Roadside Attractions

Ten

THUNDER BAY, ON

My eyes are riveted to the tattoo gun scraping across another customer’s flesh as I sit on the stiff leather sofa inside Inkjection.

The electric buzzing is a jolt to my heart, clashing with the 80s hits playing overhead, and my pulse races as I stare, mesmerized. I have an artist’s flash book in my lap, flipped open to a random page, but all I seem capable of doing is staring despondently at the man currently getting a large tattoo of what appears to be a werewolf on his back.

“I’m having second thoughts,” I mutter to Wyatt, ensuring the nice man who told us he accepts walk-ins isn’t within earshot. I’ve already signed the consent form.

“Come on, Moore.” Wyatt nudges me from his spot beside me. “Don’t wuss out now.”

Inkjection’s walls are covered in overlapping rock band posters, and the floor is checkered with black and white tile. A green neon sign proclaims the shop’s name, and all the furniture in the room is the colour of midnight. I’m pretty sure I stick out like a sore thumb, and every person in this building can tell this isn’t my scene. Clearly, I don’t have any tattoos. Wyatt doesn’t either, but he doesn’t look nearly as uncomfortable as I do.

I glance down at the book in my hands. This guy is talented, but it’s all thick and dark, pages upon pages of blackwork. Not really what I’m looking for, considering this wasn’t even my idea. I want something small and subtle, likely in a place where people won’t see it every day.

“Maybe we can try another shop,” I suggest. “Somewhere I can just get, like, a tiny heart.”

Wyatt pretends to yawn. “Sounds pretty boring, if you ask me.”

There’s that word again. “You didn’t specify what the tattoo had to be.”

“Let me pick something out.” He plucks the book out of my grasp, and my mouth falls open in protest. Perusing the book, he pauses on a traditional sketch of a busty woman with a tiny waist posing seductively, her dress practically falling off. “How about this one?”

My cheeks burn at the thought of having that be a permanent fixture on my skin. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine.” He grins, teasing. “I’ll pick something else then.”

“Who said you get to pick? Give that back.”

“Did I forget to mention that was part of my dare?” he asks, blinking innocently. “Oops.”

I can practically feel my face pale.

Fuck.

“You can’t change the rules now,” I protest. “That’s not fair!”

“I’ll pick something tasteful, don’t worry,” he assures me, turning back to the book, moving it out of my reach with ease when I lunge for it. “Ooh, you’d love this one.” He points to a picture of a skull smoking a cigarette. “Just like your murder books.”

“I swear to God, you’re going to end up in one of my murder books—”

“How’s it going over here?” A new voice interrupts us, and I freeze, plastering a nervous smile onto my face. It’s Joe, the artist who agreed to do my tattoo for me. He’s bald and inked from head to toe, a smattering of piercings all over his face.

“Excellent,” Wyatt remarks with a winning smile. I grit my teeth to keep from jabbing my elbow into his side.

Joe’s eyes move between the two of us. “Have you chosen a design?”

“Yes,” Wyatt says quickly, standing up. He pulls out his phone and shows it to Joe. “Would you be able to do something like this? I know it’s a lot different from your usual style, but it would be perfect for her.”

“Sure, that’s not a problem,” he says, glancing at me. “Where do you want it?”

“Wait,” I blurt, looking at Wyatt in shock, “you’re not even going to let me see it first?”

He grins at me, proud. “It’s a surprise.”

I shake my head and frantically stand up. “No way. I’m not letting you do that to me. You can’t keep moving the goalposts of this dare.”

“Moore,” he protests. “It’s tiny. Seriously. You’re going to love it.”

My fingers fidget, eyes falling on Joe for help, reassurance that Wyatt isn’t lying, something .

“Hey,” Joe says, holding up his hands. “I won’t tattoo a surprise on you if you’re not into it. Only if you’re willing.”

Wyatt nods once. “The ball’s in your court, Moore.”

I look at Joe again. “Is it dark?”

He shakes his head. “It’s very delicate. It would take, like, twenty minutes tops.”

Delicate sounds nice.

Wyatt gestures to Joe with his thumb. “See? You have nothing to worry about.” Then, becoming more serious, he says, “Trust me. I wouldn’t make you get something stupid.”

“We have different definitions of stupid,” I mumble. Letting Wyatt pick out a tattoo for me is a prime example of my definition of stupid.

But I don’t want to back down now. Swallowing, I turn back to Joe. “Will it look okay on the back of my shoulder?”

“Absolutely,” he says, sounding genuine. “That would be a great spot.”

I definitely trust Joe more than I trust Wyatt right now.

“All right, let’s do it,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster.

“You sure?” Joe asks, looking at me seriously.

“I’m sure.”

Wyatt gives me two thumbs up. Joe leads us over to his station, and I pull my sweater over my head. I set my belongings down, then roll up the sleeve of my crop top to give him access to my shoulder. He instructs me to lie on my stomach on the tattoo bed, and I do, taking a deep breath.

I fix Wyatt with a glare. “This better not be a dick or something.”

“Guess you’ll find out,” he teases.

“Not a dick,” Joe says, deadpan, as he cleans off the patch of skin on my shoulder.

He draws up a quick sketch on his iPad, and walks away to print off the stencil after getting Wyatt’s approval. I work to control my breathing, keeping it steady and slow. Wyatt leans forward, tilting his head to meet my eyes. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “Stella, you really don’t have to worry. I’m not evil. I think you’re going to like this. But you can say no if you don’t want to.”

I watch his face, looking for any signs of insincerity, but I come up short. “You better be telling the truth.”

“Cross my heart.” Wyatt somberly mimes the action on his chest. He places a hand next to his mouth conspiratorially and whispers, “I showed him my mirror selfie. It’s gonna look great.”

A burst of surprised laughter rushes out of me, and Wyatt breaks into a smile, looking relieved. “Okay, I actually will murder you if that’s the case.”

Joe returns, places the stencil on my shoulder, then asks Wyatt for his opinion. After ensuring the placement is good, Joe settles onto his stool. “Scared?” he asks me.

“Terrified,” I admit.

“It’s really not that bad,” he assures me. “It’ll just feel like pinching. And this design is so quick, it’ll be over before you know it.”

“Okay,” I breathe, nodding .

“Do you need me to hold your hand?” Wyatt quips from his seat nearby, looking far too pleased with himself, arms folded over his chest.

“Not unless you want me to break each of your fingers, one by one.”

“Noted.”

Joe turns on the gun, and I try not to flinch at the sound right next to my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on staying as still as possible. Joe braces me with his hand, and then, all of a sudden, the needle makes contact with my skin. My fingers clench into fists at the new sensation, and I grit my teeth together.

It really does feel like pinching as the needle drags across my shoulder. Joe’s lines feel short and tiny, which is reassuring. Maybe it’ll be subtle, after all. I keep my eyes shut a few moments longer, trying to imagine what he’s etching into my skin, but I can’t picture it. After a little while, I adjust to the feeling of the needle and open my eyes.

“How are you doing?” Joe asks.

“Great,” I say, relieved.

The buzzing of the tattoo gun becomes more like background noise as I fixate on one of the posters on the wall, concentrating on my breathing and moving as little as possible. I feel Wyatt’s eyes on me, assuming he’s trailing the design the needle has left behind, but instead, he’s watching my face, my expression.

I blink at him, furrowing my eyebrows. “What?”

“I don’t think I’ve given you enough credit,” he states, impressed. “You’re a badass, Moore.”

The corners of my mouth twitch. “I know.”

He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Don’t know how I didn’t see it, with the way you were hopping across those tables to Gwen Stefani.”

“Lobotomy,” I warn.

Wyatt mimes zipping his smile shut. In my periphery, Joe gives me some major side-eye before returning to his work. I suppose I would also be concerned if I were listening to this conversation without context .

I focus on not flinching with each prick of the needle, and just like Joe promised, before I know it, he’s finished, and my skin feels raw and fiery. He tells me to stand up slowly, and I do so, rolling onto my side and scooting myself off the bed.

“Moment of truth,” Joe says, gesturing toward the mirror.

Anxiety grips me, and I glance at Wyatt, checking for any signs of laughter or pride at successfully pranking me. He says nothing, sweeping a hand in the direction of the mirror. I exhale heavily, taking a few moments to feel steady on my legs again before heading over to it.

Once faced with my reflection, I take my time turning around, using my fingers to pull back my sleeve even further as I angle my shoulder toward the mirror. At the sight of my new ink, I let out a small gasp. My skin is freshly dotted with several tiny stars, delicate and subtle. One of them is a shooting star, slightly bigger than the rest. Joe’s lines are careful and deliberate.

To put it simply, it’s beautiful.

I catch Wyatt’s eyes in the mirror, gauging my reaction. “It’s. . . kind of perfect.”

He smiles, gaze lingering on me. “Told you,” he says softly.

My mother chose my name because of the meaning. She must’ve had high hopes for my life, despite her shortcomings. And I think the fact that my name is so easily translatable is one of the things Roman loved about me the most. It was easy for him to write me poetry, using all of the night sky imagery he could think of—repetitive as it was, I’d always thought it was sweet.

Recent days have soured the history of my name, but in a way, this feels like I’m reclaiming it. Like this is a tribute to myself, to the person I could become. Dazzling, brilliant. A bright spot in the dark, making the air around it glow. I don’t need poems written about me to feel radiant.

I’m awestruck as I stare back at Wyatt. I’d anticipated something silly, like a cartoon character or something that looked vaguely phallic. I wasn’t expecting anything like this.

“I love it,” I conclude.

“Glad to hear it,” Joe says .

He applies a clear bandage to protect the fresh wound, and I feel dazed as I try to pay attention to the aftercare instructions. I’m still speechless as we walk toward the front counter, pulling out my wallet.

“I’ll cover it,” Wyatt says, holding out a hand. “Since this was my dare.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say automatically.

He waves me away, and I clamp my mouth shut, backing off. We exit Inkjection, heading out into the night, and I feel like I’m on another dopamine high. Not high enough to break out into song this time, but enough that when the reality of what I’ve just done sinks in, I can’t seem to stop smiling.

I practically skip down the street next to Wyatt as we head back toward his car. He watches me with an amused expression. “I can’t believe I just got a fucking tattoo .”

Wyatt shakes his head, tutting in mock disapproval. “Stella Jane,” he scolds me. “What would your mother think?”

“She has a few herself, so I doubt she’d care,” I say before coming to a halt. It takes Wyatt a few paces to realize I’ve stopped, but then he stops too, glancing at me over his shoulder. I narrow my eyes. “You know my middle name?”

The question catches him off guard. “Is that weird? Roman must’ve told me ages ago.”

“No, it’s just. . . unexpected,” I say, resuming my pace.

Roman used to tell me that Wyatt dated so many women that he could barely even remember their names. Though I’m learning that there wasn’t a lot of truth to the things he said, I haven’t really thought to question what he told me about his so-called best friend. Surely, he must be better at keeping track if he remembers my middle name.

His words from outside the gas station return to me yet again— I remember every little thing you do . That statement, the mention of the grad party, and the way he’d purchased my favourite cold brew on day one. . . All of it has me wondering if Wyatt has been paying a lot more attention to me than I ever realized.

But of course, the most likely explanation is that all of this is a coincidence, and I’m reading too much into things.

“Thank you, by the way,” I remark. “For paying. And for not giving me something stupid.”

Wyatt gives me an appraising look. “Do you trust me yet?”

“Trust is earned,” I point out. “Over time. Do you trust me ?”

He hums in thought, considering. “That’s a good question. I still suspect you might kill me in my sleep, but other than that, I think so.”

I let out a grunt of amusement. “Fair.”

“But you trusted me enough to come on this trip, and I trusted you enough to let you come,” he offers, sticking his hands into his pockets. “So we must be getting somewhere.”

He makes a good point. Maybe it’s because I’m still giddy with adrenaline, or maybe it’s because of the atmosphere of the night, but I find myself wanting to take a shot, to kiss a stranger in the street, to do something to keep the night going.

“It’s my turn,” I blurt, stopping short again.

Wyatt looks at me quizzically. “Huh?”

“I get to dare you to do something.”

I expect him to at least protest a little bit, but he simply holds his arms out as if the world is my oyster, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. “Do your worst, Moore.”

My mouth spreads into a slow smile. Famous last words.