Bad Bad Girl

Her resolve began to soften and the shirt started to come down. Sawyer picked up the picture of the flowers and turned to her. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, clearly reading the fear in her eyes.

She looked up into his green eyes and stared. Was that a look of concern there? Did he care? Or was he simply annoyed that she was taking so long and costing him money?

Rebecca looked at the drawing in his hands and the detailed floral design weaved across the page. She thought of her life in the supply room. Her failed marriage. Her dissatisfaction in the way her life was going, and a fire burst to life inside her.

“Yes,” she decided, with a confidence she wasn’t sure she actually felt. She tore her shirt over her head and whipped her red hair about. Then she looked up at Sawyer with an eagerness she couldn’t explain.

“Good,” he replied, pulling the tool cart closer to the bench. “Lie down, and we can get started.”

“Bra on?” Rebecca asked, suddenly emboldened by her decision.

“Either way.” Sawyer chuckled, clearly entertained by his client’s new level of energy. “You can lie down and unclip it or just lose it all together. Up to you.”

While she felt daring and wild, Rebecca wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to defend her modesty at least a little. She straddled the bench and slipped her hands behind her back, unfastening the clasps with ease, then paused. “How am I going to wear a bra when I leave?”

Sawyer simply stared. “You won’t. He didn’t tell you up front when you called? You can wear a loose tank top, a camisole, a sports bra that doesn’t squeeze, or just go without for the first week. Tube tops are great so long as you don’t wear them too tight. You just don’t want anything rubbing, because that will hurt like a motherfucker.”

“All right,” she sang in an odd tone, thinking that would have been good to know before now.

“Well?” he said. “Ready?”

“Let’s do this,” Rebecca replied, looking at the wall in front of her.

He stepped up beside her and picked up a large sheet of paper. “Pull your waistband down a little,” he instructed, “and rest your face on your hands.”

She complied quickly and quietly.

Sawyer carefully laid the page over her back, lining up the image cautiously before pressing the sheet against her skin. His hands were warm, and his movements were quick and practiced, which Rebecca found comforting since she was trusting him with half of her torso.

When his hands slid down her back and pressed against the top of her buttocks, she flinched a little. It was at that moment that she realized her understanding of how much the artist would have to touch her was academic only. She had been comfortable with her wrist tattoo, that being relatively small and isolated, but when Sawyer’s hands pressed over her lower back, she closed her eyes and breathed steadily, trying not to panic.

“Relax,” he said, in a surprisingly easy tone. “You’ve done this before. It’s just as bad as the inside wrist work you’ve got,” he continued, misunderstanding her anxiety. “It’ll hurt, but you’ll be fine. We’ll line everything out and then just go piece by piece in each session. Okay?”

Rebecca nodded, willing to agree with whatever he said at that point, just so long as they got started. She felt as though she was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting her turn to jump into the water below. The longer he made her wait, the worse the butterflies got. As the page was peeled from her back, she tingled all over with the sensation.

Standing up from his seat behind her, Sawyer dug a phone from his pocket and pointed it at her. Rebecca turned just in time to see him snap a picture of her back. She had only a moment to be self-conscious before he spun the phone around and showed her the image. “What do you think?” he asked.

She stared at the image sprawling over her frame and felt a thrill rise within her chest. She looked exotic. She looked sensual. She looked exciting.

A smile spread across her face and the words came calmly and with certainty. “Do it.” Sawyer nodded, and Rebecca rested her face on her hands.

There was no ceremony.

There was no last-minute option to back out.

There was no one stepping in and asking her if this was what she really wanted.

In a mad blur that was part thrill-seeking and part impulsive madness, she took a deep breath through her nose and slowly let the air seep out between her tightly clenched teeth. She heard the whir of the tattoo machine, the gentle change in tone as he adjusted the speed, and then his hand was against her back. In a flash of anxiety, Rebecca listened as the voice in her head screamed for her to run, and she had just enough time to debate it before Sawyer quietly gave instructions.