Page 32 of Under My Skin
“Have a good night,” I say with a wave as they head toward the door. Just as they’re about to leave, I spot a familiar blonde at the entrance. She steps aside for the three girls, but one quickly breaks away and jogs back toward me.
“Here,” she says, putting a small paper in my hand. “Just in case.”
Smoothing the paper between my fingers, I read her phone number and name in perfect handwriting. “Thanks, Brittany.”
She grins and hurries back to her friends where she’s met with hushed whispers and more giddy laughter.
Lucy looks between me and them as she slowly makes her way back toward my station, and I do a quick assessment. She’s wearing the same clothes she was this morning. Her hair is still up. Overall, she looks exactly the same, but there’s a seriousness about her—a heaviness that looks all too familiar. It’s the weight that comes with being in your head too much. When your thoughts are louder than anything else, it’s hard to tap back into the people around you.
She blinks when she gets to me, like she forgot she’d have to speak at some point. “Um, hey.”
I tilt my head, my eyes narrowing slightly. Something is up with her. “Back for your tattoo?”
She takes a steadying breath as she rocks back on her heels. The sleeves of her sweater cover half her hands, but I still catch her wringing her fingers in front of herself. “Actually . . . no.”
My eyebrow arches. “No?” I knew she didn’t want it, but she was hellbent on getting it yesterday. “But I worked so hard on it,” I say, gesturing to her ankle.
Her mouth opens, and a fleeting look of panic flashes across her features.
Grabbing my rolling stool, I take a seat and finish putting some of my things away. “I’m fucking with you, Luce. I know how much you hate tattoos.”
The air she’d been hoarding rushes out of her. “I really do.” I expect that to be the end of it, but she takes a seat on my bench anyway. “I mean, I love the art. It’s beautiful, but the thought of having something on my body? Forever?” She shakes her head. “I just can’t justify it.”
I shrug as I turn to face her. “You don’t have to. Lots of people never get tattoos. It’s not for everyone.”
She studies me, leaning back on her hands. “You knew I didn’t want it.”
“I knew you wanted it for the wrong reasons.” I want to ask her how things went with her parents, but by the looks of her, she’d rather talk about anything else.
“What was your last tattoo tonight?” She looks over her shoulder like the three girls might still be standing at the front of the shop, but they’re long gone by now. They’re probably already halfway to the Mexican restaurant a few blocks down.
“I did a small floral piece on her ribs. Nothing crazy. She wanted something clean—delicate.”
“Did they all get tattoos?”
I shake my head. “She brought a couple of friends with her.” As I say it, I’m reminded of the phone number neatly written on a slip of torn notebook paper. I look around my station and see it lying on my tray. I must have set it there without thinking. Picking it up, I get to my feet and walk over to the trash can. The lid opens when I step on the lever, and I drop the paper inside without a second thought before going back to where I was sitting before.
She frowns, looking between me and the trash. “Was that . . .”
“A phone number,” I answer as I open a drawer nearby and put away the Saniderm I used to cover the tattoo.
Even without looking at her, I can feel her eyes on me. “And you threw it away?”
Closing the drawer and turning back to face her, I say, “I don’t date clients.”
She frowns. “But was that the client or her friend?”
“Her friend.”
Sitting up straight, she tucks one leg underneath her. She’s starting to feel more comfortable, and I don’t know why that thought makes me feel good about being here with her. “That doesn’t sound like she should be off-limits.”
I look down at my hands, rubbing some of the ink staining my fingertips. “The business comes first.”
“But don’t you spend most of your time here? How do you meet people?”
I playfully glare at her. “I manage.” Sitting up straight, I add, “You’re one to talk. Don’t you work from home? How do you meet people?”
“I don’t,” she says with a laugh. “Being a graphic designer from my bedroom is a lonely life.”
