Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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"Hayden said they're going to be a little late," Pierce told Wyatt, staring at his phone as he texted the group chat. Nicki had planned a night out, which meant a lot of alcohol and little consideration for others. Like usual, she had taken too long to get ready. She was supposed to meet the guys at the tattoo shop an hour ago. No doubt Quinn and Hayden were rushing her. Elliot was probably fussing over their mascara while they scrambled into the car. It would probably take them twenty minutes to drive downtown, maybe thirty if the roads were still slippery. Even longer if Nicki was navigating.
The tattoo shop wasn't hard to find. It was the only house that could sing - literally. The owner's daughter had an obsession with the Little Mermaid, so she hired some local sculptors and musicians to create a weather instrument. Whenever it rained, anytime the wind was strong enough, or on the sunny days when the snow was beginning to melt, the pipes and drains would croon like a wicked sea witch. Similar designs have been around since the 1990s, but none of them had amassed a cult following like Urchin Tattoo Parlor. The tiny teal building was the most recognized out of all the city's storefronts. Pierce was impressed with the unique marketing strategy.
Wyatt was sitting in the tattoo artist's chair, getting repeatedly stabbed with an inked needle. "That's okay," he replied. "It might be awhile."
"That's because you keep moving," the tattooist argued. He was a graying man with a beard, looking more than double their age. He had more artwork on his arm than Professor V.
"My ribcage feels like it's getting a root canal," Wyatt retorted.
Pierce tucked his phone into his back pocket, saying, "Aren't you used to the pain by now? You have like thirty tattoos."
"And none of them were easy," the artist mumbled.
Wyatt was offended. "I'm sensitive, okay? Fuck you."
"It can't be that bad," Pierce assumed. He scanned the trinkets mounted around the artist's station. There were a lot of skulls, some vintage Japanese art, and a collection of Elvis records. His sister Erin would never leave. His mom, however, would wrongly deem it eccentric and quietly exit.
"Don't judge. You don't even have a tattoo," Wyatt clipped.
"I bet he'd cry less than you," the artist muttered, focusing on his work - an illustration of La Vouivre. It was a French mythological creature. Half woman, quarter dragon, quarter snake. There was also a large jewel in the middle of her forehead, but Pierce didn't ask questions anymore. Wyatt already had a lot of histrionic tattoos on his body.
Wyatt looked wounded. "That's a really fucked up thing to say, man."
"You cry?" Pierce asked.
"Every time," the bearded man remarked.
Wyatt would've smacked him if he wasn't holding a needle to his skin. "Why would you - ?"
