“This is, Cinderella?” Cody exclaimed, his surprise indicated that he knew the reason for the nickname, or that Beck had at least mentioned our encounter.
“You told him? Oh my God, what is wrong with you?” My cheeks flamed.
What kind of man kisses and tells like that? Okay, we had done more than kiss. Actually, we hadn’t kissed at all, but I couldn’t split hairs when I was dying from embarrassment in front of the man who left me still yearning for his touch even weeks after our encounter. And now to find out he was some kind of a pig. Awesome. I was surrounded by assholes no matter where I went.
Turning to flee, it was Cody who caught my arm, stopping me from running out the front door to safety. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, clearly there is more to the story than what I was told, if this reaction is any indication. This sounds juicy. I want details.”
“Shut up, Cody!” Beck and I shouted in unison.
Beck grabbed Cody’s hand and forcefully removed it from my arm, as if he didn’t like the thought of Cody touching me, and replaced it with his.
“Regina, don’t leave. Before you say something incriminating, know this. I only told him that I met a beautiful and interesting woman at the bar that I really enjoyed spending time with, and that she left me when her ride came, without a way to contact her if I wanted to see her again. And I wanted to see her again.” His hand closed on my arm a little tighter, not hurting, but definitely a little bit possessive. “I wanted to see you again.”
Damn my traitor legs for quaking where I stood. His voice was a physical touch, and as I looked into his eyes, I forgot where I was, or that anyone else was in the room. This was Beck. The man who laughed so loud at my jokes that the walls rattled. The one who drank Irish coffee with me at the bar, and the man who gave me a screaming orgasm against the brick wall of this very tattoo shop, making me forget for a few hours that I was plain, boring Regina. I didn’t think that I would ever see him again, but if the fickle fates were tossing us in each other’s path again, then maybe it was a good thing.
“I didn’t know you were an artist.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Suddenly very shy, I had no idea how to continue the conversation with the man in front of me. How could I make him understand that he had given me what was possibly the most intense sexual experience of my life—oh—and I was a super fangirl of his art as well? If I had known who he was in the bar, would I have been able to engage in conversation with him like I had? He had interacted with the bartender like he knew him, probably because he owned the tattoo parlor next door. I felt caught. Trapped. I had no idea what to say or do next.
“Cinderella was here to get her first tattoo. We were just going to look at the appointment book to see when you had openings. I’m thinking you are four months out. I think that’s right?” Cody ended up talking more to himself as he picked up the tablet and started swiping to find the calendar to check for appointment openings.
“I’ll take her now.”
Both Cody and I were dumbfounded by Beck’s statement. Me, firstly, because I couldn’t believe he was booked out four months in advance, and Cody, secondly, because it seemed like Beck didn’t take walk-ins.
“Boss, it’s Wednesday. You don’t take appointments on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Cody, I know my schedule better than you do. Although I appreciate the thought, I have enough time for her. And her name is Regina, Cinderella is my pet name for her. You don’t get to say it.” He’d said it mildly enough, but Cody took it as the word of the Lord.
“Yes, absolutely. Sorry, Regina.”
I took pity on Cody in his flustered frame of mind, and felt like I had to help him out a bit. “It’s okay, Cody, thank you so much for helping me. I don’t want to be a bother. I can make an appointment. Or if you are busy I can come back another time—”
“No.” The firm tone of Beck’s voice made me jump, but Cody acted like nothing was amiss and handed Beck the tablet I had used to fill out my info.
“Regina, stay. Don’t run out on me again.” His words were a command I dared not disobey. Gone was the happy go lucky, smiling giant, and in his place was the dangerous man I had met in the alley outside. Cody acted like this was the side of Beck he saw most often, the man used to giving orders, and having them carried out without question. He didn’t even break stride when he pointed to the tablet and then nodded back at me.
“She filled out all of the info and med forms, so she’s good to go, Boss. We hadn’t gotten into design specifics yet, but I’m sure you can handle it.” The energy from Beck’s outburst was gone, he was all professional again as he looked at the tablet and then back to me, then at Cody again.
“Hey, Cody, why don’t you go ahead and head out? Lock the front door so we don’t get any stragglers this afternoon. That way I can work on her and not worry about watching the front door, and I can make sure I am out of here on time tonight.” I couldn’t stop the shiver than ran through my entire body at his words “work on her.” The double entendre was not lost on me. It was lost on Cody, however, because he just smiled and waved as he ran out the front door.
“See ya later, Beck, nice to meet you, Regina!” With a slam of the door and the click of a key in the lock, I was alone with Beck. Beck, the artist or Beck, the predator? Who was I alone with now?
I couldn’t wait to find out.
“You look like you think I’m going to eat you, Regina.” He said the words slowly, as if they tasted good in his mouth. Holy shit, was he seducing me? I was pretty far gone on him, because just Beck standing there in front of the dividing curtain was a seduction to me.
“Relax, this is work. You came here for something, right?”
He was right, I did, but suddenly I was unsure. I mean, not only was he the man I had been intimate with recently, so to speak, but he was also an artist who I highly respected. And even though I had spent all that time trying to find the artist behind Beauty Sleeping, the painting I loved so much, I was suddenly too shy to tell him about it. What would he think of my tattoo idea? I could do this, he was a professional. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to have artwork done by my favorite artist‚ a permanent part of my body. I needed to pull up my big girl panties and get it together.
“This is my first tattoo, and it’s kind of important. Now that I’m here, I’m actually really nervous,” I admitted softly.
“Are you worried about the pain, or are you worried about the artwork? The pain is different for everyone, and there’s really nothing I can do about that for you. The pain is almost as personal as the artwork itself. It’s felt deeply and differently by each person that sits in the chair. If you’re worried about your tattoo idea though, let me reassure you, if I don’t like the art idea, I won’t do it.”
My disbelief must’ve shown on my face because he paused to explain himself.
“I’m serious, Regina, I’m a professional, and this is my livelihood. My tattoo artwork is a permanent piece of myself that I leave on your body for everyone to see. I’m an artist and I tattoo because I love it. I will not put artwork that I do not love on someone else’s body. But I’ll give you something that you love, trust me on that. Now, what was your idea?”
How do I explain to this man that I’m reinventing myself? He’s probably heard all kinds of ridiculous reasons and had people ask for stupid things. I don’t know why I was so hung up on what I wanted. Maybe because to explain what I wanted, I would have to explain the reason I wanted it. And to do that, I would have to let him look at a very vulnerable, very painful part of me. I might not have had a problem explaining to a stranger in a bar about some of the shit things that were going on in my life, but it was certainly a different story now that I knew who Beck was. After what we’d done, I don’t know, it was so much more personal now. I didn’t just have to explain that bad things were happening, I had to explain how those things made me feel. Like, really feel. And that was a lot.
“I want a butterfly,” I said, suddenly
shy. “On my wrist, I want a small butterfly, just in black.”
“Why?”
I was prepared for him to ask but it still took me a moment to answer.
“It made so much sense when I came up with the idea, and I’m having a little trouble putting it into words for you specifically,” I admitted. “I know at the bar when I was drinking and having fun I told you a little bit about what had been going on in my personal life. What I didn’t say is that it’s just one occurrence in a string of occurrences over the last little while, and it had me second-guessing everything about my life up until now. The decisions I’ve made, the things that I’ve done, I wasn’t even living life for myself. Instead, I was living the life I thought I should.
“There is plain old boring Regina that goes to work and comes home and counts her blessings as the things that she has. I own my own home, I own my own vehicle, and I’ve worked really hard at a job that gives me zero respect, even though I’m really good at it. I’m tired of being plain, I’m tired of being boring, and really fucking tired of being disrespected. The butterfly is me. The butterfly is the new me that I’m going to be; the me that I want to be.” His thoughtful expression didn’t change, but he rubbed his chin with his fingertips as he considered my words. He must not have shaved that day. I had to blink to keep from staring at the dark scruff there and wondering what it would feel like scraping against the delicate skin of my neck.
“Okay, I hear you. Now, why don’t you tell me why you picked your wrist as placement?” He sounded like a doctor asking questions of the patient, and I found myself telling him the entire truth without hesitation because it seemed to me that he really and truly wanted to know. Not just as an artist but as someone interested on a personal level in the answer that I would give.
“Because if it is on my wrist I will see it more often. I want it in a place of prominence that I see every day, no matter what I’m doing. At work when I’m at my desk taking, calls and I’m writing notes, and fighting with ignorant clients on the phone, I’ll look down and be reminded of the person that I want to be. The person I’m trying to be.”
He stood there and thought for a moment, pointer finger and thumb still rubbing slowly along his jawline in a now familiar gesture. I barely had a moment to appreciate how breathtaking he was standing there in front of me, and I realized that even clean boring Regina, at thirty five years old, could still have a middle school crush on a man. Because that’s how it felt. That heart pounding, breathless excitement you feel when you’re standing in front of someone you don’t know well enough to love, but still really, fiercely like. It’s almost a stronger feeling than love, because love is rational, and the intensity of a crush burns like a wildfire. As I stood there watching him contemplate the design he would carve into my body, I felt an attraction so strong it almost scared me. Almost, not quite, because the last time I had been this kind of excited had been several weeks ago when this very man had me pinned to a brick wall with my arms above my head.
I was giving him complete control. Again.
Beck motioned for me to come back behind the curtain. I don’t know what I expected, but it was a stark contrast from the cluttered gallery in the front. Sterile. That is the only word I can think of. It wasn’t quite doctor’s office white, the walls were a warm grey, and there were a couple pieces of artwork on the walls, but it was mostly empty except for a few rolling metal carts, a sink, and three pieces of furniture. There was a rolling stool, a black chair with what looked like adjustable arms, and a masseuse table in the far right corner. He patted the chair with the adjustable arms and gestured for me to sit. Beck was in his own world now, barely looking at me as he took his own seat on the rolling stool and positioned himself in front of me. I didn’t have to be embarrassed by how he positioned himself almost directly between my legs, because Beck was simply getting to where he needed to be to do the work he needed to do.
He pulled the armrest out and positioned my arm flat, wrist up. He laid his fingers on the skin there, tapped lightly in places, and alternately ran his fingertips up and down my arm absentmindedly. As much electricity that zipped down my arm at his touch, I knew he wasn’t trying to seduce me. I could tell by the look in his eyes that this was a man in the zone.
“Do you trust me?”
“Hmm?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly because he had been silent for so long I wasn’t expecting him to speak.
“Do you trust me? I ask because I don’t want to do your butterfly. I have an idea for you, same place, but different art. I have a feeling that I understand the meaning of your request, but the execution you want is incorrect. Also, black is no good. You need color. This is too important for just black, and you just told me you don’t want to be plain and boring. The woman I met a couple of weeks ago certainly is anything but. So, as an artist, do you trust me?”
He didn’t know how I idolized his artwork. He didn’t know about the canvas with the rough edges that I had rescued from demise that was currently hanging above the couch in my living room. He couldn’t know how loaded the question he was leveling at me was, because I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him any of those things. I swallowed my excitement and managed to speak over my rising nerves. Excitement. Fear. Maybe even a little sexual tension. I felt all of those things, but trust? Did I trust him?
Absolutely.
“Yes, I trust you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beck’s eyes lit up at my words, fiery passion that ignited right in front of me. “Yes! This is great! Sit back Regina, I’m going to take good care of you.”
Once again, double entendre, and he wasn’t even aware of it. I blew a deep breath out that I didn’t even know I had been holding. I tried to hide how nervous I was but it didn’t matter, he was in his own world again. I was shocked at how such a big man could get around so gracefully in such a small room, but he was practically dancing from station to station. Opening drawers and pulling out prepackaged instruments. I didn’t know what anything did, or what anything was for.
“If you have questions, you can ask.” Beck smiled at my apprehension. “But first,” He said, holding up a small plastic razor, “I’m going to need to shave you.”
“Shave me?” I shrieked, maybe a little louder than necessary, but honest to God, I had not been expecting that. His laugh was instant, and for a moment I was taken back to that bar stool at Nasta’s, and the dimple that he flashed gave me the same zing of excitement it had back then. I felt blessed to have seen it a second time.
Still chuckling as he rolled his equipment back over to my chair, Beck tried to talk me down from my perceived insult. “Relax, Regina, tattooing over hair is no good. Everyone gets the razor, even if it is just tiny little peach fuzz. It’s got to go.”
I felt like a five-year-old in the doctor’s office about to get a shot, but I had to ask anyway for my own peace of mind. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Short answer? Yes.” Beck paused in the careful calculation of his tools to look me directly in the eye. “Pain is different for everyone. Some people feel it is a deep discomfort and, depending on where on your body the art is, the pain can be quite intense. Some people feel a buzzing, or a poking, hardly bothered by it at all. What everyone has in common, though? Is that they feel it. Tattoos are deeply personal. I’m not talking about the hearts and peace signs people get when they’re drunk on spring break. I’m talking about memorials, milestones, the marks of survivors. The pain of the ink often mirrors the emotion attached to it.”
He paused for a moment, his supplies an array in front of him; a pair of black latex gloves in his hand. “What are you going to do?” I asked tentatively. I had never even seen anyone get a tattoo before. I had no idea how it worked. “Do you need to pull up something on the computer? Isn’t there a stencil involved somehow?”
God blessed me with that dimple again. I must have said something funny without even realizing it, but I couldn’t even feel embarrassed about it or be concerned wit
h what it was. “That’s not how I work, Regina. Now, I’m going to need you to close your eyes.”
After a moment’s hesitation I closed my eyes and the world became dark, but everything else became crystal clear. The latex smell of his gloves, the squeak of his stool wheels as Beck rolled around a bit in front of me, trying to get in the perfect position. If I could hear and smell this well with my vision reduced, what would I feel when he started tattooing?
“I don’t want you to look, I want you to think. Think about why you’re getting this ink, this permanent marking on your body. Are you hurting? Will this help you? The ink is permanent, so is the pain. What are you thinking about? Because it’s what you’re going to think about every time you look at this tattoo.”
I would probably think about his side touching mine and his breath on the tender skin of my wrist every time I looked at it. Beck may have been every inch the professional, but I was having a difficult time remembering that with his body so close to mine.
“You are dangerous,” I whispered.
Still as a photograph, I couldn’t see, but I could feel everything, and not even the air around him stirred.
“Not when you are in this chair, I’m not.” With a snap of latex as he adjusted his gloves, I heard the tearing of the packaging as he opened the needle.
I assumed it would feel like cutting, but the first time the needle pierced my flesh it was a bright, vibrating heat. I had been prepared for much worse, and I felt some of the tension leaving my body as I relaxed into the chair. It was short-lived, though, as the needle continued to pierce the same skin, vibrating under the dermis, scraping away on the sensitive area. My right hand gripped the armrest and my toes curled in my shoes as I pressed them to the floor.
“What are you thinking about?” Beck’s voice was just loud enough to be heard above the thrumming machinery.
The Permanence of Pain Page 5