1
Harley
No Regrets.
The neon-blue sign is both an invitation and a warning.
It is also the reason I chose this shop for my first tattoo.
That, and the fact that it has great online reviews. Because, let’s be honest, if you’re going to stick a needle in your skin, you want to make sure you’re not going to a butcher.
I peer through the window of the West Village tattoo parlor, scanning the walls for images of its art. They are everywhere, crammed frame to frame. Up, down, across. Tigers, dragons, butterflies, dolphins, hearts, flowers, and oodles of abstract illustrations that look like calligraphy. Some are comical, some are beautiful.
Soon, one of these drawings will brand me. Remind me of who I am.
I’m not the kind of girl who gets inked. My skin is virginal, untouched by needles and piercings. I’m jittery because this is permanent. I’ve only ever been temporary. I’ve never done anything that lasts before.
I’ve never needed to.
Now I do.
My nerves race around the thoroughfares in my body like they’re mapping the route to chaos, and I need to calm down. I can do this—brand myself like cattle so I don’t slide back to the way I was.
A gust of cool November air scurries by, making me shiver and reminding me to get out of the cold and just do it. This is a defining moment in my life—the line between the past I leave behind, and the new girl that somehow, someway, I have to become.
I pull on the brass handle, open the door, and walk into a tattoo parlor for the first time ever. I’ve entered a zone of coolness, a land of hip artistry, where everyone is badass and bold. It’s eight in the evening on a Tuesday and the shop is open for another hour, so it’s packed inside. There’s a gal lazily blowing bubbles with her chewing gum as she kicks her foot back and forth while waiting on a leather couch in the entryway. Black ink snakes up the small path of exposed skin from her collarbone to her earlobe.
Indistinct metal music plays overhead.
Two artists are working in the back of the shop, set up in little chrome cubicle areas, like at a hair salon, each with their shelves and tools, marking up customers. A large man is spread out on his belly as a guy with dyed-black hair gives him a back tattoo. I wonder if the black-haired guy is Trey, the tattoo artist I scheduled with. The other artist is hunched over, working on an ankle of a pretty redhead.
As I wait, I check out the portfolios on the counter, flicking through pages of designs. So many designs my eyes feel like they’re swimming in black-and-blue lines, birds, and butterflies. But I don’t need to be looking through the portfolios. I know what I want on my body. I’m just passing the time until Trey is ready.
“Hey. Can I help you with anything?”
I look up from the drawing and into the eyes of the black-haired guy. Swarms of dragons adorn his arms. With his sleeves, jet-black dye job, and pierced lip, he clearly belongs here. I don’t. From my Mary Janes to my short plaid skirt, it’s as if I have a blaring sign on my head: Never been inked.
But then I remind myself I’ve been in plenty of unusual, weird, and potentially awkward situations, and have handled them all with finesse. I was paid top dollar to be confident, to be sweet, to be sophisticated. I channel all my skills into this moment.
“I have an appointment. With Trey,” I say, chin up, voice strong. I am ready to be marked.
“That’s him. Back there.” He nods toward the other guy who’s finishing the redhead, covering her ankle in a bandage. “I’m Hector. I’ll walk you through the paperwork,” the black-haired guy tells me.
I show him my ID and then sign the papers. When I cap the pen, Hector’s no longer alone. A young guy in jeans, combat boots, and a T-shirt stands next to him. His jawline is stubbled, his body is toned, and his arms are covered in tattoos, his right bicep a canvas for an abstract swirl of ink that looks like three lines wrapped together. I fight the urge to smile stupidly at him, since he’s beautiful and probably the recipient of a lot of stupid smiles. With light-brown hair that’s thick and messy, green eyes that remind me of a grassy hillside after a summer rain, and a face that you might see on a magazine, he could almost have model-perfect looks. But there’s a scar running across his right cheek, and I’m drawn to the imperfection in him amid all that surface pretty.
I wonder how he got that scar and what it says about him. You can’t have a scar on your cheek without it telling a story.
“Hey. I’m Trey. You must be Harley.”
“Yes, I’m Harley.”
He holds out a hand to shake. His firm grip makes me glad I’m going to spend the next hour with his hand on my shoulder.
“Nice to meet you. Come on back.”
I follow him several feet, and he gestures to a dentist-style chair. As I sit down, I notice his T-shirt. It’s black with a picture of a white-and-red sign on it. On the sign are the words I’m the tattoo artist your mother warned you about.
I try to suppress a grin, but I have no such luck.
“What’s so funny?” A smile plays on his lips too. Nice lips, full lips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss someone I wanted to kiss. I have no idea. Not that I want to kiss Trey.
“Your shirt.”
He glances at his chest as if he needs to jog his memory. “Yeah. This one usually gets some sort of reaction.”
“My mom never warned me about tattoo artists,” I say. “That’s why it’s funny to me.”
“Ah, well. Then you have no preconceived notions that we’re all trouble.”
But everyone is trouble, I want to say. And everyone has preconceived notions. And the reason my mother never warned me about tattoo artists is that she never warned me about a thing.
He pulls up a stool and straddles it. “So, are you ready to get your first tattoo, Harley?”
I’m startled when he says my name. It’s not the name I’m used to hearing from men, and for a moment, a cold rush of worry sweeps my skin. But then I remind myself he’s allowed to know my name. He leans in closer and speaks again, his voice low and gentle. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. Some people come in for their first tat and change their minds when they sit down,” he says, his green eyes fixed on me, searching me, sensing my reticence. He’s trying to read me, to give me an out, and there’s something so sweet about his offer, even though he’s misread my silence.
I shake my head. “I’m ready. Can you do a red ribbon? The one I emailed you when I made the appointment?”
“Yeah. I can do whatever you want. It’s all ready for you. I sketched it last night. Let me show you.”
He swivels around and reaches for the design on his shelf. His arms are strong, his muscles on display in his T-shirt, and I watch him, giving myself permission to stare while his back is to me. His T-shirt rides up as he grabs the transfer paper, revealing a sliver of his back.
I never knew a back could be so sexy.
When he turns around, he shows me the design. It’s a small red ribbon, like the photo I found online and sent to him. He’s drawn it brightly, as if it’s shining. I love the simplicity of it—that’s why I wanted it.
I nod approvingly. “It’s perfect.”