Fifteen Seconds

Chapter One: Less Than a Second

Emily sat in the chair at the tattoo parlor with her hands in her lap, staring out the window where Eric Watson walked his golden retriever. It had always been curious to her the way people began to reflect the temperament and look of their pets. Eric had dark brown shaggy hair, but he walked with the same happy manner as his loyal companion, his feet bouncing off the pavement. They could not have looked more in sync if he walked with his tongue out the way the dog did.

Perhaps it was jealousy that made her hate him so, but she was fairly certain it was good old-fashioned cynicism; no one could be that happy.

"You sure about this one?" Joe, the scary-looking thirty-something who ran the tattoo parlor, stepped in front of her, blocking her view.

"Yep." She nodded once, her limbs loose and relaxed. Joe had done all her piercings from the very first time she walked into his shop with a forged note offering her parents' permission. Joe knew the notes were fake, of course, but it didn't matter much to him. He had a real fight-the-power vibe, and he often talked about how he thought kids were old enough to make their own decisions by her age. But at seventeen, the state of Maine felt it was too early to make her own decisions about something as critical as body jewelry.

Needless to say, they had an unspoken agreement about the notes. He simply needed plausible deniability in case her parents ever came calling—which of course they never did; they would have to acknowledge her existence to notice the five, soon to be six, piercings in her right ear, or the four that she wore in her left. Whoever decided to grant middle children invisibility probably thought it was a gift.

Joe pulled his little metal table over and donned a pair of latex gloves.

"I see you're letting your hair grow out," she commented. Joe was bald, with a big, curly, red beard that was exactly the same length it had been the last time she was in.

"Thanks, I get tons of compliments." He ran his hand over the smooth skin on his head and winked. Joe was a walking contradiction. He wore square glasses over his soft, round face. On his left arm he bore a full sleeve of tattoos, the most impressive piece an intricate tiger that he designed himself. At well over six feet, he was hard to miss. But he was blissfully unaffected by his intimidating appearance.

"Your ear is filling up. Might be time to find a new canvas."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not getting the eyebrow ring." Raybrooke, Maine, was a small town, full of small-minded people. The circular barbell in her septum had garnered quite a response from her parents, but soon enough they stopped talking about it. Silence was their specialty. Another small moment of panic wasn't worth an eyebrow or a lip. She had sometimes considered piercing her tongue, knowing it would cause a stir with her mother, but even the thought of metal in her mouth was annoying.

Joe chuckled. "Hey, I'm no expert. But it would be badass."

"My luck I'd catch it on my shirt and rip it out in a week."

"Well, scars can be badass too." He set out his instruments on the tray and pulled his rolling stool toward her. With practiced, fluid movements he cleaned her ear, drew his dot, and put the clamp on.

"It's okay to cry." He waited, shooting her a meaningful look with the hollow needle in hand.

"I'm going to find a new artist." She smirked.

"You'd never find one as good as me." He tipped his head up, looking through the bottom portion of his glasses. It took less than a second for him to slide the needle through her ear. It was a small change, inconsequential in the scheme of things. She could always take out the ring and let it heal. But it would be new skin. In some ridiculous, tiny, insignificant way, she was forever changed. The slight pain was so familiar she didn't even flinch.