Twenty-five minutes in, and I was feeling rather more in control of myself, both with regard to Rip and the pain. Either the outlining was the worst of it or my endorphins were kicking up a storm in my bloodstream. Whichever, while I wasn’t exactly enjoying the experience, I was up to getting a crick in my neck trying to see what he was doing.
Noticing my contortions, he straightened. “Gotta change colours and clean the needle. Want to stretch and take a look in the mirror, see how we’re going?” He lowered the chair until my feet could reach the floor when I sat up, then stretched his arms over his head. The series of impressive cracks emanating from his spine were audible even over the music. I tried not to stare at the expanse of bare abdomen exposed as his t-shirt rode up.
I stood, grateful my knees weren’t quivering more than a bit, and stretched myself, working the kinks out of muscles tense with apprehension. I took two steps to the mirror and pushed my shirt back.
There was my design, at least the outline of it, etched against skin slightly reddened from the trauma inflicted upon it. I pulled back the right lapel of my shirt and compared the pristine décolletage there to my now illustrated left. My stomach did its umpteenth nervous flip flop for the day, but I was grinning.
I liked it!
Rip stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at our reflection. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth of him all down my back. I suppressed a shiver and fought the desire to take a step back to find out how that body would feel pressed against the length of mine. Instead, I met his gaze in the mirror as he raised his eyes from the beginnings of my tattoo.
“What do you think?”
I regarded my inked bosom again and smiled. “Let’s colour it in.”
“Good! The way you were inspecting it, I was afraid you were having second thoughts or didn’t like my work, or – well, anyway, it’s a bit late to take it back now…”
“Oh, I don’t want to take it back. I like it.” I liked him, too, but I wasn’t planning on saying that. Not just yet.
I arranged myself in the dreaded chair again, even more aware of the warmth of his body so close to my flank. He had gentle hands, even wielding an instrument of torture.
The first few seconds of the incessant buzz, and the nagging prickling of my skin took me by surprise all over again, but after a stern word to myself I found my zone in the music once more. The short intervals of respite as he re-inked the tool brought me back to a too complete awareness of his closeness. I could see small beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he worked, and I resisted the impulse to wipe them away. I didn’t want to startle him while he was etching something permanent upon my person.
At last he put down the needle and pushed himself back, casting a critical eye over the results.
When I glanced at the clock above the sink, I was surprised to see an hour and a half had passed. I’d have guessed at perhaps a scant hour since my panicky self had first reclined in the chair.
“May I take a look?” I could see my chosen colours emblazoned on my breast, but from the corner of my eye the image was blurred. I could hardly wait to see what it really looked like.
“I’m not finished, but I think that’s enough for one day, hmm? Here, go ahead and take a proper look.”
Rip lowered the chair for me again, and I made my way over to the mirror.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
I parted my shirt where it had fallen together as I rose and looked.
My design was almost exactly as I had imagined. The graceful arc of equine tail followed the curve of my breast. Dark green shaded to palest along the seahorse’s body, highlighted in yellow. Washes of blue water curled about both beast and the seaweed, the whole delicately outlined in black. I could all but smell the salt.
I could see it wasn’t quite finished, but I loved it.
“Looks good, eh?” Rip seemed pleased with himself. “The blues need more shading, I think, and I’d like to do a little more shadowing with the black, but you can see how it will be.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t sure if it was the approval, the heady proximity of a healthy specimen of male, the end of the torture, or the endorphins partying it up in my system but I felt great, as if I could take on the world and bite its head off if it didn’t do exactly what I wanted.
“Come back in, say, ten days to two weeks. What we’ve done today should be healed by then and I can put in the finishing touches. Here, I’ll write down the name of an antiseptic cream to use, and this should explain everything you need to do to take care of the tattoo.” He scribbled on the back of a double fold business card and handed it to me. “And if you’ve got any questions, phone and ask, or drop in. Otherwise I’ll see you in around two weeks.”
“See you then,” I agreed, buttoning my shirt and pocketing the card. I was already looking forward to seeing him again.
The shopfront had filled up with several customers, a couple of them surely too young to acquire a tattoo without parental consent. Rip, depositing my payment in the cash register, had clearly encountered them before.
“I’ve told you a dozen times, I won’t tattoo either of you until you produce proof of age. Go on, clear out!”
He meant business, but his grin and the cheeky retort from one of the youngsters took the sting out of the exchange. He waved to me, hovering in the doorway, and turned his attention to the next victim, er, customer.
Out on the street, my euphoria only increased. Though the day was cool, the afternoon was sunny, blue skies boasting scarcely a cloud. Everything looked so clear, colours brighter than I’d ever realised, the breeze fresh and invigorating. I strode down the slope back into the main shopping precinct, reminding myself to pick up the recommended antiseptic cream before I headed home.
I could hardly wait to strip off my shirt for another, closer look at my tattoo.
CHAPTER TWO
TWO WEEKS LATER found me once more passing through the portal of Rip’s Parlour. My tattoo had healed well, at its worst like a bad sunburn.
I was still pleased with my new acquisition but sadly, not all my friends and family were as enthusiastic. I’d told no one my plan - preferring to keep it as a surprise - though I’d talked about a tattoo on and off for years. I guess none of them thought I’d ever really go through with it.
My mother’s reaction had been the most extreme. “Are you insane? If your father was still alive, he’d be spinning in his grave!”
Hmm, I wasn’t touching that!
Others were more appreciative, and anyway, I was the one who would be wearing it, and I was happy.
Rip was behind the counter, negotiating with a young man with so many visible piercings I couldn’t help wondering about those possibly not on public display. A page of commercial skin art was stretched out on the glass top, the young man pointing to a large eagle with a banner in its claws, ready to be inscribed with a phrase of the buyer’s choosing.
“Are you sure that’s what you want? It’ll take several sessions, and I charge by the hour. It won’t be cheap. And think really carefully before you have that written on your back. It’ll be there for the rest of your life, short of lasering it off, and what you think is cool now may not seem so great in fifteen or twenty years. Even five years. Anyway, I can’t do it this afternoon, I’ve got an appointment already.” He nodded over the youth’s shoulder to indicate me, and smiled in welcome. “Why don’t you think about it overnight, and come back in tomorrow if you’re still sure you want to go ahead?”
Eagle man blustered a little about not changing his mind once it was made up, knowing what he wanted and being willing to pay for it, before finally agreeing to return the following day.
“Come through,” said Rip. “I’m hoping he’ll get cold feet. I mean, he has the right to tattoo whatever he likes on his body, but he’d be better off starting small. I won’t tell you what he wants written on that banner, but I think he might regret it before too long. Anyway, how did you get on? Any problems?”
/>
“No, just minor discomfort, that’s all. I followed the instructions on the card, and it’s healed up quite well.” I parted my shirt to show him.
Rip inspected my chest and once again I blushed, even though I assumed the attention to my bosom was purely professional.
“Yeah, that looks good.”
Oh, yes? Was that a compliment? Perhaps not purely professional, after all!
“You handled the pain well. I was impressed.” He grinned.
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” I lied. I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp, and anyway the memory had faded. And truly, it could have been worse…yeah, like a close encounter with an iron maiden or sleeping on a bed of nails worse. I changed the subject. “I meant to ask you about the name of your place. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like it, it’s just that ‘parlour’ has a kind of old fashioned sound.”
“Think so? When I named it, I was more on the ‘come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly’ track.” Rip looked at me sidelong with an evil grin.
“Ah.” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Just who was the spider and who the fly in this scenario?
Rip made a subject switch of his own.
“So, what have you been up to over the last couple of weeks? Taking your new tattoo out to show it off?” He tossed the questions over his shoulder as he made his preparations.
“Well, showing it off has gotten a mixed reaction, but you know what, I like it. And I haven’t been up to much lately, just been to a couple of movies.” Drat, that made me sound like the most boring person on the planet—not at all the impression I wished to make.
“I wouldn’t worry about the reactions, especially not if you’re happy with it. Anyway, it’s in a good position, where you can let it show or not, as you choose. What sort of movies do you like?” He indicated the chair, which this time seemed less like a medieval torture accessory and more like an odd piece of modern art.
I slid into the contorted leather and tried again to get comfortable, my wriggling less indicative now of anxiety and more of the desire to avoid a cricked neck. “Oh, I have varied tastes. I like the big blockbuster sci-fi stuff, but I also like some of the less, um, mainstream films, too.”
“Yeah, I love all the fantastic special effects in some of those movies, but I know what you mean about the left-of-centre stuff. Like Tim Burton. Did you see ‘The Ghost of Sleepy Hollow’?”
He seated himself and pulled in close to my side, brushing the lapel of my shirt aside, and with a gentle touch cleansed my tattoo with a swab scented with eucalyptus. I had a sudden wicked urge to slide a hand up the thigh so temptingly close.
“Oh, yes, that was great, wasn’t it? Dark and atmospheric. And I like Johnny Depp, too. I can appreciate an actor who looks for a bit more in a role than star billing and big bucks; he chooses some quirky scripts.” I let my head fall back against the rest. Gazing at the ceiling, I gave up on trying to look down my nose and see what was happening almost directly below my chin. Last time I’d been petrified of the whole process. Now that I knew what to expect, I could wait until he was done to look.
“Like Edward Scissorhands. Now that was quirky!” He picked up the tattoo gun. “Okay, ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Though I knew what was coming, the first few minutes had me once more clenching my hands till the nails dug into the palms. Had I not been concentrating on staying still for fear of embellishing my design with unwanted additions, I might have jumped so far out of the chair Rip would’ve had to peel me off the ceiling.
I tried to use the tactic that had worked the first time. Even though the treacherous periphery of my awareness was all too conscious of the warm body nestled so closely into my side, for the most part I distanced myself from the incessant cicada buzz in my ears by listening to the music. Jeff Buckley this time, a CD that was often my choice of play at home. I felt myself caught up in that tragic young voice, wailing and lilting like a lost soul, as if somehow he knew his life would be cut short.
I jumped when Rip spoke. “The black shadowing’s done. Want to stretch while I change inks?”
I stood, one of my feet darting with pins and needles. “I like your taste in music. Sad that he died so young, Jeff Buckley, I mean. It makes me wonder what he would have been capable of as the years passed.”
Rip paused at the bench and turned to look back at me. “Yeah. I have a kind of weakness for the ones that burned out early. Buckley, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison. Hendrix. Even Elvis.”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. If you can look past the hype and the sheer over-the-topness that was Elvis in the latter years, and just listen to that honeyed voice, appreciate the showman…he had magic.”
“Ah, a woman of good taste and discernment! I should’ve known from your preferences in movies. I have rather varied tastes in most things, and not everyone appreciates that.”
Since my own tastes followed a similar path and usually garnered similar reactions, I knew what he meant. “Yep, been there. I’m interested in all kinds of things, and too many people seem to think I should confine my interests to a single area, that having a number of hobbies is somehow weird. There are too many things to see and do in the world to narrow my view down that far, and besides I’m way too curious to limit myself to just bits of it.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he said. “Might as well see as many bits as you can…”
I choked on a giggle, and we stood there grinning at each other, till he recalled the task at hand.
“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the chair. I fitted myself back into position and braced for the needle. Apparently my endorphins had kicked back in during the interim, and I felt the first faint fingers of that odd euphoria creep up my spine into my brain. By the time Rip lifted his head from his task, I was feeling on top of the world.
I had a sudden and tantalising image of him leaning in, further and further, about to kiss me.
My unbidden fantasy was interrupted as he took my hand to help me to my feet, and my face flamed as if he could see the thoughts flashing through my mind. My skin tingled where his fingers curled about mine.
Dragging my eyes away from him, I inspected my tattoo in the mirror and felt a huge grin plaster itself across my face.
“Thank you. It looks just like I imagined it. The extra shading and shadowing really make it pop out.”
He made a mock bow, his ponytail sweeping down over one shoulder. “Ma’am, I aim to please.”
Now there was a leading line, if ever I heard one!
Buoyed by the wellbeing induced by all those happy little hormones now coursing about my bloodstream, I turned bold.
“Do you have the live Jeff Buckley CD?” I asked.
Rip looked up from putting his equipment away and shook his head. “No, I’ve heard of it, but never actually listened to it.”
“It’s not bad. I bought it a few months back. I could bring it with me next time…if you’d like.” Oh, so innocent!
He laughed. “Next time? I should’ve warned you before you started that these things are addictive. People swear they’ll just get one but before they know it they’ve started a collection. Any ideas on what you want next?”
I was beginning to think that he was what I wanted, but I wasn’t entirely sure the feeling was mutual.
“Oh, I have plenty of ideas, but I haven’t made a decision. I’ll be back when I do.” There, surely that was cryptic enough not to give my budding machinations away.
“I’ll see you then. Oh, and if you remember, I’d like to hear that Buckley CD,” Rip said, giving me a half-wave in farewell.
I returned the gesture, smiling. There were several people waiting. I wondered how he worked out who was first in line, but there seemed no doubt and no arguments as he ushered in a svelte young lady who chattered non-stop about her art choice; apparently, from what I could hear, a cartoon character set in the small of her back. Unjustified and unattractive as it was, a pang of jealousy swept over me at the thought
of Rip bent over all that nubile semi-naked flesh.
I told myself I was being unreasonable, but it took several minutes and a severe self-talking to before I got the image out of my head. In fact, so caught up was I in this crisis of conscience that I nearly walked across the road against the lights, and it was only the angry blare of a car horn that startled me out of my reverie.
Distraction, I needed distraction. I started thinking about my next tattoo.
CHAPTER THREE
IT TOOK ME the better part of a month, several sweeps through all my illustrated art books, most of those in the local library, plus about a hundred discarded sketches before I had a design I liked.
By that time my first tattoo was well and truly healed. I’d been past Rip’s Parlour a couple of times, peering in through the window as subtly as I could. Which wasn’t very. The first time, a stranger had been behind the counter. The second, Rip had spotted me at the glass, grinned and waved, but he was talking to a customer, and I’d merely waved back before scuttling off, mortified at being caught peeping.
But I really wanted a second tattoo, and given his performance on the first, I wanted Rip to be the one to ink it. Of course, his personal charms were an added attraction. I’d decided on an anklet, probably on my left leg, and my design wove five narrow strands in Celtic style with two snarling dragonheads on the outside of the ankle as a psuedo-clasp.
Having phoned to check if Rip was working that afternoon and armed with my piece of paper, I strolled once more into the tattoo parlour. I was nervous again, but not about the tattoo this time. Over the past weeks I’d tried to talk myself out of my crush, telling myself Rip had just been friendly, an advantage in his line of work. I’d tried to forget the goose bumps that had marched up my spine when I felt the warmth of his body so close to my own, and told myself it was a reaction to being in pain, merely nerves. I gave my libido a stern talk, lecturing it that our matching interests were just a pleasant coincidence and that I shouldn’t try to read any more into it. The attempt had been a miserable failure.
Love at Large Page 2