Chapter 7
SEVEN
Kinsley
I don’t know what I was expecting Shane to say when he pulled up the child’s artwork on his phone, but it wasn’t that. Honestly, it didn’t click in my head at first. I was so frazzled by having him in my shop again that when he showed me the artwork, it didn’t even compute that it was a child’s artwork, let alone his child’s artwork, until he started speaking.
As he spoke about his relationship with his daughter, I couldn’t help but get emotional. In a lot of ways, it reminds me of the relationship I have with my parents, but it also reminds me of the relationship I’ll never have with my daughter.
When I lost my husband and baby, I didn’t just lose them. I lost all our future moments. I’ll never get to hug or kiss them or tell them I love them. I’ll never hear Brenna tell me I’m her favorite person. She’ll never go to school or paint pictures to bring home. And looking at his picture reminds me how much I wanted all that.
“Where do you want the tattoo?” I ask once I set up my station and have somewhat gotten control of my emotions.
He mentioned his arm, but that can mean a lot of places.
“I was thinking we could do it here,” Shane says, lifting the sleeve of his shirt and showing off his toned upper arm. “I saw on Google …”
I glare, and he laughs, lowering his sleeve back down.
“Calm down, Sour Patch. I didn’t google this picture. It’s mine. But I did google what it would look like on my arm to see if anyone else had done this sort of thing.”
I love that he’s put thought into this, which was my point when I turned him away, but my brain stops on …
“Sour Patch?”
“Yeah,” he says with a grin, pulling a box out of his back pocket. “Sour Patch. They’re my favorite candy. I’m kind of addicted.”
He reaches into the box and pulls out a red one, his brown eyes sparkling as the sexual tension fills the room with his not-so-subtle inuendo. “They’re sour on the outside, but once you get to the deeper layers, they’re sweet.” He places the candy on his tongue and then closes his mouth, moaning softly. “So good. Want one?”
He extends his hand but retracts it when I shake my head, unable to move, let alone take candy from this man who has crashed into my safe, carefully constructed world, threatening to tear down the walls I’ve built.
“You remind me of a Sour Patch,” he says with a playful smirk. “Sour on the outside and?—”
“I’m not sweet,” I mutter, making Shane laugh.
“I beg to differ.” He chuckles. “You met my daughter once,” he says, shocking the hell out of me. “She came in here with her best friend, Casey.”
It doesn’t take me long to remember who he’s talking about. “The unicorn girl?”
“Yep. You refusing to tattoo it on her was sweet,” he says with a smile. “You can glare all you want, but underneath all that sour is a woman who cares.”
“I just didn’t want my name attached to that ugly tattoo.”
“Sweet,” he argues.
“Whatever,” I mumble. “AirDrop me the picture so we can get this over with.”
“Actually,” he says, “this is only the first tattoo I want. When I searched arm sleeves, I saw a bunch of images where people got sleeves of their kids’ artwork. I thought it would look cool.
“I have a few special pictures Taylor has made over the years, and I was thinking maybe you could design a few other images that are meaningful to me but make them cartoonish so they all have the same vibe—like my dog, Becky, and something to symbolize the fire station I work at.”
“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.
As Taylor Swift sings about having her heart broken, Shane glances at me with a smirk.
“What?” I huff, too curious for my own good.
“Just didn’t take you for a Swiftie,” he says. “Although I guess it makes sense since you got that whole broody-chick thing going for you.”
Without responding, I grab his arm, turn the gun on, and get to work on his tattoo. At first, he tenses, but after a few minutes, his body relaxes.
“It doesn’t hurt like I thought it would,” he says, watching as I work.
“People who’ve never been tattooed think getting one hurts. But in reality, for most, it’s more annoying than anything. For me, because I’m so used to it, it’s therapeutic.”
“What’s the last tattoo you got?” he asks, his question forcing me to stop tattooing him.
The last time I was tattooed was …
Shit!
I turn the gun off and wipe his arm, then stand, peeling my gloves off and tossing them into the trash.
“I’m sorry. I need to use the bathroom,” I rush out. “I’ll be right back.”
Before he can say anything, I storm out of the room, heading straight for the back office. Only before I get there, I run into my dad.
“Whoa,” he says, looking at me with concern. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just need to go to?—”
“Stop,” Dad says, refusing to let me lie. “I thought you were in with a client. Did something happen?”
“No,” I whisper. “Well …” I swallow thickly. “He asked what the last tattoo I got was.”
Dad nods knowingly.
“I just need a minute.”
“Do you need me to—” He nods toward my room.
“No, I’m just going to splash some water on my face. But thank you.”
When I return to the room, Shane glances at me, his eyes zeroing in on my splotchy face. Thanks to my fair skin, I can’t hide when I’ve been crying.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, his features etched with worry.
“No. I’m just a mess,” I admit with a self-deprecating laugh. “Hence me not being emotionally available.”
Shane nods in understanding, and then he says something that completely shocks the hell out of me. “As much as I would love to take you out on a date—and I still want to—it’s clear you’re not ready for that, so why don’t we take a step back?”
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“My name is Shane Evans.” He extends his hand. “And I would love it if we could be friends.”
I stare at his hand for several seconds, and then, against my better judgment, I take it. It’s warm to the touch and a bit rough. But for some reason, it’s also comforting.
“I’m Kinsley Bryson,” I tell him. “And you’re going to find out that I’m a really shitty friend.”
At my words, a sexy, boyish grin lights up his too-damn-handsome-for-his-own-good face. “Somehow, I doubt that,” he says with a laugh.
And as he shakes my hand, his eyes boring into mine and his smile lighting up the damn room, I ignore the warmth that spreads through my body, particularly my lady parts, forcing my own smile on my face.
Friends, I tell myself.
Great.
We’re friends.
That’s perfect.
Then, why is it that I suddenly really freaking hate that word?
* * *
“Holy shit,” Shane breathes, looking at his new tattoo in the mirror. “It looks so good.” He snaps a photo of it in the mirror and then pockets his phone.
“I’m glad you like it. Did your daughter know you were getting it?”
“No. I figured I would show her after it was done. She was giving me shit about getting a tattoo at my age, saying I was going through a midlife crisis.”
He laughs, and I join him. I don’t know his daughter, but the one time I met her, she seemed cool. I could tell she wasn’t at all on board with her friend’s tattoo idea, and that makes me like her even more.
“They grow up too fast,” he says, shaking me from my thoughts. “One minute, I was holding her in my arms and vowing to be the best dad I could be, scared to death that I’d somehow fuck it all up. And the next, she’s driving and working and giving me shit about my tattoo of choice.”
Emotion fills my chest, and before I can think about what I’m saying, I blurt out, “My last tattoo was my daughter’s heartbeat.”
Shane’s eyes widen in shock. “You have a daughter?”
“Had,” I correct. “I mean, she’s still my daughter, but she’s not alive.”
Tears fill my eyes as I lift my shirt to show him the tattoo that’s inked along my left rib cage. And as he kneels in front of me to check it out, memories from the day I got it come back to me …
“I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere in here.” I open and close each drawer, trying to find the drawing I drew for my dad but somehow misplaced.
We hired a new cleaning company, and I think they’re moving shit despite me telling them not to. When I reach all the way back in the bottom drawer, my hand latches on to a bunch of papers. I yank them out, and when my eyes land on a certain drawing, I drop it like it’s on fire.
“Did you find it?” Dad asks.
“No,” I whisper, staring at the paper I thought I had thrown out.
“Kins?” Dad says. “What’s ? —”
His words come to a halt when his gaze lands on the picture.
“Oh shit,” he whispers.
“I thought it was gone.” Carefully, I take it from the pile. “I can’t believe it’s been two years since I lost her.” I run my finger along the lines of her heartbeat.
Brandon was supposed to tattoo it on me after I gave birth to celebrate us welcoming our little girl into the world. Only there was no celebration or welcoming. Just the doctors taking my stillborn baby out via cesarean while my husband died on the surgical table in another part of the hospital.
I have nothing left of her but this picture I drew of her name and heartbeat. And for the longest time, I couldn’t imagine getting it inked onto my body. But now, staring at it, knowing it’s all I have of her …
“Hey, Dad,” I say, glancing up at him. “Will you tattoo this on me?”
Dad’s eyes widen. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I want a part of her on me forever.”
“Her name was Brenna,” I say to Shane even though he can read it himself. “And I killed her before she even had a chance to live.”