The guy gritted his teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his fingers clenched like a dead spider’s legs to the side of the chair. Goth girl paused to wipe away some blood.
“You doing alright, Adam?” the girl asked as she pushed the needle against his skin, and the buzzing recommenced.
“Argh, yeah,” he gritted out.
She tried not to laugh—weak fucking fragiles.
An art book sat on a coffee table by a worn-out brown leather couch. There was nothing upmarket about this place, including the owner, Gareth. He was a heavily bearded guy, with a mop of brown hair. He was wearing a black muscle top which showed off a sleeve full of tattoos. He stood behind the counter, shuffling around money in the cash register.
“Can I help ya, miss?” he asked, closing the till drawer.
“Do you have any spots available soon?”
He indicated with his head to goth girl. “Mel will be finished in ten or so.”
She glanced over. Her work was competent. But she wanted the best. “I would prefer you if possible.”
He fiddled with the end of his beard. “Do you know what you want?”
She pulled the paper from her pocket and handed it over.
He pulled it in front of his face and studied it, then nodded. “That won’t take long. I can do it now, and it’ll be a hundred.” He paused and scanned the silk button-down blouse she wore, then her pants and boots. He wouldn’t know the blouse was Chanel, the jeans Versace, or that the boots were Gucci. But he clearly recognized the quality fabrics of her outfit, which wrapped her body like a glove. “And fifty dollars.”
She raised her brows. “For two short words? That’s highway robbery.”
He shrugged. “You want the carriage or the mule?”
“Fuck you, Gareth. Asshole,” Goth girl muttered.
She sighed, pulled the cash out, and handed it to him. He slid the bills into the pocket of his jeans.
“Righto, hop on over to the chair.” He indicated a black chair to the right, over by the red-brick wall.
She sat down.
He lowered himself to his chair and set out his instruments. “Where do you want it?”
She unzipped her pants and pulled them down below her bottom.
“Right here.” She indicated to her hair-free pubic bone. She looked for a hint of surprise on his face but found none. She guessed he was used to tattooing all kinds of places. He grabbed a pair of black latex gloves from a box, snapping them on.
She glanced at the young guy in the other chair. He had forgotten about his pain apparently. He gawked, not blinking, but he wasn’t looking at her face.
Gareth pressed down, and the needle piercing her skin sent shivers of delight through her body.
The blond guy’s eyes traveled upward and met hers.
She smiled. He flushed red and dropped his gaze away. She sat there quietly until Gareth finished.
“Done,” he said. “Happy?”
She looked down. “Very, thank you.”
He wrapped gauze over it and taped it in place.
“What does it mean?” he asked as she pulled her pants up.
She jumped off the bed. “It’s French for ‘Black Death,’ she was a woman who murdered her husband, a man who hurt her in the worst possible way.”
