Chapter 11 - Johnny - Non-Date Friend-Date
“Ta-da!” I say as we approach the door to Ink Revival, the shop where I work on my clients. “What do you think?”
Becca looks at the door, and at the logo on the big picture window of the shop.
“I think it looks closed,” she says. “What are we doing here?”
“Well,” I say, pulling my keys out of my pocket. “I figured I could show you one of my many talents, and maybe teach you a couple of things. Welcome to our first ever non-date friend-date.”
She watches me skeptically, her eyebrows drawn and her mouth scrunched to the side.
“Come on in.” I hold the door open and motion her inside, flicking the lights on so we can see. The privacy film on the window blocks quite a bit of the light from outside, making it hard to make out the details of the room without the interior lights on.
“Are you supposed to be here?”
I hang up my jacket at the door, and Becca does the same with her sweater.
“I have keys, don’t I?” I laugh. “I only work on clients when the shop isn’t open. If Revival is closed, Hunter expects I might be here. Plus, I texted him and told him I was coming in.”
“Okaaay,” she drawls, looking around, examining the large framed artwork on the walls. I wonder if she can see the signatures on them well enough to tell that some of them are mine?
The shop isn’t what most people think of when they think of tattoo shops. While they also take on everyday clients looking to get some art on their skin, what Hunter and the rest of the team specialize in is tattooing over scars. The shop is relaxing, and looks more like an art gallery than a traditional tattoo shop. Each artist has a private room to work in, including me, even though I’m almost never here. Each artist also has a type of scar that they have a soft spot for, and will always volunteer to work on. Mine are mastectomy scars.
My mom and my sister have both been diagnosed with breast cancer in the past, and luckily they’ve both made it through. Mom was my first experience with tattooing mastectomy scars. My sister Rose was my second. Since then I’ve tattooed at least a hundred breast cancer survivors, mostly women, but there were a couple of men who came to me too.
“I thought you could tattoo me,” I say, turning to take in her reaction. “I have some available skin and I thought it might be fun for you to try your hand at it. Unless you’re already an accomplished tattooer?”
“What?!” she blurts out. “I can’t tattoo you. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ll hurt you.”
I have to chuckle. “Have you seen me?” I lift my shirt and turn around slowly, giving her a chance to take it all in. “I think I can handle it.” I’m covered nearly head to toe in tattoos. I’ve felt every kind of pain tattooing offers. “If I was worried about it hurting, I wouldn’t have suggested it.”
She takes a seat on the dark green velvet sofa that we have in the waiting area. I thought Hunter was crazy when he bought it, because it’s nearly an exact colour match to the paint on the walls, but it looks great in the space. I guess it’s safe to say that interior design isn’t one of my skills.
“So you brought me here to tattoo you?”
Uh-oh. Seems like my idea isn’t the hit that I thought it would be when I thought of it at the diner. I drew some sketches up for her the other night and today is too good of a chance to pass up. We could get a few hours in before anyone noticed we weren’t around. But maybe I was wrong in assuming that Becca would enjoy seeing the shop just because she happens to have a lot of tattoos of her own. Maybe she hates her tattoos and wishes she never got them?
“Well, that, and I thought you might let me tattoo you. Only if you want, of course, and you would have final approval of the design.” I run my fingers through my hair, no doubt causing the blond curls to fluff up. “We can leave and go do something else if you prefer.”
She puts her hand on my knee, and my pace quickens. How does she affect me this much with the barest touch?
Just friends, Johnny. You’re just friends.
“I didn’t say that,” she says, giving my knee a pat before taking her hand away. I wish she would leave it there, but I can’t exactly tell her that, can I? “This is all a bit of a shock to me, is all. I didn’t even know you could tattoo. Now here we are, in a shop that you have the keys for, and you’re suddenly an artist? Look at how gorgeous these are,” she says, standing up and moving closer to one of my paintings. “You’re an artist, and you tattoo, and you’re in a famous band? Is there anything I’m missing?”
I cough and mutter, “the cookies.”
“Excuse me? What was that?”
“I said, you missed the cookies.” I laugh at the look on her face. A cross between frustration, awe, and, well, probably more frustration, with just a hint of irritation thrown in for good measure.
“What about the cookies?” she asks, as she grinds her fists into her hips and takes a step toward me. “Where did you get those cookies, Johnny?”
Laughter escapes me, and I hold my fist to my mouth to get it under control. Seeing her, short, angry, and confused, has me bursting out in an uncontrollable fit of hysterical laughter.
“Johnny,” she says, her voice taking on a dark tone. “Tell me about the cookies, Johnny.”
She’s saying my name too much, and it’s making me laugh harder. She’s trying so hard to be intimidating and it’s having the opposite effect. More than ever, I want to wrap her up in my arms and kiss her senseless, taste her breath, feel her body against mine, hold her and never let go. If I could see this level of anger every time I irritated her for the rest of my life, I could die a happy man.
