No appointment, no call ahead, a walk-in of four waltz their way into your tattoo shop thirty minutes before closing. Leading the group is a persistent, frustratingly attractive man by the name of Will, and what started out as an impromptu tattoo se...
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There's something so inherently intimate about tattooing.
Bodies coming close enough together that you're forced to share the air between you, and your breathing canvas. You touch their skin; weathered, smooth, scarred, soft, hot and alive beneath your fingertips, engraving a piece of yourself into this person that they may very well have for the rest of their life.
You can't help but feel as though you connect with every single one of them. You remember their names, their stories, the reason behind the ink you're shoving beneath their skin. Their laughs at the silliness of an impromptu design, their cries at the significance of a portrait on their chest. You even remember their names: Laura, Chris, Ashton, Millie...
Will.
He's memorable, to say the very least.
He'd walked into the empty shop, leading a herd of heavily tattooed men through the doors and ringing the little bell tied above it just thirty minutes before closing time. His presence shattered the tranquil quiet Summit Tattoo achieved in the late hours; the time you'd normally use to clean the place up, play some music, maybe sing along unabashedly into the end of the mop handle like your coworkers weren't going to pull up the evidence on the CCTV the next day.
Admittedly, you weren't too thrilled about it—after eight solid hours of straight inking, you were craving the comfort of your bed, the wonderful nothingness of Netflix and passing the fuck out.
But the guy's persistent, and if you think his smile is cute and his eyes are beautifully, enticingly dark, and you find a strange sort of magnetism there that stops you from shuffling him and his buddies right out the door, that's your prerogative. You think, maybe one more piece isn't all too bad...but as it turns out, they all want some fresh ink.
You distinctly remember feeling the customer-service-smile on your lips wane a bit at that.
Okay, so he's cute. But he's not that cute. Not cute enough for you to stay here three hours past closing time, when you've got to come back at six for pre-open.
I mean, what kind of tattoo shop opens at seven in the fucking morning?
And so, here you are, negotiating the freedom of your night with a stranger who'd introduced himself simply as Will, and one who can dance and weave his way through a conversation like he was born on a tightrope threaded with charisma. The looks probably have something to do with it, too. And maybe even that light but definitelythere hint of an accent—a Jersey boy.
