Page 11 of Strelitzias in Spring

“Are you okay?” Aubrey asks, diverting Serena’s gaze from mine. “You looked frazzled out there. Do you need water or to make a phone call or anything?”

Serena clears her throat, shaking her head. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I must look crazy right now. I sometimes take a pottery-making class on Fridays at the community center in West Helm, and I don’t like to wear any of my good clothes, and I couldn’t find my old winter coat. I didn’t want to be late, so I threw this on.” She pauses, taking a breath. Lifting one small hand, she touches the bill of the baseball cap and smiles wryly. “And I’m a dyed blonde, so getting clay in my hair would be a disaster. Hence, the cap. And the umbrella, well, it might rain later.”

Aubrey and I just stare at her, the rambling seemingly on par with what I know about Serena. When I first met her, I was struck by how beautiful she was and then puzzled by her switch from silence to wordiness.

“You make pottery? That’s cool,” Aubrey offers, breaking the awkward silence that descended. Like a match, Serena lights up, her features morphing from self-conscious to excited.

“I love it. I started when I was eight with my great-grandmother, and I started doing it again a few weeks ago. My mom’s family is from Mexico, and I became enamored with Cholula designs and the scenes depicted on the pottery. She humored me, and we started to make clay pots and vases,” she finishes her explanation and looks down, the excitement draining and embarrassment taking over. “I’m not very good at it, but it’s fun,” she adds, shrugging.

Aubrey must sense the change in her, too, because she approaches Serena and lays a hand on her arm, squeezing it and offering a wide smile. “That’s great, Serena. I understand embracing heritage and your culture; my family is from Nigeria, so I tattooed the national flower on my arm.” Aubrey rolls up her sleeve, showcasing the yellow trumpet flowers decorating her skin. I feel my lips twitch at the memory of Aubrey sitting for hours in my chair, cursing my name as I inked from her wrist to her elbow. For having so many tattoos, she’s a baby when it comes to pain.

“Aubrey, tell Serena how well you sat for that piece.”

Instead of answering me, she just holds up her middle finger. I laugh and walk to the reception desk. Bringing the computer out of idling, I pull up our calendar booking software and mark Serena as “here” before closing the application.

“You ready to head to my station?” I ask, nodding toward the back of the shop.

“Yes. Yep. I’m ready,” she responds, her voice squeaking. Again, I bite down on my tongue, holding in the laugh that’s threatening to spill out. She’s so fucking nervous, it’s palpable.

I don’t wait for her to start walking; instead, I lead the way to my private room. Pride washes over me the moment I step over the threshold; it’s a blessing that I own a successful business and have a long list of clients begging for my ink. I never excelled in school; I preferred fights, sex, and feeding my artistic soul over math and science. As soon as I turned eighteen, I started as an apprentice under my dad’s tattoo artist, Skull, and took over a year ago when he decided to sell the shop.

MMA pays well when you win the fights, and I’m grateful for the years I spent in the cage. I’m even more grateful that I’ll be retired from that world by twenty-six and have a career that won’t break my body down by thirty.

I sense Serena as soon as she steps into my space, the light vanilla fragrance wrapping around us.

“Should I sit in the tattoo chair or over in one of the green chairs, or…?” Serena’s voice breaks through my thoughts, jolting me back to where we are and what we’re here for.

Clearing my throat, I shake my head and point to the wingback chairs I use for consultations. “Have a seat in one of the chairs. I don’t typically take walk-ins, so we’ll talk about what you’re looking for before we go any further.” I watch as she walks to the chair and sits delicately, as though she’s afraid the sturdy furniture will break under her slight frame. Her back is rigid, and she looks like she’s ready to bolt.

If I wasn’t so confused as to why she’s here, I’d be laughing my ass off at the proper display she’s projecting.

In a fucking tattoo shop.

Settling myself in the chair across from her, I let out a breath. “Alright, Serena, why are you here?”

Her eyes shoot to mine, wide and glowing with unease. Her eyes are like no color I’ve ever seen before; a traditionalist would call them brown, but they’re more golden, a mixture of brown and yellow hues that make the most surreal color. My hand flexes, wishing I had paint or markers or anything nearby to capture their likeness.

“Well, I want a tattoo,” she begins, a self-deprecating smile falling from her lips. “A few tattoos, actually.” I raise my brow, waiting for her to continue. “On my back. A back piece, I think it’s called?”

“I’m familiar with the term,” I muse, sarcasm dripping from my tone. “What is your vision?”

“Butterflies. I’d like for them to start at the base of my spine and fly up toward my shoulder. I want them to look like they’re in motion, about to jump from my skin.”

My eyebrows raise, absorbing the enormity of the piece she’s detailing. “You want a butterfly kaleidoscope over your entire back?”

Her brow furrows, and she licks her lips. “Kaleidoscope?”

“A group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope,” I respond, shaking my head. “What you’re asking for is going to take multiple sessions, a lot of pain, and time to heal. Are you sure you want to dive into your second tattoo with a piece that big?” Her eyes widen, uncertainty morphing her features.

“I—” she begins, pausing to swallow her reply. “I’ve thought about this. I’d like this tattoo, I think.” She mutters the last part of the sentence, and that’s all it takes for me to make up my mind.

I fold my arms across my chest and lean back against my chair, shaking my head as I survey her face. “Listen, the fact that you just said the last part of that sentence tells me that you’re not ready for this tattoo, maybe not ready for any more tattoos.” I work to keep my voice light and judgment-free.

I’m not berating her, but tattoos are permanent, and she should be certain before applying something to her skin.

“But—”

I shake my head, cutting her off. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t give you a tattoo when you’re not sure. Ethically, I’d be the biggest asshole, and I won’t let a client regret a piece they receive from me or my shop. Take time to think about it and give us a call when you figure it out.” I stand and move toward the door, indicating the end of the conversation.

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