Page 2 of Teach Me How

My gaze slides away from the butterflies. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I spot a poster on the wall, and I move closer scanning from top to bottom.

Skulls.

Daggers.

Getting warmer.

I tap my finger on the tattoo I want. “That one.”

Chance’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah.”

He tilts his head, clearly conflicted. With a shrug, he goes back to his computer and works on turning my tattoo into a stencil. “Where’s it going?”

I come closer, sitting on the leather stool in front of him. Lifting up my arm, I point to the side of my ribcage. “Here.”

His gaze travels from my baggy hoodie to my face. “How big?”

“An inch?”

He sits back. “Skin along the ribcage is temperamental. With a tattoo with fine lines like this one, I’d need to make it big enough to make sure your skin can handle it.”

“How big?”

“At least two inches.”

“Okay, two inches then.”

He frowns. “And you’d have to take your shirt off.”

“I figured.”

He crosses his arms. Everything about his body language is saying,not today, sister. He tilts his head. “And your bra. I’ve had girls do that under boob location and try to keep their bra on or cover themselves and they just end up stretching their skin. The tattoos come out warped.”

I get the feeling he’s trying to talk me out of this. For a guy with a tattoo of a flying pig on his bicep, he sure is judgmental. Locking eyes with him, I pull my sweater over my head. Shivering in the cool parlor, I give him my most effortless, cheerful smile. “What’s next?”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m lying on Chance’s table, flipping through my phone while he works around me. I’m wearing a Free Bird Tattoo Parlor t-shirt. Chance cut the sleeves off for me. It reveals a long stretch of my side without exposing my boobs to the world. Or to him. He seems pretty adamant that I stay covered.

He pulls a stool up to the table and pauses, the tattoo gun poised over my ribs. “Last chance to back out. This stencil washes right off. That tattoo is for life.”

“Give it to me, Chance.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

The needle bites into my skin. It feels like Chance is dragging a ballpoint pen over my ribs.

Really, really hard.

It’s the kind of pain you feel in your spine. In your hips and down to your toes. I hiss.

“Isn’t going to get any better.” Chance comments.

“Keep going. I’m good.”

He wipes a trickle of blood and ink away. “Why this one?”