18. Cole #2
She’s tough as hell. Thigh tattoos are painful—probably my most painful tattoo—and she’s just taking it.
I lean in again, steadying her thigh with my free hand, dragging the needle along the curve of the design.
She’s stiff under my palm, her muscles locked tight, and I pause when I hear another sound slip out of her.
I roll my chair back under the pretense of swapping needles and wiping down my station, giving her a breather before she passes out. I might not like her, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch her cry out in pain.
She clears her throat when I turn back around a few minutes later. “Who did your first tattoo?”
The question catches me off guard, because Aurora doesn’t give a fuck about me. I know this. But when I glance up and see her eyes squeezed shut, I realize she just needs noise to distract her from the pain.
I lower the needle back to her skin. “Remember that sketchy bar behind the grocery store in Oakwood?”
She lets out a strained little “mhmm,” with her eyes still shut, breathing a touch too fast.
“There’s a tattoo spot underground,” I say, shading in one of the thorns. “I went on my sixteenth birthday. Guy didn’t ask how old I was. Didn’t care.”
“Sixteen?” Her voice wavers a little. “Why that young?”
I glance up as she lets out a gasp when the needle digs into her hip bone. “Always wanted one,” I mutter, going back to the linework. “Didn’t feel like waiting another two years.”
I dip the needle again, working along the curve of her thigh, stopping every few inches to wipe and check the stencil, make sure I’m following the lines she drew.
“Are you… almost done?” she asks eventually, her voice coming out between shaky breaths.
I glance up, noticing her bottom lip pinned between her teeth.
“Still got a while to go,” I tell her, rolling back to swap the needle for the softer shading.
The first pass over the fresh lines makes her stiffen. I notice, because I notice everything about her, whether I want to or not. So, I try to take it easy, working on the less tender spots first.
The music from the shop playlist fills the room in a low hum while I continue to work. She doesn’t ask for any breaks or make too much noise, just lets out sharp breaths whenever the needle digs into a painful spot.
By the time I kill the machine, my shoulders ache, and my fingers cramp, reminding me I’ve been locked in the same position for too long. I set the machine aside and wipe the last smear of ink from her skin, taking a second longer than I should to look at it.
The piece climbs the outside of her thigh, the flowers coiling up, with sharp thorns along the stems and tiny, thin butterflies scattered around the piece.
It suits her, I realize, annoyed by the thought.
I snap off my gloves, toss them into the trash, and go over her skin one more time with a clean wipe. “All done,” I say, rolling my chair back a little.
She sits up slowly, then swings her legs over the side of the chair and stands. Doesn’t say a word. Just walks to the full-length mirror and angles her leg to see the tattoo.
I chew on my gum, staring at her expression in the mirror, seeing a hint of a smile curling on her lips as she admires the ink.
“Good?” I ask.
She meets my gaze in the mirror and shrugs. “It’ll do.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Glad I could meet your sky-high standards.” She turns back toward me, and I jerk my chin at the chair. “Sit. I still need to wrap it.”
She lowers herself down, and I grab the wrap, cut a strip, and press it over the fresh ink, smoothing the edges so it won’t peel the second she stands up.
“Keep this on for two days,” I say, taping down the last corner.
“After that, wash it with a gentle soap, pat it dry, and keep it moisturized. Don’t pick at it or let every frat guy on campus paw at it.
Stay away from saunas and swimming pools for at least four weeks, and try not to bake it in the sun. ”
She scoffs, flicking me a look. “So basically… stay home?”
I arch a brow. “Would make my life a hell of a lot easier.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes herself upright, reaching for her jeans on the nearby chair.
She steps into them, careful not to scrape the fresh wrap, and pulls them up slowly.
She grabs her bag, slides the strap over her shoulder, and when she moves, I finally register the rain hammering against the windows.
“You going out in that?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She pauses and glances back at me with an arched eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“How’d you even get here?” I ask, even though I already know she doesn’t have a car. I hate how much I know about her.
“Ryan dropped me off.”
My brows pull together. “Is he picking you up?”
She watches me, curious about why I’m asking her these questions, why I care. I don’t know why I do, either. “No,” she says finally. “He and Isabella went out for lunch. I told him I’d walk home.”
I stare at her and lift a brow. “It’s raining.”
She lifts a brow right back. “I’m aware.”
“You don’t live anywhere near here,” I press. “You’ll be drenched by the time you get home.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear, tilting her chin in that infuriating way. “You don’t need to act like you give a shit about me, Cole.”
My jaw tightens until I feel the gum flatten between my teeth. “I never said I did.”
Her brows lift, like that confirms exactly what she expected, and she pulls out her card. I snatch the reader, type in the price, and hold it out without looking at her. She taps the card and the machine beeps.
She slides her card away, swings her bag higher on her shoulder, opens the door, and steps out. A few seconds later, I hear the muffled bell at the front as the main door shuts behind her.
I turn and start cleaning my station, trying for the hundredth time to scrape her out of my head. But every few seconds, my eyes flick to the window.
My jaw tightens and I rip my gaze back to my station. I don’t give a shit, I remind myself. She made her way here and she can make her way back. She’s not my problem. She’s never been my problem.
I scrub the chair down harder than I need to, the vinyl squeaking under my hand. The rain gets louder. Or maybe I’m just paying more attention now.
My hand stalls mid-wipe and I glance toward the window again.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I drop the rag on the tray, snatch my keys and my jacket off the hook, and head for the front door.
“Heading out,” I mutter to Alex, already shoving my arms into my jacket as I push open the door.
By the time I jog down the street and slide into my car, my hair’s dripping and my jeans are glued to my legs. I turn the engine over, flip the wipers on high, and pull out onto the street.
It doesn’t take long to find her. She’s a few blocks down, exactly where I knew she’d be, her head ducked against the downpour, hair plastered to her face and back. She has her arms wrapped around herself, like that’s going to do anything against this weather.
I roll down the passenger window, rain immediately misting into the car. My fingers tighten around the wheel. “Get in.”
She cuts me a sideways look and rolls her eyes as she keeps walking. “Go away, Cole.”