Sing For Me by Rachel Schurig
Will
As we head away from the reception area, her friends break out into a smattering of cheers and wolf whistles. “Get it, girl!” someone yells. “You got this, Eva!” another voice adds.
She laughs, the sound of it surprising me—it’s low and husky, not what I would have pictured from this delicate, wisp of a girl. There’s something really, really appealing about the sound of that laugh.
As she follows me, she flips off the group. “Screw all of you,” she calls over her shoulder, to more cheers.
Once we’ve left the reception area, I raise an eyebrow at her. “It sounds like you and your friends get along well.”
She laughs again and damn, the sound is sexy as hell. “We do, believe it or not.”
I lead her to my station. Five-foot walls serve as partitions between the different workspaces, providing privacy for our clients while still allowing the artists to keep an eye on the rest of the shop. I gesture for her to sit in the chair and pull up my rolling stool as she shoots a nervous glance at my tattoo machine.
“First time?”
She grins, the sight of it nearly knocking the breath from my lungs. She’d been smiling out in the front, but there’s nothing I could do to prepare myself for the force of that smile shining directly at me in such close range.
“Am I that obvious?”
It takes me a second to remember that I’d asked her a question. “You just look a little nervous.”
Her fingers pick at the blue fabric draping over her thighs. “I never thought I’d get a tattoo.”
“What changed your mind?”
She tilts her head towards the front of the shop. “All of those assholes.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Peer pressure?”
“Not really. It was more of a…bet. A bet I lost.” She shakes herself a little. “It’s a long story.”
I lean towards her, ducking my head to meet her eyes. “I have to ask—are you sure you want to do this? I don’t like putting ink on someone if they’re being coerced.”
She grins again, and it’s every bit as powerful as the first one. “It’s not like that, I promise. You can feel free to ink me up with a clear conscience.”
I like the thought of that way too much—putting my ink on this girl. Marking her permanently.
I try to clear the gravel from my throat. “You’re the boss. So, what are we doing today?”
She pulls out an iPhone and swipes across the screen for a moment. “I want something like this,” she says, holding it out for me. A sprig of little purple flowers shows on the screen. “Lavender.”
“And where is this going?”
She scrolls on the screen again, showing me another picture. In this shot, a different style orange flower is just above the model’s foot, arching around the ankle bone.
“That size work for you?”
“Seems about right.”
I nod. “We can do that.” It’s a simple enough design. In fact, I wish she had asked for something more complicated—I don’t want this moment to be over so soon. I’m pretty sure I would be content to sit close to this woman for the rest of my afternoon.
That should worry me more than it does.
“Let me sketch it out and then I’ll put it on a transfer stencil so you can decide on the exact placement.”
“Sound good.” But she’s fidgeting with her skirt again, making me think that her nerves are kicking back in.
I pull out my sketch book, balancing it on my bent leg while I start the drawing. “So why lavender?” I ask, hoping to loosen her up.
“The scent is supposed to be calming,” she says, her voice softer. More shy. “And it’s supposed to help you sleep.” There’s something in her tone that has me looking up from the drawing to meet her eye. She shrugs, expression sheepish. “Staying calm and sleeping well are two things I have a hard time with. I thought it would be nice to have a reminder.”
I watch her for a moment, trying to read her face, before returning to my sketch. “Sounds like a pretty good reason for a tattoo.”
It’s quiet then, the only sound in our space the scratching of my pencil on the page. “Have you been doing this for long?” she finally asks. She chuckles softly. “I probably should have asked that first, huh? Asked to see pictures or something. I don’t even know if you’re any good.”
I smile to myself. “Grab that photo album behind you,” I say, never taking my eyes from the sketch.
“Oh, wow,” she murmurs a second later. “Did you do all these?”
“I did indeed.” I reach back into my cabinet and pull out some markers, comparing the different shades of green. “I started my apprenticeship when I was a teenager. Been tattooing ever since.”
I glance over at the book in her hand to see that an image has caught her attention. Her fingers trace lightly over a photograph of a yellow sun. The piece is set on the back of a broad, muscular shoulder, the outline of the sun composed of an elegant script—four names repeated over and over.
“This is gorgeous,” she murmurs.
“Thanks.” It’s probably stupid to feel a swell of pride at her words—I barely know the girl. But my chest is definitely feeling a lot lighter. I chuckle. “That’s actually my dad. First time he ever let me put ink on him.”
She looks up at me, eyes wide. “That’s a lot of trust to put in your kid.”
I shrug with one shoulder, adding shading to the purple flowers now. “He’s got plenty of tats, but there’s a regular guy he sees, out in New York. I never thought he’d let me do one.” I nod at the picture. “He was my first customer when I opened this place.”
“You opened this place?” There’s no mistaking the surprise in her voice. “This is your shop?”
“Sure is.” I give her a cocky grin. “Still worried you got stuck with the dud artist?”
Her cheeks color a little. “You seem pretty young to own your own shop.”
Those words hit a little close to an uncomfortable truth, and it takes a lot to keep from tensing up. “I’m pretty lucky,” I say, because that’s basically what it comes down to.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lowering her face over the photo to peer a little closer. “This script…are these names?”
“Wyatt, Will, Silas, and Cecelia.” I look up from my sketch to see she’s watching me. “Me and my siblings,” I clarify.
She’s quiet for what feels like a long time. “That’s…that’s really nice.”
I want to ask her what the emotion I hear in her voice is. I can’t tell if it’s envious or sad, but I suddenly want to know everything about her. Want to ask about her family—siblings, parents. Her job. Her friends.
I want this stranger to open up her head and her heart for me until I know all there is to know about her.
Jesus, dude,I think to myself. Talk about getting carried away.
Trying to get myself back on track, I hand her the sketchbook. “How’s that look?”
My style is a little different from the one she showed me. That piece had been delicate, light. I tend to work in bolder strokes, brighter colors. I hold my breath as she looks over my work. I can always make changes if it’s not what she wants, but I find myself wanting her approval.
“This is great,” she says, her tone more excited than I’ve heard from her so far. “This is just what I want.”
I don’t bother to temper the huge grin that breaks out on my face. “Great. Let me go get it on a stencil and we can look at placement.”
Quinn and Hannie, another employee, are in the printer room when I get there. Quinn gets a look at my face and takes a step back, eyes wide, hands coming to his chest in surprise. “Holy shit, boss. Are you grinning?”
I roll my eyes, trying to recapture my usual scowl. “I didn’t know he had that many teeth,” Hannie says to Quinn in a loud stage whisper.
“You’re both hilarious. Don’t you have clients right now?”
Quinn points at me. “Ah, there’s the boss man we all know and love.”
“Get the fuck out of my way,” I mutter as I push my way between them to the printer.
“I wonder what could be behind this improvement in your mood?” he asks in a fake, overly-curious voice. “What do you think it might be, Hannie?”
“I don’t know, Quinn,” she responds. “You don’t think it could have something to do with that pretty lady sitting in his station?”
“You guys should really take this show of yours on the road,” I say flatly. “You’re hilarious.”
“Can’t really blame you,” Quinn says, slapping my back. “Chick is crazy hot.”
“You should definitely turn on the charm,” Hannie agrees. “You need to get laid, boss.”
“Will you both shut the hell up?” I finish with the transfer and turn to glare at them. “We don’t talk about clients that way in my shop.”
Neither of them looks the slightest bit abashed. “I’m just saying,” Hannie continues. “This dry spell of yours is reaching legendary proportions. You’re a good-looking guy. You have more money than God—”
“Hannah,” I warn.
She holds up her hands. “Just haven’t seen you smile like that in a while, that’s all. It looks good on you. You should see what you can do about smiling like that some more.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice.” I head back to the hallway, fully aware that I’m still smiling, even after all that.
I might be in some trouble here.