Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(33)

I’d heard about Tonic—the shop that was on the TV show of the same name—but nothing I’d seen did it justice. Stone Temple Pilots played on the overhead speakers in the open space, and a few people looked up from the Victorian-era furniture in the waiting room as I gawked.

Everything felt old and gothic with velvet and leather and swirling rococo details on all the furniture. Lining one wall were booths with antique desks and retro tattoo chairs, curio cabinets full of bottles, and paintings in elaborate gilded frames.

A girl with hair the color of purple cotton candy, pinned up in glory rolls, walked toward us smiling with cherry-red lips. Her high-waisted pants had sailor buttons in the front and straight legs, and her tight T-shirt that bore the phrase But Really was tucked into the slim waistband.

“Hey. Annie, right?” she said as she approached, her wedges drumming the hardwood floor.

My heart picking up in its uneven gait. “Yeah, hi.” I took her extended hand, struck by her gravity. She was confident and cool in a way I’d never come across in real life.

She jerked her chin at Greg in greeting. “Hey, Greg. How’s it hanging?”

“Can’t complain, Penny,” he said with a smile.

“Come on back.” She turned, and we followed. “Did you bring the drawing we talked about?”

“I did.” I dug around in my bag as we walked, handing it over once I sat in her chair.

She nodded with appreciation. “Man, I love this. Where do you want it?”

“I was thinking between my shoulder blades.”

Another nod as she looked from my shoulders to the paper and back again thoughtfully. “Yeah, that would be perfect. About four inches, like this.” She held up her hand, thumb and forefinger spread. “Let me get a transfer ready. Wanna take off your coat and sweater? Do you have a tank or anything underneath?”

“I do.”

“Perfect. Be right back.”

When she was out of earshot, I looked at Greg and squealed like a little girl. “I cannot believe you got me in here.”

He shrugged, but he was smiling that crooked smile of his. “Rose’s boyfriend works here, so it wasn’t all that hard.”

“Don’t be modest,” I teased, stripping off my jacket, which he hung on a hook on the wall.

I pulled off my favorite yellow sweater next, and when my head was clear of the neck, I found Greg’s eyes on me for just a moment before he looked away.

They weren’t eyes of a friend or a boss or a big brother or uncle; those eyes sent a spark of heat through my chest and cheeks and pinched the air from my lungs.

I wondered if he’d gotten a good look at my scar, and I had a rare moment of insecurity about it. Maybe it disgusted him, reminded him of how imperfect I was. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he hadn’t seen it at all.

Penny walked over before I could consider the moment further.

“Got it,” she said as she held up the transfer, smiling. “Swing your legs around for me.”

I did as she’d asked, and she moved behind me.

“I brought two sizes.” She handed me a mirror, and I angled it to face the mirror behind her. “This one,” she held it up to my back, “and this one.” She swapped it with the other.

“The bigger one,” Greg said.

“I think so too,” Penny agreed. “What do you think, Annie?”

“I’m not sure. So…go big or go home.”

She laughed. “My kinda girl.”

We spent a little time getting the transfer where I wanted it before she directed me to lie down on my stomach.

Greg sat in the chair at my head, and my heart thumped and jittered with anticipation as Penny set up her tattoo gun.

He leaned forward, hanging his elbows on his thighs. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I nodded and tried to smile.

“That was super convincing.”

I chuckled at that. “I can’t believe you had both your arms done. How long did that take?”

He inspected his forearms in thought. “I dunno. Probably a dozen sessions. And these aren’t all I have. There’s more on my back and chest.”

Penny chimed in, “I did the Ganesh on his back. So fucking cool.”

“I wanna see!” I lifted up onto my elbows.

He glanced around. “Right now?”

“Well, why not? I took my shirt off.”

A puff of a laugh left him, but he stood and turned, putting his back to me. And, in what almost seemed like slow motion, he reached back over his shoulders to grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling it over his head with a whispering of fabric.

On his wide, muscular back, the elephant god sat, drawn in black and white inside an ornate frame. The lotus flower under him curled out from his feet, and he looked out at us sagely, each of his four hands in motion, each with a different purpose. The piece looked immeasurably masculine, the lines strong and powerful, the details unreal. The shading was done in tiny dots; I could barely see them with the few feet that separated us. And the artwork was as impeccable and stunning as the ripples and curves of muscles underneath.

“Wow,” I breathed, only in part at the artwork. I had seen a grand total of zero backs that looked like that. “Why Ganesh?”

He pulled his shirt back on, and I mourned the loss of my view when he turned around.