The Sympathy Screw | 18+

Chapter 16 - Skin Deep

Author's Notes:

I'm not 100% super-enthusiastic about this particular song choice, so if you have a better one, let me know.

The theme song for this chapter (for now) is:

Sweet Dreams     by        Beyoncé

~-~

Practically before I realized what was happening, I was standing in front of a tattoo parlor with Sam. Iris hadn't been happy to be woken up so that she could have Casanova put in her room in a little box, but she wasn't awake for long. The trip to the tattoo parlor was remarkably fast, only a few dozen miles from my house.

As we got out of Sam's truck, he said to me, "You know that you don't have to do this, Vi? Especially not tonight."

"I know," I assured him, "The more I think about it, though, the more I think it makes sense. I need to have something special to remember him by. Something on my skin that goes with me wherever I go. Something that won't go away."

Sam nodded. "Okay, well if you're sure, we're here."

"The only thing that scares me is the pain. That, and picking the right one. But I know that I want to do it." I gave him a smile, feeling anything but wanting to smile. My nerves prickled as I walked inside, almost like I had a whole carafe of coffee.

"Well, this is where I got my tat," Sam said, holding the door for me to walk in. A little bell above the door tinkled as it had opened.

"You got it after you moved here?" I asked, as we both stepped in from the cold.

Inside, the place was nothing like I expected a stereotypical tattoo parlor to look. It was clean and well-lit. There were a couple of other relatively normal-looking people in the lobby sitting in chairs, perhaps waiting their turns to get inked. There weren't any seedy-looking biker-type lowlifes clad in leather and metal studs with lollipop-colored hair and more tattoos and piercings than normal skin showing just hanging out as though they had no jobs but to gawk at the people getting inked. There was a tall reception desk at the front, similar to what you might see in a doctor's office. It all felt very familiar and soothing to someone who had never gotten a tattoo before.

Pulling me out of my reverie, Sam answered my question, "I did. I had to let the wound from the rebar heal for a few months first."

We stepped up to a counter that looked like a check-in desk as I continued to question, "So tell me about your job now. Do you like it?"

"Actually, yeah," Sam said with a grin, "It was really rewarding when I could save lives and be a hero, but now, I'm a part of creating things that will hopefully be around even long after I am. Building people's homes changes lives. I've even donated one weekend a month to Habitat for Humanity."

I hadn't even realized I spoke it out loud until after I exclaimed, "Wow, that's so ... altruistic."

Sam just smiled at me as his cheeks turned pink again. I'd never seen him blush before the last week, but I'd sure seen it a lot. It was a good look on him.

"The best thing about construction," he continued, "is that it's really a job I could do anywhere. If people live there, there's a need to build. Houses, apartment buildings, business, even parking lots. There's not a lot of places where you don't need that stuff put together."

There was a little sign at the desk saying, "We'll be right with you!" and true to their word, a muscular man with dark hair in a t-shirt and jeans came out of a hallway just to the side of the reception desk.