Page 11 of Sing For Me

Will

As we head away from the reception area, her friends break out into a smattering of cheers and wolf whistles. “Get it, girl!” someone yells. “You got this, Eva!” another voice adds.

She laughs, the sound of it surprising me—it’s low and husky, not what I would have pictured from this delicate, wisp of a girl. There’s something really, really appealing about the sound of that laugh.

As she follows me, she flips off the group. “Screw all of you,” she calls over her shoulder, to more cheers.

Once we’ve left the reception area, I raise an eyebrow at her. “It sounds like you and your friends get along well.”

She laughs again and damn, the sound is sexy as hell. “We do, believe it or not.”

I lead her to my station. Five-foot walls serve as partitions between the different workspaces, providing privacy for our clients while still allowing the artists to keep an eye on the rest of the shop. I gesture for her to sit in the chair and pull up my rolling stool as she shoots a nervous glance at my tattoo machine.

“First time?”

She grins, the sight of it nearly knocking the breath from my lungs. She’d been smiling out in the front, but there’s nothing I could do to prepare myself for the force of that smile shining directly at me in such close range.

“Am I that obvious?”

It takes me a second to remember that I’d asked her a question. “You just look a little nervous.”

Her fingers pick at the blue fabric draping over her thighs. “I never thought I’d get a tattoo.”

“What changed your mind?”

She tilts her head towards the front of the shop. “All of those assholes.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Peer pressure?”

“Not really. It was more of a…bet. A bet I lost.” She shakes herself a little. “It’s a long story.”

I lean towards her, ducking my head to meet her eyes. “I have to ask—are you sure you want to do this? I don’t like putting ink on someone if they’re being coerced.”

She grins again, and it’s every bit as powerful as the first one. “It’s not like that, I promise. You can feel free to ink me up with a clear conscience.”

I like the thought of that way too much—putting my ink on this girl. Marking her permanently.

I try to clear the gravel from my throat. “You’re the boss. So, what are we doing today?”

She pulls out an iPhone and swipes across the screen for a moment. “I want something like this,” she says, holding it out for me. A sprig of little purple flowers shows on the screen. “Lavender.”

“And where is this going?”

She scrolls on the screen again, showing me another picture. In this shot, a different style orange flower is just above the model’s foot, arching around the ankle bone.

“That size work for you?”

“Seems about right.”

I nod. “We can do that.” It’s a simple enough design. In fact, I wish she had asked for something more complicated—I don’t want this moment to be over so soon. I’m pretty sure I would be content to sit close to this woman for the rest of my afternoon.

That should worry me more than it does.

“Let me sketch it out and then I’ll put it on a transfer stencil so you can decide on the exact placement.”

“Sound good.” But she’s fidgeting with her skirt again, making me think that her nerves are kicking back in.

I pull out my sketch book, balancing it on my bent leg while I start the drawing. “So why lavender?” I ask, hoping to loosen her up.