Page 73 of Crimson Desires

“Am I a bad person for wishing that your Charleston show was canceled and not delayed?” I asked. The thought of having a normal day with Jack was wickedly appealing—even if he had to spend said day behind a cheap plastic mask.

“No, you’re not a bad person. But I can’t say I agree with you,” Jack said. “I hate canceling shows.”

“It must suck having to refund all those fans,” I said.

Jack tilted his head. “I don’t care about that. My concern is disappointing fans. Do you really think I care about my paycheck more than I care about the people who come out to support me?”

My cheeks burned. “Oh. I guess not. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know I can be a dick, Aster. But I try not to be a bad person. You know?”

I nodded. “Of course. That was totally uncalled for on my end.” I pushed forward, almost as eager to leave the awkward conversation behind us as I was to explore the convention.

The convention center housed about fifty booths. Most of the booths belonged to studios from everywhere across the state—from Greenville to Columbia to Charleston. The other booths featured vendors selling everything from pocket knives to leather collars.

The coolest aspect of the convention, though, was the fact that everywhere you looked, you could see a tattoo artist working on an attendee. A chorus of buzzing tattoo guns filled my ears. Some of the booths had even set up cameras so that you could get an up-close look at the tattoo artists working.

Jack leaned over my shoulder as I looked through an artist’s collection of flash tattoo designs.

“You should get a tattoo,” he suggested. “I’d be happy to pay for it. Plus, you’d have the best fucking story to tell about your first ink.”

I bit my lip. The offer was tempting.

As a longtime fan of Ink Master and body art in general, tattoos had always interested me. Yet, despite my fascination with them, I’d never gotten one myself. I liked to pretend that my hesitations were purely financial, but in reality, I think I was more afraid than anything else.

Afraid of the pain. Afraid of the healing process. Afraid to commit to a permanent design.

“I’ll think about it,” I finally said. “I want to look at the rest of the booths.”

Jack shrugged. “Sure.”

Slowly, we made our way through all the booths. As we walked, I found myself looking for a sign. As fucking dorky as it sounds, I wanted my first tattoo to be special. I didn’t want to get a permanent design on my body just for the hell of it.

I hoped that one of the studios would resonate with me. That I’d feel a strange, ethereal connection to one of the artists.

But it didn’t come.

At least, not until we hit the last booth.

The final booth was manned by a studio called Ultraviolet Ink. According to the banner posted above their workspace, the studio was owned and operated by three female artists, and they had traveled from California to attend the convention.

Jack struck a conversation up with them immediately.

“Is your studio really all the way out in Cali?” he asked.

One of the artists—a biker-looking woman with electric green hair and about five-million facial piercings—nodded an affirmative. “Yep. Our studio is based in LA.”

“I’m from LA, too. What are you guys doing in Charleston?”

The biker-woman nodded toward her coworker. “One of our employees has a sister getting married in Columbia later this week. I was her plus-one. When I learned that the convention would be in town, I figured to capitalize on the opportunity. So, we closed up the shop and booked a booth.” She smirked. “So, what about you, Jason Vorhees? What are you doing in South Carolina?”

Jack chuckled. “I’m here for a music thing.”

“A music thing. Very cool. Well, you want to know what goes great with music things? Tattoos. You looking to get one?”

“Not me,” Jack said. He gestured to me. “But she might be.”

Biker-woman smiled as she looked me up and down. “Fucking A. I’d love to give you your first tattoo.”

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