He turns to look at me, patting the flattened chair that I’ll be lying upon. “I prefer to work the late shift. The world seems quieter at night. This probably won’t make sense to you, but it’s like I can feel my artwork better. Sort of get lost in it. Especially when I’m doing something freehand, like I’m doing on you.”
“Actually, I understand that perfectly,” I admit, scooting up onto the table. “I’m an art major, so I totally get where you’re coming from.”
He smiles and, for a second, it’s like my soul connects with his in a way that transcends words. I daresay only an artist would understand what he means. And I do. I most definitely do. For me, drawing or sketching is the perfect combination of escapism and therapy. It’s consuming. It’s cathartic. It makes me wonder what scars he needs to escape, what wounds he needs to heal.
“I’m gonna get you to start out on your stomach again. I’ll do the first few butterflies and then have you roll up onto your side to do the rest. Now, let me warn you, this hurts more over bone, so the tats over your ribs aren’t going to be very comfortable for you.”
I nod. “That’s fine. I understand.”
“Still worth it?”
I nod again. The butterflies are more significant than what I’ve told anyone else, so I can honestly say that the pain is worth it for me. “Yes,” I answer.
Hemi’s eyes delve deep into mine, like he’s trying to see where the butterflies live, where they were born and what they’ve been through. After a few seconds, he says simply, enigmatically, “The important ones always are.”
I stretch out on my stomach, folding my arms under my head and resting my chin against my shoulder so I can look down at Hemi as he works. I see him reach for my waistband, just like he did last night. He smiles and glances up at me. “Smart choice,” he states, tucking his finger inside the elastic band of my yoga pants. “You know the drill,” he says. “Lift.”
I lift my hips and he eases my pants and panties down to expose my hip. Gently, like the wings of the butterflies he drew on my body, his fingers drift over the first part of the tattoo. Chills spread over my stomach and onto my lower back.
He nods. “Looks good. How ‘bout a few more?”
I nod, too. “Ready when you are.”
I take a deep breath when I hear the buzz as he fires up the tattoo gun.
CHAPTER FOUR - Hemi
Having my hands on this girl does nothing to help my concentration. The way her body feels under my palms—like she responds to my slightest touch—and the way she watches me, like she’s wishing I was doing much more to her, is kicking the shit out of my peace, peace that I need, especially when I’m freehanding.
The thing I think that’s bothering me the most, though, is that there’s something in her eyes, something in the sadness that always seems to be hanging around them, that makes me suspect she’s hiding wounds that only someone like me can see. Someone who understands, someone who has been there. But what the hell could a girl like this, a girl so young, so innocent, possibly know about tragedy?
“So, you’re an art major,” I say conversationally, anything to keep me from concentrating too much on the feel of her.
“Yes.”
“You going to State?”
She nods. University of Georgia has a pretty kick ass art program.
“Nice. What is it that you want to do when you graduate?”
I hear her sigh as I ink a butterfly wing onto her porcelain skin.
“I don’t really know.” I glance up at her. She looks troubled over it. “I know I’m supposed to know exactly what I want to do, but all I know is that I want to draw. To create something beautiful that will last forever.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There is if you’re supposed to be able to make a living doing it.”
“Hey, look at me,” I say, holding up my gun. “I make a damn fine living doing what I love, which is basically drawing. The canvas is just a little different than what you’ve probably learned on.”
I see her brow wrinkle as she considers me. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Most people don’t,” I tell her, thinking specifically of my father.
“How did you get started doing this? I mean, is this what you wanted to do?”
“Not specifically, no. I floundered for a while, like most people, I suppose. Then, a few years back, I met someone. I went in for a tattoo. Like you, I had my own sketch of what I wanted. She admired my work, asked me if I’d consider sketching a few more. After that, she sort of took me under her wing and showed me the ropes. Didn’t take me long to realize that I loved it. Been doing it ever since.”
Why the hell are you telling this girl your life story? That’s more than you’ve told anybody since you moved here.
I make a conscious effort to rein it in. I don’t normally tell people much about myself. That could lead to someone finding out who I am. And I can’t let that happen.
“She?”
“Yeah, she.”
“So there are women tattoo artists?”
“Of course there are. This is America after all, right? Equal opportunity and all that shit?”
“That’s not…I mean I…That came out wrong.”
I laugh at her stammering. “Yes, there are women tattoo artists. Some damn fine ones, too.”
“Is it hard to learn?”
“No. Technique is something that’s developed over time. The art part is the hardest. There are some things you can’t teach. That can’t really be learned. At least not well. You either have it or you don’t. The rest you can find over time.”
“So the actual tattooing part can be learned…”
“Sure.”
“…as long as the art work is good enough?”
“Right.”
I’m not paying attention to what she’s getting at until she just lays it out there.
“You said my sketch was good. Would someone like you be able to teach me the rest?”
My head snaps up and I fall headlong into her deep, soulful, hopeful eyes. “Someone like me, sure.”
“But not you specifically?”
“No.”
“Why not? You’re very good at this.”
“But I don’t teach.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“No. I’ve never wanted to.”