Page 32 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
BOUND BY INK
1
HOLLY
Istand on the street outside the tattoo shop, trying not to be intimidated by the graffiti on the walls or the fact it isn’t exactly located in the nicest part of London. This place,Carved in Ink, came recommended to me by a friend, and, when I posted about it on a local forum, asking for people’s experiences, I received nothing but positive comments.
This will be my first tattoo. I’ve wanted one for years now, but my ex told me how cheap he thought they made women look. I’d agreed with him, not wanting to start another fight, while all the while coveting the styles of those funky young women with the sleeve tattoos and the cool hairstyles.
I’m thirty-two now, and thought I was past all of that, but a discreet tat that means something to me doesn’t seem like such a big deal.
I’ve already made the appointment ahead of time, and have emailed the artist the picture I want. Still I hesitate, nerves churning my stomach. I’m excited too, though. This marks a new chapter in my life. A way of drawing a line under the past and moving forward.
Plus, it will mean my ex won’t come near me again. It’ll be good to have something permanently on my body that he hates.A kind offuck youin ink. He won’t try to get me back again if I have a tattoo.
A group of lads, in their late teens I reckon, swagger towards me on the pavement. They’ve already noticed me standing there, and I don’t want them to walk past, intimidating me. They’re probably harmless, but I can’t help feeling self-conscious.
I force my brain to switch off and take a couple of hurried steps towards the shop before the young men reach me. I push open the door to a tinkle of a bell. Rock music plays from speakers embedded in the walls, but it isn’t deafeningly loud.
A young woman with shiny brown hair and large dark eyes sits on the other side of the counter. She’s scrolling through something out of sight on the computer in front of her but clicks it off when she notices me walk in. The sight of the other woman makes something inside me relax. I know three guys work here and am glad to see it isn’t a fully male environment.
“Hey,” says the woman, and I note the accent, American maybe, or possibly Canadian. I’ve always struggled to tell the difference. It’s the same with the Australians and New Zealanders, though I’d never admit it to anyone. “What can we do for you today?”
I smile back, nerves still knotting my stomach. “I have an appointment for eleven. Holly McCarty?” I say my name as though it’s a question.
The woman’s warm smile widens. “Sure, Holly. Take a seat. You’re booked in with Kane. You already know what you’re having?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve been emailing Kane, and he’s got the picture.”
Tattoos climb up the woman’s wrist and inner arm. I figure you can’t work in a tattoo shop without acquiring some yourself. But then I realise the tattoos hide something beneath and find myself staring too long, trying to figure out what I’m looking at.
Scars. The tattoos are covering a number of scars carved into the other woman’s skin.
My cheeks flame with heat, and I avert my eyes, understanding that I’ve unwittingly uncovered something private about the American brunette. I flick my gaze back up to the woman’s face and smile again, trying to hide my awkwardness.
The other woman doesn’t seem to have noticed, or, if she has, doesn’t appear to be bothered by my scrutiny.
“Cool.” She nods over to the few chairs pushed up against one of the walls. A coffee table with magazines is positioned in front of the chairs, and a water cooler is in the corner. “Take a seat. Kane won’t be long.”
I do as instructed and sit with my bag clutched on my lap, trying to stop my feet tapping up and down with nerves. I really want this, but still the worries thatthis is permanentandwhat if I end up hating it, go through my head. No, I need to focus on my reasons for wanting the tattoo—how it’s my way of reclaiming my body again. No one else gets to have a say in what I do to my own skin. Anyway, the tattoo, though detailed, is only a few inches long and will be easily hidden in my chosen spot on my hip.
One of the adjoining doors opens, and I sit up straight, my heart lurching.
A man steps out. “Holly?”
I jump to my feet to face him, and only then do my nerves allow me a moment to assess the man who’ll be permanently inking my skin. My stomach flips, sparks lighting my nerve endings, my breath catching.
This is exactly the type of guy my seventeen-year-old self would have gone crazy over. He’s a little less than six feet tall and well built. Blond hair hangs to his squared jaw, which is peppered with stubble a couple of shades darker. His cut-off t-shirt exposes muscular bare biceps that are scrawled in tattoos. But his eyes are the most gorgeous part of him—green, with flecks of gold that you can only see when you’re up this close, and with him staring into your eyes as deeply as you’re staring into his...
The realisation that we’re staring at each other seems to hit us at the same time, and we both glance away. My cheeks burn hot for the second time in a matter of minutes.
I’m not that seventeen-year-old girl anymore. I’m thirty-two, mature, and with responsibilities. This guy probably isn’t even thirty yet. Far too young for me, and not my type in the slightest now. I think of my ex-husband, of the expensive suits he wears to work and the flashy new car he drives. He told me when we first met that he’d take care of me and I didn’t need to work, but I’m thankful every day that I laughed at his offer and continued in my job in Human Resources anyway. It allows me that little bit of independence now, though I’m in no way living in the kind of luxury he’d afforded me. Not that I care about that.
I’d rather live in the gutter than spend another day under the same roof as him.
2
KANE
