I took a long breath, and moving my hands, I tried it again. And I nearly slipped off. Stopping abruptly I growled and squeezed the shaft with my hand.
“Hey, don’t yank it so hard like that!” he grunted. “Easy, baby. Not so rough, that hurts.”
Sinking back into the warm safety of Harper’s chest, I tried to center myself. It wasn’t really working, but as he held my hand steady while I gripped the tattoo gun trying to keepthe needle on the line, I felt the ridiculous bolster of confidence I always possessed around him. His steady, encouraging words powerful enough to lead me to do crazy things.
Which was the precise reason I was even attempting this insanity.
After handing over the drawing to Harper the other night, I watched as he turned my simple bear into this swirling abstract version of itself that he called a “one line drawing” on his tablet. It was beautiful the way he’d smoothed my harsher lines or made others bolder. Shaping my drawing where it needed help but otherwise letting it be.
It was a lot like us, in a way. Harper volunteering to quell the parts of me that were too timid and unsure. Helping to bring me steady.
It was so peaceful, watching him work like that. The drags of his pencil like liquid as he pulled them across the screen. Every motion was so natural to him it was like breathing. The grace of it all drew me in.
No literally—the longer I watched, the more I found myself leaning over him to get a better view. So much so, that when I’d finally leaned in enough that my front was pressed firmly into his side, he said, “Keep pressing into me like that sweetheart and I’m going to have to get you acquainted with my chair before you ever get a tattoo.”
I swallowed. “I’ve never sat in a tattoo chair before.”
His eyes blazed over to me. “You seem curious.”
“I am.”
He cursed, closing his eyes and audibly asking God for strength. “You’re going to be the goddamn end of me.”
But suddenly he was up and leaving the room, only to come back a brief moment later with two oranges in his hands. I perked up immediately, but he pointed at me in a reprimanding gesture. “Not a snack.”
“Aw,” my shoulders sank. “What are they for, then?”
Coming up beside me, he leaned over and grabbed a pen then drew on the fruit. I felt my face pinch as I watched him, growing more and more confused. That confusion peaked when he handed me the defaced fruit. “I’m going to teach you something.”
“How to waste fruit?”
“No, smartass,” he bumped my shoulder coming up beside me. “How to tattoo.”
Flicking my eyes up to his, I paused, a soft questioning hum slipping free from my mouth. He smiled, taking in my face. “Interested?”
I’d watched the guys with their systems and tools for almost a year now. Sometimes when I was taking photos of the process, I got pretty close to live tattoos. Seeing the action was interesting. Seeing the guys in their elements was even more interesting. Ryan had explained a few of the basic terms to me. Gerald and Quis drilling in the importance of clean and sterile tools and workstations, and Lana mentioning all the different styles of tattoos out there. But Harper had always been quiet when it came to his craft.
Call me curious, but I wondered what part of tattooing he resonated with the most.
My nod was a no brainer, Harper’s knowing smile agreeing as he set the fruit down in front of me and went over to his station to grab his actual tattoo machine.Woah.
Bringing it over to me he set a few things down in front of me before he got to work with assembly. The various wrapping and configuring that came with every tattoo didn’t stop when it came to fruit, I guess. Watching his hands, my eyes followed the deftness of his fingers as he set everything up.
Three separate tube-like items sat in front of me by the time he looked back up. “Go ahead, grab one.”
My eyes snapped up to him, cautious. “But?—”
“They’re not on. Just to see what grip you like.”
“Grip?” I wondered as I slowly reached forward and wrapped my dominant hand around each item.
“Yeah,” he said. “Here. Hold it like a pen for now. Yeah. Now, do you like the skinnier or thicker one?”
Testing the weight and grip of each one, I easily decided, “Thick.”
He grinned. “My girl.”
“Harper,” I huffed a giggle, knocking him with a playful elbow. His deep chuckle was like a reward, like a treat I looked forward to every time we were together.
