5. Cisco
Cisco
T he woman in his chair didn’t even flinch when he started tattooing her.
He’d had thousands upon thousands of clients in that exact spot, all claiming to have a high pain tolerance.
Some of them did and only found mild irritation while he worked on them.
Others twitched and whimpered so much, he didn’t think he’d get through tattooing them.
Sometimes he didn’t. There were people walking around with half done or barely done tattoos on their bodies from him.
He didn’t know what he expected from the woman in his chair, but it wasn’t this.
His first impression of Marisol was that she was beautiful.
No, beautiful was too weak a word to describe her.
Ethereal. Timeless. Breathtaking. She had shiny black hair that hung past her chest, styled in relaxed waves.
Her face was clear of any blemishes, and the light dusting of navy eye shadow made her brown eyes pop.
Plump red lips made him linger before averting his gaze.
Her skin had the rich, warm hue of autumn leaves just before they drifted from the trees, kissed by golden undertones that made her glow as if she had spent days in the sun.
It was the kind of deep, radiant brown that people spent hours in tanning beds trying—and failing—to replicate.
Cisco’s sharp eye for luxury didn’t miss the fact that Marisol was draped in designer labels, each piece a statement of wealth and exclusivity.
Her outfit alone likely cost more than some people’s rent, a silent but undeniable display of status.
Definitely not the type of girl he saw often in his shop. She seemed almost reluctant to be here. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to the door, and he wondered if she would bolt.
“You okay?” he asked, trying not to seem like he was prying. Just a tattoo artist checking in on his client.
He felt her heated gaze on him and tilted his head up.
The moment their eyes locked, Marisol looked away.
A girl like her usually had the confidence to keep his gaze and flirt with him.
He was an attractive guy, after all. Or so the women in his life said, and they couldn’t all be lying to him.
Marisol was an anomaly, and that made her all the more interesting.
“What drew you to this piece?” Cisco wiped away the ink and plasma after outlining a flower. It always interested him to see what people were drawn to and why. Some had beautiful and sentimental reasons for choosing the tattoo they did, while others just liked the vibes. Both were valid reasons.
Marisol didn’t answer right away. Maybe she was one of those clients who didn’t want to talk at all during a session.
He’d respect that, but it made for a tiresome and sometimes awkward session.
Cisco was a talker. He liked getting to know people and finding connections.
It wasn’t hard for him to make friends because he found commonalities in whomever he spoke to .
Just when Cisco had written Marisol off as a silent client, she spoke. “The woman—is she a goddess?”
“Of sorts,” Cisco said. “She just popped into my head one afternoon, and I had to get her down on paper. She does look and feel like a goddess, though.”
Marisol nodded. “She does. She’s confident. Beautiful. Powerful.”
“Those are all good qualities in a woman,” Cisco said.
“In anyone,” Marisol amended. “But I wanted her. Maybe she’ll…” she trailed off, sucking that bottom lip between her teeth. It awakened something deep inside of him.
“Maybe she’ll what?” he prompted.
“It’s stupid,” Marisol said.
“I guarantee you it’s not stupid. The feelings art evokes in us are never stupid.”
Marisol hesitated and looked around the room as if making sure no one else was in here.
Once she was satisfied they were completely alone, she said, “Reminds me that I could be those things too.” Her voice was so soft, Cisco had to lean in closer to hear her.
He could smell the floral scents from her perfume, a perfume he decided he loved.
At first, her words shocked him. How could a woman who looked like Marisol not feel confident and powerful? But he quickly disregarded that question because he knew the answer. Hell, he lived the answer. Looks were deceiving. Hadn’t he been dealing with that his entire life?
To anyone who didn’t know him, he appeared like a tatted Latino man who matched the stereotypes people had of men who looked like him. He’d heard it all before. Illegal immigrant. Cartel member. Uneducated. Player. Thief. The list went on and on.
It was these stereotypes that nearly ruined his entire life .
People saw what they wanted to see and nothing else.
They wouldn’t see that he graduated from an Ivy League school with a master’s in business.
Or that he opened and managed two tattoo shops with a third on the way, despite the wrench that someone tried to throw in his plans.
People didn’t see that because they would have to face their own prejudices, and no one wanted to tackle their internal racism.
“I think it’s a great choice,” he said after a moment. For the first time, he saw Marisol smile. It made her look younger, offering a fleeting glimpse of her true self before disappearing in an instant. He had a feeling Marisol didn’t smile often.
They settled into a comfortable silence, letting the raspy vocals of The Sinner’s Web fill the space.
He hummed along to one of their new singles, nodding in time with the beat.
When he glanced at Marisol again, he was surprised to see her tapping her fingers to the rhythm and quietly mouthing the lyrics.
“You know The Sinner’s Web?” he asked, grinning.
Marisol’s cheeks reddened. It was fucking adorable. “I know some songs, yeah.”
“They’re badass. Have you listened to their new album? I got the record last week, and it’s been in the player nonstop at my house.”
“You have a record player?” Marisol perked up.
“Yeah, right over there.” He gestured to the black dresser with a brown box record player resting on top.
“Wow, I’ve always wanted to see one of those.
They released a record? I’ve listened to the entire discography three times from start to finish.
I think I like it better than their EP.” When Marisol spoke of their music, her entire demeanor changed.
She transformed into a music geek, gushing over her favorite songs.
It was such a switch from the closed-off, somber persona she donned earlier.
“Their EP was great; it definitely got me invested in their music. But I think I agree with you. Their album just has a lot of soul,” Cisco said.
“And trauma,” Marisol said immediately. She paled when she realized the words that left her mouth. “I mean, it just feels like something that would resonate with people.”
And what could she resonate with? It wasn’t his place to ask, but he found himself wanting to know anyway. “Yeah, they sing about a lot of parental trauma.”
There was the slightest change in Marisol’s expression.
Her face pinched as if she had just sucked on a sour lemon.
Was this the trauma she was referring to?
And the reason she needed to get this tattoo as a reminder of who she was or wanted to be?
He knew he shouldn’t get involved, but he couldn’t get the message to his heart.
That damn thing liked to take over, even when his brain told it to stop.
For the next hour and a half, their conversation revolved around The Sinner’s Web—their favorite songs, the lyrics that resonated the most, and how the band’s music seemed to be evolving.
As the discussion flowed, they branched out to other artists with a similar sound, discovering even more common ground.
Cisco was surprised by how closely their musical tastes aligned and how much knowledge Marisol possessed on independent artists.
Marisol even introduced him to a band he’d never heard of before.
Intrigued, he immediately downloaded their album onto his phone, eager to explore their sound.
When she mentioned her favorite song, he took a mental note, planning to listen to it later—preferably in a quiet moment when he could truly absorb the music and maybe, just maybe, understand Marisol a little better.
The bitter taste of disappointment churned his stomach when he finished up the last of the shading. Marisol’s tattoo was done, which meant she would be leaving soon. He didn’t know why that thought upset him, but he felt it all the same.
“Ready to check out your tattoo in the mirror?” Cisco put the tattoo gun down and pushed his stool back, so Marisol could get up.
He offered a hand to help her out of the chair, and Marisol took it. Her soft hand fit into his perfectly, and he pulled her to her feet, coming chest to chest with her. Marisol gave him a timid, almost shy smile. Reluctantly, he stepped aside so she could see the finished product in the mirror.
She walked with a slight limp, which was to be expected after a needle dug into her skin and she sat in the same position for a long period of time. She kept her shorts rolled up so she didn’t irritate her skin.
This was Cisco’s favorite part. The part where his client got to experience seeing their tattoo for the first time.
Their excitement always filled him with pride for his work.
He was fortunate enough to never have any dissatisfied customers.
He took his time to get to know his clients.
Their likes and interests. He listened to them when they spoke and tried to capture exactly what they pictured in their head.
Marisol’s situation was a little bit different since it was his design in the first place. He still took just as much care tattooing it as he would any other tattoo he did.
Marisol reached the mirror, never once meeting her gaze in it. Her focus was on her thigh, of the goddess Cisco created for her. A girlish squeal he didn’t peg her capable of left her lips, and her eyes glossed over.
“Cisco…” she said his name with such reverence that he wanted to bottle up that sound and listen to it again while he was alone in bed tonight .
“Cisco, this is beautiful.” She met his gaze in the mirror before turning around. “It’s perfect. It’s…wow. I can’t believe I did that.”
Cisco smirked. “Damn straight you did that. Fair warning, tattoos become addicting. Many people can’t stop after just one.”
She giggled. “Noted. Though I don’t have plans for more. If I do, you’re my man.”
You’re my man.
It shouldn’t have meant shit to him. But the thought was planted in his head, and now he couldn’t let it go. “Let me bandage you up and talk about aftercare.”
Aftercare, for fuck’s sake. His brain needed to not immediately go to the horny place it felt compelled to go to.
Pushing those thoughts aside for now, he catered to Marisol, making sure she was wrapped up properly before giving her instructions that detailed exactly what she needed to do over the next few weeks.
“If you have any questions, here’s my number.” Cisco dug through his pocket and pulled out his card. He searched for a pen before writing down his personal phone number on the back. “Text or call me anytime.”
Marisol took the card from him and tucked it securely in her purse, alongside her aftercare instructions. “What do people normally tip for these things? I guess I should have looked that up before,” she said sheepishly.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I need to?—”
“You really don’t,” Cisco cut her off. Then he had an idea. A brave—or stupid—idea. “How about you come with me to The Sinner’s Web concert next weekend, and we will call it even? ”
This was so unprofessional. He shouldn’t be asking a client out, especially in such a shitty way. But he felt drawn to Marisol, and he was never one to ignore his impulses. Which either went really well for him—or very badly.
He hoped for the former this time.
“You…have tickets?” she asked like she didn’t believe him. Which was fair.
Cisco got out his phone and scrolled through his email until he found the receipt. He showed her the proof for two concert tickets for next weekend at seven p.m. He had been planning on taking Tiny, but…he could make it up to her later.
"I've never been to a concert before.” She glanced between him and the phone as if weighing his suggestion.
He tried to mask his excitement with a neutral expression, though he wasn’t sure he pulled it off. “I couldn’t think of a better first concert than this one.”
“Can I…erm, think about it?” she asked.
Cisco tried to hide his disappointment. It wasn’t a no…but it also wasn’t a yes. He supposed it was the best he could hope for after springing it on a woman he just met.
“Yeah, of course. You have my number.”
Marisol seemed surprised by his reaction, like she expected him to be pissed. She looked at him strangely before smiling. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch,” she said as if he had just proposed a business meeting rather than a date.
Just like that, Marisol walked past him and out of his studio. It wasn’t until he heard the bell atop the door signaling she left that he realized he didn’t have her number. All he could do was wait and hope she’d actually text him back.
He hoped she did because he had a feeling there was more to Marisol than met the eye.