The week after I moved into the apartment upstairs from Serendipity I asked Cassie if she knew of anyone in need of some part-time help. The issue wasn’t money but too much free time. I’d relocated to Chicago in mid-August, more than a month before the fall semester began. While I was content to research my thesis and pre-read for my coming courses, it didn’t keep me as occupied as I wanted. I could only do so much until I met with my professor and that wouldn’t happen for another week or two. Cassie showed me the basement and gave me a job, solving her problem and mine.

“You should have seen this place before I started,” I told him as he opened the closest box. “I almost couldn’t get down the stairs, there was so much stuff.”

“I’ve been down here before; it’s like an anxiety attack of clutter. It looks a lot better now, though.” He rolled his shoulders, dusting off a Victorian-era candelabra. He made a face and looked for a place to wipe his hand. “You got a cloth or something around here?”

“Why? Afraid of a little dirt?” I joked.

“I don’t have a problem getting dirty,” he said with a sly grin. “I just can’t afford to go back to work looking like I rolled around on a basement floor.”

His velvet tone made it difficult not to read innuendo into the comment. Before the mental picture developed further, I stood up and crossed to the other side of the room. The dusting cloths were in the cabinet with the cleaning supplies. Tossing a couple to Hayden, I kept one for myself and sat back down beside him.

He was organized and methodical as he inspected each treasure, wiping them down with gentle hands. The care he took as he handled delicate pieces, even the things he didn’t want, gave me insight into the kind of artist he was. I imagined he worked on his clients with the same vigilant precision.

“You want to tell me what really happened to your hand?”

I peeked up at him, thankful my hair created a barrier through which to view him and still shield my face. I didn’t know why the question surprised me. It shouldn’t have. “Nope.”

He chuckled and remained quiet for some time, sifting through the boxes. He handed me the things he didn’t want, and I put them into an empty box. Each time he did, I surreptitiously inspected the artwork on his arms.

“Lisa tells me you have an idea for some ink.” Hayden stopped sorting to focus on me.

I nodded. I had already entertained showing him the design, thanks to Lisa. Since being near him made me feel like I was having heart palpitations, I couldn’t help but be wary. There was intimacy in committing art to skin. I already found Hayden unnervingly enticing for a variety of reasons, not the least of which had to do with his severe brand of beauty. Being around him more wouldn’t lessen that, and the piece I had in mind was no small thing.

“I’d be happy to check it out if you want to stop by the shop later.”

“I’ll think about it.” After a protracted silence I finally asked, “How long have you been a tattoo artist?”

“Close to six years. I started as a piercer when I was eighteen, but it wasn’t for me.”

“Why not?”

Hayden wiped his hands on a fresh cloth and tucked my hair behind my ear, tracing the shell as he did so. The ladder of helix rings clicked dully against each other. “You’d look good with an industrial,” he said softly. I shivered even though I suddenly felt hot.

He motioned to his face and poked at the viper bites with his tongue. “If they were all this kind of thing, it wouldn’t have been an issue.”

“What was the issue?”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a sadist, and it takes a certain type of person to be able to stick a needle through a dick.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t holding anything breakable. “Okay. Right. I didn’t think about that.”

He laughed at my reaction. “I pierced for a few months before I started apprenticing to be a tattooist. For about a year and a half I had to do both. After a few years I built up a solid client base and a decent reputation in the business, and Chris and Jamie convinced me we should go out on our own.”

“So you opened Inked Armor?”

“We did. I was only twenty-one at the time, but it’s been four years and we’re still doing well.”

“You were so young.” I couldn’t imagine taking on that kind of responsibility at this point in my life.

He shrugged. “I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen, and it seemed like a smart thing to do. Anyway, I haven’t put a hole in anybody’s junk since we opened our shop.”

“So you’re not a fan of piercings from the neck down?” Heat climbed my chest toward my cheeks. I shouldn’t have asked that question, because all sorts of inappropriate images popped into my head.

“I didn’t say that.”

I opened my mouth, searching for words. None came.

“The ones from here down aren’t just decorative.” He ran his hand over his chest, down to his belt buckle.

“You’re not one for holding back, are you?”

He grinned. “It’s not really my style.”

I changed the subject. “So you like it? Being a tattoo artist?”

My curiosity was genuine, as was my long-standing interest in body art and art in general. It had played a significant role in my decision to pursue a master’s in sociology. It gave me a valid reason to focus on what most considered social deviance. After the crash I turned toward what I really loved—art and modification, delving deeper into subcultures and extreme factions. My advisor, whose school of thought was rather antiquated, seemed to have a difference of opinion on the direction my thesis proposal should take.

“I get to be an artist and not starve, so that’s a bonus. Some of the tattoos can be boring, standard shit, but the pieces I get to design? Those are the ones that make the job worth doing. I don’t think there’s anything quite as gratifying as creating art out of someone’s experiences. Well, some things are more gratifying.” He looked me over, his perusal blatant. “Are you hiding any ink under those clothes?”

“No,” I lied. I rooted around in a box to conceal my face lest he press for more information.

“I think you’d look good with my art on your body.” Judging from the rapacious gleam in his eye, his phrasing was purposeful. “Anyway, the offer stands. You should come by again when you have a chance, maybe stay longer than two minutes. I can show you my albums, and you can show me your idea for ink. Maybe I could work on you.”

“Okay, maybe.” I didn’t miss the dig at my boomerang visits, or that he’d noticed them in the first place.

“I’ll take maybe over no.”

I’d been working on a sketch for a long time; even before the crash I’d had several ideas for tattoos. Originally the piece had just been art, but it had changed in the past several months into a symbol of my loss. It would be rather revealing to hand something so personal over to Hayden.

“Did you design any of your own tattoos?”

“Most of them.” Hayden shoved the sleeve of his shirt up above his elbow and held his arm out toward me, the inside facing up.

There was an anatomically correct heart wrapped in thorny vines set close to the crease in his elbow. Blood ran down the vines in rivulets, dripping from the thorns. Budding flowers juxtaposed the darkness of the piece, tempering it. As the flowers moved away from the heart, the tiny blossoms became more vibrant and open. Hayden rotated his forearm, and on the other side, the same vines traveled from his wrist to his elbow, but they were thicker. The ones at his wrist were dry and cracking, the flowers dying, petals falling off, but as they closed in on his elbow the flowers exploded into life, pulled into a wave of water. The head of an orange-and-white fish peeked out from his sleeve, the rest of the design obscured.

I reached out to touch a length of vine on his forearm and hesitated, seeking permission. “May I?”