I nod.
He transfers the outline of the design to my skin. The quiet motor of the tattoo gun starts to run, and I feel it touch my shoulder. It’s like an ant bite. It doesn’t hurt. And when he starts to move it, the pain goes away completely. I sit quietly, and sometimes Logan speaks to me. I talk to him, careful to look at him when I respond, but he doesn’t have any problem talking to me even though I don’t know sign language. He’s pretty witty, actually. After we start the second hour, Emily sticks her head behind the curtain.
“Are all the marines gone?” Paul asks. He looks down at me to check for my reaction, I assume.
“Yeah, only one of them wanted a tat,” she says. She comes around to look at my shoulder. I hear her draw in a breath.
“Shh,” Paul says shushing her.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, but her voice cracks, and she wipes a tear from her eye.
“Did he put some boobs on me or something?” I ask. Now I’m really worried.
“Did you draw that?” she asks Logan. She goes and wraps her arms around his chest. He nods and kisses her forehead. “You did a really good job,” she says.
“Hey, I shaded it,” I say.
“All done,” Paul says. And he turns the gun off and lays it down. He swipes some lotion across the tattoo and washes it, then pulls me up by my elbows and points me toward the mirror. “What do you think?” he asks.
He watches my face closely. Paul does that a lot. You don’t have to speak for him to know how you’re feeling.
I turn my back to the mirror, and I see the work of art he’s created. He drew the daisy, and he’s colored it with my colors. It’s reaching toward a shaft of sunlight from behind bars. That part is exactly what I expected. But at the base of the daisy, Maggie lays with her head balanced on the lower petals, just like she used to balance it on my knee. She’s perfect in all her black-and-white glory, and the eyes sparkle, just like hers did. A sob builds in my throat. “I love it,” I croak out. “It’s perfect.”
Paul reaches for me slowly, careful not to scare with me with his slow movements, and he pulls me to his chest. I wrap my arms around him, and he closes my open shirt behind me with his fingers and draws me close into him. He strokes a hand down the back of my head. “You’re welcome,” he says. I see Logan give him a thumbs-up.
“Thank you, Logan,” I say. I look in the mirror again. It’s truly perfect.
“Next time, we’ll do one without bars,” Paul says as he sets me back and looks into my eyes.
I nod. “Next time,” I say. For the first time since the assault, I feel like my cage is slowly being unlocked.
Paul still has his arms wrapped around me when the curtain opens and Pete sticks his head into the area. He’s grinning until he sees me wrapped up in Paul’s arms. “You guys should put up a sign so I know there’s something intimate going on back here,” he says. He looks at me closely and scowls when he sees me wipe my eyes. “What the f**k did you do to her?” he asks.
He walks forward, and Paul lets me go. Pete tips my chin up. “Are you all right?” he asks. He’s worried, and I both hate and love that he is.
“I’m fine,” I say. Logan, Emily, and Paul leave the area and close the curtain. I turn my back so Pete can see my new tattoo. “See what I got?” I ask. I pull my ponytail to the side so his view is unobstructed.
“Woah,” he says. “That’s f**king fantastic,” he says. His fingertips tickle across my skin, very lightly outlining the area where Maggie has been immortalized. “Logan drew her, didn’t he?” he asks.
“Yeah, but I did the shading, and Paul drew the flower and stuff.”
“I can tell his work from a mile away,” Pete says.
Suddenly, there’s a movement down by my belly. I look down. Pete’s lap is moving? “Seriously, Pete,” I say. “This is not the place.” He chuckles and drops onto a sofa. The hand warmer of his hoodie is wiggling, moving up and down.
“Why don’t you come and see what I got for you?” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
A laugh escapes my throat, even though I say, “That is so not funny.”
“Come on, little girl,” he taunts. “Come and see what’s in my pocket.”
His hoodie is definitely wiggling, and there’s something in there. I go sit beside him, and he arches his hips toward me when I reach out and press gently on the lump. “Keep going,” he says. His voice is suddenly hoarse.
I reach into the side of the pocket and feel a cold nose sniff my hand. I lift the edge and look down. “What’s that?” I ask, but I’m already smiling.
“That’s your present,” he says. He’s still smirking. “I just got back from the vet with her. She got deflead and dewormed and had her ears cleaned and got tested for kitty diseases. She’s healthy.” He pulls her out, and she’s so tiny she fits in the palm of his hand. “I got a litter box and some food and stuff, too,” he says. He’s watching me, almost like he’s waiting for me to shove it at him and start screaming.
She’s teeny weenie, and she has orange hair. “What’s her name?” I ask.
He shrugs. “That’s up to you.”
“Ginger,” I say. “She’s a Ginger.” I lift her to my cheek, and she nuzzles me. “Is she really mine?”