Bad Saint Tattoo
The rain had just stopped when Bo pushed the glass door open.
A low bell clinked above her head — one of those sounds that made you feel like you’d just crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.
The shop smelled like ink and citrus cleaner.Soft music played somewhere in the back, low enough to sound private.Every wall was covered in framed flash designs — skulls, saints, wings, and names she didn’t want to read twice.
Behind the counter stood a man with gloves halfway pulled on and a pencil tucked behind one ear.Shane.
He looked up.“Appointment?”“Yeah. Bo.”He checked the tablet in front of him, nodded once. “Phoenix and a flower.”
“That’s right.”
“Cool. We can talk details first. You got reference pics?”
Bo hesitated, sliding her phone out but keeping the screen dim. “Just ideas. Not... final.”
“Fair,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter. His forearm was a collage of black-and-gray linework — clocks, thorns, something that looked like a feather on fire. “You already know placement?”
She tugged at her hoodie zipper, lowering it just enough to show the edge of her left side.“Here,” she said. “It’s got... history.”
His gaze flicked to the scar running along her ribs — thin, pale, almost healed.He didn’t comment, didn’t flinch. Just nodded once. “Alright. Phoenix over it?”
“Yeah. Rising from a lotus.”Her voice was even, practiced.“The phoenix should look...” she paused, “...female.”
He tilted his head. “Soft or strong?”
“Both.”
That earned her the smallest smirk. “Tricky combo.”
“I figured you liked a challenge,” she shot back.
“Depends who’s asking.”The way he said it wasn’t flirt, not really. More like a test.
Bo looked at the sketches pinned behind him — faces, symbols, wings in different states of breaking. “You always ask for the story behind the ink?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Not everyone tells the truth anyway.”
She smiled without humor. “Guess that’s your kind of art, then.”
He let that hang for a second, then tapped his pencil against the counter. “I’ll draw something up. Might take a few days. You want to see the sketch before we book your first session?”
“Yeah. Text me when it’s ready.”
Shane slid a small card across the counter —Bad Saint Tattoo stamped in silver ink.She picked it up, fingers brushing the corner of his glove.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked.
Bo slipped the card into her jacket pocket. “Not yet.”
He watched her leave — the bell chimed again, soft and final.
And for a long time after, Shane stood staring at the empty doorway, pencil still in hand, sketch already forming in his head —a phoenix that looked like forgiveness he didn’t believe in.
