He sits down at a table and opens a box of pens. He starts to absently draw on a piece of paper.

“Don’t just stand there,” he says. “Sit.” He pats the table in front of him. “People make me nervous when they pace,” he says. He doesn’t even look up at me. He’s just sits and draws quietly.

“Paul,” I start. “I think I should go.”

He nods, but he still doesn’t look up. “Let me know when you’re ready so I can pack up my stuff.”

“What?” Why would he need to pack?

He finally looks up, and his blue eyes meet mine. “I sent Pete on an errand. And he left knowing I would take care of his girl. So if you leave, I have to leave. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I bite out. But my eyes are filling with tears already. I blink them back furiously.

“I didn’t say you needed a babysitter,” he replies, and I can tell he’s annoyed. He’s still gentle and caring, but there’s something roiling beneath the surface, too. “Those guys make you feel uncomfortable, huh?” he asks. He looks down at his paper again. He’s not paying me much attention, yet I get the distinct feeling that he is.

I nod and bite off the end of my fingernail, pulling so hard that I tear the cuticle. I wipe the blood on my jeans.

“Shit,” Paul says. He goes to a drawer and pulls out a Band-Aid. “If Pete comes back and you’re bleeding, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He tears the bandage open with his teeth and pulls the tabs off it. He holds it out like he wants to wrap it around my finger. I stick my hand out, because I get the feeling he’s not going to stop. My hand is shaking, though, and I hate it. He wraps it up, and then he gives me a squeeze.

He sits back down and starts to draw again. I sit across from him, and he passes me the paper, where he’s drawn a simple daisy behind prison bars. The daisy is reaching toward a shaft of sunlight. “Shade that in for me,” he says.

“I don’t draw,” I say, but I sit down across from him.

“Everyone knows how to color,” he says with a snort. “Just pick some colors and stay between the lines. Or go outside the lines with purpose.” He shrugs. “I don’t care.”

I pick up a marker and start to fill in the lines. And I go outside the lines with purpose. I smile at Paul, and he grins back and winks.

When I’m done, I stare down at it. The daisy is colorful and pretty, but withdrawn with its petals submissively lying down, and it’s leaning toward the shaft of sunlight. “This is me, isn’t it?” I ask quietly.

“Is it?” he replies, but he doesn’t look up at me. He keeps drawing.

“Yeah.” It’s me. I tap his arm, and he looks at my fingers, his brow arched like he’s amused. “Can you put this on me?” I ask. I’m almost breathless, I’m so excited.

“Do you want some time to think about it?” he asks.

“Do you usually ask people that?” I reply.

“Only when I think I need to.” He still looks amused but serious at the same time. He heaves a sigh. “Where do you want it?”

“Where do you suggest?” I ask.

“Maybe on your shoulder?” he says. He slides latex gloves over his fingers and snaps them on his wrists. “You don’t think Pete will mind if I do this, do you?” he asks. I’m not sure he really cares, but I’m glad he asked.

“Well, if you were going to put it on my inner thigh,” I say, “I could see him not liking it.” I laugh at the thought.

“Oh, that was going to be next place I suggested.” He snaps his latex-covered fingers, but they don’t make any noise. I get the idea, though.

A laugh bubbles from my throat. Paul starts pouring colors into tiny little cups. “You’re going to have to take that off,” he says, and he tugs on the arm of my T-shirt.

Uh oh. I didn’t think of that. He pulls a T-shirt from a cabinet and uses a pair of scissors to cut down the back of it. I take it, grateful that he thought of it. He turns his back while I pull my shirt over my head and slide the torn T-shirt on. It hangs open at the back, but I don’t care. I leave my bra on. He did say my shoulder, after all.

“Wow,” he breathes, when he walks around behind me. “You guys had a lot of fun last night, didn’t you?” He chuckles. I look over my shoulder and flush at all the ink that I never did wash off. I haven’t been home long enough.

“We were trying out some designs,” I stumble to say.

“Umm hmm,” he hums. “Sure you were.” He laughs, and a grin tugs at my lips. “The tramp stamp is pretty creative.”

I haven’t even seen that one yet. “What does it say?” I look back over my shoulder.

He points to a mirror behind me, and I go stand in front of it and look over my shoulder. I blush like crazy when I see that he’s written, Pete’s girl in a gothic script with squiggly flowers and vines draping down below the waist of my jeans.

Paul opens the curtain and motions to Logan. He comes to the back and signs something to Paul. Paul shows him the design, and Logan picks up a pencil and starts to add something to it. “Don’t worry,” Paul says to me. “You’ll love it.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Trust me,” he says. He turns me around, and I sit down on the tattoo table. “Ready?” he asks.