Page 36 of Dirty Chorus

“I’m letting Omen tattoo me real quick. He has his own little studio down here.” He dips his head.

“You’re getting another tattoo?” I ask trailing behind him down the hallway into a room lit up in blood-red light. There are LED lights illuminating the artwork framed along the walls.

“Yeah, he's almost done. It’s just a little star on my finger.”

There are a few girls in here too, one of them a blonde, and the other girl looks oddly familiar. I think she’s the one that was sucking Noah off, but I could be wrong. She gives me a nasty look before she turns and giggles with the other girl. Noah sits back down on the leather seat, where his hand goes underneath a light ring.

“I shouldn’t even be giving you this tattoo right now. You’ve been drinking.”

“It’s just a star, it's barely the size of a quarter.”

“If you get a fucking infection it’s on you,” Omen spits out as he takes Noah’s hand, resting it on a small table underneath a folded towel. The girls mosey out of the room, continuing to laugh down the hallway. “Hold still,” Omen mutters and the gun buzzes.

I hover, sipping the white claw. It’s pineapple, one of my favorites. My attention is fixed on them, on Noah, more specifically. His fingers are stretched out, knuckles tense, the muscles in his arm flexing every few seconds when the needle hits his bone. I flinched just watching it.

“How can you tolerate that?” I ask. “I mean doesn’t it hurt?”

“Depends.” He glances up, a little crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “You get used to it. It’s honestly a bad addiction once you get into it. I can’t fucking stop.”

“I feel like I’d cry halfway through,” I admit, sliding into the stool next to him. “I can barely handle getting a flu shot. I sob every time.”

He laughs a bit, eyes flicking to me before going back to his hand. “Well, maybe Omen can convince you otherwise. Forearms aren’t bad, or your thighs. Your ankles would hurt like hell.”

Omen doesn’t say anything, the needle just keeps dancing over Noah’s skin.

“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask.

He pauses, his brown eyes closing tightly as he thinks. “I was fifteen, sixteen, maybe. I’m not really sure. I kinda stop paying attention after a while.”

“You’ve been getting them that long? How? Don’t you need to be eighteen?”

“Yeah. I used to find new artists all the time when I was touring with my previous band. People wanted someone to practice on and if I liked their current work I’d just ask,” he shrugs.

Noah flexes his fingers as Omen wipes away excess ink. The dark star gleams wetly under the light. “Okay I'm done. Fucking wrap that shit up. I swear to fucking god, lay off the drinking. I’m not dealing with having your finger cut off because it got infected.”

“Calm down,” Noah laughs. Omen scoots out of the chair, before he leaves the room.

“Okay, so show me your first tattoo ever,” I say as Noah wraps a transparent film over his finger. Then he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The room fades around me for a second. He turns, showing me his back. He’s broad and lean, his entire back painted in color and shadow. “My first real one was this.” The tattoo sits low on his back, a crucifix framed in crimson and gold flowers, the figure of Christ detailed but not overly ornate.

“Holy shit that’s beautiful.”

He flashes me a half smile. “Thanks.”

“Why did you pick that one?” I ask. Noah glances away, reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his head throwing his hands through the sleeves.

“I just wanted a religious piece. My grandfather dragged me to church as a kid, he was a deacon and at the time, I thought it would be the only thing to keep me from rotting on the inside.”

“Oh? So you were touring at fifteen?”

“Yeah, I’ve been in the music scene for most of my life.”

“Were you a drop out because you were touring?” His eyes soften a bit as he looks at me and I watch him swallow.

“Umm…” he says in a quieter tone. “The opportunity popped up so I just went... but uhh yeah, shit didn’t quite work out so I’m back here.”

I’ve asked him before and his eyes are telling me the same thing. It’s not something he’s willing to open up about and I might be crossing a line if I press any further. I sip on my drink, while also drinking in his dark eyes gazing into mine.

“Let’s go outside and hang out for a bit,” he says, dipping his head out of the room.