Ransom rolled his eyes. “You’re the only one on the books. Saturday’s dead. Cops got a DUI checkpoint out on the main road, so all my fun clients are still sleeping it off.” He motioned to the chair, which was more dentist’s recliner than anything. “Sit. Or leave. I don’t care.”
The chair looked like it belonged to someone bigger, maybe someone who wouldn’t have their feet swinging two inches off the ground. I climbed in anyway, sketchbook clutched in my lap, and tried not to look at the trays of needles and the glass bottles lined up like shots waiting for a last call.
“So?” Ransom asked, snapping his gloves tight. “You pick something?”
I thumbed to the page in my sketchbook. It took weeks to get it right, the letters curling just so, the line weight thick at the down-strokes and almost invisible at the up. Even now, my hand shook a little as I passed it over.
He took the book, held it up to the light, and snorted. “Quiad’s name. That’s… not subtle.” He stared at it longer, lipstwitching, then raised an eyebrow. “You really want to do this? Once it’s on, not even God can take it off.”
I met his gaze, feeling the familiar knot of shame and longing tighten in my stomach. “I’m sure,” I said, and was surprised to find I meant it.
He nodded, then turned and set the sketchbook down, arranging his tools with methodical grace. “Your funeral, Hardesty. But he’s gonna lose his mind when he sees this.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of prepping. The whirr of the gun. The click and rattle as he loaded a fresh needle. He wiped down my forearm, his hands strong and steady, then lined up a stencil of my design on the thin skin above the bracelet.
“You want it here?” he asked, pressing the transfer on, the outline of Quiad’s name curling just below my wrist bone.
“Yeah.” My voice barely made it out. “Right there.”
He stepped back, head tilted, admiring the placement like a painting. “Nice. That’s where I’d put it. Most guys, they go for the shoulder or the chest, you know? Something easy to hide. You want it on display.”
I shrugged. “No point if he doesn’t see it.”
He gave a little huff, then turned deadly serious. “Okay. You ready?”
I nodded, though every nerve ending in my body screamed that I was not. The gun buzzed to life, high and hungry. Ransom braced my arm with one hand and leaned in, eyes laser-focused on the stencil.
The first contact of the needle was like a hornet dipped in vodka—burning, biting, impossible to ignore. I sucked in a breath through my teeth and felt my whole body tense.
He worked fast, pulling lines with confidence, the ink sinking into my skin in little bursts. The pain was sharp, but not the worst I’d ever felt. Just constant, gnawing, like it wanted to pick a fight with your pain threshold and see who won.
“Doing okay?” Ransom asked, not looking up.
“Yep,” I said, though my vision was swimming and I could taste copper at the back of my throat.
He worked in silence for a while, the buzz of the machine and the scrape of latex on my skin the only sounds in the room. I focused on the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the old paint, then let my mind wander to what Quiad would say. Would he be pissed? Proud? Embarrassed? Maybe all three at once.
I pictured his hands—those massive hands—cradling my wrist, thumb stroking the new tattoo, his voice dropping to that private register he used when it was just us.
Mine now.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek and rode out another wave of pain. The smell of ink and antiseptic was stronger now, layered with something raw and metallic. I glanced at Ransom, who was hunched over my arm, tongue poked out in concentration. There was something almost gentle about the way he moved, each line pulled with the kind of care that said this was more than just a job.
After what felt like hours—but was probably only forty minutes—he set the gun down and wiped the area clean. “Almost done,” he said. “Let me hit it with some shading and we’re golden.”
“Fine by me.” My teeth were chattering a little, but I gripped the armrest and held steady.
He swapped needles, switched bottles, and got back to it. The shading wasn’t as bad as the line work, more like someone scratching an itch you didn’t know you had. I let my eyes drift shut and counted the seconds, thinking of the river, the farm, the exact shade of brown in Quiad’s eyes.
I wondered if I’d ever be able to look at my own wrist again without thinking of this moment—of Ransom’s careful hands,the buzz of the gun, and the heat that spread out from the letters as they settled under my skin.
When he finally finished, Ransom cleaned the area one last time and wrapped my wrist. The whole thing looked red and angry, like it might leap off my arm if given the chance.
He peeled off his gloves and snapped the elastic with a flourish. “There. Done. Want to look?”
I nodded, and he unwound the bandage just enough to show the ink. Quiad’s name was perfect—crisp, black, the curls and flourishes just how I’d drawn them, maybe better. The skin around it was swollen and pink, but the letters were clean as bone.
“It’s great,” I said, and for a second my throat closed up. “Thank you.”
