She was.
He made them grilled cheese sandwiches and cream of tomato soup.
I ought to be content, she told herself, sitting at his kitchen table, dipping a corner of her sandwich into her mug of soup. She wasn’t damaged, only a little sore. A week off wouldn’t kill her. But the blue feelings welled up inside her anyway, and she was having trouble suppressing an unfamiliar urge to cry.
“Hey, now,” he said, apparently seeing something of that in her face. “Everything will be all right.” He pushed his chair back as though he might get up and come around the table to hug her.
“Don’t. I can’t do comfort.”
“Okay, let’s do something fun instead. So you’re on vacation for a week. There’s nowhere I have to be. Wanna go to Paris?”
“Not helpful.” But she felt her lips curving into a reluctant smile.
He chuckled, not seeming put out. Apparently, he hadn’t expected her to roll with that suggestion. “Well, is there anything you want to do that you haven’t been able to do because of your training?”
“Get a tattoo.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could even think about the question. “I’ve wanted one for years, but I roll around on the mat so much…”
“This is your lucky week, then.”
“How? I don’t have an appointment, or the money to burn.”
He waved that problem away. “I have a friend who’ll take care of you. Know what sort of thing you want?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at her, eyebrows raised, but she didn’t elaborate. I can explain it to an artist. Not to you.
“Okay. I’ll fix something up. Getting inked is… I don’t know, it helps when you’re hurting.”
I’m not hurting, she wanted to say, but it would be a lie. She wanted to lie, as she’d lied that time when she’d had a rank test go all wrong, a catastrophic pile-up of circumstances that led to failure. When they’d asked her if she was okay, she’d smiled through gritted teeth and pretended it was nothing — and regretted forever after that she’d held everything inside a false front instead of admitting to her misery and anger. “I suppose we’ll see about that,” she said with a shrug, hoping he’d have the sense to let the subject go.
He did. “How’s your head? You want an ice pack for it? Some ibuprofen?”
“Ice would be good.” Fatigue washed over her, more pressing than aches and pains now that hunger wasn’t clawing at her. “But I really just want to go to bed.”
“I think we can manage both of those things.”
Music woke her, heavy bass chords and Eamonn singing, “Getting inked today, gonna be okay / Scratch of the needle, love that feeling / New tattoo today, gonna be okay / Scratch of the needle, addictive and healing…” He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, with his hair still damp from the shower, playing his iconic blue Warwick Corvette bass — his favorite concert instrument, and Nell still couldn’t quite believe she’d searched that information out on the internet one night. It was unmistakable, though; a shimmering metallic threadburst edged the bleached-ocean varnish of the custom-built bass.
“What are you singing?”
He grinned. “Just doodling around to wake you up.”
“You made that up just now?”
“Sure. But you do need to get up. My tattoo artist doesn’t usually work Tuesdays, but you’ve got a special appointment.”
This is really happening? I’m getting a tattoo? Nell moved to sit up, then froze with a suppressed groan at the stiffness and pain in her back and neck. At least her head seemed to be all right — she prodded the area with careful fingertips, and although it was tender and bruised, she had only the mildest headache, barely even noticeable, and no signs of nausea or dizziness as she inched herself to a sitting position. “Do I have time for a shower?” she asked. Hot water would help with the muscle aches.
“Sure.” He stood and held out a hand to pull her to her feet.
I don’t need help. But as her back cramped again, she took his hand and let him ease her into a standing position. “Thanks.”
“You know where the towels are. I’m going downstairs for a minute to put this baby away, then I’ll be back up in case you need anything.”
As soon as he’d gone, she dug into her gear bag for her street clothes, the ibuprofen in her first aid kit, and the spare underwear she kept in a pouch with her just-in-case tampons. Then she headed for the bathroom.
She lingered under the hot spray for a few minutes longer than usual, because it felt so good on her aching back and stiff neck, but she wasn’t the sort of person to take long showers, preferring to be efficient and keep her water use to a minimum. And who could dawdle with a first tattoo appointment waiting?
He met her on the stairs; he was coming up to find her as she headed down. “You’re all set? Let’s go. We’ll get something to eat on the way; I told her I’d bring breakfast.”
“Her?”
“My tattoo artist, and now yours.”
I’m not going to ask. I’m not. “Ex-girlfriend?”
Eamonn chuckled. “Ghostflower is more likely to hit on you than me, babe. I’ve known her since high school. She’s a good friend and a fantastic artist.”
“That can’t be her real name.”
“It’s what she prefers.”
“Did she do your angel?”
“Yeah. She’s done all my ink. You can trust her.”
Nell nodded. The artwork on his body was testimonial enough.
There was a bakery below the second-floor tattoo studio, the strong aroma of cinnamon rolls wafting from it immediately noticeable as Nell got out of Eamonn’s truck. This was evidently the “breakfast” he’d meant, since he headed straight for the bakery door instead of the one with the sign that said TATTOOS UPSTAIRS.
She followed him in, just in time to hear him asking one of the bakery workers for a dozen cinnamon rolls. How many does he think we can eat? And she wasn’t sure she could face a giant, sweet, sticky bun just then, anyway.
“Can I help you?” another of the bakery workers asked her.
“Maybe. I’m looking for something breakfast-y that isn’t sweet.”
“Sure. We’ve got some savory breakfast rolls just coming out of the oven now — they’ve got a caramelized onion and apple jam filling, with toasted pecans and vegan pepper jack cheese. Would that work for you?”
“That sounds amazing.”
“You don’t want a cinnamon roll?” Eamonn asked, coming over as the bakery worker vanished into the back of the shop.
“Honestly? Not really.”
The bakery worker returned with a paper bag, and Nell fished a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket.
“Add it to my order,” Eamonn said, gesturing for her to put her money away.
“No. You can’t always be paying my way. I’ve got this.” She turned back to the bakery worker, holding out the money. “And I’ll have a large tea as well, please. In fact, I’ll pay for his coffee too.”
“Nell!” He looked as though he wanted to say you can’t but realized that would be a mistake.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can get Ghostflower whatever it is that she drinks. I know you’re a rock god and all that, but sometimes I need to pay for my own food and get your coffee. It… keeps the balance.”
He paid for the box of cinnamon rolls and a coffee for the tattoo artist. She thought he’d dropped the subject. But as they were fixing their drinks at the cream and sugar station, he said, “Nell, I want to take care of you. I’m in a position where it’s nothing for me to get your food and drink. Why shouldn’t I?”
She shook her head. “Rub it in, much?”
He snapped his head around to look at her, equal parts offended and rueful. “I didn’t mean—”
“And that’s why you have to let me pay my own way or treat you sometimes. Otherwise, I feel like a charity case, whether you mean it or not.
” And then, firmly changing the subject, “This bakery is great.”
He nodded, accepting her point and the subject change. “The tea and coffee are pretty basic, but the baked goods are on point. Coming here is kind of a pre-tattoo ritual for me. Shall we head up?”
“I’m ready.”
Going out the bakery door and in through the neighboring door took only a moment. The stairs, trim, and handrails looked original to the building — old hardwood, well-maintained and smooth with varnish — but had new-looking grip strips for safety. The walls were white, with a trail of black tattoo art leading up the stairs. There was a buzzer just inside the door with a sign that said, Please ring if assistance is needed. Elevator access is available at the back of the building.
Nell had expected a warren of dark hallways and cubicles, like a dark version of a doctor’s office, but as they reached the top of the stairs, she found herself in a big open space instead. The front third of the room had varnished hardwood floors and sleek black couches. Big windows overlooking the street let in a flood of natural light. Portfolio books lay on a low coffee table, and an antique reception desk was positioned at one end, with a skinny teenager in baggy black clothing lounging on a chair behind it.
The rest of the space had black and white checkerboard tiles on the floor and was clearly the tattoo artists’ workspace, with an assortment of padded chairs and tables to sit and lie on, a couple of wheeled workstations that looked almost medical, and several freestanding adjustable lamps. This part of the studio was cordoned off from the sitting area with a purple velvet rope that made Nell think of a nightclub entrance or red-carpet gala. A big man with bodybuilder-style muscles lay on one of the tables, and an artist in a Doctor Who t-shirt and cargo shorts looked up from his work on the man’s chest.
“Hey, Easy,” he said. “Ghost’ll be back in a minute. Stell, this is Ghostflower’s eleven o’clock. Good friends.”
“Hiya,” said the teenager behind the reception desk, holding out a clipboard. “Got your paperwork all up here.”
Easy took the clipboard and handed it to Nell. “That’s for her, not me. She’s getting her first ink today. I’m just here to supply the cinnamon rolls.” He opened the box and set it on a side table in the sitting area.
“You freaks better save at least one of those for me,” said the artist with a grin.
“Don’t worry, Justin, I brought a dozen this time,” Easy told him.
A tall woman with rainbow hair and dragon tattoos wrapped around both arms strode into the workroom from a door at the back. “I smell cinnamon rolls, don’t I?” She laughed, a deep, warm laugh. She crossed the workspace, stepped over the velvet rope, and drew Easy into an enthusiastic hug. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“Always feels like home, coming here,” Easy said in return, so softly that Nell almost didn’t catch it, though she was only a few feet away. Then he turned and waved her over. “Nell, this is Ghostflower.”
Nell stepped up and shook Ghostflower’s hand, feeling as though she were meeting a master at a national event, someone who might be judging her rank test or competition ring. “Nice to meet you.” She just barely managed to avoid calling the tattoo artist ma’am.
“Honored to be the one doing your first ink,” Ghostflower said. She had a firm handshake and genuine interest in her dark eyes. “Lemme just grab a cinnamon roll and we can talk about what you want, ’kay? You want one?”
“I got a savory roll instead,” Nell explained, holding up her paper bag. “I know Eamonn loves his sweets in the morning, but some days I just can’t.”
That made Ghostflower laugh. “Sit and eat! I’ll be right there.”
Nell unwrapped her roll and bit into it. So good! The filling had just a tiny hint of sweetness from the apples and caramelized onions, mixed with the crunch of pecans and the creamy goodness of melted pepper jack.
Ghostflower sat down beside her with a sketch pad. “Now, tell me what sort of tattoo you’re thinking of.”
“On my left shoulder blade,” Nell said. “I’ve thought about this for years. Do you know what I mean by lettering that’s both strong and fluid?”
“Absolutely. And what are we spelling out?”
Nell shot a glance at Eamonn, who was at the window looking down into the street as he sipped his coffee. She held out a hand for Ghostflower’s pencil and printed one word lightly at the top of the page. “It’s the most important thing about me,” she said. Integrity.
Getting a tattoo didn’t hurt, exactly. It was more of a scratchy, pinch-poke feeling. There were moments of ouch — when the tattoo machine’s needles hit nerves in the skin, maybe, like tiny pressure points here and there — but mostly it was tolerable. She imagined the lettering taking shape on her shoulder blade. Integrity. Ghostflower had drawn the word in her sketchbook, in broad capital letters with swirling serifs, both strong and flowing, just as Nell had described. After they’d talked some more, the artist had added a sun rising behind and through the letters, because the sun rises every day, no matter what, and is always there above the clouds. Nell couldn’t directly see the back of her own shoulder, but Ghostflower had made a stencil from the sketch and placed it according to Nell’s request, then showed her in a pair of mirrors. This is me. This is right. With every prick of the tattoo machine, the beautiful artwork was becoming her own ink, part of her skin.
Losing the Wildforest job had taken nothing from her but temporary security. A rest from her sport as well as the workforce grind — a true vacation — was maybe something she’d needed for a while. As the scratching discomfort went on and on, Nell found a place inside herself where it didn’t matter so much that she’d lost control of her life. Maybe it’s a sign. Time for the next step, whatever it is. It will be okay.
And that felt good.
It came almost as a surprise when the needles stopped and the artist’s gentle hands wiped the area with something cool. “All done,” Ghostflower said. “Want to take a look before I put the Dermalize on?” Out came the mirrors again. The finished work was perfect, beautiful, even with the slightly angry skin around it.
Eamonn wandered over to take a look.
He stood just behind her, where she couldn’t see him unless she twisted around, and neither the sore muscles in her lower back nor the brand-new tattoo on her shoulder blade wanted her to do that.
What did he think of it? Had he paid attention to the design before this? Nell couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t as though Ghostflower had shown him the sketchbook, or even drawn his attention to the transfer when she applied it.
This isn’t about you, she wanted to tell him. But then again, maybe it was. She’d been imagining variations of this tattoo for several years, and yet she’d put off finding an artist and getting it done — too busy, no time to heal, maybe afraid to commit all the way to something so permanent. So now, because he suggested it and had a tattoo artist friend? Or now, because she deep down needed him to know how important integrity was to her, so much that she’d make it part of her skin to prove the point?
“Fuck me, Nell, that ink looks good on you,” he said softly, and she wished she could see the expression on his face. “Gorgeous work as always, Ghostflower.”
Ghostflower’s warm chuckle sounded pleased. “You warm my heart, Peasy. Want anything yourself, while you’re here? Just putting the Dermalize on, Nell, then you’re done.” Her capable hands touched the newly tattooed area with care, covering it with something that felt adhesive. Out of the corner of her eye, Nell could see that it was some kind of translucent film. Peasy? Oh… Easy-peasy. Too funny. Who would have thought the great and famous rock bassist would be nicknamed Peasy by his best friend?
“Yeah, maybe. Could you fit her name on me somewhere?”
What? “Eamonn, no!” Nell knew not to move while Ghostflower was sticking the protective wrap over her tattoo, but she twisted her head around as much as she could. “That’s a little too flipping permanent, g
iven how long we’ve known each other, don’t you think?”
He chuckled and came around to where she could see him properly. “You’re part of my story now, Nella-bella, no matter what happens going forward. I want you on my skin. I’m not expecting any promises of forever.”
And that took the breath out of her. It was so much over the top, such a wild romantic gesture far too soon, and yet — I’m not expecting any promises of forever. Why did that sting a little, even as she swallowed a lump in her throat at the sweetness of him saying she was part of his story?
“You can get up now, Nell,” Ghostflower said.
As Nell got to her feet, her lower back protesting movement more than the tattooed shoulder, Ghostflower was already peeling off her purple latex gloves and heading to the sink to wash up before putting on a new pair. Stell from the front desk hurried over to clean and reset the workstation, disinfecting the tattoo machine and sliding a fresh plastic sleeve over it, fitting on a disposable grip, setting out new needle cartridges in sealed blister packs.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Nell muttered.
Stell snickered, not looking up from the job at hand. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Settle down, Stell,” Ghostflower said mildly. She looked Eamonn over. “Shirt off. I’m thinking just under your collarbone, left side? Trust me to freehand it, or you want a stencil?”
He peeled off his shirt and tossed it to Nell, who caught it without thinking. It smelled like him — the body wash and deodorant he used, his skin, a faint tang of clean sweat. Ordinarily, if someone tossed a shirt at her, she’d toss it back or step aside and let it hit the floor, saying I’m not your laundry maid. But she was momentarily entranced by his spectacular bare torso, smooth muscles and ink and the light dusting of golden hair she found so beautiful, and then the moment to act had passed and she was left holding the shirt. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it, but Stell noticed and said, “We got hooks on the wall for that.”
Rock God in Exile (Smidge Book 2) Page 20