4. Marisol
Marisol
S he should leave. This was a stupid plan made during a moment of false bravado.
She could hear it now. Marisol, what have you done to yourself?
Or Marisol, no man will want you now. Her mother would shame her until Marisol started to believe she was an idiot and should have listened to her mother to begin with.
Clearly, her mother, who had been married to her father for over thirty years, knew a little about relationships and what men wanted.
Not that she was living her life for a man. It was just that her mother thought she should. Archie was proof of this, and she was still dealing with the fallout of that mistake.
But maybe she had been too hasty in her decision on getting a tattoo. She couldn’t recall what possessed her to tell her sister about her secret desire, but she did, and now she was in this situation.
Marisol knew she looked odd, standing outside the tattoo shop, clutching her purse like a weapon.
She looked between the shop and her car, her body unsure which way she should go.
The phone in her pocket buzzed before a decision could be made, and she reflexively reached for it.
She wasn’t at all surprised to see her sister’s name pop up.
You better not chicken out. It’s already been paid for. Think of it as a present from your niece and nephew.
Well, when she put it like that…
Times like these, Marisol wished she had a group of girlfriends to push her out of her comfort zone.
Lola was the closest thing she had to a friend, but there was still so much trauma separating the sisters that couldn’t be repaired overnight.
Their hangouts usually took place at rage rooms where they could break shit and feel better about it.
But Marisol was trying to prove she could be an independent woman who could think and make decisions for herself, and getting this damn tattoo was the first hurdle.
She could do this.
Taking a deep breath, Marisol pushed open the doors to Golden City Tattoos and stepped inside—only to collide with a petite teenage girl.
The girl raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I thought you were going to stand out there all day. I was just about to come check on you.”
Well, that’s embarrassing . She hadn’t realized anyone was watching her freak out, and she silently thanked the heavens she didn’t go back and forth from her car to the shop like she really wanted to.
“I guess I’m a little nervous.” She tried to convince herself it wasn’t actually a big deal, and she most definitely wasn’t about to bow out now.
“You don’t say,” the teenager said, deadpan. “You must be C’s twelve o’clock. What’s your name? ”
“Marisol,” she said automatically.
The girl nodded, went back behind the counter and clicked a few buttons on her keyboard. Finding whatever she was looking for on the computer, the girl nodded again. “So, looks like your sister called or something? Do you, like, have an idea of what you want to do?”
Marisol had a few ideas, but no reference pictures, and she lacked the words to properly describe what she wanted. She should have had something ready, but she hadn’t honestly thought she would actually get to this point.
“Do you have something I could look at?” Surely they’d have a book of designs or something like her sister mentioned.
The teenager nodded. “Yeah, it’s right over here.” She gestured to a large black book at the end of the counter.
Marisol nodded and noticed the girl’s name tag: Lyana with the word Tiny in parentheses. “Erm, thanks.”
“Sure. Tell me when you find something you like. Then I’ll tell C you’re waiting on him.” Lyana plopped back down on her chair and focused on her computer again, leaving Marisol to search privately.
She picked up the large book and settled onto a couch near the desk.
Her sudden entrance into the shop had left her no time to take in her surroundings.
Now, as she looked around, the receptionist area reminded her of a speakeasy.
The room was dimly lit, with deep purple walls, black artwork, and a low-hanging black chandelier adorned with faux red candles.
Despite the dark decor, the atmosphere wasn’t eerie or gaudy. Marisol felt surprisingly at ease.
Soft rock music played through the speaker—a band she would never admit to liking but had discovered recently while listening to a local radio station. The soft rasp from the lead singer scratched her brain perfectly, and she took an instant liking to it.
Marisol crossed her legs and balanced the book on her lap.
She slowly flipped through the pages. It was easy to spot designs she didn’t like.
Most with skulls, large animals, or super-intricate and time-consuming designs were not her style.
She also didn’t want something big that would take up her entire thigh—which was where she settled on getting it.
It would be covered by her clothes, even the tiny skirts she had in the back of her closet.
If a bit of the tattoo peeked out, she’d just be sure to wear jeans or longer dresses around her parents.
The more she flipped through the pages, the more confused and overwhelmed she got.
She felt Lyana’s eyes on her, silently telling her to hurry up.
But every design she thought she loved, she would either find something small that bugged her about it or second-guess herself to the point where she ended up hating the tattoo altogether.
A floral design was a safe bet, but did she really want flowers for her first tattoo?
Maybe as accents, but not the entire piece.
There wasn’t anything wrong with a floral tattoo, but it seemed too cliché to have as her first. She wanted something with a little more story behind it.
She also liked the cute characters based on her favorite childhood movies, but she didn’t much want to look down and see a character she loved when she was five on her thigh.
Marisol was losing hope fast and nearly closed the book until she came to the final few pages.
Her fingers hesitated before tracing the design on the page.
It was of a woman’s bust, but not any woman.
This was a sprite or maybe a fairy goddess.
Her hair was composed of long, beautiful strands that turned into flowers and twigs.
Her hand reached out, holding something that looked similar to a planet.
Earth, perhaps. She was beautiful, but more than that, the goddess was fierce and confident, all the things Marisol pretended to be.
And maybe one day she could be—just like the woman on the page.
“I want this one,” she said. Her voice was the most stable and certain it had been since she entered the shop.
Lyana pushed herself away from her desk and rolled over to her in the chair. She looked down at the piece Marisol settled on and nodded. “Oh, nice. That one has been in there forever. I’ve been dying to see it.”
Having Lyana like the tattoo filled her with a newfound confidence and solidified her decision. “Yeah, I really like it.”
“Black or color?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you want to keep it black, or do you want to add color?” Lyana asked. “Honestly, if you ask me, I would keep it black. I think it’ll look better.”
Marisol had to agree. She didn’t care much for colored tattoos. On other people, they were gorgeous, but she didn’t want that style for herself.
“Cool, then sit here, and I’ll tell C you’re ready.
He’ll come and get you soon.” Lyana took the book from her and disappeared around the corner.
She heard muffled voices, one clearly masculine, but couldn’t make out the words.
She sat and waited, her leg bouncing up and down in a nervous habit, and soon pulled out her phone to read her book.
Lyana came back out just as another client came in asking about piercing. She eavesdropped on their conversation before she heard someone walk into the lobby. “Marisol?” a deep and sexy voice called out.
Marisol’s head swiveled in time to see a familiar-looking man.
He wore all black, matching the gothic aesthetic of his shop.
His jeans were form-fitting, as if they were perfectly tailored for his body.
Marisol knew good tailoring when she saw it, and those jeans were definitely fitted just for him.
His black t-shirt looked simple, but she bet if she touched it, she would feel luxury material.
He also wore a black watch that probably cost as much as some of her most prized jewelry.
Which was…a lot. He was subtle with his wealth though.
To an untrained eye, he’d appear as just a regular guy who shops where he buys food.
Marisol was staring, and she tried to gaslight herself into thinking it wasn’t because he was the sexiest man she had ever seen, arms and neck full of tattoos. No, she was staring because he looked so familiar. Like she saw him recently. Like…
The man in the waiting room. At therapy.
“We go to the same therapist,” she blurted out because, apparently, years and years of trained conversations didn’t exist when she set foot in a tattoo shop.
The man tilted his head, cocking a brow up. His deep brown eyes questioned her, but she saw the moment realization hit. His full lips twitched up in a smile, flashing the whitest teeth she had ever seen.
“What a small world,” he said in a way that neither confirmed nor denied he remembered her. It wasn’t like they had a conversation. Their eyes met briefly, and then she left as he was entering his session with Alice.
“If you’re ready, I’ll take you back.” He gestured to the hallway behind him, presumably where his station was set up.
Marisol nodded and grabbed her purse before following the man back. He was tall with much longer legs, so Marisol had to fast-walk—in heels—to keep up with him. Luckily, she was professionally trained in the art of heel-wearing and could keep pace without faltering .
“I’m Cisco, by the way.” He stopped at an open door, gesturing for her to go first.
“Marisol,” she said and tentatively walked in.
The room was painted a dark emerald green with art adorning almost all the wall space.
There was a leather chair with a foot rest, obviously meant for the client, and a stool with wheels next to it.
A tray of small glasses and what she assumed was the tattoo gun sat next to it.
Oh shit, this was happening.
Her heart pounded as she sat down, resisting the urge to bounce her leg. Instead, she distracted herself by fidgeting with her hair—a nervous habit. Cisco must have noticed her anxiety because he gave her an encouraging smile, which eased her tension, but only slightly.
“This is your first tattoo?” he asked, getting supplies from the various drawers he had in the room.
“Yeah.” And probably last, but she couldn’t say that for certain.
“Do you have an idea of where you want it?” Cisco grabbed the last of his supplies, dropping them onto the tray before taking a seat on the small rolling stool.
Marisol nodded and shifted her weight to her left side while rolling up her already short jeans shorts to her hip. “I want it here.” She gestured to her thigh. “But not so big it takes up the whole area. I want to still be able to cover it up.”
He nodded and finished putting on his black gloves. He reached out to touch her thigh, and the moment the vinyl gloves touched her skin, she jumped. Cisco immediately pulled his hand away.
Marisol felt her cheeks flush, embarrassed at her reaction. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Cisco didn’t move at first, watching her closely. Whatever assessment he was doing on her, she clearly passed because, in the next instant, he reached out for her again, brushing her thigh with a feathery light touch.
“Are you thinking you want it here?” He mapped out an area on her upper thigh. It was big enough that it wouldn’t compromise the small details of the piece, but small enough it wouldn’t encompass her entire thigh.
When she nodded, Cisco removed his hand from her thigh, leaving her feeling unexpectedly empty.
He turned to his work station behind him, grabbing the outline of her tattoo.
“Can you stand up for me?” he asked right before crouching down, looking far more scandalous than it actually was.
Her thigh was almost eye level when he started placing the tattoo.
After a few moments of deliberation, Cisco pulled back and looked it over. “What do you think about that placement?”
Marisol knew shit about placement, but she couldn’t think of a problem with it. “I like it.”
He smiled at her, and something in her chest fluttered. Suddenly, she was acutely aware at how close and personal he’d be while tattooing her. She silently thanked herself for scheduling a waxing appointment not too long ago so her entire body was smooth.
“What is your pain tolerance like?” Cisco started to clean the area where the stencil would be placed. It was cold to the touch but not unpleasant.
“High, but I don’t know what to expect either.” She never experienced pain from a tattoo, so she didn’t have anything to base it off. But, in general, she didn’t hurt easily, which was good since her emotional pain tolerance was at an all-time low.
“Do you need something to dull the pain? I have numbing cream,” he offered.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, hoping that wasn’ t a dumb move.
“Well, if it gets too intense, we can take a break. Just communicate with me,” he said.
If only he knew her communication skills sucked. Still, she nodded. Cisco prepared himself and his tattoo gun. The sound of it buzzing was a little unnerving, and she gripped the sides of her chair tighter.
She had come this far and couldn’t turn back now. For a moment, a sickness bubbled low in her stomach as she thought about all the reasons why she shouldn’t do this. She wasn’t a spontaneous woman who just went out to get tattoos. Her mother would hate it. Her mother would make her hate it.
“You ready?” Cisco asked, one hand on her thigh and the other holding the gun. He was so close, she could smell his spearmint aftershave and woodsy cologne. It gave her something to focus on instead of her wayward thoughts and the sound of the tattoo gun.
“Ready as I can be,” she mumbled, averting her gaze.
“I’ll be gentle with you for your first time,” he said.
Marisol’s body grew hot at the implication of his words. It also effectively distracted her so she didn’t feel the sting of the gun puncturing her skin.