Page 20 of The Tattoo Artist

Isn’t it too early?

Isn’t it to early for me to feel like this?

But before anything more could happen, I muster the strength to slide off of him, breaking the spell that had enveloped us. He smirks, knowing full well the effect he had on me.

“Stop doing that.” I warn him.

“Stop doing what?” He grins.

“You know what.” I push a strand of my hair behind my ears.

“I don’t.”

“Anyways, what do you think?” I anxiously wait for his reaction to the tattoo I had crafted on his skin. He took his time, his eyes studying the art before him. My heart pounded in my chest as I awaited his verdict.

“This really good for an outline drawing,” he praised.

“Thank you,” I reply, “I should actually get going though.”

Ares slips his shirt back on, his dark curls falling slightly over his face. “I’ll come with you,” he said firmly, as if there was no room for argument.

“Oh, no need-” I started to say, but he interrupted me.

“It’s dark,” he insisted.

I nod, appreciating his protectiveness, and he put on his jacket before we walked out of the room.

“Lock up before you leave,” he said to the receptionist.

Ares settles the keys on the counter, and as he opened the door for me, we stepped outside into the cool evening air. We walk a few inches apart, as if there was an invisible barrier keeping us from getting any closer. My bare chest was exposed to the wind, and I shivered slightly.

Suddenly, I feel something drape over my shoulders, and I look up to see Ares offering me his jacket.

“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding my hands into the sleeves. His jacket is a bit too big for me, but I welcomed its warmth. Zipping it up. If I had known I would be staying with him for more than two hours, I would have brought something to keep me warm. I think I keep forgetting that it’s winter-not summer.

We continue walking until we reach the bus stop, and much to my delight, Ares stayed with me. The bright lights of the ads being displayed, the cars passing by as we wait.

“Who did your tattoos?” I ask him.

“I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I tattooed everything myself, don’t really like people touching me.”

But he let me.

“You tattooed all of this?”

He nods, leaning against the shelter of the bus stop stand. My curiosity got the better of me, and I reach out to touch his arms, gently grazing over the inked designs. His skin felt warm and rough beneath my fingertips, adorned with a tapestry of artistry. One whole sleeve on one arm, and smaller ones scattered on the other. Butterflies gracefully wrapped around his forearms, while little writings adorned his shoulder. I couldn’t help but lift his shirt slightly to reveal more, brushing my thumb against the inked patterns.

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” I admitted wistfully.

“So, why don’t you get one,” he suggested with a nonchalant shrug.

I scoffed, feeling a pang of longing mixed with restraint. “I can’t. Parents. Catholic,” I explain, knowing the disapproval that would follow if I ever went against their beliefs.

They would probably kick me out of the house.

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