Chapter 2
DAISY
Tattooed girls are dirty. No good man wants a woman who marks herself up like that.
My father’s voice echoes through my head, but for once, I don’t let it stop me. He may have died five years ago, but my father’s opinions have never left me, no matter how hard I’ve tried to escape his mean judgments.
The leather chair is cool as I lean back, the air sharp with antiseptic and something darker—the ink, I suppose. Classic rock drifts from speakers I can’t see, and the walls are covered in art that should terrify me. Skulls. Daggers. Roses dripping with thorns. Maybe this was a mistake.
For twenty-six years, I’ve been the good girl who never caused trouble. Who did everything I was told to do.
But today, that changes.
“Hold still.” Knight’s voice is gruff. He doesn’t look at my face as he preps my skin with something cold and wet.
His tattooed hands move with a grace I didn’t expect, but that shouldn’t surprise me.
This isn’t the kind of art that’s in museums, but it’s still art.
I find myself staring at the way his fingers dwarf the antiseptic wipe, at the designs crawling up his forearms. A skull here. Something that might be flames there.
Heat floods my cheeks. I’m suddenly intensely aware of how close he is, of the warmth radiating from his body, the dark stubble on his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes as he works.
Stop it, I tell myself. He’s just doing his job.
A man like him would never look twice at someone like me.
Intense, brooding, achingly handsome men like Knight don’t notice women like me.
Women who wear cardigans in summer and read picture books to kids for a living.
Women who don’t have any experience with men.
“My grandmother loved cats, but my dad never let me have one.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “She had four when she died. I couldn’t keep them—my apartment doesn’t allow pets.”
Knight pauses, and I realize I’m rambling. He must think I’m an absolute idiot. Good going, Daisy.
He picks up his tattoo gun, and it gleams under the lights, wicked and sharp. My stomach clenches.
I jump at the buzz of the tattoo gun, and Knight sighs. Not quite annoyed, but close.
“It’s going to be loud,” he says, looking at me like he’s giving me a last chance to bail. “And it’s going to hurt. You’ve chosen a sensitive spot.”
“I know. I’m ready.”
The first touch of the needle steals my breath. I am so not ready for this. I don’t feel pain, exactly, but the needle is sharper than I expected, like a cat kneading its claws on my bare skin. I grip the armrest and force myself to breathe.
“Stay still.”
“I’m trying.”
The needle traces the outline of the kitten’s ear. Fire blooms on my skin, and it takes all my effort not to squirm. I focus on the music, on the steady rhythm of the bass, on anything except the relentless bite against my skin and the confusing desire I feel for Knight.
The pain doesn’t fade—it builds, layer upon layer, until my fingers ache from gripping the chair.
You can do this. You can do this. You can—
The needle drags across a sensitive spot, and I jerk away with a gasp.
“Hey—” Knight’s voice sharpens, but he’s pulled the tattoo gun away from me and turned it off.
“I can’t.” The words come out broken, pathetic. Tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It hurts more than I—”
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified. I’m sure the other tattoo artists are staring and will laugh about me when I’m gone.
My whole body is shaking, and I can’t stop the tears, and my father’s voice is back, louder than ever.
See? You can’t even handle a little needle.
Now you’re going to be marked forever, and it will be ugly.
“Hey.”
Knight’s voice is softer now. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me. His expression isn’t annoyed or angry. There’s a gentleness that catches me off guard.
“We can stop. Come back when you’re ready.”
“I’m sorry.” I swipe at my face. “I’m wasting your time. You probably think I’m ridiculous—”
“You’re not the first to tap out.” He reaches past me, grabs a tissue from the box on his station. “No shame in it.”
His dark eyes meet mine as I take a tissue from the box.
The muscles in his jaw tighten. He’s close enough that I can count the darker flecks in his eyes, close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches—
Then he pulls back, turning away. “Let me cover this up, and you can take a minute and compose yourself.”
The front desk feels miles away.
My legs are unsteady as I approach the front counter so I can pay, the partial tattoo wrapped and throbbing beneath my shirt. Just the outline of the kitten’s head—ears and the curve of its cheek. Incomplete. Like everything else I’ve ever started.
You couldn’t even finish a tiny tattoo. You’re pathetic. You thought you could be edgy for one day? Thought you could be someone other than boring, safe, forgettable Daisy?
My father’s voice blends with my own, a chorus of criticism I’ve been hearing my whole life. Good girls don’t get tattoos. Good girls don’t make scenes. Good girls certainly don’t cry in front of intimidating, gorgeous men and then fantasize about the warmth of their hands.
I fumble for my wallet, one hand still holding my cardigan closed, cursing myself for thinking I might be enough for a man like him. I’ve never been enough.
“How much do I owe?” My voice comes out thin.
Clancy glances at his computer. “For the full piece—”
“Just charge her for time.”
I spin around. Clancy is standing at the counter, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t read. Clancy raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“She’ll be back to finish it.” Knight’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “No point charging for work that’s not done.”
“I can pay for the whole thing,” I protest, but Knight shakes his head. The certainty in his voice roots me to the spot. “How do you know?”
He takes a step closer, and I forget how to breathe. “That design...it means something to you.”
My throat tightens. Somehow, he knows that what I need isn’t pity or judgment, but understanding.
“Forty-two fifty,” Clancy says, breaking the spell. “For time and materials.”
I dig out my card, hands trembling. It slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor.
Perfect. Now I’m being klutzy on top of everything else.
My cheeks burn as I bend to retrieve it, and when I straighten, Knight is right there. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
He holds out a King Ink business card.
“For aftercare questions.” His voice is rough, like he’s forcing the words out. “Keep it moisturized. Unscented lotion. And if anything looks off—redness, swelling, anything—call me. My number’s on the back. Don’t go swimming.”
I take the card. My fingers brush his again, and this time I know I don’t imagine the magnetic pull between us. The way his eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
“Thank you.” It comes out barely above a whisper.
He nods once before turning and walking back to his station, and I’m left standing there with my heart racing and his phone number burning in my palm.
I pay in a daze, quickly signing the receipt. The wrapped tattoo pulses against my collarbone like a second heartbeat.
When I reach the door, the late afternoon sun hits my face, warm and bright. It feels like returning to reality, but I’m disappointed in myself for letting the pain get the better of me. Knight was unfathomably kind to me.
Knight.
His voice when he told me there was no shame in tapping out, he wasn’t mean about it. His kindness made my chest ache in a way the needle never could.
My phone buzzes with a text from my friend Sarah: How did it go?! Did you do it?! Send pics!!!
I look down at the card in my hand. At the phone number I already know I’ll memorize before I go to sleep tonight. At the partial tattoo hidden beneath my shirt, throbbing against my collarbone.
As I walk to my car, touching the tender skin over my heart, I know it’s more than just a tattoo. It’s the first time in years I’ve wanted something badly enough to take it for myself.
I know I want to finish the tattoo, but I’m not brave enough yet.
I also want Knight, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be brave enough for that.