I tell myself he hasn't seen me shaking otherwise he would have said something, so I reach for the paper towel, and take a deep, grounding breath. I move slow and steady as I clean up the spilled ink, but slow is where the fantasies live, and as clear as day I see Carey crawling to me until he’s on all-fours between my legs.
I toss the paper towel in the trash and keep my head down.
I need to grow some balls and just tell him that he's fired and needs to leave, but I’m a selfish coward.
I need him to be here.
I don’t want anyone else…
My client continues his story about a trip to Alaska. Something about fishing with his brother—I’m not really listening. It’s taking everything I have left in me to keep my hand steady as the needle drones on.
In a few minutes the highlights are done and I switch off the gun. It's the best work I've done all month. The lines are perfect and the colors are crisp, but the longer I study it the more that perfection blurs until it's swirling across his thigh.
I close my eyes and count to ten.
I set the gun down on the table and it shakes against the metal. I search for the off switch with my thumb but… I already turned it off.
My client puts his hand on my shoulder. “You alright boss?”
“I’m fine.” I blink again, but the spinning doesn’t stop.
“You don’t look fine.”
I try to laugh it off but my mouth is so dry nothing comes out.
I force my hands to obey.
I pick up the clean rag but I pour too much green soap on it.
“Why don’t you stop for a second," my client suggests. “Have some water, or…”
I return the soaked rag to my tray and insist, “I’m fine.” Yet when I go to stand, everything tilts, and my vision compresses to a pin point. I try to steady myself on the edge of the tattoo table, but miss.
Carey is there before I even realize I'm falling.
He catches me, his strong arms wrapping around my waist.
Trying to stay strong, I push against him, but he refuses to let me go, instead leading me to the reclining tattoo chair where he forces me to sit.
My client stares with lines of worry etched on his forehead. "Where the hell did this come from? If I'd known I—"
"He just needs a minute," Carey cuts him off then gestures for him to get back on the table so he can inspect the tattoo. "It's perfect," he says, and his disbelief pisses me the fuck off.
"I wouldn't put a needle to anyone's skin if I—"
Carey whips his body around, his finger pointed squarely in my direction. "Pipe the fuck down, old man. You've lost the privilege of making your own decisions for the time being."
There's a surge of electricity in my chest.
Carey turns back to my client. He puts on a fresh pair of gloves, applies a thin layer of ointment, and wraps it like a pro. After apologizing, he goes through the aftercare spiel, takes his payment, gives him a discount, and apologizes again as he walks out the door. All while I sit here paralyzed, barely able to keep my breathing under control. My vision is still a little fuzzy, and I have to grip the arms of the chair to keep my hands from shaking.
As soon as the door is closed, Carey lets out a lamenting sigh and scuffs his way to the mini-fridge in the corner. "Drink this," he says, thrusting a bottle of water at my chest.
Without saying anything more, he wheels my stool over and takes a seat by my side. Taking my closest hand he removes the glove and holds it between both of his as he looks at me—stares really—studying my face and eyes.
He doesn't ask if I'm okay.
He already knows the answer.
