25. Kit #2
She’s right. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, but she’s right. The short blonde hair, the little upturned nose, the curve of the lips…
I stare. At that drawing, and then the next one, and the next, page after page, the figures, faces, expressions.
Holy shit. Holy shit. I’ve just been drawing Tink.
Tink goes with the forearm. Inside.
I smooth the stencil over it, steady, even pressure. His skin feels warm despite the gloves and paper in the way, and my heart stumbles in my chest.
Nerves. Normal. Inking someone you know is always higher-stakes. Especially if it’s their first. Nothing more than that.
I swallow and peel back the paper. “How’s it look?”
He considers. “Good.”
I nod. Bite my lip.
“Not too late to back out,” I say, for some reason. For him, for me, I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because before Tink can answer, there’s a rattle on the spiral stairs and Pan all but bounds into the shop.
“T minus ten hours to game time,” he announces. “How’s everybody feeling?”
I blink, and say nothing. Neither does Tink.
“Uh, fine,” Tink says at last. “Little busy at the moment?”
“Aha.” Pan cocks his head down at the stencil on Tink’s arm, nodding. Then he frowns. “You’re not gonna do it like…” He gestures up and down Tink’s arm.
“Like what?” Tink asks.
“I dunno.” Pan shrugs. “Put it somewhere bigger? Like, ribs, or a back piece…”
I realize I’m still touching Tink’s arm, and pull away like it’s burning me.
“Uh, sure,” I say quickly. “We even could try a few placements, if you want. I can print another stencil—”
“No,” Tink says quickly. “This is fine.”
Pan looks put out. “Aw, c’mon, you don’t even wanna see what it looks like?”
Tink stiffens. “I like it here,” he says.
Something weird is going on. I feel the sudden need to diffuse the tension.
“Client’s always right,” I say to Pan. “It’s his body. You want a back piece, you know how to book me.”
Pan rolls his eyes. “Fine. Rain check on that, though. Busy times.” He folds his arms and looks at Tink. “You gonna be done in time to help set up?”
Tink nods. “If you’d just let me get the damn thing inked,” he adds.
“Fine, fine. Message received.” Pan backs off, palms up. “Just come find me when you’re done. Have fun getting stabbed.”
He salutes and strides out the shop door, the bell tinkling as he goes.
“Dumbass,” I mutter under my breath. I swivel my stool to my tray, pick up the pen and tap the floor pedal. All operational. Swivel back to Tink.
He’s pale as a goddamn sheet.
“You good?” I ask. “Because if you pass out, I’m going to stop. I don’t tattoo the unconscious.”
“I’m fine,” Tink says. “God, why does everyone think I’m such a…”
He trails off, staring out into the shop. His profile still: lips firm together, eyes slightly narrowed.
“I don’t,” I say, after a moment. Tink turns.
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re…anything.” I shrug, try to make a joke of it. “Even if I can do more push-ups than you.”
I take his wrist, gently, and lay it on the arm of the chair. Sometimes you have to do this, as the artist: take charge. Direct things. Tell them what to do. He who has the sharp implement calls the shots, I guess, but also…also clear directions just make it easier on everyone involved, I guess.
“Try to relax,” I say. “The tenser you are, the more resistance I’m pushing through, and the more it’ll hurt. It’s kinda…mind over matter that way.”
Tink nods.
With my left hand, I press his wrist against the chair arm—gentle, but firm. And God, but his hands are small. His whole arm is small, really: thin, but not wiry like some guys. More…slender. Smooth.
Soft.
I breathe out.
“Okay,” I say, getting the needle humming in my right hand. “Coming in now. You’ll feel a slight—”
Tink flinches. I stop.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing, I just…” I tense my lips against a smile. “I didn’t even touch you yet.”
Tink’s cheeks flush. “Oh.”
“With the needle, I mean,” I add, stupidly. I feel my cheeks flush. “But, uh. Now. If you’re ready.”
Tink nods.
“Try not to think about the needle,” I say. “Focus on the pressure of my hand.”
He nods again.
“And you can…” I lower my voice. “You can close your eyes, if that helps.”
I look up at him. His eyes.
Those long lashes.
He closes them.
And beneath the press of my hand, I feel his arm relax.
“Okay, coming back in,” I say softly. “Needle’s here, and…”
Again, he flinches, but not so much this time, not so big. A little grunt of pain, and I glance up to check, but his eyes are still closed, his lips now pressed tightly together too.
“Doing great,” I say, and press a bit firmer with my hand again. “Relax.”
He does.
The needle hums against him, and I lean in, close, working a steady line as quickly as I can down the body of the figure, her features, her hair.
Without missing a beat I grab behind me for a paper towel and follow gently in my own wake, left hand wiping excess ink as I balance the pressure with my right.
“I’m trying to be gentle,” I say, my voice coming out raspier than I mean to. I clear my throat and keep going.
The stars themselves take less time: the big, bolder ones the longest, the small peppering of tiny ones even quicker. He’s got good skin for this: even, no freckles or bumps, barely even that much hair.
It’s nice to the touch.
Why’d you draw her as Tink?
I don’t know, I think. I don’t know. I didn’t even know I was.
“Whoa.”
I look up. Tink’s eyes are open, but glassy. Unfocused even as he’s staring at his arm, and…
Shit—I know a fainter when I see one.
“Here. Hang on.” I kill the needle, jump up from the stool and jog, run, practically, to the kitchen, the freezer. Rummage around for the ice pack I know is in here, grab it, and dash back out.
“Try this.” I drop onto my stool, scoot forward, and put the cool plastic at the top of his chest, the base of his neck. Pushing down the collar of his T-shirt a bit so it hits the skin—
He jerks away. “The fuck are you doing?”
“I…” I withdraw the ice pack. God, and I thought I was jumpy. “Sorry. It’s a pulse point. Ice—it’ll—on your sternum. Fights back the fainting response.”
“Oh.” Tink nods and takes the ice pack, his warm fingertips on my cool, gloved ones. “Thanks.”
I can see the sheen of sweat glimmer on his forehead as he settles it back on the bottom of his neck, carefully.
“Fuck,” he mutters, grimacing, as his eyes flutter shut again. “You must think I’m a total asshole. Can’t even get a tattoo.”
“Eh, we’ve all got our shit,” I mumble. “Besides, beauty is pain, or whatever they say. Except the pain doesn’t last. Just the—”
“Yeah.” He swallows, removes the ice pack, and looks at his tattoo again. The color back in his cheeks and lips. Those dark eyes bright again. “The beauty.”