Page 6 of Strelitzias in Spring

After my parents divorced, my mom would take me to the butterfly gardens in Brooklyn, a welcomed distraction from the chaos in our family. We’d be there for hours, exploring the grounds and taking in the flowers that seemed to attract the most intricately winged butterflies. I remember being struck by how the tiny insects would land on the flowers, stay for a bit, and then take flight, zooming to the next destination in their sights.

There’s a sense of freedom with butterflies, almost like they have a home, but they’re not tethered there; they land and take off at will or instinct. I’ve always wanted to be like a butterfly: free but also belonging everywhere. I’ve never felt that way, not even in my own home.

I must zone out for long minutes, lost in my thoughts, because by the time I refocus, Ava and Celeste are standing before me, bandages on their arms.

“Hi,” CeCe says, approaching me slowly as though I’m an animal in the wild. “Have you decided if you’re getting a tattoo?”

I clear my throat, nodding my head. “Yes, I think I am.”

“Eek!” Ava squeals, sounding like a rusty door hinge. “What are you getting?”

“Let her be, Aves. She’ll show us when we get back to her apartment,” CeCe reprimands with an eye roll. “Wolf is ready for you; he just finished sanitizing and setting up the station.”

“Great,” I mumble, nerves assaulting my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I make my way to the back of the shop, where Wolf’s tattoo room is. From the entry, you can’t see into the private rooms, so I’m surprised as I step over the threshold and see dark walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and hunter-green accents. If the common area of the shop is modern and airy, with gleaming white walls, black trim, and framed artwork, then Wolf’s private space is like a nineteenth-century villain’s secluded lair. It’s simultaneously masculine and feminine—a dichotomy born from attention to detail and a balance of sex and darkness.

I don’t think I’ve ever been turned on by a room before—truthfully, I’ve barely ever been turned on—but there’s something carnal about the space that hints at the personality of the man who designed it.

A throat clears to my right, and I turn quickly, flushing at Wolf’s presence. He must notice my embarrassment because he raises one dark red eyebrow before jerking his chin to the tattoo chair in the center of the room.

“Celeste said you were on the fence about a tattoo. I’m assuming you decided?”

“Yeah. Yes, I…” I pause, shaking my head to compose myself. “Yes, I decided. That I want one, that is.”

“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word like he’s waiting for me to add more. When I don’t, he lets out a sigh. “And what do you want?”

“Oh, right. The wordmariposa. It means butterfly in Spanish.”

“Got it. I’m going to do a quick look-up to make sure your translation is correct.” He walks over to a writing desk and opens a laptop. He glances over his shoulder, taking in my form by the door. “You going to sit, or are you planning on getting a tattoo standing up?” I feel my cheeks heat; my blush is probably deepening from pink to a deep, mortifying red.

“Sitting, of course. I’ll just go sit.” His eyes follow me as I place my body on the chair, sliding until my back hits the dark leather. I feel his eyes linger on me, an unnerving perusal that leaves my breathing erratic and my nipples pebbling against the fabric of my bra. I thank God that I’m wearing so many layers and can hide my reaction to him. When I look up, I see that he’s typing on the computer, the harsh clicks on the keyboard the only sound in the room. I shift on the chair, trying to get comfortable, and his hands flex on the keyboard as though he’s affected by my presence.

“So, did you find the translation?” It shouldn’t take long to look up the single word, but he’s been staring at his computer screen for five minutes.

“Yeah. All set.” Taking a notepad and pen, he scribbles something down before coming to his stool beside the tattoo chair. “Where are you thinking placement-wise?”

I swallow thickly as I unzip my jacket and reach for the hem of my shirt. When I saw that both Ava and CeCe got tattoos on their forearms, I immediately ruled the spot out. Lifting my shirt slowly, my heart pounds erratically as I bunch the shirt under my bust. With my free hand, I indicate where I want the word. “I’m thinking here, right below my bra line.”

Unable to meet Wolf’s gaze, I take in the death grip he has on his notepad and the flex of his arm, like he’s physically holding himself back.

Wait, what?

Shifting my eyes up, I see that Wolf’s gaze is trained on my bare skin, his jaw set in a tight scowl. I’m not sure if he’s turned on by my bare midriff or viscerally offended.

Is it wrong that I think both reactions are hot?

I watch as Wolf works his jaw until his body relaxes, a contradiction to the tense posture he had moments ago. “Do you want me to stencil it or freehand?”

My mind goes back to his portfolio and the skill evident in his work. “I’m fine with freehand. But, uh, could you make it feminine?” I say, wincing at the last part. Amusement takes over his face, and that stupid eyebrow raises again. “I just mean that I saw your work, and it’s amazing. So beautiful, but uh, I was thinking that I don’t want something bold on my body right now. Just dainty, delicate. Like an ornament on my skin,” I rush to clarify.

“Calm down, I wasn’t planning on giving you block letters in a heart that says, ‘Mom.’” He rolls his eyes, reaching behind him to grab a bottle of antiseptic and paper towels. “Get up for a minute while I adjust the bed, and take your jacket off for me.” He uses side buttons to adjust the seat until it’s flat. “Alright, go ahead and sit back down. I’m going to sanitize your skin and prep the area. Because it’s freehand, I’m going to do a marker to show the placement and the length before I ink it on your skin. Once you’re comfortable with the logistics, we’ll get started.” I follow his directions and work my jacket off, letting it fall behind me on the back of the chair. My shirt lowers in the process, and before I can adjust the hemline, I feel Wolf’s fingers. “Can I?” he asks, pulling on the fabric. I nod wordlessly, my eyes trained on his face as he works my shirt up with the efficiency of a man who has taken off innumerable articles of clothing. He preps the area, marking out the size and location of the tattoo, and once I agree, he continues to prep the space before freehanding the word on my body.

Lifting the covered gun, he looks at me before asking, “Ready?” I nod, not trusting myself to verbalize my response. Wolf sets his free hand on my skin, and I gasp. There’s nothing sexual about his movements, but the graze of his gloved fingers against my bare skin has me shivering uncontrollably.

Wolf looks up sharply, pausing before bringing the tattoo gun to my skin. “Are you cold?”

“No. I’m good. Fine.” I swear I have an above-average IQ and can strum together more than banal platitudes and sentence fragments. Wolf must think I’m a freaking moron with a perpetually frozen body temperature.

I shut my eyes, trying to focus on the sting of the machine and not the presence of the man marking me.

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