Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,27

my mother’s favorite flower onto my skin, but also a tribute to both of my parents. My strong, supportive father. My gentle, sweet mother.

It was everything, and I wanted it.

Wanted it to purge the memory of the envelope in my apartment from my brain, to help me hold on to them, to forget everything that had happened when they’d gone.

And . . . I wanted to do something in this moment that wasn’t thought out or considered from all angles. I wanted to go with my gut and to do something just because it felt right, and I wanted it.

Probably stupid to take a dive into living in the present by starting with something permanent, but—

I found I didn’t care.

I wanted it for me, and that was enough for now.

Lifting my eyes from the outline on my arm, I met Garret’s. His face was patient, expression understanding, as though it wasn’t after ten at night and we both hadn’t worked all day. As though he would wait however long it took for me to decide and if the decision morphed into a “No, I’m not ready,” then he’d be perfectly fine with it.

But my answer wasn’t a “No, I’m not ready.”

It was a nod and a, “Yes. Let’s do it.”

His lips tipped up. “Okay.” He flicked a switch, and the gun came to life with a buzz. “I’ll start with a short line first, so you can see what it feels like. Ready?”

Another nod.

He reached for my arm, positioning it over a stand, the heat from his fingers sending a jolt through my center, even though he was wearing gloves.

The first touch of the needle hurt less than I expected.

It wasn’t pleasant, don’t get me wrong, but it was a bit like scratching too hard. An ache for a few seconds that faded away, disappearing into the prickling of the vibrating needle.

“Okay?” Garret asked when he’d reached the end of the line, lifting the gun from my skin and pausing to glance up at me.

Unfathomable green eyes.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, just barely audible over the sound of the tattoo gun. “you are.”

And then he went back to work, doing the short, narrow lines first, then moving onto the longer, heavier ones. Dip, trace, wipe. Dip, trace, wipe. I got lost watching him repeat those motions, seeing the image grow on my arm, feeling the burn and sting, getting lost in the vibrations of the gun.

Every touch of his hands was gentle.

Soft fingers wiping my skin.

A warm palm cupping my arm, tilting it this way and that.

As he worked, the grip of the past faded. The memories were still there, of course, but I wasn’t as flayed open, the ache in my heart having faded enough that I could live right then, in that moment. I could focus on doing something for no other reason than because I wanted to do it.

Garret kept his head down, focused on his work, not stopping until the outline was complete. When it eventually was, he placed the gun down onto his tray and stretched his shoulders.

I’d noticed that he did that a lot, tilting his head from side to side, rolling his shoulders up and back. “Do they hurt?” I asked, my voice slightly rough from not having used it for a while. I had been too lost in watching the tattoo come to life, in the steady, efficient way he worked. Now I realized how much confidence it took to be in an industry that permanently marked someone’s body. Day in, day out. No hesitation. Just efficient work at implanting designs into people’s skin. That had to take a certain amount of balls.

His lids flicked open mid head tilt, and they were bright, like emerald jewels set into a beautiful piece of art. Then his brows drew down, confusion dancing across his expression as he processed my question about them hurting. “Tattoos?”

Not very specific considering the context.

I smiled. “No. Your shoulders.”

He stretched again, as though my mention of the body part was enough to remind him that he’d been moving them. “Not really,” he said then paused. “Well, yes. But I’m used to it, I guess. The ache that comes from bending over something for a long time.” He shook out his hands, stretching his glove-covered fingers in and out. “I’m guessing you can relate.”

“To bending over something?” I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I can say I’ve fully lived the plumber’s butt experience.”

His expression went just a little bit wicked. “It’s not a