Sun Poisoned (The Sunshine Series) by Nikki Rae Read Free Book Online Page B

resembles one at a doctor's office, and a chair that looks like it would be more at home in a place where they pull teeth rather than a place where people make permanent art in skin.
    “So,” she says, opening a drawer and taking out the very same light blue paper material they use for the gowns in a hospital. She makes her way past me and over to the table, taping the paper over the plastic. “How's life? Still playing piano?”
    “ Yeah.” I set my bag, umbrella, and coat down on the floor in the corner. “Actually, my band and I have been playing at this club in Chinatown.”
    Cookie stops what she's doing. “Midnight?” she asks. Her eyes say that she doesn’t believe me, but her smile is proud.
    “ You've heard of it?” I laugh.
    “ Uh, yeah.” She laughs back, rolling a table she has her ink and tattoo gun set up on over to where I’ll be lying for the next few hours. “I used to go there a lot when I first got to New York. My ex-boyfriend was in one of the bands.”
    “ Oh yeah?” I sit on the edge of tattoo bench, the paper crinkling under me. “Does he still play there? Maybe I know him.”
    “ No, he doesn't.” Her tone is flat. “He got too big, started touring a lot. Never went back to Midnight.” She begins slipping on a pair of black rubber gloves. “And he never came back to me, either.” She sighs.
    “ But,” she says, her tone lighter now. “It's really awesome that you're playing there. I'm all for people following their dreams, especially when it comes to the creative ones like band member, tattoo artist, or contortionist.”
    “ Yeah,” I agree.
    “ So, you ready?” she asks.
    I swallow what would have been a lump forming in my throat before it get s the chance to make me choke.
    “ Yeah.” I start to take off my shirt, not looking at her as I do.
    “ Hey.” I see her through my peripherals gesturing to the long line trailing from my chest to my belly button. “Those are new.”
    “ Yeah.” I lie on my stomach with my arms cradling my head. There’s nothing between my skin and the paper but the fabric of my black bra. “I was in a car accident about six months ago.”
    She unclasps my bra, quickly taping it at my sides so I’m still covered. I take in a deep breath as she cleans my back with a soapy paper towel, then rubbing alcohol
    “You have some luck, girlie,” she says from above me. I stay as motionless as l can as Cookie traces over the lines that do not connect anymore because of various scars with a marker. “You've been busy,” she comments.
    As far as my friends and family are concerned, they think I just scratch at the tattoo when it's healing, causing a break in the ink. Or that Cookie missed a spot, or that I needed more shading done, or whatever.
    I say nothing. I can feel her breath on my skin. I close my eyes as my heart beat settles and she lets the subject drop. I finally relax when I hear the buzz of the tattoo gun. The rest of the session is spent talking about music and art, the way it should be.
    Sometimes people ask me if tattoos hurt. Most of the time, they're people I don't know, like at the grocery store, or the dentist. And the answer I give them is no, but the real answer is yes, but mostly just at first. It’s always been my experience that the more pain a person is subjected to, physically or emotionally, the less aware of it they become.
    After two hours or so, Cookie's tattoo gun is silenced for good, she hooks my bra again, and helps me sit up.
    “ Want to take a look?” She asks, wiping down my back with a soapy solution she squirts out of a bottle and onto some paper towel.
    “ Yeah!”
    She hands me a small mirror and I walk over to the full length in the corner. My wings, for the most part, appear the same: each feather is individually done and life-like, starting out small at my shoulder blades, and getting bigger and thicker near the middle of my back where the piece stops. The pale skin around them is red and raised,