Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Seventeen

Seventeen

Lucy

JAYLEN:

LUCY:

JAYLEN:

My phone vibrates against my leg, as it has done periodically for the past few weeks. I ignore it and continue organizing a supply closet at the back of the tattoo shop. I feel it buzz again and decide it’s time for a break. As I suspected, it’s Jaylen—again.

I’ve been dodging his texts since that awkward night I was left cleaning cat barf off my bedroom floor alone. I’ve since spent most of my nights falling asleep face-first in my sketchbook with the lights on. Jaylen’s been trying to strike up a conversation, but all I give him is our agreed-upon “good luck” text before games.

My initial reaction that night as I cleaned on all fours was to block his number and pretend none of it ever happened. However, my friends already know about the charity appearance and the free tickets, and unlike Jaylen in the bedroom, I don’t disappoint.

I open the text and ignore the funny video he sent, as I have the last three videos from him. Instead, I fulfill my contract by telling him, “Knock dead.”

It’s read the moment I send it and he’s typing before I can swipe out of the conversation.

JAYLEN:

LUCY:

JAYLEN:

LUCY:

JAYLEN:

LUCY:

I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and stash it in my pocket. It briefly crosses my mind that all the funny videos he’s been sending me are a reference to our first night together—when I confessed to him that I never watch the funny videos friends send me—but I can’t be sure that version of Jaylen still exists.

The only version of him I see is on the promotional team photos scattered all over downtown, reminding me he’s an NHL player and our tentative friendship is contractual so he can play well. I pass a fifty-foot Jaylen on my walk to work every day and fight the impulse to vandalize it by sharing his phone number. I fantasize about writing something like “For a good time, call 555-0100” as a form of payback for what he said about my cat.

Once I make it past the oversize Jaylen shrine, I have to walk through a street lined with Rainiers flags. I’ve been trying to get him off my mind, but the city, the team, won’t let me forget.

I pick myself up off the supply closet floor with a groan. It’s weird being back in the tattoo shop full-time again. I was excited to get back to what mattered most, but I still think about the mural. I would rather be painting at the rink than what I did at the shop today: unclogging a toilet, buying two different lunch entrées from two different restaurants for Sam, and replying to a backlog of emails. The only thing that keeps me motivated at this job is knowing it’s not going to be like this forever.

Sam’s finishing up her last tattoo of the day, which gives me a bit of time before I have to start sweeping the floors and closing up shop. With a rush of determination equal parts frustration and impulse, I stop by Sam’s booth and hover over her as she shades a rose on her client’s ankle.

“Looks amazing,” I say, announcing myself. Sam’s had my portfolio for a while now and every day I show up to work eager and ready to hear her feedback. She has yet to say a word about it.

“Get me some more paper towels, will ya,” she says.

I take my time ripping off fresh sheets of paper towel, slowly stacking the sheets neatly on her tray. “I drew a couple roses in my portfolio, but I love your interpretation. Speaking of which, have you had a chance to look through it yet?”

She sighs. Loud enough I can hear it over the buzzing tattoo gun and long enough for me to know I’ve overstepped. “Not yet. I’ve been busy, but don’t let me stop you from taking it back and working on it some more. It’s over there.” She motions with her free hand toward the workbench behind her.

The binder I gave her is buried under loose sheets of scrap paper and restaurant napkins. There’s a coffee stain on the front—a perfect circle, just like some of the geomatic designs I drew inside. I dig it out of the junk and clutch it to my chest. Maybe next month she’ll have time to look through it, but until then, it’s staying with me, where it’s appreciated. I swallow my emotions. Now is not the time for a mental breakdown. I’ll do that later in the safety of my bedroom with the company of a grocery store sheet cake.

Sam doesn’t notice, but I slip away and head to the front desk, where I’m sure a handful of new tattoo appointment requests awaits.

While checking our latest Instagram DMs, I notice that the shop is tagged in a new post. It’s a picture of a guy with shaggy brown hair and a proud wide smile on his face. The caption reads, “Can’t wait to start my apprenticeship with Sam at Come As You Are Ink next week. I guess hard work really does pay off.”

My hands go slack, and the work tablet falls to the floor.

Sam pulls her attention away from her client’s leg. “Careful!” she snaps at me. “If you break that, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

Just once I’d like to not feel like an inconvenience to everyone. I could easily run out of the shop in tears, but instead, I clear my throat and gather my composure the best I can. “My bad.” I hardly get the words out.

I’m so pissed I could cry, which is frustrating because I wish I could confront Sam and tell her off, but if I open my mouth, I know I’ll begin to sob. Instead, I bite my tongue like I’m sitting across from Grandma at Thanksgiving dinner and she just called me a homophobic slur. She’ll die soon , I remind myself. And while Sam’s life expectancy is much longer than my meemaw’s, she is already officially dead to me.

“Don’t forget to clean the bathrooms before you lock up tonight” is the last thing Sam says to me before leaving for the night.

As soon as the door swings shut behind her, I start googling tattoo apprenticeships. It’s a deep dive into local artists and shops. I reach out to a handful of them asking if they have any employment opportunities or upcoming apprenticeships. I skip Lucky Thirteen—for obvious reasons—but keep hunting for something good.

Eventually, I find a nationwide search for a paid apprenticeship with one of my favorite tattoo artists, Hunter Gunn. Her work has been featured in Ink Magazine for years, and some of her clients include celebrities and musicians. It’s a long shot since I don’t have tattooing experience, but I’m desperate enough to apply. The apprenticeship would take me out of state, a factor I’m not too worried about since I likely won’t get the job. The deadline is approaching, and they want an impressive portfolio—I’ll have to add even more art to my existing binder of work. I forward the information to my email, clear the computer’s search history, and log out for the night.

Usually, I’m the one getting fired from a job, but tonight feels like the perfect opportunity for a first. I grab some of the leftover paint from the closet and drag it out front near the entrance. With paintbrushes and a step stool in hand, I get to work expressing myself the only way I know how.

Bikini Kill blares over the sound system as I slap paint on the shop’s wall. The timid approach I used for my last mural is replaced with an assertiveness that satisfies not only my creative cravings, but also my need for revenge.

My focus is so consumed by my art that I don’t notice the door open. It isn’t until I hear someone loudly and intentionally clear their throat that I finally turn around.

I shriek in terror as the presence of an unexpected guest shocks my body into fight or flight. My body picks flight, and I drop my wash brush. I freeze up while my brain tries to process who sneaked up on me. It’s Jaylen—it’s always Jaylen.

He’s wearing a nice suit and a big smile. His shirt is unbuttoned two buttons deep, which I notice immediately, because it is an incredibly slutty thing to do. Forcing myself to not stare at his plunging neckline, I turn to shut off the music so I can yell at him.

“What is wrong with you?” I say, gasping for air as I bend down and grab my brush off the floor. I might need it handy to fend him off. Only a stalker would show up to someone’s place of work unannounced dressed like Patrick Bateman. I thought ignoring his texts was a clear enough message, but obviously Jaylen is more brawn than brains.

“The door was unlocked. The sign says Open.”

The Open sign’s neon glow is visible from where I stand. I always forget to turn that sign off at night.

“We’re closed now. If you’re looking for a tattoo, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” I say in my most authoritative voice, though it’s still shaky from the fright.

Using what was left of the paint from my project for the Rainiers, I have created a beautiful yet vulgar mural articulating the words I could never say: an unfaced person slumped over with multiple knives sticking out of their hunched back.

Jaylen reads aloud, “Beware of backstabbers.”

It’s written in my clearest and most legible penmanship.

“Won’t you get fired for this?” he asks.

“That’s the point. I’m quitting.” I stand proudly by my work.

“Remind me never to break up with you.” His comment breaks the tension in the room, and even earns a laugh out of me.

“I know it’s a bit abstract, but I think the intended audience will get the message.” I made sure to outline my work with black paint so it’s harder to cover up. Sam is always harping on about the importance of a solid black outline.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “A bit unhinged, but beautiful.”

“I’d love to stand here and discuss the motives behind the short brushstrokes and my use of the color red, but I was just leaving for the night.” I begin to tidy up the paint, but quickly stop when I remember that it’s no longer my problem.

“I get it. I won’t take up too much of your time. Please hear me out. I was driving home from my game tonight and I was craving pizza. Apparently one of the best spots in town is right across the street from here. Anyway, I got you a slice.” He hands me a paper bag stained with grease.

Jaylen is extending an olive branch—well, a pizza slice—and I’m hungry enough to accept it. “Thanks. It’s obviously been a long day and I’m hungry.”

We grab a seat together on the weathered couch near the front desk. “Cool shop, but I think I like your addition the best,” he says, before sinking his teeth into his slice.

“Me too.” I lean back on the couch. Revenge art is exhausting.

“Pizza isn’t the only reason I’m here. I want to make sure things aren’t awkward between us. Last time I saw you, things got weird.” He sighs, setting his drink down on the coffee table, swallowing his pride along with a gulp of soda.

My shoulders drop and so does my guard as I release my breath. “It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have invited you back to my place in the first place anyway.”

The following game after the cat barf incident—for obvious reasons—I wasn’t in the mood to text Jaylen good luck. Apparently, texting “gl” doesn’t count as a proper good-luck message because he was “held scoreless” in his hockey game against the worst team in the league. I know this because it ended some goal streak he had going for himself. He still had a couple assists, but it really reinforced my concern that getting involved could jeopardize my good-luck mojo and the delicate balance of our agreement. I haven’t missed a proper good luck since.

“Why’s that?” Jaylen’s body angles back. He fusses with the cuffs of his sleeves.

“You’re not looking to date, remember? Plus, I really need to focus on my career. Now more than ever since I’m officially unemployed.” I hear myself and panic instantly sets in. “Oh my god, I’m unemployed! I’m so fucked.” I pull my knees into my chest and bury my head into my lap.

“Don’t worry. Someone once told me when you have nothing left to lose, you can finally see what you want.” Jaylen pats my back.

“That’s horrible advice, Jaylen! I have no income. I only said that to you because I didn’t know what else to say,” I snap.

“You’ll figure it out. You’re feisty.”

“Thanks, I’ll be sure to put that on my résumé.” I wallow for a moment, until I remember my plan. I pop my head up. “Actually, there’s this apprenticeship search. It’s my dream job. I think I’m going to apply. Maybe you can write me a fake recommendation letter since I don’t think Sam will write me a glowing review anymore.”

While I’m worrying about my future, Jaylen has rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing his vascular, thick forearms. Sexy in a time of crisis like this? This man has no shame; he might as well whip his dick out.

“Would a tattoo help your odds of getting the apprenticeship?” Jaylen finishes what’s left of his drink and tosses it across the room into the recycling bin. It’s a perfect shot.

“Won’t hurt. Who did you convince? Soko?” I toss my empty can but miss terribly.

“No.”

“No? Jaylen, that was part of the deal.” I can’t hide the frustration in my voice. I was already stressed to begin with. I need all the help I can get if I’m going to send my application to Hunter Gunn.

“Let me finish,” Jaylen says, rolling his eyes. “He said no—technically, he said something in Russian that sounded rather threatening, so I didn’t press it. What if you do it on me?”

I’m up and out of my seat before he finishes getting the words out. I’ve been around the shop long enough to know that when someone makes the impulsive decision to get tattooed, you better get moving before they change their mind.

“Where are you going?” he asks as I buzz around the shop to set up.

With cling wrap in my hand, I briefly pause long enough to say, “Setting up for your tattoo.”