by L. A. Witt
“Just finally getting around to actually stocking up the kitchen.” He handed me a couple of bags. “You know how it is right after you move.”
“No kidding.” I smirked as I took another bag off his hands. “And if you’re anything like me, you’re probably low on snack food after last night.”
Darren chuckled and hoisted the last bag out of the trunk before he closed the lid with his elbow. “If we do that again, I’m going to have to permanently evict all the snack food from my apartment.”
“Well, if you do, and then we do, I always keep Doritos around just in case.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
We took the groceries up to his apartment. He’d definitely settled in since the last time I’d been in here. There were still a few boxes lying around, some open and some still sealed, and about a third of the shelves were bare, but he’d put out a few decorations and hung some pictures. Mostly family photos and a framed print of some music festival’s poster.
Naturally there was a cross on one wall—simple, just plain wood—and a weathered leather-bound Bible on the coffee table between a couple of candles and an Xbox controller. The religious touches didn’t surprise me, but they were a constant reminder of why Darren and I were permanently friend-zoned.
We unpacked the dozen or so bags, and after everything was put away, he wadded up the plastic bags and put them in a drawer. Probably to reuse; I did the same thing.
Then he faced me, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Well. I think that’s everything. Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
“While you’re here, though….” The drumming slowed.
“Hmm?”
“There’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
My throat tightened. “Okay….”
He chewed his lip and fidgeted uncomfortably. My mind came up with all manner of things he might want to talk about—the night we’d smoked, the nights we’d fucked, what to do with tonight—but I wasn’t quite ready when he finally blurted out, “I’d like a tattoo.”
“Seriously?” I curled my fingers at my side just thinking about tattooing Darren’s skin. “What happened to being afraid of needles?”
Darren fidgeted, not quite hiding a shudder. “Well, I’m not crazy about the idea, but a friend drew a design for me a few years ago, and I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to get it done.” He met my eyes. “If you’re willing to, I’d like to have you put it on.”
“Can, um, can I see the design?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
To my surprise, he took me back into the living room and then opened the leather-covered Bible on the coffee table. Inside its cover was a folded piece of paper, which he withdrew and handed to me.
I carefully unfolded it. Though religious designs weren’t my cup of tea, this one was beautiful. The cross was about seven inches tall and five across. The arms were almost an inch thick, the entire cross decorated with an intricately detailed black filigree that reminded me of wrought iron. Above the left branch, the word Mark, and below the same branch, 12:31. On the right, Matthew 5:44. My knowledge of Scripture was rusty, and I couldn’t quite recall the exact quotes, but they rang a bell somewhere in the back of my mind. A very loud, insistent bell. One that resonated into the pit of my stomach and piqued my curiosity—why can’t I remember these?—but also made me bite my tongue instead of asking Darren what verses they were.
“This is a gorgeous design,” I said.
“Thanks. A… friend drew it for me.” He paused. “My ex, actually.”
“Really?” I looked at him, then at the design again. “You really want something your ex designed put on your skin permanently?”
He laughed. “We’re still friends. It’s okay.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Trust me. We were completely amicable. Just realized we were better off as friends.” He nodded toward the design. “Any feelings I have tied up in that image have nothing to do with him.”
“Oh.” I glanced at Darren. “Where do you want it?”
“My back.” He tapped just below the base of his neck. “Between my shoulders.”
I grinned. “Don’t want it on your forearm or something?”
“No, thank you,” he said, laughing. “This one is for me. I’d just as soon not have to explain it to the congregation.”
“Even if it’s a spiritual design?”
“Like I said, this one is for me.”
“Fair enough.” I scanned the design again. “It might be better to make it slightly larger than this. Maybe, I don’t know, 15 percent bigger?”
His Adam’s apple jumped. “Why?”
“So the filigree detailing will be more crisp and distinct. And so the text is easier to read.”
“Good point,” he said softly. “Sure. Yeah. That’ll work. So, how much?”
I shook my head as I folded the paper. “Told you when you moved in. New neighbor discount.”
“But, that’s a pretty good-sized design. It’s—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I nodded toward the door. “Ready?”
Darren blinked. “I… right now?”
“Why not?” I held up the folded paper. “You said you’ve been thinking about it for a while. Isn’t exactly something impulsive.”
“Well, no.” He exhaled. “I just hadn’t quite… um….”
“Hadn’t psyched yourself up for it?”
“Yeah. That.”
I chuckled. “That’s the quickest way to psych yourself out of it.”
“All right. Then let’s do this before I do psych myself out.”
We left his apartment and headed down to my shop. As I unlocked the front door, I said, “I should warn you. Tattoos are addictive.”
He eyed my arms. “Are they, now?”
“Very.”
“Even with the pain?”
I flashed him a grin. “Who says it’s in spite of the pain?” His eyebrows jumped, and I laughed. Then I opened the door and waved him in ahead of me. “You’ll understand in a few minutes.”
He gulped but went into the dark shop.
I turned the deadbolt and didn’t light up the Open sign. There wouldn’t be a lot of people out this time of night anyway, so I wasn’t too worried about attempted walk-ins. I flicked on the light in the back of the shop, leaving the front half dark while pouring plenty of bright light over my workstation.
“So.” Darren eyed the vacant chairs. “Where do you want me?”
Upstairs in my—
“Just relax for now. Sit wherever’s comfortable.” I opened the laptop and turned on the scanner. “I still need to make a stencil.”
“Oh. Okay, then.” He leaned against the counter.
“And you can fill out the Hold Harmless waiver while I do this.” I handed him the form and a pen.
After he’d handed it back with his signature on it, he said, “So how long do you think this will take?”
“Which part?” I went through the motions of scanning the design on autopilot. “The stencil? Or the tattoo?”
“The tattoo.”
“Depends on how many times you pass out.”
He didn’t respond, so I glanced over my shoulder. His eyes were wide and forehead creased.
I laughed. “I’m kidding. Relax. At this size and with the level of detail, figure about an hour and a half.”
He gulped. “That long?”
“It won’t be as bad as you’re thinking it is.” I gestured at one of my inked forearms. “Trust me.”
“So did you do any of that yourself?” he asked. “Your tattoos, I mean?”
“Some of them.” I faced the computer again and continued resizing and adjusting his design while I spoke. “The backs of my arms are a bitch to get to, and I’m not very good at tattooing with my left hand, so I’ve had other artists work on those. If I ever get around to figuring out what I want for my back piece, I’ll have someone else do that too.”
“Someone to get those
hard-to-reach spots?”
“Basically.”
“But you’ve… you’ve actually done some of it. Yourself.”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“That must take some serious concentration.”
“It’s not too bad.” I clicked Print and stood to pick up the stencil when it came off the printer. “Really, you start tuning out the pain after a while. The endorphins kick in, and it’s not as intense unless it’s a really sensitive spot.”
I swore Darren lost a little color.
“What qualifies as a sensitive spot?” Then color rushed back into his face. “Er, I mean, when it comes to tattooing. I—you know what I mean.”
I chuckled. “Anything right over a bone can get a little tender.”
“What about….” He reached back, eyes losing focus as he prodded below his neck.
“I’m not going to lie,” I said. “It might get a bit sensitive when I’m right over your spine.”
He shuddered.
“But that spot’s really not too bad. Not compared to, say”—I pointed at the underside of my upper arm, which was completely inked—“a place like that.”
“That’s a sensitive spot?”
I nodded. “Very. Lane doesn’t think so, says it barely tickles on him, but I damn near had to chew on a stick while my friend worked on this part.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“You’re not getting tattooed there, genius. You’ll be fine.”
“So you say.”
“And you must trust me or you wouldn’t be doing this. Right?”
He held my gaze for a moment. “Fair point.”
I inspected the freshly printed stencil. Then I held it out to him. “How’s this? It’s a little bigger than what you had, and I’ll clean up the details as I go, but….”
He held it in both hands. Then he nodded and handed it back. “Perfect.”
“All right, then. Have a seat.” I set the stencil down at my workstation. “Shirt off.”
Darren regarded the chair for a moment before he pulled off his jacket and T-shirt. I scooted the massage chair closer to my equipment and gestured for him to sit with his arms over the back.
“That comfortable?” I asked. “You’re going to be sitting there a while, so speak up if it isn’t.”
“So far, so good.” He watched as I gathered some gloves, bandages, and a small tub of Vaseline. “You sure you’re not setting up for a medical procedure?”
“To hear the health department tell it,” I said as I pulled on my gloves, “that’s exactly what I’m doing. This does take a few minutes, but… gotta keep it hygienic.”
“Makes sense.” He quirked an eyebrow. “So I didn’t need my shirt off quite yet?”
I glanced at him and grinned. “The artist can’t see his canvas until he’s ready to paint?”
Darren laughed. “I didn’t say that.”
“Actually, there is a practical purpose for having you take it off now.” I put some Vaseline on the underside of the ink cups so they wouldn’t easily tip over after I set them on the paper towel. “It gives you a chance to get used to ambient temperature.” I waved a gloved hand at the vent above us. “By the time I get started, you won’t have any goose bumps or hypersensitivity from your skin being newly exposed to the air.”
“Interesting.”
He watched me prep my station, and as I put fresh plastic over the gun, he paled.
Just to keep his mind off the torture device, I said, “I’m curious about something.”
He rested his chin on his folded arms, and his eyes kept flicking toward the gun. “Yeah?”
“Now, it’s been a while since I’ve cracked open a Bible, but isn’t there something in there about not getting inked?”
“In the same section as everything about eating shellfish, wearing mixed fibers, and shaving, yes.”
“And about lying with other men, right?” It came out before I could stop it, and I cringed against the impending awkwardness.
Darren laughed, though. “Yeah, that’s in there too. And completely misinterpreted.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Find me an antihomosexuality quote in Scripture that isn’t tied to ritualistic prostitution or ritualistic purity and we’ll talk.” He raised an eyebrow. “And last I checked, Jesus never said a word about it.”
I blinked. “You don’t buy into the story of Sodom and Gomorrah either, do you? About it being about people like us?”
Darren wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Of course not. The people refused to be hospitable to the angels, which was a huge offense. I really don’t think you can use a group being punished for trying to gang-rape a couple of men as an example of God’s disapproval of homosexuality.”
I set the gun aside and took a disposable razor from a pack. “Doesn’t it bother you that the man who was seen as most righteous and wasn’t killed with the others was saved in part because he offered his own daughters to the mob instead?”
Darren grimaced. “I’ve… wrestled with a few of those passages. Women were second-class citizens back then. Property. And… a lot of Scripture reflects that. I wouldn’t condone that now any more than I’d condone forcing a woman to marry her rapist.”
“And yet it’s in the Bible.”
“I know.” As he spoke, he watched the razor in my hand, brow furrowed slightly. “Which is why I strongly believe that Christians should be focusing specifically on the teachings of Christ, not everything else that the Council of Nicaea decided to include in the book for whatever reason.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s… not something I’ve heard from too many ministers.”
He shrugged. “Ask a hundred of us a question about the Bible and you’ll get a hundred different interpretations.”
“So how do you know your interpretation is the right one?”
“I don’t.”
“Then why…?”
“You were a believer once, Seth,” he said softly and without an ounce of condescension. “Even if you aren’t now, you know the answer to that.”
“Faith.”
He nodded. We held each other’s gazes for a moment.
Then I remembered the paper sitting next to my ink cups, and cleared my throat. “Okay, well. We’re ready to go.” I held up the razor. “You sure about this?”
Darren stared at the razor for a moment, holding his breath. Then he exhaled and nodded. “Let’s do this.”
I shaved the mostly hairless area where I’d be tattooing. As I did, my knuckles grazed his shoulder blade, and even through the thick latex, his body heat reached my skin. A second later, goose bumps sprang to life all over his back.
Through what sounded like chattering teeth, he said, “Thought you had me take off my shirt to prevent goose bumps.”
“It’s not….” I swallowed. “It’s not foolproof.”
“Apparently not.”
“Are you cold?”
“No. No, I’m… I’m not cold.”
“Good.” Neither am I. I cleared my throat. “This might… um, be a little cool.”
He watched me pick up a stick of deodorant off the workstation table. “What’s that for?”
“Helps the stencil transfer.” I ran the stick over his skin. Then I pressed the stencil to his skin, smoothed it with my fingers, and peeled away the paper, leaving the design behind. Once I was sure everything was straight and centered, I had him check it in the full-length mirror.
I watched him as he used another smaller mirror so he didn’t have to contort to see the tattoo. I should’ve known he’d be even sexier with ink. Most men were. It didn’t even matter that it was still a stencil at this point. There would be a tattoo there by the time I was done. Someone else’s design, but my ink. A permanent mark on Darren’s body. And even the religious significance didn’t detract from how hot it looked on him, like it was a sharp, black focal point meant to draw the eye to his powerful shoulders and the way his upper body tapered down to those
narrow hips.
He set the smaller mirror down and faced me again, and I jumped, my cheeks burning because he had to have noticed me staring like a goddamned fool.
“I like it,” he said. “Now the fun part, right?”
I grinned. “For me, yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Relax.” I patted the chair. “I’ll test the needle without any ink first. If it’s too much, I’ll stop.”
Darren gave the massage chair a wary look, but after only a moment’s hesitation, he took a seat.
I peeled off my gloves and, as I put on a fresh set, looked him up and down. Every muscle from his neck down was visibly tense, pressing against his skin in rigid planes and angles.
“You okay?” I asked.
“You haven’t started yet.”
“Should I start?”
He shifted a bit, muscles moving but not relaxing. “I’ll let you know in a minute.”
“I’m going to turn on the needle,” I said. “Just so it doesn’t freak you out.”
He laughed dryly. “Thanks for the warning.”
I turned on the equipment. Then, watching him, I slowly pushed the pedal down. When the needle started buzzing in my hand, he shuddered.
I put my other hand on his back, just below his neck. He sucked in a breath. I pretended I wasn’t tempted to do the same thing.
Focus, Seth. Be a damned professional.
“There’s no ink on the needle,” I said softly. “It’s going to sting, and it’s going to feel a little weird. You ready?”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay. Here we go.” I brought the needle up and held it close to his skin but didn’t touch him yet. I watched his neck and shoulder muscles tense, waited until I was sure they were more or less still, and then touched the tip to his skin.
He gasped but didn’t move much.
“You all right?”
He exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I think… I think I can handle it.”
“I’ll just do the outline and text for starters. We can do the filigree later if you want to.”
“Better to just do it all at once.” His voice was taut, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “I probably won’t have the nerve to come back.”
I chuckled and dipped the needle into the cup of black ink. “I heard that from a client last year.”