Traditional Change Read online

  "I like it," Rebecca admitted, "but you don't think I need a bird or something to offset all the flowers?"

  "Your pic," Sawyer said, holding up his copy of her design, "had this bird in the middle of the flowers."

  "Yeah," she said, feeling a little defensive.

  "Why?" he asked, setting the drawing on his desk and snagging a pencil. "Unless the bird means something to you, it serves no purpose," he explained. "You have to look at it this way: this is a piece of art, and your back is the canvas." Sawyer drew a pair of curving lines on both sides of the picture. "If we kept your layout, the bird would look disproportionate on your back—unless we lower it to match the curve in your waist," he added. "But then the claws of the bird are all over your ass, and it doesn't look as good as you might think. Leave your ass alone."

  Rebecca's mouth dropped open at the direct way he shared his ideas.

  "Listen," Sawyer answered, reading her expression. "I tattoo shit on people all day. Over and over people bring me their fuckin' baby feet, infinity symbols, ladybugs and fairies, and all that crap. And, you know, I take their two hundred bucks and send them on their way. You?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "You're talking about a big ass-piece that's going to take a long time, and cost a bunch to finish. I have no intention of looking at a shitty tat for eight sessions."

  Her mouth pulled closed, and she sucked on her lips while processing his statement. "Thanks," she muttered finally.

  "Don't mention it," he replied easily, sitting back in his chair.

  "But the flowers seem so large," she said, pointing at the pictures. "I'm sorry, but I kinda wanted smaller ones."

  "We want detail. Not just blobs of color on your back. The curves," he said, leaning forward and running his fingers down her back, "of your back need to be accentuated by the flowers… all the way to the top of your ass. It's sexier that way," he explained, slicing his hand down her spine to give effect to his explanation.

  Rebecca felt her cheeks and neck flush.

  "Trust me," he said, leaning in closer. She could almost see herself reflected in his green eyes. "You'll thank me later if we do it this way. But you know?" he said abruptly, raising his voice and leaning back in his chair. "It's really up to you. You tell me what to do, and I ink you for life. Your call."

  Rebecca paused while she gathered her thoughts. She didn't like being told what to do. It almost made her want to do the exact opposite, and yet he was the professional. She was paying him for his expertise. "I trust you." The words felt foreign coming from her lips. She couldn't actually remember telling anyone those words before. "Let's do it your way," she went on and nodded, unsure if she really meant it, but certain that she wanted to go forward before she changed her mind.

  "And you like this version?" Sawyer verified, as cool and calm as ever.

  "Yep," she said in a small, strained voice. Rebecca bobbed her head and stared at the paper in the artist's hand.

  "Great," he responded, standing up. "The chair," he said, gesturing to the tattoo chair against the wall opposite his desk. It looked like an inclined workout bench. "It's been all cleaned and ready. I'm going to go blow this up. Take off your top, loosen your pants, and sit down with your chest against the pad."

  Heat flushed again over her body as his words sank in. Before she could argue, the man was out of the room and strolling down the hall. Rebecca stood there in a daze for a moment, pulling at the front of her shirt and biting her lip. She had known this part would come. In fact, she had worn her least comfortable bra, knowing that if she was going to have to be in her underwear around a perfect stranger, she was going to look her best. Now that the time was here, however, she was suddenly getting cold feet.

  Slowly, she turned her back to the door. Crossing her arms over her front, she gathered the shirt until she had it raised to her breasts.

  "You give a girl a moment and she wastes it," Sawyer muttered, reentering the room.

  Rebecca yipped like a small dog and spun to face him.

  "Need another moment?" he offered, not bothering to look at her as he moved to the tool cart that held his ink and tattoo machines. "Or are we just going to do this?"

  The moment grew heavy upon her mind as she realized that this was a major turning point in her life. She could walk away right then. There was still time to turn around and change her mind if she wanted. The moment he put the needle to her skin, though, there would be no going back. Panic welled and swirled in her nervous stomach. Rebecca knew she needed a change, but was this it? Was this the direction she wanted to go? Would this take her a down a path she was ready to travel? Or would this be a huge mistake she'd regret for the rest of her life? This wasn't some small decoration she could hide whenever she wanted. This was a life devoid of tank tops, swimsuits, camisoles, or nudity around potential lovers if it went wrong. Waves of images drove over her as she stood there, her shirt tucked up to her chest. This could be a terrible mistake, or the greatest blemish of her life.

  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 everythi
ng 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.

  "Breathe," he said, "and don't move."

  How do you breathe and not move? Before she could ask the question, the needle was cutting into her skin.

  People without tattoos always seem to ask the same stupid thing; "Did that hurt?" Rebecca couldn't count the number of times she had been packaging an order of supplies for a department, only to have the rep lean over the counter and make the same mindless comment so many others had already made. Men and women alike would ask with wide and interested eyes about what it felt like to get a tattoo. Rebecca knew that what they really wanted to know was if it was as bad as everyone thought, and whether they could endure it if they wanted one.

  "It's like being scratched," she would tell them, "by a cat… over a sunburn." If the person didn't completely freak her out, sometimes she would go on to explain how there were places that hurt more than others. She was no expert, but getting a tattoo never felt good.

  Today was no exception.

  Chapter Three

  Sawyer dug a shallow line down her back, gently carving her skin and pumping it full of ink. The needle hummed and bounced so fast it was nothing more than a blur, leaving behind it a thin slug trail of black ooze and blood. He used one hand to keep the skin taut under the machine, while he lightly ran over the outline.

  Rebecca, meanwhile, tried to do what everyone always did under the needle. Most people who were in pain tried to grit their teeth and bear it. They'd focus, and concentrate on the sensation with an intensity that would impress a crossfit coach. Some would sit there and pretend that they didn't feel much, all the while grinding their teeth and curling their toes in their shoes. Others would sit and take it, but they'd tend to be highly focused on the discomfort and telling themselves that it would only last a while. And then there were the ones who acted as if a limb was being cut off. Anyone who overreacted and bounced around got the added bonus of a stray line.

  And that shit's forever.

  Rebecca herself seemed to take a different approach to pain management. As she sat in the chair, it seemed as though she was embracing the sensation. The hum of the machine and the breath of the artist. The feel of the needle carving its way along her skin, and the sound of the tattooist moving into a better position. The sensation of the line being engraved upon her and the waves of discomfort that came with it; this was all part of the experience. There was no way to stop it. There was no way to make it better. There was no way for her to make it shorter or hurt less. She reminded Sawyer of how he himself took a tattoo, embracing the sensation and allowing it to happen.

  A twinge of guilt attacked his conscience. This was a huge piece for such a small girl. Hell; her petite back was half the size of his. Did she know what she was getting herself into? Would she regret it? When he walked out into the lobby, he'd been shocked to see who the next client was. She wasn't what he'd expected at all. Her barely five foot five frame was dwarfed by her long mane of fire-red hair. Hell, she barely could pass as legal if he didn't know from her paperwork that she was thirty-five. She looked more out of place in his studio than anyone ever before. And she wanted a back piece! Was she out of her mind? Had she thought this through?

  He shook the thoughts out of his head. It wasn't his job to be the moral police or her daddy. People came in for tattoos, and his job was to give it to them. But as he watched the tiny redhead in front of him, he couldn't help but feel a little protective.

  "You're good in a chair," Sawyer mumbled, while dabbing more ink.

  "Thanks," Rebecca replied softly and sighed, still remaining completely motionless. "I hope you don't suck at this."

  He smiled at that. It had been a long time since anyone had questioned his work or ability. Which was something he had earned. He'd spent years as an apprentice of some of the best artists in the world, and then spent every waking moment living and breathing tattoos. He had won competitions, been featured in magazines, and had a long waiting list—and that was on a referral basis only. His career had reached a point where getting a tattoo from Sawyer Monroe was something highly sought after. He could tell that this little fireball sitting before him wasn't used to handing control over to some other person. Something else he had in common with her.

  "Me too," he finally said. "I would have a pretty short career in this field if my work was shitty."

  "How long have you been doing this?"

  "Over twenty years," he said in a distracted tone, working his way around her shoulder blade. "I'm surprised you didn't do your research and know that answer."

  "I trusted a friend of mine. Her husband is a friend of yours. Caine?"

  Sawyer smiled at the memory of his buddy Caine. He instantly liked the redhead even more. Anyone who was friends with Caine had to be a good person. "Yeah, Caine and I go way back. He's a good man."

  "Well hopefully I'm in good hands." She gave a sharp intake of breath as the needle hit a sensitive spot.

  "Don't worry," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "I'm good at what I do."

  "You'd better be," Rebecca said in a rare moment of playfulness. "Your job is to scar people for life. You'd better be good at it."

  "So how do you know Caine?" Sawyer had found that having idle chat with his clients helped ease the process. This was going to be a long session, and he needed her to relax and think about things other than being 'scarred'.

  "He's married to one of my best friends from high school. I've actually known him since then."

  "Neely, right? I remembered hearing about that. I haven't met her yet, though."

  Rebecca nodded, still keeping her torso perfectly stationary. "Yes. They are a really cute couple. It's nice to see that two people can actually be in love."

  He wiped at the ink with the folded paper towel in his hand. He was making great progress. "You say that as if you doubted."

  "I did."

  So, Miss Red has been burned? "I hear ya. I find it shocking as well."

  "So you don't believe in love either, huh?"

  He paused and dabbed his needle in more ink. Her pale skin was soaking the ink right up. "I'd like to. I guess love is like a troll or unicorn. We hear of it, but I haven't exactly seen it. You know?"

  Rebecca remained silent, the only noise being the hum of the tattoo machine. He wasn't sure if she was clenching her teeth against the pain or simply contemplating what he had said.

  "But if any two people have a shot, it w
ould be Caine and Neely. Their lifestyle sure helps," he added.

  She strained her neck to look over her shoulder at him. Her eyes glared in disbelief. "You know about that?"

  "Stay still and turn around," he chastised. When she complied, he asked, "Know about what?"

  "Their lifestyle," she answered, her body tensing up.

  "Sure. Caine has believed in Domestic Discipline for a long time. For as long as I've known him. I'm assuming he and Neely live it, am I wrong?" Sawyer swiped away at the ink and blood and continued with the tattoo.

  "No, you are right. They do." Her voice sounded strained. She took a deep breath, moving too much for his liking. "What do you feel about that?"

  "About what?"

  "About the fact that Caine… you know… Well, you know what he does to Neely."

  "Whatever works for two people." He dipped the metal tip of his machine into more ink. "Why do I get the feeling you don't like it?"

  "Because I don't," Rebecca answered. "I can't believe that a grown woman would let a man do that. Not to mention my friend Neely, Coley, and even Kendall. It's like some weird, twisted club."

  Sawyer smirked, clearly seeing her body tense as they discussed the topic. "So, I take it you aren't part of the 'twisted club'?"

  She snorted. "No, not even a little."

  He paused tattooing and patted her back gently. "Take a deep breath and relax. Your body is too tense."

  She did as he asked, then he leaned forward and continued working on the outline.

  "So, do you not like Caine?" he asked, concentrating on a thick, delicate swirl of a flower petal.

  "No, I like Caine. I like him a lot." She paused for a moment. "I think he is a great guy. I just don't like the fact that he…"

  "Spanks Neely," Sawyer finished for her.

  "Yes. See? I can't even say the word. It's embarrassing."

  Sawyer could see how the pale skin of her cheeks began to turn a soft shade of pink. It highlighted her little freckles.