“What about you?” I ask.

She lifts her eyes expectantly.

“Do you love to get down with the locals?” I tease her. Natalie giggles until I remind her to hold still.

“She’s not really the get-down type,” Natalie whispers.

“That’s okay.”

“I love coming here. Not to get down with the locals,” she answers, mimicking our tone, “but just because people are nicer, and I can breathe better here.”

Glancing up again, I smile because I know exactly what she means. Wickett has always been like that for me. Quiet. Comfortable. Every other week of the year.

“Boring,” Natalie mumbles as I hold a mirror up to show her the sketch on her back. “Yes, I love it,” she says. I ready the ink and listen to the girls talk about their plans after the tattoo. They’re going down to the bonfire which is a spring break ritual. They do it every year, and it’s always packed down there with tons of rich college kids, a real kickoff to the week.

Not gonna lie, I don’t like the idea of this girl going down to the bonfire. It’s notorious for heavy drinking and rowdiness. Every year some douchebags end up going a little far, and it becomes town gossip quick. The cops don’t do much with the pressures from the investors. I get the inside scoop from my brother’s best friend on the force. He hates this week even more than I do.

They let the kids have their fun but try to keep it under control. And they usually do.

Until I show up with my pocket full of party favors.

When I press my foot on the pedal, Natalie jumps from the loud buzz of the gun. I can already tell this is going to suck. She will cry and squirm, and it will turn out like shit. And I fucking hate when it’s not perfect.

“Is this going to hurt?” she whines.

“No, it tickles,” I answer dryly.

Two seconds into the tattoo, she’s crying. I don’t even get a full outline before she turns stark white and her skin goes cold.

“I’m going to throw up,” she cries.

I lift my foot from the pedal and grab her a bottle of water. Setting the tattoo gun on the tray, I help her up from her seat. “You need fresh air.”

“We can help you to the door. Can you walk?” the girl asks.

“I think so,” Natalie mumbles.

God, I fucking hate fainters. Every once in a while, I get the pukers and the fainters. I pull off my gloves and help Natalie to the back door—never out the front. It’s bad for business. She sits on one of the chairs we have back there for this exact reason.

“Put your head between your legs, honey. Deep breath in and deep breath out.”

“It smells back here,” she whines.

“Yeah, it’s an alleyway behind a tattoo shop, and we’re fresh out of candles,” I reply dryly. I shouldn’t be such a jerk, but I’m irritable, and the bag in my pocket isn’t getting any lighter.