Park Avenue Prince(35)

It took a few seconds for me to realize that she was talking about her having a tattoo. “You think my tattoo is pretty?”

“Pretty wasn’t what you were going for?” She grinned at me.

“If you like it, I’ll take it,” I replied and her cheeks pinked.

“There’s a place in the East Village that is supposed to be good, but you’ll have to come with me. I’m not doing it alone.”

Her wanting me to accompany her anywhere should scare me. I’d spent my whole life determinedly independent but somehow the thought of her needing me wasn’t as frightening as it should be. But I had to make an effort to keep the corners of my mouth down—I liked it.

“It would have to be small,” she said. “And I like the idea of words. No Mickey Mouse head or anything.” She was talking fast like she did when she was nervous.

I hadn’t expected her to say yes to the tattoo. And now she was offering it, I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. I’d buy whatever she wanted—tattoo or no tattoo. I liked her just as she was. She didn’t need to add anything to her already beautiful body.

“What about this afternoon? I’m sure you’re busy around here, but I might lose my nerve if I wait.” She curled a strand of hair around her ear. “So?” she asked. “Are you busy?”

“Always,” I replied. Her shoulders sank a little. Relief? Disappointment? I wasn’t sure. “But I’m the boss, so I can—”

“Okay then,” she said. “We should go.”

“We don’t have to,” I said. “I mean, it was a big ask—too much. I never thought you’d actually—”

“You need a dining table, Sam Shaw,” she replied.

“I’ll buy one, but you don’t need to get a tattoo. It was a stupid idea.” If she’d never wanted one, who was I to tell her she should permanently mark her perfect skin?

“A deal is a deal,” she said, her hands squeezing together on her lap. “And it seems the risks I’m taking in my life are paying off.” She took a breath and nodded. “So why stop now?”





Grace trailed her fingers along the thick blue binders of designs set against the back wall of the tattoo parlor. “Any idea of what you’d like?” the guy behind the counter asked. There were only two people in the shop. One guy was easily four hundred pounds with a long gray beard and a pirate-like hoop earring through his left ear. He sat in the corner, minding his own business, while a younger guy with a ponytail watched Grace as if someone so beautiful had never crossed his path.

Grace turned and looked at me. “Your choice,” she said.

What? She couldn’t be giving me such a responsibility. “No way. I’m not choosing your tattoo. You have to live with it . . .” I nearly said “until you die” but I didn’t like to be so cursory with those kinds of words. I knew how close death was to us all. Did my parents have tattoos? I’d never noticed any. And now I’d never know. My chest grew tight. I didn’t like to think about them, about the impermanent nature of life. Jesus, this seemed like a bad idea. “This is too permanent, Grace. We should go.”

She took my wrist, pulling my hand from my hair. “I don’t do things I don’t want to. Please, Sam.” The lilt of her words and her skin against mine soothed me. “Choose something.” Didn’t she realize that what she was asking me to do was too much? I could imagine Angie maybe asking. Or perhaps a married couple, but I’d know Grace such a short time and we were nothing to each other. Not really.

She slid up onto the purple reclining tattoo chair and watched me. “Come on. We haven’t got all day. We’ve got dining furniture to shop for. Pick what you think would look good.” She smiled and it lit up her face. Right then I would have done anything she’d told me to do.

I shook my head in mock exasperation. I’d choose because she asked me and not because I wanted to. Maybe because I wanted to be something to her. “Okay, lie down, Princess, and I’ll come up with something.”

One of the binders was open on the wooden desk at the back of the room and I began to flip through it. What should it be? A quote about art? She’d said I should pick what I liked. Did she trust me that much?

I glanced over my shoulder at her and she was watching me as I watched her. I wanted to go over and touch her, kiss her, hold her.

I took a breath. I knew what the tattoo should be.

Lowering my voice so she wouldn’t hear, I explained to the tattoo artist what I wanted. Just two words in cursive font. It wouldn’t take long and shouldn’t hurt too much.

“You want yours where I have mine?” I asked. She nodded and turned on her side as she lifted up her blouse, revealing the side of her ribs. Her alabaster skin was so perfectly flawless. It shouldn’t be marked. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “I told you, I’ll buy whatever you want.”

“Yes, I want to do this.”

I pulled up a chair. “Can I dare you not to?” I didn’t want her to do this for me. Or not because I’d asked her, not as a deal anyway.

“No,” she said. “I’m committed.”

“What happens if I’ve asked him to tattoo a gigantic turd on your ribcage?”