Page 4 of Saint
“Before we get started,” she said, crossing her long leg over the other, “how long have you been tattooing?”
I loved she asked questions about my experience. Not many of my clients cared because my work usually spoke for itself, but I didn't have a problem answering anything she wanted to know.
I leaned back into my chair, interlacing my fingers behind my head. My black t-shirt tightened across my muscular chest and around my arms. Oya eyed me appreciatively, drifting from my face down my chest before she focused back on my eyes. I did a happy dance on the inside while my face remained stoic. At least the attraction was mutual.
Seven years of my life, I spent locked up in one of the toughest prisons in California, where I learned to tattoo. It was one of the reasons I solely did black-and-white pieces. I started drawing at an early age and even made my own comic when I was younger, but art wasn’t something I had a real interest in. My goal since I could remember was to be a priest. That shit seemed hilarious now and a lifetime ago, but I wanted to save my father even though he couldn’t be saved. Something as a child I never understood until it finally sunk in after being arrested and convicted for his crime.
Too little too late.
Prison changed my life. I learned my father was a lost cause and learned the ins and outs of how to work on different types and all shades of skin with a prison gun made from a toothbrush, metal string, and an ink pen guided by one of the best artists in the country despite him being an inmate. Randal “Voodoo” Jones, Angel’s half-brother, taught me everything I knew about tattooing. Although he’d probably die on the inside, I credit him with everything I knew and my success. I still tried to visit him once a month and keep his account full, so he could get anything he needed. That was all I could do to repay him for changing my life.
I laughed. “Is this your way of asking how old I am?”
“Well, yes.” She laughed. “You look so young to have done so much. Your talent and this place are amazing.”
She was older. A good fifteen to twenty years older than me if I had to guess. But damn if I didn’t want to fuck her. Spread her legs wide, lick and suck her pussy until she came on my tongue and my face was slick with her arousal. At this point, it was all I could think about.
I made a show of looking down at her left hand full of gold and silver rings, except on the finger that mattered. Not to say I wouldn’t fuck a married woman. I was an equal-opportunity asshole and fucked just as many married women as single. Butwith married women came drama. And that was too much to deal with for a piece of ass. Husbands had shown up at my shop and my house. I had too much of a good thing going now to deal with that shit anymore. I had to act like a fucking adult or land my ass back behind bars, which I refused to do.
I flicked my eyes back up to her and licked my lips. “I’m old enough.”
The blush staining her skin only made me want her more.
“Do you flirt with all your potential clients?” she asked, smiling.
“Only the ones I want to know more about.” I winked, which made her smile widen. “So, what kind of tattoo do you want, Oya?” I asked, trying to get my mind out of the gutter, which seemed impossible where Oya was concerned. I wanted to do nasty shit to her body. “Your name is absolutely beautiful by the way.”
“Oh. Thank you. My mother had a thing for African Mythology. Anyway, back to why I’m here,” she said laughing. “I’d like, to live is to suffer...”
“To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering,” I said, finishing the Fredrich Nietzsche quote.
Her eyes widened. “You know Nietzsche?” she asked, surprise lacing her voice.
“Don’t let the tats and good looks fool you, Oya. I’m a man of many talents.”
I chuckled at the embarrassment covering her face.
“No, no,” she shook her head, “I didn’t mean it that way, Saint. I’m sorry. I can’t even get my students to like anything concerning Nietzsche. It was just a pleasant surprise.”
“Teacher?”
I pulled out my sketch pad from the desk drawer to take notes during our consultation.
“Professor, actually,” she said, with unmistakable pride in her voice.
“Ah...smart and good-looking. A deadly combination.” Her laugh echoed throughout the room. I couldn’t deny it. I wanted to hear more of it. “Okay, gorgeous. Where would you like your tattoo?”
“Somewhere discreet. I don’t think my job would like it if it wasn't and I don’t want my students asking questions.”
Even though her flowing dress covered her figure, I could imagine what she looked like under the billowy fabric. I nodded, taking notes on placement. She was a professional, so I understood her wanting it to be discrete.
“What do you think about your ribs?”
“I’m sure that’s painful.”
She looked at me horrified.
“I won’t lie to you. It’s one of the more painful spots. We can do a placement where it can only be seen when you wear a bikini.”
