“No, thank you,” I press, turning to leave.

“If you change your mind…”

I glance back to find him holding something out for me, and I hate to be rude so I close the space between us to take the small black card from his hand.

As I get closer, I can make out the subtle strands of gray in his beard and the small creases around his eyes. He’s probably at least a decade older than me, and I have a feeling that I won’t be able to get him out of my head for a long time.

“Sorry for assuming you were a teenager,” he mutters as I take his card.

“It’s fine.”

“I can tell you came in here for a reason, so think about it. You obviously want to treat yourself to something nice, so go for it.”

I don’t answer him as I turn away. This is stupid, I think. Echoes of the spontaneous girl I used to be fill my mind as I stare at his name on the card.

Wicked Hearts Ink

Owner, Murph

“Just Murph?” I ask with a little bit of a smile on my lips.

“Just Murph,” he answers, mimicking my tone. Are we flirting?

I’m hesitating in the doorway, tapping my finger against the card as I try to decide if I really want a tattoo or if I just don’t want to leave the shop.

“Alright, fine,” I say as I turn back toward him. I like the way his sly smile hides under his facial hair. I can see it in the way his eyes crinkle in the corners.

“That’s more like it.” He walks to the side of the counter, grabbing a form from where I can’t see. “Fill this out and come have a seat. I don’t have an appointment for a couple more hours, so I can fit you right in.”

The form sits on the table, waiting for me to sign it. A waiver, I’m sure. For his own safety, in case I end up with a wild infection or try to sue him for voluntarily getting this tattoo. I don’t plan on suing him, but that’s not the problem. Leaving paper trails isn’t exactly my style, but he’s not watching as he busies himself around the station, pulling out paper towels and gloves. Quickly, I jot down a fake name and a signature, leaving the pen on the surface and walking over to where he waits. There are three chairs stationed in front of large mirrors surrounded by rolling tool carts like you would see in a garage.

Instinctively, I scan the rest of the room, but there’s a whole back room I can’t see through the door. “You work alone?” I ask, trying to sound curious and not paranoid or creepy.

“Just me for now,” he replies. “Logan comes in later, so if you want it now…” He holds his hands out as if he’s offering himself. “You’ll have to settle for me.”