Page 18 of Busted Dreams

He empathized with my life that mirrored the shittiness of his. His situation might have been different, but we both had been dealt a weak hand we were still trying to make something out of.

Gripping the scarred, wooden countertop separating the nonexistent lobby from the artists, I felt my hard won calm fading.

“That won’t work.”

The phone rang, and Mollie slid her chair backwards to grab it. I tried not to listen, instead studying some of their favorite pieces to come out of this place. There was a picture of my very first tattoo hanging in the corner. I’d just turned fifteen, but Mollie had taken one look at me and set me down in the back away from prying eyes.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t anything fancy. Just an old-fashioned iron key with colorful, pastel shading behind it. She’d asked me what I wanted.

My answer? I said I needed an escape.

Mollie had laughed, crossing her arms over her well-endowed chest.“So that made you come to a tattoo parlor?”

“Yes.”I’d gulped. “There are more ways to escape your life than to give it up.”

As if she’d been a kindred spirit, she understood exactly what I had been asking for, never asking for a parental signature or anything to verify my identity or age. She merely asked me what I wanted.

When I told her I didn’t know, she picked for me.

Mollie said no matter what made me feel like I needed an escape, I should take control of my life and own my choices. So she’d given me a beautiful key over my heart. It represented the doors I wanted to open for myself. And the placement was perfect because I saw it every day in the mirror, serving as a reminder that I could change my situation.

Until I made the stupid decision to take jobs for Reaper.

“Well, looks like you’re in luck, kid.” Mollie hung up the phone. “My next appointment cancelled. Take a seat at that station and give me five.” She motioned to the very station she gave me my first tattoo.

Only a few minutes passed when she joined me.

“What do you want today? And where? I have to say, pretty soon, you’re going to run out of places to put tattoos if you don’t want people to know you have them.”

This time, I’d actually given it some thought. Hopefully, by the time anyone—or a specific someone—saw it, it wouldn’t be so obvious what it meant.

“I’d like a looking glass. And I want a camera hidden halfway by fog in the mirror. And I’d like it over the front of my thigh.”

She raised her brows, seemingly impressed. “Should I ask about the meaning behind this?”

“Nah.” I shook my head, now wasn’t the time to put it out into the world.

“Alright, then. Let’s begin.” We looked over pictures of mirrors, cameras, and color shading options before I knew exactly what I wanted.

The next hour was grueling in the best way. Every pinprick of the needle provided a steady stream of warm pain that hummed under the skin. It centered me, allowing me to clear my mind of all the stressful clutter.

I wasn’t a masochist.

But some might disagree when they saw the art that canvased my entire chest and torso. Even most of my back was taken up.

For the last couple years, every time life had gotten too loud, I’d come in for a little ink and everything would be right back into perspective, where it should have been in the first place. I thought I’d outgrow it at some point, and it had been several months since I had gotten a new tattoo.

But here I was again.

My phone went off, notifying me of a text.

My Zen was so strong, I was hesitant to look at it.

When I did, I groaned, dropping my head back in the seat.

“Something wrong, kid?” Mollie flicked her gaze over me before going back to shading the edges of the camera.

“No. Not wrong. Just a nuisance.”

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