She laughs nervously, and I dip the needle back into the ink cup, brushing off excess against the rim.
I lean over my client’s side, carefully outlining the last petal of an orchid blooming from a skull. It stretches across her ribs in graceful lines, a delicate placement that requires precision and patience. Her breath comes in shallow pulls, with her chest rising just enough for me to work between them.
It’s a rhythm I’ve mastered.
Something about the way the skin pulls, the way ink sinks just beneath the surface, and the subtle drag of resistance; it calms me.
Until my phone vibrates, taking me out of my trance.
I choose to ignore it.
Then it buzzes again.
Who the actual fuck is texting me right now?
I exhale quietly through my nose and glance at it, expecting some scheduling emergency or maybe Mia sending me another meme of that cartoon lizard. Instead, I see a number I don’t recognize and a text that makes me squint.
Unknown Number
Do you believe in ghosts?
Huh?
Unknown Number
Because I’m 90% sure the chicken nuggets I ate last night are haunting me.
I stare blankly at the screen.
My client’s still lying unmoving on the black leather chair. I finish the outline, wiping gently, and set my machine down for a moment to respond.
Amelia
Who is this?
Unknown Number
Maverick Hayes. You know, the gorgeous one. Not the serial killer, unless you’re into that, then surpriseeeee, it’s your lucky day.
I’m going to kill Catalina.
Maverick
Anyway hiiiiii. You like snacks? I just tried to make homemade Pop-Tarts and almost lit my kitchen on fire.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, my gloves squeaking slightly as I flex my fingers. I should’ve known. He had that look in his eye the last time I saw him; he thrived on impulse and attention.
Mia, the studio owner, glances at me from across the studio, blowing a massive pink bubble before snapping it loud enough to make my client flinch.
“Someone sexting you?”
“No, just an emotionally unstable quarterback I barely know.”
Mia perks up, her grey-blue eyes lighting with interest. “Wait, is he famous?”
Before I can reply, the flat-screen above the front counter cuts to a breaking TMZ segment.
I scoff, seeing the news segment.
