That Girl (That Girl, #1)(11)

“You okay?” he asks, switching off the ignition.

I can only nod as the song fades out, and secretly pray my mind can continuously replay those words for the rest of my days. It may just be enough encouragement to never give up.

I reach for my door handle. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

“Don’t let Sledge scare you. He looks like a f*cking gremlin, but he’s a great guy. Trust me.”

“Okay, if only you knew where I came from,” I say.

“Let’s get your ass inked up.”

“I’m not getting it on my ass,” I scream in horror.

“I know. Let’s roll.” He opens the door to the shop, and we step inside.

When Sledge walks around the corner, I mentally take a step back and gasp in my head. Thank the lord Jeremiah gave me the heads up. He’s definitely not a looker, but his body is covered in the most beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen. His skin is simply breathtaking, and I know it’s his story. He’s imprinted his story upon his skin for the world to see. I thought I’d witnessed true courage in the past, until now. Lost and insecure are the only two words I could have ever inked on my skin to tell my own story.

“This is my victim,” he growls, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Yeah, buddy, take it easy. She’s an ink virgin,” Jeremiah replies, protectively stepping in front me while shaking Sledge’s hand.

“You know what you want, girl?” Sledge asks, turning to me.

“I’d like some birds randomly scattered across the top of my foot.” Genuinely shocked at my own response I stand a little taller.

The artist tilts his head back and says, “More deets, girl. Outline, solid, color?”

“I have this little drawing I sketched up.” I pull a crumpled napkin from my pocket and smooth it out.

“Let me see it.”

Handing over the drawing, I feel the immediate urge to puke frosting all over the small tattoo shop. Nobody, not even Jazzy, knows about my secret obsession of drawing. It was my one coping strategy when stuck in my bedroom. These were the days there was no Jazzy or Old Man. Just me, my mom, her entertainment, and my room. It started out by drawing on the walls in my closet, then the inside of my dresser, then pretty soon I was brave enough to shoplift a dollar notebook from the store. I filled every single page of that book from cover to cover. Some pages only displayed black and white, while others were full of color.

My mom found it one day, and that was the end of drawing and sketching. I hadn’t drawn one single thing until this tattoo design on a napkin while working for Junior’s dad on a slow day at the restaurant. The birds floating on the cheap napkin made me want more for myself, and deep down I knew ‘more’ was never an option. I saved the drawing, thinking that one day if I ever got a tattoo, I would use this sketch to remind me what could have been if … Only if.

“This is f*cking legit. Did you draw it?” Sledge asks, turning the napkin and examining it from different angles.

“Yes,” I say and nod, secretly just wanting him to tattoo it and run.

“A’ight,” he replies, “Give me about fifteen to get it sketched up. Jeremiah, brother, you want ink today?”

Jeremiah shakes his head ruefully. “Nah, man, I need to get my head on straight first.”

“I hear ya. Be back in a bit. I’ll get this drawn up, and I need a smoke. Have a seat.”

Sledge walks down a long hallway before disappearing into the back alley.

“What? Are you kidding me? We wait, while he smokes?” I screech.

“Sit, Michelle. It’s fine. This is the way it goes. He’ll sketch up a design, you approve it, and then he’ll smoke and ink the shit out of your skin.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me right now?” I declare, suddenly remembering the searing pain my wrist.

The movement in my arm drops me to the ground, and I finally cry in pain.

“That’s it. We are going to the f*cking hospital.”

“No,” I wail.

“You want to know why it took me way longer than two minutes to get here? Because I turned toward the hospital about ten times while driving three blocks. I can’t stand that I’m driving around a beautiful woman in my truck who’s in excruciating pain when I’m a f*cking solider who fights for his country.”

Jeremiah is down on his knees, pleading his confession, and I feel my heart falling for him. Not as a boyfriend or husband, but as a best friend. Then, in the back of my mind, I remember what I did to my best friend; I left her behind in the cesspool where we were raised. No, I don’t deserve a best friend ever again.

“It’s fine for now. We will go get it checked when I’m done here,” I say, knowing it’s a full lie.

The hospital will want identification and all sorts of information I don’t have to give.

“Are you sure?” Jeremiah asks. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I’m sure,” I reply.

Sledge walks back into the room with his hair tied back and stale cigarette smoke lingering around him. The smell reminds me way too much of home and makes me want to run like hell.

“Get your ass over here,” he says, pulling a rolling stool up to a well-organized workstation.

I listen. Sitting down in the chair I carefully watch him prep all the tools and then shave the top of my foot. I watch as he cleans my skin with several different cold liquids. Can’t say I’ve ever had my foot shaved before. Next, a transparent paper with the tattoo design is pressed down on the prepared area. It leaves behind the design, and I smile at its simple beauty and meaning.