Nora waved her hand dismissively while Spike and Griffin got settled in. Spike plugged in her electric needle, mixed her ink and cleaned Griffin’s arm with alcohol.
“Anything fancy, mate?” she asked as she adjusted Griffin’s arm.
“Not this year. Just add another band to the bottom.”
It took less than fifteen minutes to finish Griffin’s tattoo—a black vine around the bottom of his right bicep. Michael could only watch in fascination as blood pooled and dripped. Griffin barely even winced as the needle pushed ink deep into his skin. For the entire time Spike worked on Griffin’s arm, Michael studied his face. He had such a handsome profile. And even in obvious pain, he couldn’t stop laughing or smiling every few seconds. Where did all that happiness come from? Michael didn’t really care. He just wanted to be a part of it.
Once finished, Spike cleaned Griffin off and took a photo of the tattoo.
“When are we getting that griffin on your back we’ve been talking about?” she asked.
“Think we’ll save that for next year and lucky anniversary number seven.” Griffin turned to Michael. “Spike specializes in big work. Did big black angel wings all over the back of some guy in Scotland.”
“My best work,” she said with pride. “I love wings. They’re my favorite to do. Speaking of…” She gave Griffin a meaningful look.
Griffin looked at Michael.
“Come here, Mick. Got a present for you.”
Michael stood up and walked over to Griffin. Nora put her notes away, shoved her glasses on her head and watched them both.
“Griffin, I don’t think I should get a tattoo. My mom might kill me. And I don’t know what to get or where.”
Griffin reached out and took Michael by the forearm. He lifted Michael’s hand and placed it on the center of his bare chest. Every nerve in Michael’s body came alive at the contact of his fingers on Griffin’s skin.
Griffin started to unbuckled Michael’s watch.
“Wait. Stop,” Michael said. Griffin clapped a hand onto his arm and held Michael in place.
“It’s okay, Mick,” Griffin whispered. “You can trust me here. Please.”
Swallowing, Michael nodded. “Okay.”
Griffin removed Michael’s watch and set it aside as carefully as if it was Griffin’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar Audemars Piguet and not Michael’s twenty-three-dollar eBay special.
After removing the watch, Griffin took off Michael’s black wristband. He turned Michael’s arms over and showed the scarred wrists to Spike.
“Can you do it?” Griffin asked.
Spike narrowed her eyes at the scars, and Michael inwardly writhed in mortification.
“I’ve covered worse. Much worse,” Spike said as she ran her fingers over Michael’s wrist scars. “Yeah, I can do it. ’Course I can.”
“This is what I was thinking, Mick.” Griffin pulled a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of his pants. He opened it up and showed Michael. “I stole your sketchbook while you were with Nora and sent some of your drawings to Spike. This is what we came up with.”
Griffin gave a drawing to Michael, who could only stare at it in speechless wonder.
“I thought we could cover the scars,” Griffin whispered. He tucked a loose strand of Michael’s hair behind his ear, and Michael shivered at the intimacy of the gesture. Watching Griffin have sex with Nora didn’t feel as private as Griffin absentmindedly taming Michael’s hair. “You won’t have to hide them anymore. Your wrists will look like that.”
“Like this?” In his hand Michael held a drawing of angel wings—open and unfurled and almost solid black. One wing would be tattooed on each wrist.
“You’ll be able to do this,” Griffin said, holding both wrists out and together, “and you’ll have a full wingspan. Want to do it? My treat, okay?”
Michael swallowed a throatful of tears. No more hideous scars on his wrists he’d have to cover up… Just beautiful ink that Griffin had bought and paid for. Getting this tattoo would be like being marked by Griffin.
“Yes.” He looked up at Griffin with eyes that never wanted to look away again. “Let’s do it.”
Griffin clapped his hands loudly and grabbed Michael by the shoulders.
“You won’t regret this, Mick. Ink doesn’t get into your skin. It gets into your soul. Changes you. And this will change you in the good way.”
“You sure you want to do this, Angel?” Nora asked, her eyes full of concern but no judgment.
“Yeah, definitely. It’s okay, right?” he asked.
“This decision is all yours to make. If you want it, do it.”
“I want it.”
“Good,” Spike said. “I hope you mean that because inking scar tissue is a bitch. We’ll do the basics tonight and get some decent coverage. I’ll need you back in six weeks for touch-ups.”
Michael sat down while Griffin brought a table over and placed it front of the chair.
“Griff,” Spike said, giving him a stern glare. “You’ll have to hold him steady. This won’t be easy going.”
Griffin looked at Michael, and Michael gazed back at Griffin without blinking or looking away. That strange feeling he always experienced when about to start a scene with Nora came over him. He started to sink into that weird Zen place that Nora and Griffin called subspace.
“Anything fancy, mate?” she asked as she adjusted Griffin’s arm.
“Not this year. Just add another band to the bottom.”
It took less than fifteen minutes to finish Griffin’s tattoo—a black vine around the bottom of his right bicep. Michael could only watch in fascination as blood pooled and dripped. Griffin barely even winced as the needle pushed ink deep into his skin. For the entire time Spike worked on Griffin’s arm, Michael studied his face. He had such a handsome profile. And even in obvious pain, he couldn’t stop laughing or smiling every few seconds. Where did all that happiness come from? Michael didn’t really care. He just wanted to be a part of it.
Once finished, Spike cleaned Griffin off and took a photo of the tattoo.
“When are we getting that griffin on your back we’ve been talking about?” she asked.
“Think we’ll save that for next year and lucky anniversary number seven.” Griffin turned to Michael. “Spike specializes in big work. Did big black angel wings all over the back of some guy in Scotland.”
“My best work,” she said with pride. “I love wings. They’re my favorite to do. Speaking of…” She gave Griffin a meaningful look.
Griffin looked at Michael.
“Come here, Mick. Got a present for you.”
Michael stood up and walked over to Griffin. Nora put her notes away, shoved her glasses on her head and watched them both.
“Griffin, I don’t think I should get a tattoo. My mom might kill me. And I don’t know what to get or where.”
Griffin reached out and took Michael by the forearm. He lifted Michael’s hand and placed it on the center of his bare chest. Every nerve in Michael’s body came alive at the contact of his fingers on Griffin’s skin.
Griffin started to unbuckled Michael’s watch.
“Wait. Stop,” Michael said. Griffin clapped a hand onto his arm and held Michael in place.
“It’s okay, Mick,” Griffin whispered. “You can trust me here. Please.”
Swallowing, Michael nodded. “Okay.”
Griffin removed Michael’s watch and set it aside as carefully as if it was Griffin’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar Audemars Piguet and not Michael’s twenty-three-dollar eBay special.
After removing the watch, Griffin took off Michael’s black wristband. He turned Michael’s arms over and showed the scarred wrists to Spike.
“Can you do it?” Griffin asked.
Spike narrowed her eyes at the scars, and Michael inwardly writhed in mortification.
“I’ve covered worse. Much worse,” Spike said as she ran her fingers over Michael’s wrist scars. “Yeah, I can do it. ’Course I can.”
“This is what I was thinking, Mick.” Griffin pulled a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of his pants. He opened it up and showed Michael. “I stole your sketchbook while you were with Nora and sent some of your drawings to Spike. This is what we came up with.”
Griffin gave a drawing to Michael, who could only stare at it in speechless wonder.
“I thought we could cover the scars,” Griffin whispered. He tucked a loose strand of Michael’s hair behind his ear, and Michael shivered at the intimacy of the gesture. Watching Griffin have sex with Nora didn’t feel as private as Griffin absentmindedly taming Michael’s hair. “You won’t have to hide them anymore. Your wrists will look like that.”
“Like this?” In his hand Michael held a drawing of angel wings—open and unfurled and almost solid black. One wing would be tattooed on each wrist.
“You’ll be able to do this,” Griffin said, holding both wrists out and together, “and you’ll have a full wingspan. Want to do it? My treat, okay?”
Michael swallowed a throatful of tears. No more hideous scars on his wrists he’d have to cover up… Just beautiful ink that Griffin had bought and paid for. Getting this tattoo would be like being marked by Griffin.
“Yes.” He looked up at Griffin with eyes that never wanted to look away again. “Let’s do it.”
Griffin clapped his hands loudly and grabbed Michael by the shoulders.
“You won’t regret this, Mick. Ink doesn’t get into your skin. It gets into your soul. Changes you. And this will change you in the good way.”
“You sure you want to do this, Angel?” Nora asked, her eyes full of concern but no judgment.
“Yeah, definitely. It’s okay, right?” he asked.
“This decision is all yours to make. If you want it, do it.”
“I want it.”
“Good,” Spike said. “I hope you mean that because inking scar tissue is a bitch. We’ll do the basics tonight and get some decent coverage. I’ll need you back in six weeks for touch-ups.”
Michael sat down while Griffin brought a table over and placed it front of the chair.
“Griff,” Spike said, giving him a stern glare. “You’ll have to hold him steady. This won’t be easy going.”
Griffin looked at Michael, and Michael gazed back at Griffin without blinking or looking away. That strange feeling he always experienced when about to start a scene with Nora came over him. He started to sink into that weird Zen place that Nora and Griffin called subspace.
