it would look better than a straight line.”
In my head, I can see exactly what he’s saying. And I agree. It’s just that I’m having a hard time thinking and responding with his hands on me like they are.