2. Serena
Three weeks later
Life has been shit lately; there is no counterargument or silver lining. Ava almost died because she fell in love, I lost my best friend and my dad’s respect, and after listening to CeCe’s gut-wrenching sobs, I found out that she had lost her unborn child.
Growing up, my mother always counseled me to “trust in God’s plan.” But God’s plan is utter bullshit, as evidenced by the near-death and heartbreak the three of us have endured. My anger at the universe is how I wound up here, in the parking lot of Ink and Needle, CeCe’s cousin’s tattoo shop a half hour away from campus. When Ava first suggested we get tattoos, I balked and almost said no to coming. Both Ava and CeCe were supportive when I told them about my hesitation, convincing me to come regardless of whether I received a tattoo or not.
Now, staring at the innocuous brick facade, a feeling of rightness comes over me, as though I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“Come on, Wolf is waiting for us, and if I know anything about my cousin, he’s going to be a fucking grump if we make him wait on us,” CeCe calls from the back seat of my ancient Toyota Corolla.
Okay, ancient may be a hyperbole, but my cherry red four-door sedan is ten years old and has more scratches and patch-ups than I care to admit. Internally, I scowl because Marina has a newer Mercedes, and I’m driving a car held together with prayers and duct tape.
I’m proud of my car—I bought it with money saved from birthdays, holidays, and tutoring jobs—but it still hurts that my dad claims that he’s taken care of my mom and me for the last decade when he’s done nothing more than guilt me into going to his house and relegating me to a guest in my childhood home.
The slamming of a door jolts me from my internal musings, and I look up in time to see CeCe and Ava rounding the hood of my car, waiting for me to turn off my engine and get out.
“You coming, Rena?” Ava calls out. My chest warms at the nickname. Before Ava and CeCe, I was always Serena, the child brainiac with too few friends and too many responsibilities. No one had ever shortened my name or given me a nickname that was born from affection, aside from my mother. Devin always mocked me by calling me “Siren,” and everyone else has always used my full name. But now I’m Rena, a college student with friends.
It’s tragic that it’s taken me this long to feel like I finally belong somewhere.
“Yes, sorry. Coming,” I respond, hurrying out of the car.
“Hey, what did I say about apologizing? Cut that shit out,” Ava comments. “Now, let’s go get some ink. I call going first.”
“Aves, calm your tits; Wolf is going to think you’re high on drugs if you run into the shop screaming like a lunatic.”
Ava lets out a scoff, not breaking her stride. “Wolf has known me since I was prepubescent; he’s used to my personality.” Ava throws the door open on the last word, yelling at CeCe. I follow them into the building, surprised by how open and bright the space is.
Gleaming white walls hold framed artwork, a foil to the masculine black furniture spread throughout the open space. On the far side of the room, private rooms with doorways framed in black trim offer privacy to clients and prevent anyone from seeing the art in process. CeCe stops at the reception desk, a smile on her face.
“Hey, Aubrey. How are you?” CeCe greets. Peering over her shoulder, I’m struck by how stunning the woman behind the desk is. With long blonde dreadlocks and mocha skin, tattoos cover her body in vibrant pops of color, complimenting her beauty. She smiles at us, a small ring dangling above her teeth. “Holy shit, did you get a smiley? Did that hurt?”
She laughs at CeCe’s outburst, rolling her eyes before answering, “It didn’t feel good, but it wasn’t too bad. Wolf did it last week.” Aubrey looks around CeCe. “Hey, Ava, good seeing you again. And you must be Serena.”
“Oh, yes. Hi,” I murmur.
She smiles at me, nothing but warmth and kindness radiating from her badass features, and I feel less nervous than I did a few moments ago. “It’s great to meet you. CeCe told Wolf that you’re on the fence about a tattoo. Do you want to take a look at work samples and stock designs?” She lifts a book, holding it out for me.
I carefully take the offered book, clearing my throat. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”
“Thank fuck you’re finally here. I thought you were going to stand me up,” a voice sounds behind us, and I feel my stomach immediately clench. The deep timber and rasp wash over me, and I’m surprised by my reaction to a voice. I haven’t even seen the owner’s face, yet I feel foreign beads of attraction travel up my spine. Turning slowly, my jaw slackens at the sight of a real-life Jamie Fraser, one that’s covered in tattoos and muscles.
My mom went through an Outlander phase, and I heard the words “Sassenach” and “lass” too many times to count. At one point, she even played the audiobooks on repeat while cooking dinner. It was a weird year.
I’m staring at the Highlander’s profile, presumably CeCe’s cousin, when he shifts his gaze to me, and I’m greeted by shining green eyes, a sharp jawline with a dimpled chin, and a nose that has definitely been broken more than once. In a word, he’s stunning. Breathtaking, intense, and intimidating would also work. My body shivers under his stare, and I feel my nipples pebble against my thick sweatshirt. I’m not cold—the heat in this building is on full blast, and I’m in a sherpa—I’m attracted to him and the cool reception he gave us.
“Are you cold?” he asks, breaking me out of my trance.
I flush, mortified that he saw my full-body reaction to his presence.
“Ah, no. I’m okay,” I whisper, averting my eyes. I can feel his gaze linger on me like he’s not quite sure what to make of my presence. Unlike Ava and CeCe, who have known each other since childhood, I’m naturally quieter and more introverted. When I first met my two friends, I was shocked to find myself nearly begging for their company and inviting them to my home. I was even more surprised to find that they didn’t judge me for my studies, my fucked-up family situation, or the omnipresent self-doubt I harbor.
The weight of his eyes leaves me, and I take a deep breath, sucking in as much oxygen as my lungs can handle. Ava gives me a confused stare, but I just shake my head, willing her not to open her mouth.
“Okay, Wolfie,” CeCe begins, excitement in her tone. When CeCe came to my apartment earlier this evening to meet for a girls’ dinner with Ava, she collapsed into my arms as soon as I opened my door and told us about her loss; I felt guilt seep into my bones that the altercation with Devin and Dylan somehow contributed to her miscarriage. But her tears have dried, and the melancholy is missing from her voice. “I’m going to go first, then Ava. Serena is still on the fence about getting a tattoo, so we’ll give her enough time to decide if she wants one, okay?”
I look at Wolf’s face to see him raise one perfectly groomed red eyebrow. “What are you, my scheduler? Aubrey will kill you if you try taking her job.”
“If it means she has to deal with your grumpy ass, then she can have it,” Aubrey calls out from her seat by the desk.
CeCe turns to Aubrey, smiles, and offers a wink before turning back to Wolf. “Don’t be a pain in my ass, Wolfie.” Without any more preamble, CeCe walks past her cousin and through the first door on the left, as though she’s been here a thousand times and knows her way around the shop.
“After you, Celeste,” Wolf grumbles, trailing behind her.
“Okay, my little petunia, what are you thinking about getting?” Ava asks beside me, stealing my attention.
“Petunia? When have you ever called me that?” I ask, and she just shrugs. Rolling my eyes, I continue, “I’m not entirely sure if I’m getting one.”
“Liar, liar. You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want a tattoo, so give it up, Rena.”
“That’s not true; maybe I just wanted to hang out with you and CeCe. It’s been a while since we have all been together.”
“Well, you’re here now, so you may as well participate, right? It’s like, we’re all bungee jumping, so you should, too.”
I narrow my eyes at her, squinting at the rationale. “So you’re saying that if you and Celeste jumped off a cliff, I should follow because you’re both doing it? Ava, you’re describing peer pressure but putting a pretty bow on it and disguising it as friendship.”
“Anyway,” she scoffs, ignoring my response. “What are you getting?”
I sigh, giving up the pretense that I’m not seriously considering a tattoo. “I have a few ideas, but I want to speak to him”—I tilt my head in the direction of Wolf’s station—“before I commit.”
“You mean Wolf?”
I nod, feeling my cheeks heat at the mention of his name. Like a seasoned detective, Ava sniffs out my attraction and raises a brow. “Little Rena, do you think Wolf is hot?” she asks, nearly yelling the words.
“Shhh,” I hiss. “Lower your damn voice, Ava.”
“Oh my God, you do.”
I sigh, glancing up to make sure Aubrey isn’t paying attention to us before I respond. “He looks like Sam Heughan, just with tattoos and more muscles.” Ava’s brow furrows, confused by my response. “Jamie Fraser from the Outlander series.”
Her eyes widen, and her jaw drops. “Holy shit, he does. I can’t believe I never saw that before.”
I nod and look down, throwing myself into the act of looking through the book Aubrey gave me. The front of the book holds basic drawings and stencils, art that can be placed over and over again and hold a different meaning for each client. Though the images are beautiful, if not simple, I’m struck by the delicate script samples. The deeper I dive into the book, the more intricate and complex the artwork becomes. Gone are the generic roses and banner hearts, and in their place are full-body tattoos and intricate designs that serve as inspiration rather than stencils. My eyes gravitate toward a large man, face cut off, with a massive back tattoo that disappears into boxers before re-emerging on his legs. Though the tattoo holds no color, the artistry is so impressive that it looks as though the dragon, warriors, and flowers are going to climb off this man’s skin. The images on the back of the legs complement the scene on the man’s back, as it’s just a beautiful continuation of cherry blossoms and koi fish.
Ava looks over my shoulder, peering at the image. “Oh, that’s Wolf’s work. He competed for Tattoo of the Year in a competition a few years ago and used that piece to enter.”
“Wow,” I reply, not sure what else to say. His talent is undeniable.
“I know. Okay, I’m going to go check on C and see how she’s doing back there. Our girl may act tough, but she’s a little marshmallow,” Ava offers before standing up and walking to the back of the shop. I mull over her words; I don’t think anyone besides Ava would describe Celeste as a marshmallow. I roll my eyes, secretly thankful for Ava’s absence so that I can finally think and observe the tattoos in peace.
Though the illustrations and drawings are stunning, I keep flipping back to the samples of handwriting on the front of the album. Like a divine epiphany, I suddenly know what I want permanently inked on my body.
After my parents divorced, my mom would take me to the butterfly gardens in Brooklyn, a welcomed distraction from the chaos in our family. We’d be there for hours, exploring the grounds and taking in the flowers that seemed to attract the most intricately winged butterflies. I remember being struck by how the tiny insects would land on the flowers, stay for a bit, and then take flight, zooming to the next destination in their sights.
There’s a sense of freedom with butterflies, almost like they have a home, but they’re not tethered there; they land and take off at will or instinct. I’ve always wanted to be like a butterfly: free but also belonging everywhere. I’ve never felt that way, not even in my own home.
I must zone out for long minutes, lost in my thoughts, because by the time I refocus, Ava and Celeste are standing before me, bandages on their arms.
“Hi,” CeCe says, approaching me slowly as though I’m an animal in the wild. “Have you decided if you’re getting a tattoo?”
I clear my throat, nodding my head. “Yes, I think I am.”
“Eek!” Ava squeals, sounding like a rusty door hinge. “What are you getting?”
“Let her be, Aves. She’ll show us when we get back to her apartment,” CeCe reprimands with an eye roll. “Wolf is ready for you; he just finished sanitizing and setting up the station.”
“Great,” I mumble, nerves assaulting my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I make my way to the back of the shop, where Wolf’s tattoo room is. From the entry, you can’t see into the private rooms, so I’m surprised as I step over the threshold and see dark walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and hunter-green accents. If the common area of the shop is modern and airy, with gleaming white walls, black trim, and framed artwork, then Wolf’s private space is like a nineteenth-century villain’s secluded lair. It’s simultaneously masculine and feminine—a dichotomy born from attention to detail and a balance of sex and darkness.
I don’t think I’ve ever been turned on by a room before—truthfully, I’ve barely ever been turned on—but there’s something carnal about the space that hints at the personality of the man who designed it.
A throat clears to my right, and I turn quickly, flushing at Wolf’s presence. He must notice my embarrassment because he raises one dark red eyebrow before jerking his chin to the tattoo chair in the center of the room.
“Celeste said you were on the fence about a tattoo. I’m assuming you decided?”
“Yeah. Yes, I…” I pause, shaking my head to compose myself. “Yes, I decided. That I want one, that is.”
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word like he’s waiting for me to add more. When I don’t, he lets out a sigh. “And what do you want?”
“Oh, right. The word mariposa. It means butterfly in Spanish.”
“Got it. I’m going to do a quick look-up to make sure your translation is correct.” He walks over to a writing desk and opens a laptop. He glances over his shoulder, taking in my form by the door. “You going to sit, or are you planning on getting a tattoo standing up?” I feel my cheeks heat; my blush is probably deepening from pink to a deep, mortifying red.
“Sitting, of course. I’ll just go sit.” His eyes follow me as I place my body on the chair, sliding until my back hits the dark leather. I feel his eyes linger on me, an unnerving perusal that leaves my breathing erratic and my nipples pebbling against the fabric of my bra. I thank God that I’m wearing so many layers and can hide my reaction to him. When I look up, I see that he’s typing on the computer, the harsh clicks on the keyboard the only sound in the room. I shift on the chair, trying to get comfortable, and his hands flex on the keyboard as though he’s affected by my presence.
“So, did you find the translation?” It shouldn’t take long to look up the single word, but he’s been staring at his computer screen for five minutes.
“Yeah. All set.” Taking a notepad and pen, he scribbles something down before coming to his stool beside the tattoo chair. “Where are you thinking placement-wise?”
I swallow thickly as I unzip my jacket and reach for the hem of my shirt. When I saw that both Ava and CeCe got tattoos on their forearms, I immediately ruled the spot out. Lifting my shirt slowly, my heart pounds erratically as I bunch the shirt under my bust. With my free hand, I indicate where I want the word. “I’m thinking here, right below my bra line.”
Unable to meet Wolf’s gaze, I take in the death grip he has on his notepad and the flex of his arm, like he’s physically holding himself back.
Wait, what?
Shifting my eyes up, I see that Wolf’s gaze is trained on my bare skin, his jaw set in a tight scowl. I’m not sure if he’s turned on by my bare midriff or viscerally offended.
Is it wrong that I think both reactions are hot?
I watch as Wolf works his jaw until his body relaxes, a contradiction to the tense posture he had moments ago. “Do you want me to stencil it or freehand?”
My mind goes back to his portfolio and the skill evident in his work. “I’m fine with freehand. But, uh, could you make it feminine?” I say, wincing at the last part. Amusement takes over his face, and that stupid eyebrow raises again. “I just mean that I saw your work, and it’s amazing. So beautiful, but uh, I was thinking that I don’t want something bold on my body right now. Just dainty, delicate. Like an ornament on my skin,” I rush to clarify.
“Calm down, I wasn’t planning on giving you block letters in a heart that says, ‘Mom.’” He rolls his eyes, reaching behind him to grab a bottle of antiseptic and paper towels. “Get up for a minute while I adjust the bed, and take your jacket off for me.” He uses side buttons to adjust the seat until it’s flat. “Alright, go ahead and sit back down. I’m going to sanitize your skin and prep the area. Because it’s freehand, I’m going to do a marker to show the placement and the length before I ink it on your skin. Once you’re comfortable with the logistics, we’ll get started.” I follow his directions and work my jacket off, letting it fall behind me on the back of the chair. My shirt lowers in the process, and before I can adjust the hemline, I feel Wolf’s fingers. “Can I?” he asks, pulling on the fabric. I nod wordlessly, my eyes trained on his face as he works my shirt up with the efficiency of a man who has taken off innumerable articles of clothing. He preps the area, marking out the size and location of the tattoo, and once I agree, he continues to prep the space before freehanding the word on my body.
Lifting the covered gun, he looks at me before asking, “Ready?” I nod, not trusting myself to verbalize my response. Wolf sets his free hand on my skin, and I gasp. There’s nothing sexual about his movements, but the graze of his gloved fingers against my bare skin has me shivering uncontrollably.
Wolf looks up sharply, pausing before bringing the tattoo gun to my skin. “Are you cold?”
“No. I’m good. Fine.” I swear I have an above-average IQ and can strum together more than banal platitudes and sentence fragments. Wolf must think I’m a freaking moron with a perpetually frozen body temperature.
I shut my eyes, trying to focus on the sting of the machine and not the presence of the man marking me.