Even Lovers Drown

“Yeah,” Blake said.

She offered no more explanation, keeping her element of surprise though they were at their location. And apparently, they were at the right location, considering Blake wasn’t bashfully steering Saylor away from the building, apologizing for being too wrapped up in their conversation to notice she stopped at the wrong place.

“Why are we at a tattoo parlor?”

“Because I’m getting a tattoo?” she said and smiled, an innocent accent to her returned question.

“Aren’t you afraid of needles?”

That’s what she assumed from their text conversation.

“I’m not afraid. They’re just,” she made a face of child-like disgust, “icky.”

Saylor stared at her, eyebrow raised. The phrasing of her dislike for needles and her childish expression didn’t hide her fear. In fact, her techniques did quite the opposite.

Blake fidgeted under her stare. “Okay,” she conceded, “I’m afraid of needles, but the tattoo will be on my back so I won’t be able to see it, and you’re here to hold my hand.” She sighed. “This is stupid for a date, I know. I’ve had this planned for awhile, though, and I thought I’d take you along with me. If you want, you can hang out at one of the stores nearby until I’m done.”

She was getting a tattoo. Her first tattoo. On their date. Katie would never take Saylor to a tattoo parlor on their dates, let alone make her watch the body modification take place. Even if they weren’t on a date, Katie wouldn’t have taken Saylor to watch her get a tattoo.

And that was exactly why Saylor liked the new date setting. She wanted to hold Blake’s hand while needles plunged into her, wanted to comfort her, wanted to pick at her, wanted to joke around with her tattoo artist, wanted to hear the story behind her tattoo. Katie never let her do that. Katie never let her leave their house. Blake was letting her partake in something as big as her first tattoo, was allowing her to take on the comforting role a girlfriend would have taken.

“I’ll stay,” Saylor said, “Can’t pass up the opportunity to watch you freak out over a needle.”

Blake nearly sighed in relief. Good. Saylor was staying. She hadn’t planned on bringing Saylor, not originally. The tattoo had been planned almost a year prior, Blake intent on having a good friend of the band’s create and execute her first tattoo. For the sentimental value.

And because she knew he wouldn’t stab her to death. Always a plus. She had Davy’s word that his tattoo hadn’t hurt much at the hands of their friend. She trusted him enough to believe his judgment of pain.

Their tour schedule got in the way of getting the tattoo, but that had been for the best. She had time to work out the simplistic design with the help of Davy and Sage, and they were supposed to let her clench their hands while her skin was assaulted.

She changed her mind last minute.

Saylor would benefit more from hearing the pitiful story behind her tattoo. Sage and Davy lived it, were her anchors during her low point. They didn’t need to hear the story. Saylor did.

“Shower me with kisses and I’ll forget the needle exists,” Blake said, guiding Saylor off the pedestrian-littered sidewalk and into the building.

“You want me to deny you the full experience of getting a tattoo?” she asked, devilish twinkle in her eyes.

“Yes, please.”

An excited yelp of “Blake” cut into the conversation, bringing their banter to an end. Blake turned her head away from the enticing green eyes, away from her comforting redhead, to her soon-to-be bearer of pain.

His muscles looked bigger than normal.

“Christopher,” Blake returned, greeting him with similar excitement lacing her voice.

She was excited to see him. His tattooing needles of death, on the other hand, she wasn’t as excited for.

Christopher darted around the counter, finishing his path across the tattoo parlor, and scooped Blake into his colorful arms, forcing her to detach from Saylor. Squashed against his hard chest, she laughed and returned his enthusiastic embrace.

“You actually showed up. I thought you were going to chicken out on me,” he said, slacking his hold enough to smile down at her.

Blake feigned surprise at his accusation. “Me? Chicken out on you? Never.”

He snorted. “You just want to impress your lady friend.” One arm slipping from Blake, the other draping over her shoulder, he turned his attention to Saylor. “Hi, I’m Christopher,” he said, before Blake could retaliate against his accusation, and held out a hand.

Smiling, Blake’s red headed comfort blanket took the hand of her soon-to-be assailant. “Saylor.”

His eyes lit, vibrant hues of brown that reminded Saylor of a Labrador retriever, and his polite smile broadened. As if he recognized her. But that wasn’t possible. She had never met him before in her life. There had to be another reason for his emotional change. Amusement, perhaps, at the silly name her parents graced her with or excitement at the sudden hit of inspiration for a nautical-based tattoo.

“You’re Davy’s little sister,” he stated rather than questioned.

Or he could have recognized her.

“Uh, yeah. You know him?”

Of course, he did. Blake dubbed him “a friend” when she vaguely told her where they were going. A close enough friend of the band would know their charismatic, permanent merchandise worker. Their fans knew who he was. Hell, he had his own fan base. Christopher was likely to know him. How he knew her was questionable.

“I did his tattoo.”

Saylor’s mind screeched to a halt. Tattoo?

“Davy doesn’t have a tattoo,” she said.

He didn’t have a single picture etched in his skin. None. No matter how much he talked about getting one, no matter how many times he threatened to get one to win an argument against their parents, he never took the initiative to get one. He could never create a design he didn’t think he’d be ashamed of years later.

“Yeah, he does,” Blake said, “I held his hand while he got it.”

“You held his hand to keep yourself from having a panic attack,” Christopher said, pinning her with his Labrador brown eyes. “Remind me again why I let you talk me into giving you a tattoo.”

“Because you love me,” she returned. To Saylor, she said, “You really should see it, it’s amazing.”

Flattered, Christopher placed a hand on his chest, eyes sparkling. “Thank you.”

“Does this mean you won’t hurt me?”

“I’m going to stab you till you cry,” he said, “Come on back, I’ve got everything setup.”

Christopher led the way to the station farthest from the front counter and Saylor and Blake followed as he instructed. Blake’s hand tangled with Saylor’s again, fierce grip threatening to cutoff her circulation. Her expression seemed to tighten in fear but it was hard to tell for sure, the dark sunglasses hiding her expressive blue eyes. Saylor squeezed back in attempt to calm Blake’s rampant nerves. She didn’t notice. Anxiety clearly had the upper hand.

“Alright,” Christopher said, stopping them at his station. “Strip down, thug-muffin. I have to get your stencil on.”

“I do not look like a thug,” Blake retaliated, valiantly releasing her grip on Saylor’s hand and pulling the sunglasses from her eyes.

Definitely no fear, Saylor noted, staring at Blake’s profile. Amusement and a hint of anxiety but no gut-wrenching fear.

“Have you looked in the mirror?” Christopher retaliated as she slipped out of her oversized tee-shirt to reveal her tank top. “No, don’t, you’ll scare yourself.”

“Funny,” Blake said, humorless. She stripped off her baggy pants, a pair of skinny jeans coming into view. For the sake of comfort. “I’ll remember that when I mug you.” And she tossed her disguise onto the vacant tattoo chair next to them.

If someone needed the spot, she’d move it. Better yet, Blake would toss the stupid attire in the trash. She’d tell Andy her cover-up suffered an unfortunate accident. Like an attack from a rabid swarm of moths.

Christopher ignored her comment. “Upper back, left side, right?” At her confirming nod, he said, “You’re going to have to remove your straps.”

Blake looked at Saylor, who was standing idle and watching their interaction. She didn’t appear bored or upset at being left out of the friendly banter for the moment. Amusement quirked her lips into a smile. Her green eyes shone and, when they met Blake’s, almost made her forget the comment she meant to make. The breath-taking hue always looked better when she was happy.

Blake didn’t want to remember how they dulled with her unhappiness.

“Want to help?” she asked.

Before Saylor could begin to comprehend the question, Christopher said, “No foreplay in the shop, thug-muffin.”

She rolled her eyes and proceeded to remove the straps herself, letting them dangle. “Sex okay in the shop?”

This time, Saylor beat Christopher to a response.

“We could do some nifty things with that bench,” she mumbled, eyeing the tattoo bench.

Blake’s facial muscles slacked in surprise, and she could see Christopher snap his wide eyes to Saylor. But Saylor didn’t notice. Not immediately. She stared at the bench, mind in places Blake wanted to explore.

When she drew attention away from the tattoo bench, she looked from Blake to Christopher with innocent green eyes and a confused smile. “What?”

She’d kiss that cute look from her face, kiss her till she let slip her intention for the tattoo bench, kiss her till she let slip her own, clearly fascinating, fantasies in breathy gasps.

“I don’t want to think about that,” Christopher mumbled and began placing the tattoo.

“Every straight man thinks about it,” Blake said.

“She’s Davy’s little sister. She’s not allowed into my fantasies on principle. And you’re,” he paused, “you.”

“She enters my fantasies just fine.”

Davy was one of her closest friends and Saylor was his little sister. She should have been off-limits. But Davy was pushing them together, kindling Blake’s imagination.

She should thank him for that.

“I think talking about it counts as foreplay,” Saylor said, “so I’ll refrain from asking. Tell me about them later, thug-muffin.”

Her delicious, sultry voice charged the stupid nickname with seductive power. It was right dripping from those plump lips. Anything was right in that tempting tone.

“Stop provoking her,” Christopher told Blake, “I tattooed her innocent, four-year-old face on Davy’s skin. You are ruining the image.”

Saylor mindset shifted, curiosity taking its place in her eyes. “Davy got a tattoo of me?”