Prologue 2
Marissa
I suspect it was the loneliness of being new in town that made me enter a tattoo shop for the first time in my life.
It sure as hell wasn’t the name, because Inkspiration sounds cheesy.
Fortunately, the framed designs behind the receptionist look professional, and the tattoos adorning almost all of her visible skin are beautiful and vibrant.
I take a deep breath. I can do this.
I’ve never gotten a tattoo before. Not because I’m against them or anything. There simply was no time or money to waste on non-essential things like skin decorations.
Mom had several from her younger (wilder) days, but by the time I came around, she’d already become the person I’d grow up with instead of the Deadhead who ran away from home at 15.
I bounce my leg nervously as I continue talking myself into staying and seeing this impulsive decision through. I don’t even see the two men until one of them addresses me.
He’s about my height. His bald, tattooed head prevents me from noticing anything else about him. Did getting tattooed there hurt? Or is it perhaps easier when it’s just skin and bone?
“You’re the walk-in?”
“Hi,” I stand up and extend my hand. “Marissa Johnson.”
He almost laughs at the gesture but returns the handshake.
“Hi, Marissa Johnson. I’m Buzz. Our boss here will take care of you today,” he gestures with his head, and I look at the other guy.
He’s a bit taller than I am, with thick, light brown hair that’s styled very artfully, and his face could best be described as… pretty? Clear skin, full lips, long lashes; he’s gorgeous.
Not now, Marissa, for heaven’s sake. I guiltily look away.
“How can I help you today?” The pretty guy asks, and I look at him again.
In his right ear, he has one of those earrings that stretch your earlobe.
“I’d like to get a tattoo,” I say, rather stupidly, and Buzz’s amused huff lets me know he thinks so too.
“Alright,” the boss tells me as his eyes scan every inch of my face with unsettling focus. “What were you thinking, smaller piece, bigger, lines, colors?”
“Slim, man, why don’t you let the girl sit down first?” Buzz pats him on the back pretty aggressively, and that seems to get him out of his stupor.
“Yeah, alright, why don’t you come on back with me and I’ll show you some of my previous work to see what you like.”
I nod and follow Slim into the main room of the shop.
God, I hope that’s not his real name, I think to myself as I look around.
Buzz is fiddling with the stereo system, and another artist is buzzing away at a scary-looking man’s calf. The chairs remind me of the dentist.
I should go.
“Is everything alright? You aren’t scared of needles, are you?” Slim asks in a worried tone.
I keep my eyes trained on his neck tattoo, a red circle right on his Adam’s apple with a hypnotic web around it.
The optical illusion it creates is mesmerizing.
The thorny vines coming up on the sides of said neck remind me of Sleeping Beauty’s castle right before the Prince comes to her rescue.
I watched that movie at least thirty times when I was a kid.
“Not really,” I tell him. “Is Slim your real name or a nickname?”
“Uh, road name. MC.” I must look confused, because he clarifies, “Motorcycle club.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed for some reason.
So he’s in a gang. Sounds about right. Experience has shown, time and time again, that any man that I find attractive simply cannot be normal.
He seems to sense the shift in mood, so he awkwardly says, “Dylan. That’s my name.” He then clears his throat and straightens up, becoming all business. “Is this your first tattoo?”
“Is it that obvious?” I say self-consciously.
He grins, and it makes him look so young and carefree. “I’m just that good.”
I raise my eyebrow and smirk at his cockiness. It suits him. A song starts blaring through the speakers, and he frowns at Buzz, who turns the volume down the tiniest bit.
The singer whines about love gone blind and someone making him see; the sickly-sweet song doesn’t fit the vibe of the tattoo parlor.
Dylan seems to agree. “Buzz, turn that shit off.”
“Why, boss, not a Skid Row fan? What about you, Marissa?”
I shrug awkwardly.
“Have you picked out a design already? Maybe a bullseye?” There’s something in Buzz’s tone that feels off, so I look away and clutch my bag closer to my body.
“I wanted to get a memorial tattoo for my mom. She passed away two months ago. She was a Deadhead, so maybe something related to that.”
Buzz says nothing, but he finally turns off the stereo.
When I look up, Dylan’s eyes are kind. “Tell me about her.”
I spend almost two hours talking to him about many different things: the complicated woman my mom was, how I moved to her hometown to feel closer to her, my job search, wanting to maybe go back to school one day, and the sudden urge to change my life.
He tells me about his dad dying when he was a teenager, about finding a home in the MC, discovering his passion for body art, and opening his own shop.
He’s only five years older than me, but he’s already accomplished so much.
After we’re done looking at his previous work, he tells me to take some time to decide, and then offers to drive me to the motel I’m staying in until I find a place.
He gives me a ride on the back of his bike, and we make out in the motel parking lot like hormonal teenagers.
“I shouldn’t,” I pant into his mouth.
“Why not?” He replies before sucking on my tongue some more.
“I’m not looking for anything right now,” I say between moans.
What I don’t say is that I have a long history of getting too attached and trading sex for the promise of love.
“Hmm,” he hums as he bites my neck.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve been hugged or held or caressed in any way. I’m starving for closeness, so I let myself gorge on it before it’s taken away.
Later, when Dylan flips me over onto my stomach to fuck me from behind, I close my eyes and pretend that this is a man who loves me.
Much later, I’d learn that I wasn’t the only one pretending.
I never got around to getting that tattoo.
But Dylan did leave a permanent mark on my body and mind, around six months later.
Funny how that worked out.