Page 69 of Exposing Colorado

Ain't that the fucking truth.

We round a corner and stumble on a small tattoo booth tucked beside a T-shirt stand. String lights frame a banner overhead reading Jones Ink.

Like a moth to flame, Arya yanks me toward the booth, ignoring my protests.

“Absolutely not.”

Despite all of my friends being covered in ink, I don’t have any. It's not that I'm scared to get them; it's just a huge commitment. Unlike Taylor—who got a three-titted alien on his ankle just for fun the day he turned eighteen—I want my first tattoo to actually mean something. And I sure as shit won't be getting it in the middle of a crowded, dirty music festival. Hell no.

“Salem, come on,” Arya huffs, pulling our bodies flush with her arms around my waist. “When was the last time you did anything in your life that wasn't well planned out and organized?”

“Got married in Vegas,” I snap with a glare.

She grins wide. “It’ll be fun! We can pick each other’s design so that your control-freak ass doesn't have to choose. And then after, we get shitfaced. Please?”

Dammit, there go the puppy dog eyes. She blinks those big, baby blues at me, and I totally get why Christian can’t tell her no.

“Fine,” I sigh, throwing my hands in the air. “One tattoo. Tiny and hidden. No dicks or weird shit.”

She squeals like I just proposed before tugging me over to the booth. A heavily tattooed woman with long dark hair and a corset dress gestures us forward. “You two in or just window shopping?”

“Definitely in,” Arya chirps.

The artist flips open a laminated sheet full of various designs. “These are what I'm inking for the festival. Black and white, or I can do color for fifty bucks extra.”

I study the sheet with pursed lips as Arya asks the artist some questions, not really liking anything on it. There's a pot leaf, a bandaged heart, and some pretty doves. A snake? Christian likes snakes. Arya isn't a fan. The vampire bat is badass but doesn't fit her personality at all. Ummm…

Arya snatches the book from my hands before I can look over the rest. “Time's up! You go first. I already picked for you.”

My stomach drops to my ass. “Wait, what do you mean you already picked? I wasn’t done⁠—”

“Too late,” she sing-songs, shoving me forward.

I glance at the artist nervously, who just smiles and pats the vinyl seat like she’s done this dance a thousand times. “Scared?”

“No,” I lie, taking a seat even though my chest feels like it's closing in on my ribs. Arya bounces on the balls of her feet beside me, absolutely ecstatic.

“Where’s it going?” the artist asks.

Blowing out a breath, I pull my arm out of my flannel and point at the spot above my inner elbow. “That way, if it sucks, I can hide it with a shirt and shame.”

She just grins as she pulls on a pair of gloves, and I close my eyes while she preps the area and stencil.

Arya claps her hands excitedly when the outline is done. “You’re gonna love it. Promise.”

“That’s what you said about that mechanical bull in Kentucky.”

She giggles like I'm joking. “And look how fun that night was, right?”

“I threw up in Cowboy Harper’s boot.”

“God, he was so hot. Too bad he wasn't interested in sharing.”

The artist chuckles at that, but I groan when the buzz of a tattoo gun starts. The needle hits my skin, and I flinch, more from anticipation than pain. But as she begins to trace the outline, the sting feels… manageable. Almost like scratching a sun burn. Irritating, but nothing I can’t handle.

“So what's your name?” I ask if only to distract myself.

The artist glances up briefly. “Cedar.”