“Slim, man, why don’t you let the girl sit down first?” Buzz pats him on the back pretty aggressively, and that seems to get him out of his stupor.
“Yeah, alright, why don’t you come on back with me and I’ll show you some of my previous work to see what you like.”
I nod and follow Slim into the main room of the shop.
God, I hope that’s not his real name, I think to myself as I look around.
Buzz is fiddling with the stereo system, and another artist is buzzing away at a scary-looking man’s calf. The chairs remind me of the dentist.
I should go.
“Is everything alright? You aren’t scared of needles, are you?” Slim asks in a worried tone.
I keep my eyes trained on his neck tattoo, a red circle right on his Adam’s apple with a hypnotic web around it. The optical illusion it creates is mesmerizing. The thorny vines coming up on the sides of said neck remind me of Sleeping Beauty’s castle right before the Prince comes to her rescue. I watched that movie at least thirty times when I was a kid.
“Not really,” I tell him. “Is Slim your real name or a nickname?”
“Uh, road name. MC.” I must look confused, because he clarifies, “Motorcycle club.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed for some reason.
So he’s in a gang. Sounds about right. Experience has shown, time and time again, that any man that I find attractive simply cannot be normal.
He seems to sense the shift in mood, so he awkwardly says, “Dylan. That’s my name.” He then clears his throat and straightens up, becoming all business. “Is this your first tattoo?”
“Is it that obvious?” I say self-consciously.
He grins, and it makes him look so young and carefree. “I’m just that good.”
I raise my eyebrow and smirk at his cockiness. It suits him. A song starts blaring through the speakers, and he frowns at Buzz, who turns the volume down the tiniest bit.
The singer whines about love gone blind and someone making him see; the sickly-sweet song doesn’t fit the vibe of the tattoo parlor.
Dylan seems to agree. “Buzz, turn that shit off.”
“Why, boss, not a Skid Row fan? What about you, Marissa?”
I shrug awkwardly.
“Have you picked out a design already? Maybe a bullseye?” There’s something in Buzz’s tone that feels off, so I look away and clutch my bag closer to my body.
“I wanted to get a memorial tattoo for my mom. She passed away two months ago. She was a Deadhead, so maybe something related to that.”
Buzz says nothing, but he finally turns off the stereo.
When I look up, Dylan’s eyes are kind. “Tell me about her.”
I spend almost two hours talking to him about many different things: the complicated woman my mom was, how I moved to her hometown to feel closer to her, my job search, wanting to maybe go back to school one day, and the sudden urge to change my life.
He tells me about his dad dying when he was a teenager, about finding a home in the MC, discovering his passion for body art, and opening his own shop.
He’s only five years older than me, but he’s already accomplished so much.
After we’re done looking at his previous work, he tells me to take some time to decide, and then offers to drive me to the motel I’m staying in until I find a place.
He gives me a ride on the back of his bike, and we make out in the motel parking lot like hormonal teenagers.
“I shouldn’t,” I pant into his mouth.
