Page 10 of All Your Firsts

The waiting area has two light-brown leather couches and the most unconventional coffee table I’ve ever seen. The table’s base is a nude woman, lying on her back with her legs bent, knees to the heavens, appearing as though she’s in the midst of the greatest orgasm of her life.

I avert my gaze quickly from the coffee table before I get caught staring and looking curious, or worse, envious.

As I walk in further, I see a wall off to the far right full of art—mostly surrealist paintings in ornate frames. So many themes, colors, and sizes that you would expect them to clash, but they surprisingly work.

I get lost in the colors and strokes. The talent.

Some of these paintings are truly bizarre and dreamlike. I’m intrigued.

They even remind me of some that Rush used to send, which brings a sad smile to my face. I miss him so much.

It’s been so long since I’ve had the urge to draw, or paint, or do anything artistic, period. Ever since Rush stopped writing, my motivation has vanished like a flickering flame.

Lost in my thoughts, I jump and let out a startled shriek as a hand touches my arm.

“Shit, didn’t mean to scare you,” Vic says, with wide eyes, holding up those long tattooed fingers. Even his palms have tattoos, which I’ve read hurts like a bitch.

“No worries. I was just admiring these.”

“You like them?” he asks, sounding guarded.

I look back and gesture at them. “They’re beautiful, chaotic, and all so unique. All completely different but complement each other so well,” I say honestly, keeping my eyes forward on the paintings even though I feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.

“Uh, thanks,” Vic says.

“Wait, this is your work?”

“Yeah, some are from my younger years, like this.” He points at a painting of a headshot, but the face is distorted and appears to be melting off. “It’s been years since I’ve painted.”

Now I’m surprised. Until now, I didn’t even know what he did for a living.

I guess I can consider this the one and only thing we have in common.

Art.

“What made you stop? You obviously have talent.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Did you just give me a compliment, Princess?”

“Do not call me that.”

“Whatever you say,” he says with a grin.

“So, this is how Gage met you? You’re his tattoo artist?”

“Yeah, I’m his tattoo artist.”

My mind reels at the thought of Gage being released from prison, finding a stranger to tattoo him, then leaving me alone with said stranger, who he hardly knows.

Again, I’m going to kill Gage.

I place my hand on my hip. “So what am I going to be doing?”

“You can start by getting us coffee and breakfast sandwiches.” He pulls money out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here. There’s a coffee shop about six doors to the right of us, Sweet Escape.”

I stand there, my eyes fixed on his outstretched hand, filled with crumpled bills. If he thinks I’ll be his subservient assistant, he’s in for a rude awakening.

But maybe he has to gather his supplies and set up his workspace? I wouldn’t know since I’ve never been in a tattoo shop.

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