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His eyes land on me and he cocks his head to the side. “Hmm. You wouldn’t be Tink, would ya?”
I’m taken aback by his question. Only Max calls me that. I look at Addison and she does a small shrug. “That’s Max’s nickname for me, but I go by Sydney.” I let out an awkward chuckle. After the shock of him knowing who I am dies down, I narrow my eyes at him and plant my hands on my hips. “If Max paid you to do some crazy tattoo on me, like a dick or something, I will hurt you.”
He roars with laughter, holding his belly. “He told me you were a little spitfire. But I promise” —he holds up both his hands— “no dick tats. I’m Jay.” He holds out his hand. I take a couple seconds to register that I’m supposed to shake his hand because I’m in shock at how large it is. How the hell is he going to do a dainty tattoo with the hands of a giant? If Max hadn’t recommended him, I think I would back out. Instead, I put my trust in him and slip my hand into his.
I pull out a piece of paper from my jeans pocket, unfold it and hand it to him. “This is what I want, right here,” I say, pointing to my inner wrist. I’m waiting for this tattoo is too small for me to do. I would totally understand why.
Instead, he nods and says, “Looks easy enough.”
Addison and I scoured through hundreds of pictures last night on the internet. I knew what I wanted. A treble clef with wings. The treble clef represents the beginning of my song. My future. The wings represent my past. A reminder of those I loved and lost.
Another guy comes out and takes Addie back to his room. Panic flutters inside my belly. I was hoping they would let her hold my hand while I had it done and vice versa.
“Don’t be scared. I’ll go easy on you,” he says, walking to a small room.
I bet he tells everyone that.
With the tip of his head, he motions to the dentist-style chair beside him and I slide in it while he scribbles on a pad and redraws the tattoo, changing a few things. Beneath the scent of disinfectant lay the faint smell of pot. I stare at him, thinking it’s not too late to leave. But when he shows me his version, the wings more defined and feathered, my smile reaches my eyes, excitement stirring inside me. Maybe he smokes it for medicinal purposes. Who am I to judge?
“I love it. It’s perfect.” I relax a little, obviously he knows what he’s doing. Max wouldn’t send me here if he didn’t trust the guy. “So, Jay, I’m sure you’ve heard this question a bajillion times, but entertain me… does it hurt?”
He turns his head, cocks a brow with an amused expression. “Nope.”
“Really?” I say, sitting forward, the possibility giving me life. He chuckles, shaking his head as he returns to setting up. Hope dies a million deaths. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“You told me to entertain you. I could’ve told you it won’t hurt as bad as Max.”
I gasp, shock robbing me of words. Did Max tell him about us? My face flushes from embarrassment. He doesn’t seem like the kiss and tell kind of guy, but there’s no way Jay could have guessed that just by Max telling him I was coming. Jay rolls his chair over and I’m still too flabbergasted to do anything other than hold my hand out, wrist up on the arm pad. He rubs a cool pad over my wrist.
Jay chuckles. “Relax, Sydney. I was kidding. But the way your face is lightin’ up like a firefly, says a lot. So, what’s up with you and Max?”
“Nothing,” I reply quickly. He slowly nods, with an unconvinced expression. “We’re just friends.”
I watch in silence as he places the transfer on my wrist, leaving the design on my skin when he pulls it up. “Good?” I nod, already loving how it looks.
“So, what exactly did he tell you about me?”
He rolls back over to me, his large hand engulfs the tool. His round eyes meet mine for a beat as if he’s deciding what to say. “There were no specifics. Just how he met a beautiful woman and let her go.”
I snicker. “That isn’t quite how it went. It’s more like he was never interested.” The needle makes contact and I flinch, blowing out a long breath. This isn’t too bad, I tell myself. Mind over matter, right? I stop talking to not distract him. The last thing I need is a permanent oops. My eyes water, so I hum to distract myself from the shocking sensation that isn’t going away. I imagine myself on stage, playing in Central Park. Thousands of people scream my name. Except no matter where I look in the crowd, steel-blue eyes stare up at me. Without thinking, the words from “Mercy” by Shawn Mendes bubble up out of me. I’m singing directly to Max, spilling every emotion into the words.
As the words fade away, the buzzing noise interrupts my dream, and I’m back in the small, dreary room. It takes a couple seconds to realize his tool is no longer touching me. “Are you done already?” I ask, meeting chocolate brown eyes without looking at my wrist.
He shakes his head, and I arch a brow, wondering if something’s wrong. I peek down, afraid of what I’ll see, and only one wing is done. “Wow,” he says to himself, shaking out of whatever trance he’s in. “… he said you were good, but that was sick.”
My cheeks warm again. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was singing out loud.” This time I don’t flinch when he begins again. The mixture of nerves and my week of healing has my emotions on a whirlwind.
“It’s not a bad sound. Sing away, girl. Do you always sing when you’re nervous?” he asks without looking up.
I bob my head. “Sometimes.”
“Well, I can’t wait to say I did your ink when you’re famous.”
I laugh out loud at the sound of that. Famous? My first single will probably bomb or I’ll be a one-hit-wonder. It’s easy to imagine myself on stage, yet it’s difficult for me to imagine I’ll make something of myself. The odds are not in my favor. A lot of singers sign with a producer, but they’ll drop you quicker than cash if you’re not selling and move on to the next hot thing of the moment.
An hour later, Addie and I are staring at our forever artwork on our wrists through clear plastic wrap. My skin looks pissed, red and raised. Jay hands us our healing instructions and says, “Sydney, it was great to meet you, finally.” Finally? When did Max tell him about me? “And always remember, not every tattoo is exactly one of a kind. So, you can’t get mad at me if you see it again.” I tilt my head, confused.
“I’m sure there are millions of wings and music notes out there. I promise, I won’t hold you responsible for not giving me a one of a kind.” He glances over from the cash register, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he nods.
