Page 25 of Jackson
“Good. Now, go sort out your client,” Jackreplied.
The tinkle of the doorbell had alerted us that the client had arrived a littleearly.
“What’s up with D-J?” Iasked.
“He had a little too much to drink last night, nothingmore.”
For the first time, I wasn’t sure I believed him. There was something in the way his eyes shifted to Bridge as he spoke. And the loudness of his voice led me to believe that statement wasn’t just for myears.
“Are you ready for this?” hesaid.
“No, but goahead.”
He laughed as he wiped the drawing from mystomach.
“Don’t you need that, to copyfrom?”
“No, it’s imprinted in my mind. I can see it perfectly, even when it’s notthere.”
He picked up a gun that was wrapped in plastic, opened some small pots of coloured ink and then ran his fingers over myhip.
“Don’t you need gloves on?” Iasked.
“You don’t have some nasty disease I should know about, do you?” heteased.
“No, of course not. But won’t itbleed?”
“A little, but I’m not worried about your blood on myhands.”
He took a swig from his bottle, although I wasn’t sure he should be drinking just before he tattooed me. I looked at him; he stared back at me. He gave me a gentle nod of hishead.
I let out a hiss as the needle of the gun connected with myskin.
“Breathe through it, baby,” hewhispered.
I stilled at the sentiment. He’d never called me anything other than my name before I’d arrived. His arm rested on my hipbone and I watched the concentration on his face. He bit down on his lower lip and I was grateful. Watching him, wanting to bite that lip myself, distracted me from the painful sting I wasfeeling.
He was right on one thing; it was a burn that spread across my body. I closed my eyes, trying to absorb the pain. I winced, I hissed, I even cried out at one point. But it was a strange pain. At times it hurt; at times it tickled. After he’d completed the outline, he rested back and studied his work. He wiped my skin and then applied alotion.
“That will numb it a little,” he said, as he dipped the gun in another pot ofink.
Maybe he had lied, maybe the lotion hadn’t worked, but the longer he continued—the more it hurt. I tensed, my hands fisted by my sides, and I screwed my eyes shut. I took deep breaths and clenched my jawshut.
“How are you doing?” he asked, without looking up atme.
“I don’t know. How muchlonger?”
“We’re about a thirddone.”
“Oh,fuck.”
He chuckled. “I’m not stopping, no matter how much you beg me,okay?”
“That’s notnice.”
“A half done tattoo looks shit. This is my art on your body; it has to get finished. Talk to me, about anything, take your mind offit.”
It was only during the times he took the needle from my skin, to dip into yet another pot of ink that I was able to speak. At one point, I’d tried to arch my body off the bed; he had placed his hand way too close to my pussy for comfort and held me down. Part of me wanted to arch up again, if only to keep his hand in that exactspot.
