“How is that?” I ask anyway.
“Fine.” And it is fine, based on the even timbre of his voice. I guess the thick layer of muscle is more protection than even I expected.
I begin on the outline of the reaper’s head, the side of my palm ever so gently resting against him as I work, his body heat warming my skin even through the latex.
This is where my clients usually begin talking. They’re excited, they’re nervous, it’s a bit awkward to have a stranger touching their flesh and they want to get comfortable . . . there are plenty of reasons for them to strike up a conversation. It always starts with small talk—the basics about the person, the all-too-common “What’s the weirdest tattoo request you’ve ever had?”
Depending on how detailed the piece is and where I’m doing it, at some point the conversation usually veers into personal territory. Their dysfunctional relationships, failed marriages, their lifelong battle with weight, the loss of a child that has inspired their ink work, spirits of deceased family members sending them signs from beyond the grave.
People divulge all kinds of things that I never asked to hear, that I’d rather not hear, and that they never planned on telling me. It makes me feel like a bartender at some seedy desert bar in nowhere-Nevada. But I keep quiet and go along with anything they want to talk about, because that’s part of the job. Ned’s Rule Number Two: These people are letting you permanently mark their bodies, so shut up and smile and let them cry about their pet gerbil that they accidentally stepped on when they were two years old if that’s what they want to talk about. While I avoid small talk outside the shop, I’ve become something of a connoisseur when a client is in my chair. I’ve had to.
But Sebastian hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. I’m beginning to think he could go seven hours in complete silence.
I can’t do the same, or I’ll end up thinking about Ned and the night he died, and then this tattoo could go horrifically wrong.
“So, tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?” It’s like he was waiting for my question.
Everything, I realize. I just don’t want to have to ask. At some point I’m going to bring up the whole military thing again, because that’s interesting, but seeing as he quickly shut the door on that conversation before, it’s probably not the best place to start now. “Do you live in San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“Whereabouts?” I realize that I forgot to get the personal information clipboard back from him. I was too distracted by . . . well, him. And the idea of rats in here. I’m not even sure that he filled it out yet.
“Potrero Hill.”
“Huh.” I search for something to say as I wipe excess ink off his skin with a paper towel. All I can come up with is, “Very residential.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did you grow up around here?”
“Yes.”
I give him a few moments to elaborate, until I realize that he’s not going to. Great. He’s clearly not into small talk. “Well, this is going to be a really long night,” I mutter under my breath.
That earns his smile. I’m pulling teeth to get him to talk and he’s amused.
“Which part of San Francisco did you grow up in?” he finally asks, flipping the question on me.
“Who says I grew up here?”
“Did you grow up somewhere else?” He throws this out with a hint of a challenge in his voice.
“Richmond. Until I was fourteen.”
“Huh . . . very Asian.” He’s mocking me for my earlier “residential” comment, I can tell.
“Well, I know this will come as a huge shock to you but I am part Chinese.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
And I’m back to trying to read that calm, even, unreadable tone.
“What do you do for a living, Sebastian?”
There’s a long pause, and I assume he won’t be answering that question. I heave an annoyed sigh.
Earning another smirk from him.
He’s going to drive me insane.