Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“You want a sleeve,” I say slowly.
I mean, I heard him, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.
“Yep,” he replies, popping the P. “I was thinking I could come every week, and you could continue it.”
Every. Fucking. Week. This guy can’t be serious …
“You can only do every week a few times,” I point out. “After a few sessions, your body will need more time to heal, and you’ll need to wait at least two weeks in between appointments, if not longer.”
“Okay.” He shrugs. “So, every week until you say I need to switch to every two weeks. Got it.”
I stare at him for several seconds, and when it’s clear that he’s being dead serious, I release an annoyed sigh. “Let’s just see how this goes today before you make any future plans. For all we know, it’ll hurt so badly that you’ll pass out and throw up and never come back.”
A girl can hope.
Shane barks out a laugh, not at all fazed by my words. “I already took pain reliever, and I’m a firefighter medic. I can handle a little pain.”
He winks playfully, and I internally groan.
This man is going to be the death of me.
“Let’s go,” I say, pointing to the chair. “Sit down and lift your sleeve back up so I can look at what I’m working with.”
“Would it be easier for me to just take off my shirt?” he asks with a flirtatious tone laced in his words.
I imagine his body on display, and based on his muscular arms, I’m sure his chest and abs are just as toned. Not only would that be distracting, but the last thing I need is to stare at this man shirtless. I’m having a hard enough time keeping him out of my thoughts.
“No,” I say a bit too harshly as I open my drawer and grab a zip tie from the bag I keep on hand for this purpose. “Keep your damn shirt on.”
Shane chuckles, unaffected by my rudeness. “So damn sour,” he says, smiling at me. “I can’t wait to get to all that sweet underneath.”
I ignore him while I sit at my desk and, using the picture he sent to me, draw up the tattoo. It’s a simple design, but it takes some time to make sure I get the lines and shading correct so it matches what his daughter originally drew.
“Okay,” I say once I’m done, turning around in my seat. “Check this out and let me know if you want me to make any changes.”
Usually, I’ll have the client upload what they’re looking to have done into our system so I can draw up a draft before they come in. Sometimes, it takes several times of going back and forth before the client is happy with what I’ve come up with. Some tattoo artists get annoyed by that, but it’s permanent, and I want my clients to never regret what I inked onto their skin. So, if it means I draw up several drafts, then so be it.
He glances up from his phone and pockets it, then takes the iPad from me. He stares at it for several seconds, not saying a word, and I worry that he hates it. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been tattooing, I always question if my artistic capabilities are good enough. When I’m not tattooing, I spend hours drawing for fun, experimenting with different lines and shading.
“It’s perfect,” he chokes out, glancing up at me with glassy eyes. “Thank you. I’m glad you didn’t let me get the first tattoo I was planning to get.”
“What was it?” I ask curiously since I never gave him a chance to tell me—shutting him down the moment he said, “Maybe.”
“A fire hydrant,” he says with a chuckle. “This is way more meaningful.”
“Well, that wouldn’t have been horrible”—I roll my eyes—“and it’s better than a unicorn.”
Shane snorts out a laugh. “She has jokes. Look at that sweet coming out.”
“I do not, and it is not,” I grumble. “Now, focus. Is there anything you want me to change?”
“No. It looks perfect.”
“Okay, cool.” I point to the image. “I was thinking if you’re serious about the sleeve … or half sleeve, we start small since you’re a tattoo virgin …”
Shane chuckles like an immature teenage boy at the word virgin, but I ignore it.
“See this area here?” I run my finger along the grassy area of the picture. “We could shade it so that it will easily transition into another piece.”
When Shane nods, I take the iPad from him and then go about prepping the area that will be inked. I print the design and then place it on him.
“Good?” I ask, showing it to him in the mirror.
“Yep.”
“Let’s do this.”
I plug in my phone and click play on my playlist. Usually, I’ll ask the client what kind of music they like, but the less I know about Shane, the better.