Rose Tattoo | tattoo artist/single dad!calum

chapter 5

For the first hour and a half, the tattoo went smoothly. Stevie was still somewhat reserved, as if there was something lurking under the surface of her smile, and Calum wanted to question it but thought better of it as he worked. She was pleasant, almost talkative, and he found that he enjoyed her company even more this time than he had the first. As he tattooed her, Calum and Stevie talked, much as they had the first time, about music. He told her about some of the bands he'd loved back home, some of the ones that were well known in Australia but weren't talked about as much in the States, and was surprised to see her face light up at the mention of Violent Soho.

"I saw them a few years ago," she told him, a smile on her lips despite the pain she felt as he shaded her tattoo, "it was a badass show. My dad had to go to Sydney for work and my sister and I were out for Christmas so he took us and mom and made it a family trip. We went to Big Day Out and it was one of the best days of my life."

"Yeah?" Calum asked, a smile on his face as he watched her grin. "How did you like Sydney?"

"It was amazing," she gushed, grinning as she tried not to use her hands - something Calum noticed was hard for her when she got excited. "I loved it. Except it was hot as fuck in January and even though I'm from Louisiana, it was weird seeing everyone in bathing suits and flip flops so close to New Year's. But I got to see a ton of cool bands. Australia's music scene is seriously underrated."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," he laughed as dabbed at the ink on her skin. When she gave him a quizzical look, he raised an eyebrow. "You write for a music magazine," he elaborated, "I expect you to have better taste than most."

"Don't judge us all by that standard," she warned with a laugh as she watched him continue to shade the red in the roses. "Some of the people I work with have the shittiest taste in music. Like, I understand that it's a personal thing but if you listen to your music out loud in a public space, you are giving me permission to critique you and anyone who listens to Florida Georgia Line for personal enjoyment needs to rethink their choices."

".... I don't even know who that is but I think I'm happy about that?" Calum mumbled, laughing at the look on Stevie's face. He didn't know her very well, he barely knew her at all, but he already trusted her taste in music and anything she deemed unworthy of his time, he felt compelled to agree.

Before Stevie could respond, before she could tell him exactly what kind of band they were and why he should be wary of modern country, a small voice interrupted them.

"Daddy, I got sick," a child Stevie recognized as Tāne - based on the curly hair and chubby cheeks - mumbled, his eyes watery and his lip quivering as he stood at the edge of the room, blinking at the harsh florescent lights.

Calum, who had been about to continue shading, didn't hesitate to place his machine on the small tray and pull off his gloves. "Can you wrap her up for a second?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder Ashton as he crossed the room to pick up Tāne. "I'll be right back," he called, this time glancing at Stevie, before he headed down the hall to help Tāne brush his teeth and change into a shirt that wasn't soaked with sweat.

It only took about five minutes to clean up and get Tāne comfortable, the normal length of a quick break, but he refused to be out of Calum's line of sight after he'd gotten changed. He was fully awake, crankier than he had been, and wanted nothing more than to sit in the chair at his dad's side and watch as he finished up Stevie's tattoo. On a normal day, Calum wouldn't hesitate to ask. Tāne loved watching his dad work and was always good whenever he sat in. However, he didn't want to make her uncomfortable as he knew that not everyone was fond of children and, even if they were, he didn't want her to be afraid that she'd get sick. To his surprise, though, she overheard Tāne's tearful request and ambled over to where Calum stood.