I pass a few storefronts that don’t entice me enough to stop. It’s mostly touristy shit, and seeing as how I don’t really have a home, magnets with Wickett Beach embossed across the front wouldn’t really make sense for me. The humble bookshop is sweet and quiet, but I’m not really into reading so I walk back out after a quick meander of the aisles.

The whole trip starts to feel like a waste.

Then, I pass a tattoo shop. Something about it makes me stop. It’s so clean and bright inside that it’s actually inviting, unlike the seedier shops I’d seen in the past. My ex and I had been to tattoo shops before, but it was never for tattoos. It was usually a cover for another type of operation or for Hugo to have a “conversation” with someone.

I shouldn’t go in. I told myself I would never visit any place that resembled my old life, but to be fair, this place doesn’t. So without knowing why, I open the door and walk in.

There’s not a soul in sight as I approach the glass counter with body jewelry under the bright lights. On the case is a book filled with pictures that entices me to flip through, although I know exactly what I would get if I wanted a tattoo. No question.

“Be right out,” a deep voice booms from somewhere behind the wall separating the lobby from the back.

I flinch from the sound. When you live with an old lady and her various nurses, you go a long time without hearing a man’s voice, and it has an effect.

I nearly bolt. One step toward the door, and I’m ready to be out of the small space, but then he walks into view, and I’m stuck.

Thick beard, broad shoulders, and a scowl that looks like it never rests makes me freeze in place. Old habits die hard and all, but as soon as I’m in his presence, I feel defensive.

“What can I do for you?” he asks as he rests his broad tattooed forearms on the counter, leaning forward with a quizzical smirk on his face.

“Just...looking,” I stammer. Which is a stupid thing to say. No one ‘just looks’ in a tattoo shop. You only come in for strict business, not browsing.

“See anything you like?” His eyes are trained on my face, and it’s disarming. Behind that glowering brow is a pair of emerald green eyes that somehow look kinder than the rest of his features.

“No,” I say too quickly. “Not for me. I can’t…”

“You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo. State law,” he says flatly, and I return an offended huff at his insinuation that I’m still a teen.

“I’m twenty-two,” I answer.

“Okay.” His nonchalant attitude grinds my nerves. I should just leave, but his stare has me pinned.

“I just meant I can’t get a tattoo because it’s not really my style.”

“Sure, you can. I get people in here from all walks of life, and if it’s your job you're worried about...we can always hide them.” His eyes scan my body as he says that, and I would be offended if a sensation of excitement didn’t just flood my veins.