Page 12 of Exposed Ink

Sure.

After I finish eating, I throw on my gym attire and head to the health club. I’m getting out of my truck when my eyes land on the business sign a few doors down—Exposed Ink—and my mind goes back to last week when we were called out to Neptune’s for an allergic reaction.

Even though she had a swollen and splotchy face, I could tell the woman was beautiful. That normally wouldn’t be enough to pique my interest. I’ve rescued plenty of pretty women during my fifteen years as a firefighter paramedic. But there was something about the way her blue eyes peered into mine as she begged me not to take her to the hospital that caught my attention.

After I finished the paperwork, I had every intention of leaving to go back to the station, but before I could question what I was doing, I was heading down the hall to the room I knew she was in to make sure she was okay—despite knowing she was since I’d left her completely stable. The only thing the doctor had to do was give her some fluids to be on the safe side and monitor her for a few hours before discharging her.

I could tell from my brief conversation with Kinsley that there was so much more to her than met the eye, and I wanted to dig deep and find it all out. I wanted to ask for her number, but then her friend showed up, and despite her making it clear I should reach out to Kinsley, when Kinsley got embarrassed—her pale skin turning a beautiful shade of pink—I second-guessed myself and left without her number.

Every day for the past week, I’ve been thinking about her. Every time I go to the health club and see the Exposed Ink sign, I consider walking in and asking to speak to her. But I keep chickening out.

My phone dings with an incoming text, so I pull it out and see it’s from my brother.

Eric

Hope you haven’t left yet. Newbie canceled due to an emergency.

Me

No worries. Let me know if anything changes.

I pocket my phone and head inside, figuring since I’m already here, I might as well get a workout in. The entire time, I can’t stop wondering if Kinsley is a few doors down. She obviously works at Exposed Ink, and based on the ink on her body, she’s no stranger to being tattooed. But I’m not sure what she does there.

As I was leaving her hospital room, I saw what looked like her parents—judging by the number of tattoos they were both sporting and the matching Exposed Ink shirt the guy was wearing. Maybe she’s a tattoo artist.

After I’ve gotten my workout in, I take a quick shower, get dressed in a change of clothes I keep in the locker room, and then head out.

I’m halfway to my truck when I change direction and end up standing in front of the tattoo shop. The open sign is illuminated, so I take that as my sign to go in.

A young guy with spiky black hair and several piercings in his face smiles at me as I walk up to the front desk.

“Welcome to Exposed Ink,” he greets. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Kinsley.”

“Are you looking to get inked or pierced?” he asks.

“Um, neither. I was hoping to speak with her. Is she around?” I glance down the hallway, hoping to catch her, but it’s empty.

The guy eyes me curiously for several seconds before he says, “What’s your name?”

“Shane.”

“And what do you want to speak to her about, Shane?”

Okay … this guy is either protective or has a thing for Kinsley.

“I met her last week and wanted to talk to her about something personal.”

After a long moment, he says, “Give me a minute,” then disappears down the hall, going into the second door on the right.

While I wait, I check out the shop. I’ve never been in here before, but it’s not how I imagined a tattoo shop would look. With an L-shaped black leather sectional, a sleek black coffee table with what looks like photo albums sitting on them, and a red felt pool table, the waiting area looks more like something you’d see in a wealthy person’s house or an upscale club than a tattoo shop.

There’s cool graffiti donning the walls, and I notice that several are sporting Kinsley’s name underneath them. If the drawings on the wall are any indication, she’s a seriously talented artist.

The front desk is sleek black, and to the right of it is a glass case with a bunch of jewelry inside it. Hanging above the case are several pictures in frames. I step closer to get a better look and immediately recognize Kinsley standing in between the two older people I saw at the hospital, the ones I assumed to be her parents. She doesn’t really look like either one, but her soft smile is identical to the woman who has her arm wrapped around Kinsley’s waist.

“Can I help you?” Kinsley says, steering my attention from the picture over to her.

---