Sing For Me by Rachel Schurig

Eva

Ipractice my breathing exercises while he’s out of the room. At this point, I’m not sure if I’m trying to stave off the nerves or if I’m trying to keep from losing my mind at the hotness that is Will-the-bearded-tattoo-artist.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the flutter of butterflies in my belly. At first, I wasn’t even sure what they were, they felt so foreign.

Usually when I’m in close proximity to a man—especially a man as big as Will—butterflies are the last thing that I feel. Body freezing fear is more like it.

And there was a moment where it almost turned in to that, out in the lobby of his shop. When I first turned and saw him standing there, towering over me, all I could think about was how big he was. Tall, with broad shoulders and massive hands that completely dwarfed mine when we shook hands.

But Marissa had helped ground me with just a touch, bringing me back to myself before it could get too bad.

A few months ago, she never would have been able to do that. Hell, a few months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to be in this little room with him. Alone. Even now, a little shot of panic runs through me as I wait.

Progress, not perfection,I tell myself. Isn’t that the point of this whole tattoo thing in the first place?

I’m in the middle of a deep, calming inhale when Will walks back into the room, and I practically choke on my tongue. God, he really is attractive. Totally not the kind of guy I normally go for. Will-the-bearded-tattoo-artist is bulky and tall. He’s got this badass kind of vibe to him—probably a result of the tattoos that peek out from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. Or maybe it’s his dark hair, short at the sides and long and messy on top, the kind of hair a woman can’t help wanting to run her fingers through. It could be the full beard. The black combat boots on his feet.

Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Some inherent characteristic that prevents him from caring about any of the bullshit the people in my life are constantly obsessing over. I get the feeling Will most definitely wouldn’t give a shit about whether or not my lipstick matched my dress—a subject my management team had once gone back and forth over for days.

“Hanging in there?”

“Um. I. Yeah.” I need to pull myself together. I wonder if he can tell that I was totally checking him out just now. “I mean, yes. I’m fine. Nervous, but fine.”

He smiles, the warmth of it softening his badass looks. “It’s fine to be nervous. But I bet you’ll find it’s not nearly as painful as you think.”

I don’t have a problem with the idea of pain. Pain and I are well acquainted at this point.

“What does it feel like?”

“For me, it’s a stinging sensation. You ever have a sunburn?”

I hold up a red curl, gesturing at my pale complexion. “What do you think?”

He grins again, this time looking almost boyish. “It’s like if you scratch the skin of a sunburn. Not pleasant, but not unbearable.” He winces. “Unfortunately, the ankle does tend to be a more painful spot.”

“I can handle it.”

“’Course you can,” he says easily, like he has all the faith in the world in me, a stranger he just met. “How about you jump up on the table for me?

I freeze. Jumping up on anything isn’t such a simple action for me. I swallow and approach the table, wishing he would keep his head down while I struggle to get my ass up there. I can already tell it’s going to be an awkward move.

I place my hands on the leather cushioned top, trying to decide the best way to do this without embarrassing the hell out of myself. I can feel my breath getting shallower, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Please, not now.

“You okay?”

“I…um. Have an injury.” Damn it. Why does this always have to get in the way of everything? Can’t I just have one measly day where I can crush on a cute boy and feel normal? “Jumping isn’t the easiest.”

He doesn’t respond for a second, and I feel the heat flooding my face. What’s he thinking? Maybe his eyes are scanning me, trying to figure out what the issue is.

Then I hear a scraping noise against the floor and suddenly Will is standing right next to me. “Step stool,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Sure enough, he’s pushed a small, two step ladder up against the table’s base. I swallow, overwhelmed with gratitude and embarrassment and fear that I’m about to fall apart.

“Thank you,” I mutter, throat thick, and climb up as quickly as I can, plopping down on my ass and swinging my legs over the side.

“No problem,” he murmurs, settling onto the rolling stool in front of me. I keep my head bent so he won’t see how red my cheeks are. Will pats the table next to me. “Can you bring your leg up here? That will be the easiest angle for me.”

I do what he says, still avoiding his eyes.

Will doesn’t let the awkward silence fester. Instead he talks to me in a steady, conversational tone while he works, explaining each step of the process. What he’s doing with the transfer stencil. How the shop ensures the highest sterile guidelines are met with their needles and ink.

I wish I could melt into the calm he’s exuding. That I could just sit here like a normal person, nervous about nothing more than the pain of a tattoo.

Instead, I’m slowly falling apart.

“Will,” I suddenly blurt out, my voice sounding strangled. “Will, I… Am I going to need to sit like this the whole time?”

“It’s easiest,” he says, sounding concerned. And more than a little confused. And who could blame him? This position should be perfectly natural, my butt on the table, leaning back on my palms, knees bent in front of me, heels planted firmly so that my ankle is level for him to work.

No big deal, right? Except my hip is already screaming, and I know there’s no way I’m going to get through the appointment like this.

“Eva?”

“I don’t…I don’t know if…” Fuck. I’m about to totally lose it.

“Hang on,” he says, voice gentle. “I’ll be right back.”

It takes too much effort to keep myself from disappearing into that dark place to answer. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, trying hard to keep the images at bay.

Only a few minutes have passed when I feel a familiar, comforting hand on my shoulder. I snap my eyes open and see Marisa standing right next to me, her expression neutral and calm, the worry in her eyes only visible to someone who knows her as well as I do.

“What’s up, girl?” she asks softly. Behind her, Will is standing there with his arms crossed, an expression I can’t read on his face.

He probably thinks I’m the biggest freak in the world.

I try to push that thought out of my head so I can concentrate on Marissa. “I need to have my legs bent,” I explain. “So my feet can be flat. But it puts pressure—”

Her eyes widen in understanding. “Your hip hurts sitting like this?”

I nod, looking anywhere but at Will.

“This is fine,” Marissa says firmly. “We can figure something out. No biggie.”

Yeah, easy for her to say. She isn’t the one currently burning up with mortification.

“Absolutely,” Will says behind her. “Just tell me what works for you.”

“Maybe…if we do it on the other ankle? Then I wouldn’t have to keep this leg bent. That’s what’s causing the, uh, pressure on my hip.”

Marissa frowns. “You want it on this side.”

She’s right. I had figured it would be symbolic, to have that reminder of calm and peace at the base of my injured leg.

Then Will approaches the table and I wish I could melt into the floor. “If the problem is the bent knee, we can keep your leg flat. I’ll just need to give you something to rest the bottom of your foot against, so you don’t accidentally flex or move it at all when the needle starts.”

I feel miserable. Why can’t I just be normal?

“Give me one second.”

I’m relieved when he disappears again. Marissa leans in closer. “See? There are easy fixes to most of our problems.”

I want to snap at her. To remind her that they’re not our problems, they’re mine. To rant that there are plenty of things I deal with on a daily basis that have no fix, easy or otherwise.

“Will you breathe with me?” she asks.

“It’s fine.”

“Eva—”

“Can you go get me some water?” My hands are probably shaking too much to hold a cup, but I need a moment alone to try and get myself under control.

“Sure.” My friend squeezes my shoulder before leaving the room.

I take a deep breath through my nose, holding it for a count of seven before releasing it again. Another two rounds of that and I’m feeling slightly better, the colors and shapes of the room coming into sharper focus, the shadows in the corners receding a little.

Will appears before Marissa and I’m relieved I got things better managed before he showed up. “Here we go.” He sets a heavy box at the end of the table. “Straighten out and I’ll get it in place.”

Stretching out my leg sends immediate relief to my hip. The box gives me something to press the ball of my foot against, easing the pressure even more.

“I thought this might help, too,” he says, and I finally raise my eyes to him. He’s holding two thick pillows, and he gestures to my back. “May I?”

I nod without saying a word, taken aback by the unruffled expression on his face. Will arranges the pillows behind me and I can’t contain the grateful sigh at the extra cushioning next to my hip.

“Better?” He straightens and I realize how close he is. Close enough for me to see that his dark blue eyes are framed by the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen.

“Yes,” I murmur, throat dry. “Thank you.”

He smiles and I think I see understanding in his eyes. “Not a problem, Eva.”

I feel trapped in those eyes, my heart beating hard for a completely different reason. Of course, Marissa shows up with my water at that exact moment and I physically yank myself back, putting a few inches between me and Will.

“Pillows!” she says, thrilled, like Will just brought us both banana splits or something. “Great idea.” She studies me for a minute. “What if you just lie all the way flat?”

“No, this is fine.” Lying flat would probably be the most comfortable position, honestly, but I’m embarrassed enough as it is. There’s no way I’m going to lie here like a log while Will does his work.

That worry is still in her eyes. “Why don’t I stay with you?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is your tattoo finished?”

“Well, no. We haven’t quite started yet—”

“Rules were we all get one,” I say firmly. “You’re not getting off the hook just because my stupid hip is sore.”

Of course, that’s not why she wants to stay. She saw the distance in my eyes when she got in here, knew exactly what I was fighting off. But feeling like a child who needs a guardian isn’t going to help my current state of mind.

“Okay,” she finally says, sighing. “You just call me if you need anything.”

“I’m fine, Mar. Thanks for your help.”

She shoots Will a grateful look before leaving the room. It’s quiet while he arranges little tubs of ink on his tray. I study his face, wondering just how weirded out he is by me.

But when he looks up, his expression is exactly the same as it had been before—confident and unruffled.

“Comfortable? Ready to get started?”

I blow out a breath. “I’m ready.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. “Good,” he finally says. “Let’s do it.”

He was right about the pain—it’s a scratchy kind of sting over my skin. Nothing like the shooting stabs I’d just felt from merely sitting with my leg bent.

“Doing okay?”

“Fine, thanks.”

He nods, head still bent over my ankle. “We can take a break any time. Just let me know.”

He works quietly for a moment. Even with the pain, I find myself relaxing, coming back to myself. My gaze gets locked on his face while he works, on the way his forehead scrunches up in concentration. How completely steady his hands are.

“Will?” I blurt out suddenly. “How did you know to go get Marissa?”

I have no earthly idea what possessed me to say it. I would prefer he forget all about what a nut job I had just been, yet here I am reminding him.

“I noticed you got a little tense out in the front earlier,” he says. “She seemed to calm you down.”

“Oh.” I had no idea what else to say to that. It had only felt like a little blip to me, the tension when I’d first seen him, when I’d taken in how big he was. Had he really been watching me that closely?

The machine’s buzzing stops and he spins on his stool to dip the needle into fresh ink.

“My aunt has panic attacks,” he says easily, back still turned to me, no more emotion in his voice than if he’d been commenting on the weather. “Not so much lately. But there are certain things that help her calm down.” He finally turns back to me, gaze immediately locking with mine. “I figured your friend would know what you needed.”

I nod, not sure what else to say. I could explain that it’s not panic attacks for me, not really. That I go to a much darker place than mere fear when I’m having an episode. But I don’t ever talk about that, certainly not with strangers.

Will goes right back to work, the needle buzzing again as the stinging pain resumes. “It’s pretty embarrassing,” I finally say, trying to laugh.

He doesn’t stop working, but the fingers of his other hand move from where they were holding the skin of my ankle to wrap gently around my lower shin. Even through his gloves, I can feel the warmth of him on my skin. “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he murmurs. “Nothing at all.”

And just like that, the mortification falls away. He really doesn’t seem to care in the slightest that I freaked out. He never gave me one of those pitying, uncomfortable looks I’m so used to when I confessed about the pain in my hip. He’d just figured out what I needed and made sure I had it.

Who is this man? And how on earth did I get lucky enough to cross his path?

Suddenly, I want to know everything about him.

“Have any of your siblings let you give them tattoos?” I ask, thinking about that gorgeous sun tattoo he’d done for his dad.

Will smiles, eyes on his work. “My older brother, Wyatt, he’s got a few. He actually let me do one of my very first ones, when I was still learning.” His smile turns rueful. “Guy is stuck with a wonky little star on his wrist for the rest of his life.”

I laugh—which is absolutely crazy. It usually takes me way longer than this to even out after an episode. “Sounds like a good big brother.”

“He’s the best,” Will says, and I can see the way his eyes soften. “I keep telling him he should let me cover it up with something better, but he’s insistent on keeping it the way it is. Says it’s meaningful just like that.”

“That’s kind of adorable.”

Will lets out a bark of laughter. “I’ll tell him that next time we talk. He’ll be thrilled by that description.”

“Does he live around here?”

“Nah. He’s a concert pianist, plays in a symphony up in Seattle, when he’s not traveling.” His voice radiates pride.

“And your other siblings? Do they have wonky stars too?”

“God no,” he laughs. “Silas is only sixteen. Mom would kick my ass if I put ink on him. And CeCe is the baby of the family. She needs to wait about twenty years before she gets a tattoo.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

I laugh. “So she has to wait until she’s in her mid-thirties?”

“That’s right,” he says, grinning. “That’s when she’s allowed to date, too. If she’s lucky.”

“Poor girl. All those big brothers.”

He snorts. “Don’t you feel sorry for her. She’s spoiled rotten by everyone.”

“Including you?”

He glances up from my ankle for a spit second to give me a sheepish smile. “Especially me.”

I’m enjoying myself, I suddenly realize. How strange.

“I only have one sister. I can’t imagine growing up with three siblings.”

Will makes a scoffing noise. “I grew up with a lot more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns off the gun again to get more ink, but this time he doesn’t go right back to work, stretching out his leg instead while he leans back in his chair. “My dad has three brothers, and they’re really close. They all work together.” A shadow crosses his face and I get the strange feeling he isn’t telling me something. But then his expression evens out again, and I wonder if I imagined it.

“We all grew up in the same neighborhood. I spent almost as much time with my cousins as my own siblings as a kid.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen? Geez. I have like, two cousins. And they live in Wichita.” I study his face. He looks easy, relaxed, like we could be sitting around talking over a drink or a cup of coffee. “You’re close with your family.”

It’s not really a question, but there’s a noticeable hesitation. And then he picks up his gun again and returns to working on my ankle before he answers, leaving me to wonder if I said something wrong.

“I’m closest with my cousins Rose and River—we share an apartment. We’re about the same age. It’s kind of funny—our dads are all super competitive and they pretty much copy off each other for everything. So all the kids in our family kind of arrived in waves—if one couple got pregnant, pretty soon all the others would be too.”

I laugh. “I guess that would make it more likely you guys would be friends. If you all have cousins close in age.”

“Oh, definitely. The Littles—that’s what we call them, even though they’re teenagers now—were all born within ten months of each other. A kid for each brother, plus one set of twins.”

“Holy shit. So there are five of them the same age?”

He nods, eyes sparkling with humor. “I can never decide what’s worse—back when they were toddlers getting into everything or now that we have five thirteen-year-olds running around at every family function. It’s pretty much always a madhouse.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I murmur, without really meaning to. He looks up at me again and I shift against the pillow. “I don’t have a big family.”

He waits, like he expects me to say more, but when I don’t, he goes back to the tattoo. “Almost done,” he says softly, and my chest squeezes in disappointment.

I don’t want this to end yet.

“You hesitated,” I say, wanting to hear more about his family. About the things and the people that he loves. “When I asked if you were close with your family,” I clarify.

He smirks at my leg. “You’re perceptive.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. “I guess that was pretty nosey.”

“It’s fine. It’s just…” he clears his throat. “Family can be complicated, you know? Even when you love each other.” He nudges me with his free hand. “What about you?”

“Uh.” Why hadn’t I realized he’d eventually ask me about my family too? It’s far from my favorite subject. But somehow, the thought of telling Will doesn’t feel all that bad.

“Nothing much complicated there,” I say. “It’s just me and my sister. Katherine. She’s four years younger than me.”

“Parents?”

“Never knew my dad. He took off before Kat was out of diapers.” I swallow. “My mom died when I was eighteen. Cancer.”

The gun abruptly cuts off. “Jesus, Eva. I’m sorry.”

It’s a sentiment I’ve heard hundreds of times. Really, what else is there to say when someone tells you they’re an orphan? Usually when this subject comes up, most people get real awkward real fast. I don’t blame them—loss makes everyone uncomfortable.

But the weird thing about Will? He actually meets my eye when he speaks those words. If he’s uncomfortable, he’s not showing it. All I can see in his expression is genuine sympathy.

“Thank you,” I murmur, looking away. “It was a tough time. Katherine was so young.”

“You were young too,” he says softly. “Eighteen. I can’t imagine.”

I had felt young at the time. Young and terrified. But I had to grow up real quick. Kat was barely into high school. She needed someone to step up and there was no one else to do it.

“Anyhow.” I give myself a little shake, not wanting to dwell on this during what had been a surprisingly nice conversation. “Kat and I ended up closer than ever, so I guess that’s a silver lining.”

“Does she live around here?”

“She’s at school in New York. Columbia.” A familiar pang of pride throbs in my chest, mixed with the sting of being far away. “I miss her like crazy.”

Will’s eyes sweep my face, and I shift, feeling vulnerable. I realize it’s been several minutes since I felt the sting of the tattoo gun.

“How’s it looking down there?”

“Oh.” He blinks as if surprised before focusing on my ankle again. “We’re just about finished, actually. Just need to get you cleaned up and wrapped.”

“Wow, really?” That didn’t seem to take very long at all.

I can’t help thinking the way time flew might have to do with the company.

“You want to see?”

Will must sense that twisting my leg in this position is going to be difficult because he pulls out a small hand mirror and holds it up for me. There, just above my foot, curving slightly below the ankle bone, is a perfect sprig of lavender.

I have a tattoo. The one thing I’ve always been told is off limits in my line of work. Sure, it’s small, but it’s there and it’s permanent.

A rush of satisfaction hits me. I had no idea being rebellious could be this fun.

“I love it,” I tell him, breaking into a smile.

“Yeah?” he looks pleased to hear it.

I hold out my phone. “Take a picture for me?”

“Sure.” He lines up the phone and takes a few shots. Then he meets my eyes quickly, his gaze appraising, before he bends over my phone, taping on the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m being completely unprofessional.” Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he shoots me a wolfish grin that has my knees feeling suddenly weak, even sitting down. “Now you have my number.”

He presses another button on the screen and another phone dings in response. His phone. He texted himself. “And now I have yours, too.”

I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face, my heart fluttering. “You should definitely use it.”

Even as I say the words, there’s a part of my brain that can’t believe this is really happening. Am I seriously flirting with this guy? A complete stranger? Not to mention that it couldn’t be more obvious that Will has no idea who I am.

But maybe that’s why this feels so good.

He applies lotion then wraps the tattoo with a clear bandage, explaining the aftercare instructions while he works. I find myself staring at the side of his face, his strong jaw under the scruffy beard, the surprisingly soft bow of his upper lip. Will is a perfect combination of beautiful and badass, and I find it incredibly attractive.

“Hey, girlie.”

I snap my gaze away from his to see Marissa standing in the doorway, Luke and Geoff behind her. “You finished?”

“Um, yeah.”

Will hands my phone back, attracting the attention of all three of my friends. Marissa and Luke wear identical expressions—curiosity—while Geoff looks almost giddy.

I am definitely going to be hearing about this. But when Will takes my hand in his much bigger one to help me down from the table, I find I don’t really care if my friends tease me. Those few flirty moments with Will were worth it.