Page 8 of Final Serenade

Because I couldn’t understand why I felt like a miserable blob of shit every single time after I saw my family.

I also couldn’t care less if the new guy had tattooed the president himself. It was my skin and I was going to have his artwork along with his energy on me for the rest of my life, and I didn’t want any energy that wasn’t real or positive. I’d grown up with enough negativity to last me a lifetime.

Hank was a sweetheart. He’d come highly recommended and had done all my work ever since the needle bit my calf for the first time. Letting some other artist touch me seemed like cheating, and I seriously considered leaving, but my common sense told me Hank wasn’t going to fly to L.A. from Miami for a session with me unless I could afford to hire a jet.

“There’s a bit of a wait, so just make yourself comfortable,” the attendant explained, ushering me toward the lounge area.

The soft leather couch dipped as I descended.

“You already know what you want?” he asked.

“Sort of.” I had no clue. “But I’d love to look at some more designs.” I smiled as he handed me a few booklets.

The soft hum of the background music and the distant buzzing of a machine started to lull me to sleep. I was beat and sleepy, but my mind still raced wildly after my confrontation with Ashton, and my ego hurt. Fighting a yawn, I peeked at my cell to note the time. It was nearly ten and I was the last client in the shop.

“Hey there,” a warm male voice said as I yanked at the poly plastic page of the portfolio.

My gaze skated toward the sound and I saw a full-sleeved arm extended to me.

“You know”—a chuckle rumbled in his chest—“I can make you a copy.”

I realized my fingers were pulling the plastic so hard, the page was about to fall off. “Sorry.” Blood rose to my cheeks. Depositing the booklets on the table next to the couch, I pushed myself to my feet and shook the artist’s hand. His grip was strong but welcoming.

“Jax. How are you?” He flashed me a lighthearted smile that hardly matched his edgy appearance.

“Cassy. I’m great. Thank you for asking.” I was lying. Getting a tat on a Wednesday night usually meant the opposite. All I knew was that I’d craved the experience a needle against my skin gave me each time I’d gotten more ink. It was therapeutic.

Jax had a military-style buzz cut to show off the intricate artwork adorning his neck and shoulders. He wore an Ink Master T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and sneakers. His deep-set brown eyes ogled my existing tats as I settled in the chair at his workstation. He definitely was droolworthy. I could see why he had the big following.

“So what are we doing today?” he questioned, organizing his tools.

I took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling. “I’ll be honest with you. This was a rash decision, so I don’t know. But I’m open to suggestions.”

Jax scanned me from head to toe, his gaze lasering through my light green summer cargo pants and my cotton top. My bra melted around my breasts. Levi was right. I didn’t need a new tat. I needed to get laid.

“We can definitely come up with something neat that won’t scream rash decision.” Jax nodded, a glint in his eyes complementing his smile. “Do you know where you want it?” He looked over the length of my arms, inspecting.

“I don’t want anything too obvious—” I stammered at the rise of his brow as soon as I realized I was talking to someone whose skin hardly had any areas that hadn’t been touched by the needle. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He tilted his head and a playful smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Your skin is great. I wouldn’t cover it all if I were you.”

“Are you sure you want the job?” I laughed at his selling skills.

“Are you sure you want more ink?” Jax was challenging me and I loved it.

“Just so you know, I like what you have going on.” I motioned at the swirls of black, red, and blue ink sweeping across his taut chest muscles that his loose sleeveless tank didn’t cover.

We chatted while skimming through more designs. The attendant had already locked up for the day, and Jax and I were the only two people left at the shop. He pitched some interesting ideas, but nothing stuck out to me and I felt bad for not being able to make up my mind.

The new Black Rain Coming single blasting from the speakers somewhere above ended and the intro riff of “Ambivalent” filled the room.

“Can you show me the butterflies again?” I asked meekly, music rush hitting my every nerve. Even after all these years, Frankie’s voice still got to me. I took a moment to bathe in its deep, dark sweetness as I flipped through the plastic pages, this time knowing exactly what I was looking for. I missed everythingBreathe Crimsonsignified—my last few weeks with my father before he left us. It was a voice of nostalgia, a voice of lost innocence.

It was the album that got me through some very tough times. It wasthealbum.

“I’d love something like this on my shoulder blade,” I said, showing Jax a small butterfly design.

“Great choice. This is the part where you strip for me.” He grinned.

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