Under My Skin by James Dawson

Sally’s core. The thought of anyone else taking Molly Sue was almost more than she could stand. A tattoo as stunning as Molly Sue should only belong to someone who felt as strongly as she did.
    Her heart deflated like a punctured balloon. ‘Even if I wanted to . . . I don’t have any money. I’m broke. My mum won’t even let me take a babysitting job.’
    â€˜Well, isn’t this just your lucky day? Most of our clients are, let’s say, a little older than you. Boris takes a special pride in tattooing beautiful young skin. It’s extra special. No charge.’
    â€˜No charge?’
    â€˜On the house, as they say. It would be a treat for Boris. Pure, unmarked skin like yours will make his day. His week.’
    â€˜Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’
    Rosita clamped her hands on her hips but smiled warmly. ‘Why ever not? What reasons do you have left?’
    Sally opened her mouth but no sounds came out. She had no reasons left. She imagined the looks on
their
faces –
them
being the rest of the world. What would they say if they knew? Shy little mouse Sally Feather has a
tattoo?
She imagined the horror and disbelief her mum, dad, Melody, Stan, Jennie would wear on their faces.
    She thought about how
naughty
she would feel having a secret – not some lame crush on a football player – a real secret. ‘OK,’ she said.
    â€˜Really?’ Rosita clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, Boris will be thrilled! Are you sure?’
    Sally appreciated Rosita offering her a way out, but the seed had taken root in her mind. ‘Yes.’ She looked at Molly Sue one last time and felt like the girl was welcoming her into some sorority. ‘She’s just too gorgeous to refuse.’
    A smile danced on Rosita’s lips. ‘Spoken like Molly Sue herself! Come, child. Follow me.’ Rosita placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her towards the partitioned archway.
    The back room was now silent, the needle had stopped its intermittent buzzing. ‘Isn’t there already someone in here?’ Sally asked.
    â€˜No,’ Rosita said simply. Sally was confused – why was the needle going if there was no one back here? Sally stalled as they passed over the threshold. The back room was a far cry from the opulent waiting area. Stark grey tiles covered the walls floor to ceiling, while the floor was wipe-clean linoleum. In the centre of the room was a reclining dentist’s chair next to a steel trolley housing an array of inks, black latex gloves, piercing guns and, finally, the tattoo needle – a wasp-like metal gun.
    A green-tinged angled lamp cast strange, jagged shadows up the walls. The room was dark, claustrophobic and windowless.
    A hulk of a man waited in the shadows, his broad shoulders filling an entire corner. As he stepped into the light, Sally saw that he wore a surgical mask over his mouth and a black rubber apron over his unusually smart clothes: a crisp, stiff-collared white shirt, a black tie and matching sleeve garters. In the dim pool of the lamp, his eyes sparkled as he saw her for the first time. Behind the mask, he growled appreciatively, hungrily.
    Perhaps I should just be going . . .
    Sally backed away instinctively, colliding with Rosita. ‘Oh, I should have said.’ Rosita pushed her further into the studio. ‘Boris speaks no English.’ She said something to the artist in his native tongue. Sally had no idea what she said, or even what language it was. She’d done French and Spanish at school, and it sounded nothing like either of those. It was a strange, guttural sound. Maybe Slavic? Rosita did most of the talking, with Boris growling and grunting by way of reply. Rosita stroked Sally’s lower back, presumably directing Boris as to where Molly Sue was going.
    Sally’s heart galloped. This was
wild
, but it felt like she’d been led here for a reason. It felt
right
. Today was the day she grew up