Page 1 of Teach Me How

1.

Reese

Clown fish float like eerie blimps over a fluorescent skull.

Tucking my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie, I take a seat on the red vinyl bench and wait. My converse sneakers bounce nervously on the floor, and I eye the door.

It’s not too late to turn around.

But what’s out there?

A dark parking lot.

A long drive home.

Pulling the hood up over my head, I tuck my knees up in front of me and settle in.

A customer passes through the lobby, their arm wrapped up. Chance appears in the doorway to his studio. I’m a sucker for the rebel boys. Chance literally hashell benttattooed across his knuckles. He has a full sleeve on one arm, all old school tattoos, that slips under the sleeve of his black t-shirt and up his neck.

He tilts his head. “You’re up, Little Mama.”

I climb to my feet, stretching to my full height, every bit of five feet two inches.

Chance’s gaze slides from my worn-out sneakers, past my bare legs and shorts without remark, up to my baggy hoodie. I flip the hood back, realizing I look a little like a sullen teenager.

It’s like he reads my mind. “I know I’ve seen you in here before, but I’m still going to need to see your ID.”

I stomp forward, extracting my ID from my purse. The picture is awful. If not for my red lips, you’d think it was in black and white. Pasty skin. Black hair.

He glances at it and passes it back. “Twenty-four, huh?”

I give him a sweet smile. “That’s what they tell me.”

His expression softens. “What are we doing today?”

I fiddle with the sleeve of my hoodie. “I’m not sure yet.”

He frowns. “So, you want to talk it over and then come back when you’ve decided…”

“No.” I blurt. “I’m ready to get it done today.”

He scans my face, hesitating. I know what he’s thinking. It’s this damn baby face. Gives me instant damsel in distress vibes. Permanent little sister status. But this little sis is on a fucking mission and if he won’t give me the tattoo I want, I’ll go somewhere else.

With a shrug, he walks back into the parlor, stopping at an oversized book of tattoos. He flips open to a page of butterflies and flowers, watching as I glance over them.

“Where’s your posse? Don’t you usually travel in a pack?”

“My friends?” My lips twist. “I didn’t get them in the divorce.”

“You’re divorced?”

I smile sheepishly. “I’m kidding. No divorce. Just a messy breakup.”

I’m a little surprised he remembered us, but then again, we are an obnoxiously loud bunch.

Were. Wewerean obnoxious bunch.

Now I’m just a quiet loner with bad jokes.