Page 31 of Exposed Ink

“Italian,” she says, going back to inking me.

“I take it, you’ve been to Mario’s?”

It’s the only decent Italian restaurant in town, aside from the takeout pizza place.

“I have,” she admits, her adorable nose scrunching up—an action I’ve learned she does when she’s not keen on whatever is being said. “But it’s got nothing on Antonio’s in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You’re from the city?”

There’s only one Hell’s Kitchen that I know of, and it’s in New York City.

“Yep. Born and raised. I didn’t move here until …” She trails off and sighs, and I assume that’s the end of the conversation, that she’s once again slammed the proverbial gate closed to block me out, until she starts speaking again. “I moved here after Brandon and Brenna died.”

She’s never mentioned his name before, but I think it’s safe to assume Brandon was her husband who died, along with their daughter.

“And then opened this tattoo shop?” I ask, shifting the conversation so she won’t shut down. I’ve learned from our few conversations that if the topic isn’t regarding her past, Kinsley is more likely to let me in.

“My dad did,” she says. “He had enough of me moping around, and since there was no way that I was going back to work at Forbidden Ink …”

“That’s where you used to work,” I clarify, piecing her info together, “in the city?”

“Yeah, I practically grew up there. My uncles opened it and still own it. It’s where my dad met my mom, and … it’s where I met Brandon,” she says with a sad smile. “He apprenticed with my dad and was eventually hired full-time.”

“That’s cool. You both were tattoo artists. Did you guys ever fight over who was the better artist?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

This makes Kinsley laugh, and the way her face lights up has me wanting to pull out every joke I know so she’ll keep doing it. A sad Kinsley is tragically beautiful, but a happy Kinsley is downright breathtaking.

“No,” she scoffs playfully. “It wasn’t up for debate. I was the better artist.”

I chuckle at her cockiness. “I can’t even draw stick people. My daughter was a better drawer at four than I am as an adult,” I say, pointing at the tattoo right above the one she’s currently working on. “When we were forced to take art, I would have my friend do the assignments for me since he was artistically better than me.”

Kinsley laughs again. “I’ve never heard of anyone cheating in art class. But the truth is, I couldn’t really draw either when I was younger. I loved going to work with my dad, but I wasn’t naturally good at drawing. My parents signed me up for art classes, and my love for it made me want to practice until I was great at it.”

“I’d say it worked.” I glance down at the tattoo she’s currently doing. It’s another image Taylor drew—of the fire station I’ve worked at since she was born with me in my fire suit and her standing next to the fire truck. She used to love riding in it when she was younger.

“You’re extremely talented,” I say, my gaze moving from my arm to her.

“Thank you,” she mutters, a slight blush tingeing her cheeks.

“Taylor is creative,” I tell her. “But she loves digital design. It’s what she wants to go to school for.”

“What grade is she in?”

“She’s a junior. We’re going to start looking at colleges soon, but she has her heart set on NYU.”

“It’s a good school,” Kinsley says. “I went there.”

“Really? What did you go for?”

She stops inking me and sits back, taking her gloves off to give me a small break, something she does every so often. So, I reach behind me and pull out my box of Sour Patch Kids. I pop one into my mouth and then offer her one.

She glances at the box the same way she does every time I offer her some, but this time, she reaches in and grabs one, and I take that as a win.

“Art and business. I wanted to learn all aspects of art, and I always wanted to open my own shop. I probably could’ve done both without going to school, but I wanted the best chance at being successful.”

“Well, it looks like you did what you set out to do. This place is clearly a success.”

“Yeah,” she says with a soft smile, “it is.”

---