Knight pauses, and I realize I’m rambling. He must think I’m an absolute idiot.Good going, Daisy.
He picks up his tattoo gun, and it gleams under the lights, wicked and sharp. My stomach clenches.
I jump at the buzz of the tattoo gun, and Knight sighs. Not quite annoyed, but close.
“It’s going to be loud,” he says, looking at me like he’s giving me a last chance to bail. “And it’s going to hurt. You’ve chosen a sensitive spot.”
“I know. I’m ready.”
The first touch of the needle steals my breath. I am so not ready for this. I don’t feel pain, exactly, but the needle is sharper than I expected, like a cat kneading its claws on my bare skin. I grip the armrest and force myself to breathe.
“Stay still.”
“I’m trying.”
The needle traces the outline of the kitten’s ear. Fire blooms on my skin, and it takes all my effort not to squirm. I focus on the music, on the steady rhythm of the bass, on anything except the relentless bite against my skin and the confusing desire I feel for Knight.
The pain doesn’t fade—it builds, layer upon layer, until my fingers ache from gripping the chair.
You can do this. You can do this. You can—
The needle drags across a sensitive spot, and I jerk away with a gasp.
“Hey—” Knight’s voice sharpens, but he’s pulled the tattoo gun away from me and turned it off.
“I can’t.” The words come out broken, pathetic. Tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It hurts more than I—”
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified. I’m sure the other tattoo artists are staring and will laugh about me when I’m gone. My whole body is shaking, and I can’t stop the tears, and my father’s voice is back, louder than ever.See? You can’t even handle a little needle. Now you’re going to be marked forever, and it will be ugly.
“Hey.”
Knight’s voice is softer now. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me. His expression isn’t annoyed or angry. There’s a gentleness that catches me off guard.
“We can stop. Come back when you’re ready.”
“I’m sorry.” I swipe at my face. “I’m wasting your time. You probably think I’m ridiculous—”
“You’re not the first to tap out.” He reaches past me, grabs a tissue from the box on his station. “No shame in it.”
His dark eyes meet mine as I take a tissue from the box.
The muscles in his jaw tighten. He’s close enough that I can count the darker flecks in his eyes, close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches—
Then he pulls back, turning away. “Let me cover this up, and you can take a minute and compose yourself.”
The front deskfeels miles away.
My legs are unsteady as I approach the front counter so I can pay, the partial tattoo wrapped and throbbing beneath my shirt. Just the outline of the kitten’s head—ears and the curve of its cheek. Incomplete. Like everything else I’ve ever started.
You couldn’t even finish a tiny tattoo. You’re pathetic. You thought you could be edgy for one day? Thought you could be someone other than boring, safe, forgettable Daisy?
My father’s voice blends with my own, a chorus of criticism I’ve been hearing my whole life. Good girls don’t get tattoos.Good girls don’t make scenes. Good girls certainly don’t cry in front of intimidating, gorgeous men and then fantasize about the warmth of their hands.
I fumble for my wallet, one hand still holding my cardigan closed, cursing myself for thinking I might be enough for a man like him. I’ve never been enough.
“How much do I owe?” My voice comes out thin.
Clancy glances at his computer. “For the full piece—”
