Scarred: Sailor’s Grave #3

by Elyse, Drew

  “Jess is probably going to be up my ass about it. Woman can’t leave well enough alone.”

  Thad padded over, then hopped up to resume his spot on the counter.

  “Not going there, though.” He didn’t look convinced. “It’s unprofessional at best and makes me a fucking creep at worst.”

  He started to lick his black front paw clean.

  “Not going there,” I repeated.

  He kept cleaning himself, nothing else. So why did I feel fucking judged?

  “The girls are on me like a rash, man,” Sketch said, leaning against the half wall that made up the border of my station. I was making sure everything was prepped. I’d had one client in already, just a color touch up now that a piece had healed. Gwen would be in before long.“ Jess mentioned you got a cat, now it’s a constant barrage of ‘when can we meet the kitty?’”

  Sketch had two daughters, soon to be three. Emmy and Evangeline were all girly girl. “Kitty” was an appealing thing, for sure.

  “He’s been cool with me, but they said he was shy at the shelter. Might not be quite the plaything they’re hoping for.”

  “Evangeline would be fine,” Sketch mused. “She’s shy herself. Emmy…”

  He didn’t have to finish the thought. Emmy was a cute kid, and sweet, but she was a handful.

  “I’ll take a couple pictures,” I offered. “Hold them over for a bit.”

  Jess, who it seemed was listening in, shouted from her station, “You don’t have any pictures of him?”

  Sketch and I looked over to see her on her cell phone as she muttered into it, “Sorry, babe.” She stuck a finger up at us, demanding a second. “Okay. Mhm. I said yes, Braden. I’ll give you sass. Whatever. Love you too.” After the spike in attitude, the last was said sweet. It surprised me to hear that from her sometimes. Not that Jess wasn’t all heart, she just had a unique way of showing it most of the time.

  Like when she’d hung up and swung her gaze back to me. “Seriously? You’ve taken zero pictures? What kind of cat owner are you?”

  “Are we really having this conversation?”

  The conversation was broken by Liam strolling in with a huge bakery box. We all knew it was from Avery’s place, where Liam’s woman, Kate, worked. Even before she gave into him, Liam made a habit of being at the bakery regularly just to get in her space. Since they got together, that hadn’t slowed down. As a result, the best baked goods in town were on hand often in the shop.

  At least, as long as Jess and Liam didn’t devour them all before anyone else could.

  “Tell me there’re lemon bars,” Jess pleaded.

  “Seeing as you text Kate first thing this morning begging for them, yes. There are lemon bars.”

  He didn’t screw around. Everyone in the shop knew who got to go at those boxes when they came in first. He walked right to Jess’s desk at the front and set it down. In a matter of seconds, she was taking a bite and moaning obscenely.

  Danny, another artist, leaned over the wall of his station across from mine, eyes on Jess. “If I didn’t think your man would shoot me…”

  Jess flipped him the bird.

  “Don’t make invitations you can’t live up to, gorgeous.”

  Everyone ignored him. Danny was like that, always dropping lines. He did it here just to irritate Jess, but we’d all seen him do the real thing and come up successful nearly every time.

  When Jess finished chewing, she turned to Liam. “You think it’s weird Park has no pictures of his cat, right?”

  “Me? No. But Kate’s asked to see one half a dozen times, so apparently she would.”

  Jess chose to ignore the first part of that and flicked her hand out at him as she looked at me. “See?”

  “Why is everyone so into me having a cat?”

  Danny spoke up. “Because it’s like the first thing any of us knows about you besides the fact that you’re a kickass artist and quiet as fuck.”

  Everyone looked at him. It was hard to miss the reproach in their faces.

  “What? I’m just saying,” Danny defended. “You’re a quiet guy. That’s cool. We all respect that. But there’s news coming from your corner and we’re all gonna be interested.”

  He came across as it, but Danny wasn’t an asshole. I got what he was saying, but it didn’t mean I was going to start spilling my shit all the time.

  Sketch, ready to move this on, focused back on me. “Send some pictures. It might keep Princess Emmy from showing up and banging down your door.”

  At that point, everyone got about their own business and left me to mine. I finished getting everything set, made sure I had plenty of the colors I had in mind for Gwen’s piece, and was sketching out some ideas for an upcoming appointment when the front door opened.

  And there she was.

  Still fucking gorgeous, but the picture of nerves. Knowing Jess was good about easing people’s worries when they came in, I kept myself back and let her handle it. I heard Jess greet her, the softer tone she was using telling me she picked up on the anxiety right off, too.

  I made myself busy, pulling up the cleaned-up version of the design I showed her the other day, then adjusting the visible layers on the file to check the outline I’d need for the stencil again. It was still an adjustment for me to work with the tablet. When I’d started out, Carson taught me, and he was all old-school. Every design was pencil and paper right up until it went on the skin. I still found myself having to go to the sketchpad for first drafts of designs because it was familiar, but I couldn’t deny that technology had its advantages.

  After giving Jess a minute to do her thing, I got up and headed to the front of the shop. Gwen noticed, and she smiled at me. Dimple and all. Damn, that smile was potent.

  “Hi, Parker.”

  “Hey. Just Park’s good,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I planned. “How’re you?”

  “Okay. Nervous,” she admitted.

  “Don’t be. I’ll take care of you.”

  What the hell did I just say?

  I saw her eyes widen a bit at that, too. Meanwhile, Jess was doing a terrible job of keeping her smile bland while her eyes danced. Yeah, she knew damn well what was in my head.

  I pushed ahead. “With where we’re tattooing, we’ll have to have your whole side and back uncovered for most of the session. We have a privacy room we can use if you’d be more comfortable back there,” I offered.

  “Oh. Um… no. I think I’ll be okay.” She didn’t seem sure about that, but I got the sense the idea of being in the private room freaked her, too. “I looked online for advice about what to wear for this, so I’ve got a bikini top on for when that will work, and this to sort of cover myself in the front,” she explained, rambling a bit, gesturing to what seemed to be a cardigan in her hand. “And in case anything slips, I put on pasties too.”

  Fuck. Me.

  Chapter Eight

  Gwen

  Please. Please. Please. For the love of God, please tell me I did not just blurt out that I had pasties on.

  I wanted to run. Just turn around and run right out the door. Forget the tattoo. I’d never come back and I wouldn’t have to see Park ever again.

  What was the matter with me?

  But I knew the answer to that. It was the same reason I’d nearly choked when he said he’d take care of me. He was hot, and it turned me into a bumbling idiot, apparently.

  Horrified, I looked over at Jess so I could avoid meeting his eyes. It didn’t help. She was biting her lip and I knew it was to keep from laughing. At the same time, there was sympathy in her eyes. I couldn’t fault her for the reaction. If it had been anyone but me, I’d be trying not to laugh, too.

  Unfortunately, it was me. So, I just got to feel the absolute mortification instead.

  It took a second before I could psych myself up to look at Park. When I did, his face was tense, his eyes didn’t appear fully focused. He was probably picturing my boobs. Or trying not to. Maybe both. I couldn’t blame him f
or that since I’d essentially just offered them up on a platter. And now I still had to take my shirt off in front of him.

  In that moment, I’d have given just about anything to wake up and realize this was just a nightmare.

  It wasn’t.

  Jess, who seemed to have gotten past it faster than either of us, jumped in. “Being prepared is important. We’ve had it happen plenty of times that a woman will come in for a tattoo on her back or ribs and be wearing a dress. What are you supposed to do, strip naked?”

  I forced a laugh that sounded as wrong as it felt, but her words seemed to shake Park out of it.

  “Come on, why don’t you come take a look at the final drawing and we can get started?”

  “Sure.”

  Or, I thought, running is still an option.

  As I followed him back, I gave myself a mental pep-talk. I was an adult. I was, in fact, wearing pasties. And I’d done it with good reason. I might have essentially talked about my nipples just now and made it weird, but at least one wasn’t going to pop out later. It could be worse. I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and let it go.

  Not focused on that, my mind was clear to really take in the whole of Sailor’s Grave Tattoo Parlor. When I’d first walked in, even as nervous as I was, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the look of the place. The balance of clean and professional with edge and artistry managed to make the whole place feel interesting, and, in my case, reassuring. Somehow, it all said that this was the perfect place to get any tattoo you had in mind. According to the shop’s reputation, that was absolutely true.

  Park led me past a couple stations, only one with an artist working on someone since the shop had only been open about an hour. Each one had half-height walls separating it out, and all were decorated top to bottom with art. There were framed drawing and paintings all over that seemed to represent each artist’s work. Even those low walls were painted by hand in various styles.

  Park’s, for all he seemed to be quiet, was one of the stations that stood out the most. It was bursting with color, vibrant shades across the spectrum. I’d gone through everyone’s portfolios before calling and making an appointment, and that color in his tattooing was why I’d picked him. There were others that had plenty of beautiful pieces in color, but none popped in quite the same way as his.

  He picked up a big tablet and unlocked it to show his design for me. He’d done more to it since I’d seen it last week. I wasn’t an artist, didn’t have the knowledge or skill to say what it was that he’d done that made the difference. The branch itself was more detailed, somehow more alive without becoming a photo-realistic look that I didn’t want. The leaves and flowers also had more detail, but also less exact form to really be the watercolor look that I loved.

  I’d thought it was perfect before, but he’d managed to make it even more beautiful.

  “It’s amazing,” I breathed.

  The corner of his lips kicked up just a bit, and somehow that said more than a full smile on a lot of people.

  “You like the changes?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what’s more than perfect. It was perfect before. You could have tattooed that, and I’d have been thrilled. This is… I don’t even know.”

  I was blathering on again and probably at risk of embarrassing myself, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.

  “Anything you want to adjust?”

  “Like what?” I blurted out. What could possibly need to be changed here?

  “Anything. Any detail can be changed before we ink it in. You want more leaves, fewer leaves, you want one thing to shift over a bit. It’s your tattoo, so we can do anything you want to it.” He looked and sounded serious enough to convey that he meant every word. I had total control over this step, but I didn’t need it.

  “I want this. Exactly this.”

  This time, he didn’t ask again like he had at the shelter. “Okay. Before we get started on anything, can I take a look at where you want it?”

  I hated that I still got the rush of nerves about taking my shirt off in front of a guy I was attracted to, even when this was professional. I hated that I still got those nerves at all. This was my body, I had no reason to be ashamed of it.

  Setting my sweater and purse on the chair, I did a little check through my t-shirt to be sure my bikini top was situated fine over my boobs before I pulled it off. I turned away from it a bit, lifting my right arm across my chest so he could get an unobstructed look.

  The scar across the back of my shoulder wasn’t the only one besides my face, but it was the worst of it. Cutting from the side of my ribs about six inches beneath my armpit to just shy of my neck, it was still raised and pink after all these years. The doctors said it was a miracle. Another inch or two and my spinal cord might have been severed.

  It took years before I saw any miracle in it.

  Park came in close, and I could feel his eyes on it. There was a time I couldn’t have done that, couldn’t have let him see. It was no small victory to be in a place mentally and emotionally where I could. Even as my anxiety rose, I focused on that fact.

  “May I?” I glanced over my shoulder to see his hand up, and I nodded.

  His touch was light as he started at my ribs, running his fingertips along the scar all the way up. My throat tightened, but the panic didn’t choke me like it used to. There’d been a time when even the doctors checking in on how everything was healing up sent me into a blind panic. The only place I’d been comfortable was locked away in my room where no one would see me. Now, I could cope.

  He studied it for what felt like an eternity, and the nerves were coming back when I asked, “Will it work?”

  “Yes,” he responded, and a breath that had been clamped in my lungs flew out. “The scar is prominent, but the texture and color of the branch should be plenty to disguise it. It will still be somewhat noticeable, though. Especially at different angles.”

  “I know,” I assured. This wasn’t so much about pretending the scar wasn’t there. I’d never be able to do that. It was about giving myself something beautiful to focus on instead, something that reminded me of the lesson I’d learned a long time ago: life keeps going.

  “Do you get sensitivity along it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He nodded, straightening. “I’m not going to lie to you, you might during this. A lot of my clients with scars do. That’s part of the reason for breaking this into two sessions right off the bat. The size of this one, it might be a single sitting in another case and then scheduling in a time for touch-ups if needed, but I like to block an extra session for bigger things like this when working with scar tissue, not just because they can take longer, but also because I want to be sure you really know that we can take whatever breaks you need. And if it gets to be too much, we can stop altogether, and you’re already in the schedule to come back so there are no worries.”

  When I arrived, if I’d known he’d say something like that, that he’d tell me straight up that this was probably going to hurt more for me than most people, I’d have freaked and not come in. However, the experience and consideration that went into all of his planning for this won out. I’d wanted someone who truly knew how to work with scars for a reason, and I was confident in that moment that I’d made the right choice.

  “Okay.”

  He studied me like he was looking for a sign it wasn’t actually okay and, not finding anything, nodded. “I can get the stencil made up then.”

  “Okay,” I repeated, but I was starting to feel excited. I wasn’t looking forward to the process, but I want the result so much it was worth it.

  “Go ahead and take a seat.” He gestured at the chair in the middle of his station that I could see was adjustable in a lot of ways so the artists could reach whatever part someone was getting tattooed. “I’ll be right back.”

  It took a few tries to get the stencil lined up right between getting the scale right and contouring it to the curve of my side. Park was
n’t interested in anything less than perfect, though. I never had to be the one to say I wanted to shift it more. By the time he felt good enough about the alignment to even ask my thoughts, he’d managed to have the entirety of the main scar beneath the outline of the branch. Some places where it fractured off would not be totally covered by the branch, but the worst of it all was.

  “As it is,” he said as I used a handheld mirror to see the reflection of the whole thing in a full-length one mounted to the wall, “you’ll get some of it peeking out at the neck depending on what shirt you wear.” He traced the shape of a curve of a collar across the back of my neck to demonstrate, and I had to clench my whole body to keep from shivering.

  “That’s okay.” The shelter wasn’t very picky about tattoos. A couple people on the staff had varying degrees of visible ones. If I eventually moved on to work elsewhere, I’d figure it out. Plenty of tops would cover it if need be.

  “You’re good with it like that?”

  I met his eyes, careful not to get lost in the dark color of them, and assured, “This is exactly how I want it.”

  There was that lip tilt again, and boy was it effective.

  “Good. Ready to get to it, then?”

  Not entirely, but also, one hundred percent. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Park

  “How’s Thaddeus adjusting?”

  I’d been working on the actual tattoo for about twenty minutes when she asked. Unfortunately for Gwen, there was no spot to start that was going to be much better for her or not. The branch was all I anticipated getting to that day, if we could even get through that, which meant being right up against the scar. On top of that, either end meant jumping in right by the spine or on the ribs, both of which I knew hurt. I’d given her the choice since I could work either direction, and she’d picked starting at the bottom and working up.

  I always let clients lead when it came to talking. Some needed to, and I’d learned to handle that. Some had to put headphones in and pretend I wasn’t there, which worked just fine for me. Gwen hadn’t set herself up with anything when she’d laid down, so I’d figured what type she would be.