1. Reese
Clown fish float like eerie blimps over a fluorescent skull.
Tucking my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie, I take a seat on the red vinyl bench and wait. My converse sneakers bounce nervously on the floor, and I eye the door.
It’s not too late to turn around.
But what’s out there?
A dark parking lot.
A long drive home.
Pulling the hood up over my head, I tuck my knees up in front of me and settle in.
A customer passes through the lobby, their arm wrapped up. Chance appears in the doorway to his studio. I’m a sucker for the rebel boys. Chance literally has hell bent tattooed across his knuckles. He has a full sleeve on one arm, all old school tattoos, that slips under the sleeve of his black t-shirt and up his neck.
He tilts his head. “You’re up, Little Mama.”
I climb to my feet, stretching to my full height, every bit of five feet two inches.
Chance’s gaze slides from my worn-out sneakers, past my bare legs and shorts without remark, up to my baggy hoodie. I flip the hood back, realizing I look a little like a sullen teenager.
It’s like he reads my mind. “I know I’ve seen you in here before, but I’m still going to need to see your ID.”
I stomp forward, extracting my ID from my purse. The picture is awful. If not for my red lips, you’d think it was in black and white. Pasty skin. Black hair.
He glances at it and passes it back. “Twenty-four, huh?”
I give him a sweet smile. “That’s what they tell me.”
His expression softens. “What are we doing today?”
I fiddle with the sleeve of my hoodie. “I’m not sure yet.”
He frowns. “So, you want to talk it over and then come back when you’ve decided…”
“No.”
I blurt. “I’m ready to get it done today.”
He scans my face, hesitating. I know what he’s thinking. It’s this damn baby face. Gives me instant damsel in distress vibes. Permanent little sister status. But this little sis is on a fucking mission and if he won’t give me the tattoo I want, I’ll go somewhere else.
With a shrug, he walks back into the parlor, stopping at an oversized book of tattoos. He flips open to a page of butterflies and flowers, watching as I glance over them.
“Where’s your posse? Don’t you usually travel in a pack?”
“My friends?”
My lips twist. “I didn’t get them in the divorce.”
“You’re divorced?”
I smile sheepishly. “I’m kidding. No divorce. Just a messy breakup.”
I’m a little surprised he remembered us, but then again, we are an obnoxiously loud bunch.
Were. We were an obnoxious bunch.
Now I’m just a quiet loner with bad jokes.
My gaze slides away from the butterflies. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I spot a poster on the wall, and I move closer scanning from top to bottom.
Skulls.
Daggers.
Getting warmer.
I tap my finger on the tattoo I want. “That one.”
Chance’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”
“Hell, yeah.”
He tilts his head, clearly conflicted. With a shrug, he goes back to his computer and works on turning my tattoo into a stencil. “Where’s it going?”
I come closer, sitting on the leather stool in front of him. Lifting up my arm, I point to the side of my ribcage. “Here.”
His gaze travels from my baggy hoodie to my face. “How big?”
“An inch?”
He sits back. “Skin along the ribcage is temperamental. With a tattoo with fine lines like this one, I’d need to make it big enough to make sure your skin can handle it.”
“How big?”
“At least two inches.”
“Okay, two inches then.”
He frowns. “And you’d have to take your shirt off.”
“I figured.”
He crosses his arms. Everything about his body language is saying, not today, sister. He tilts his head. “And your bra. I’ve had girls do that under boob location and try to keep their bra on or cover themselves and they just end up stretching their skin. The tattoos come out warped.”
I get the feeling he’s trying to talk me out of this. For a guy with a tattoo of a flying pig on his bicep, he sure is judgmental. Locking eyes with him, I pull my sweater over my head. Shivering in the cool parlor, I give him my most effortless, cheerful smile. “What’s next?”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m lying on Chance’s table, flipping through my phone while he works around me. I’m wearing a Free Bird Tattoo Parlor t-shirt. Chance cut the sleeves off for me. It reveals a long stretch of my side without exposing my boobs to the world. Or to him. He seems pretty adamant that I stay covered.
He pulls a stool up to the table and pauses, the tattoo gun poised over my ribs. “Last chance to back out. This stencil washes right off. That tattoo is for life.”
“Give it to me, Chance.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
The needle bites into my skin. It feels like Chance is dragging a ballpoint pen over my ribs.
Really, really hard.
It’s the kind of pain you feel in your spine. In your hips and down to your toes. I hiss.
“Isn’t going to get any better.”
Chance comments.
“Keep going. I’m good.”
He wipes a trickle of blood and ink away. “Why this one?”
I watch him work. “It’s about rebirth. I’m shedding my skin.”
I turn my gaze back to my phone. Fingertip hovering over Jonah’s contact number. I delete it and it hurts. It hurts like a needle driving ink into my heart. It’s a pain that I welcome.
I navigate to my Instagram app and take one last look at Jonah.
Jonah and his new girl. She’s wearing a mini skirt and a crop top that shows off a flat stomach. I haven’t been that skinny since fifth grade.
How many times did he berate me for dressing too provocatively? For tempting him?
I built my wardrobe around him. Shaped my identity to match his.
“I remember him.”
Chance breaks into my thoughts.
I glance up at him, realizing that he’s looking at my phone.
He huffs another laugh. “The Christian rockstar, right?”
“Yeah. That’s him. My ex.”
“He did you a favor cutting you loose. That guy was a total poser.”
Jonah was a poser. But I was the girl who molded herself around him.
So, what does that make me?