3. Atticus
THREE
ATTICUS
Waking up in my new bed, in my new room, in my new loft is fucking perfection. My Egyptian cotton sheets feel amazing against my skin as I roll to my side and glance out of the window, wondering what the day has in store for me.
The best thing about my job is that I’m in complete control of my own schedule. I don’t think it’s conceited to suggest that my art is in demand. I have a waiting list of over a year for new clients, and when I do decide to work on people I haven’t worked with before, I’m selective.
I know there are tattoo artists who offer a range of styles, willing to put their own stamp on anything their client wants.
I’ve done it too, when I was an apprentice.
Back then, I was grateful to get a chance to work, and I honestly didn’t care what I was tattooing as long as I had the gun in my hand.
But these days, I’ve honed my craft, and I only work in my preferred style.
I don’t just tattoo. I create works of art on skin.
I offer ultrarealistic portraits and highly detailed fine line work.
While I appreciate all tattoos as an art form, I love the intricacies of fine lines, minute shading, and making a flat image come to life on someone’s skin.
I’m one of the best in the country at what I do, and that means I get to pick and choose which pieces I want to create and who I want to work on.
For the last five years, I’ve been based out of a studio in New York, but when the owner, Donovan, tried to pressure me and the twins into being featured on a new tattoo studio reality TV show, I knew it was time to move on.
It’s taken me a long time to get to where I am in my career, but now that I’m here, I’m enjoying the freedom to work at my own pace.
Taking a chair in Betty Barnett’s studio was an easy decision for me.
I’ve known her for years, and while I respect her as an artist, I appreciate more that she understands my need to support Felix.
Donovan never got why my work schedule was based around my brother’s. He wanted me to work ten- or twelve-hour days, taking every client request that came through because the more I worked, the more money he made.
But I don’t work that way. Felix and I share a bank account, and these days we’re not short of money.
I don’t need to be killing myself and trying to squeeze in as many clients as I can.
My art isn’t just a case of a simple transfer.
I can spend hours, sometimes even days, drawing bespoke pieces or perfecting the details of a photograph to recreate it so it comes to life.
My clients understand that, and they’re willing to pay my rates to get a beautiful tattoo.
Betty understands that too, and when we spoke about me taking a chair in her studio, she easily agreed not to interfere and to let me handle my own career, which is why I don’t have any clients booked in for the rest of the week.
Come Monday morning, however, I have a full schedule, so I’m taking the time to decompress while I can.
Rolling over, I lift my arms into the air, then slide my palms beneath the back of my head.
Blinking slowly, I try to decide what to do today.
Although I haven’t left my bedroom yet, I already know that Felix will be downstairs in his workshop, sketching and throwing out random requests at Marcus for things to make his new studio space more comfortable for him.
In a couple of weeks, his chaotic thoughts will start to filter down until he has a firm idea for his next series of sculptures.
His creative process would probably seem entirely random to anyone else, but I understand my brother.
I get his micro-expressions and tics. His thought process makes total sense to me.
I just hope he settles on something sooner rather than later, because until he does, it’s doubtful he’ll sleep for more than an hour or two a night because his mind will be too busy to allow him to relax enough to rest.
Climbing out of bed, I plump the pillows, smooth the sheets, and pull the comforter back into place, fussing with the fabric until it’s wrinkle-free and pristine. Padding naked into the bathroom, I turn on the shower, giving the water time to heat as I brush my teeth.
Once steam has fogged the air, I step into the shower and tip my head back, letting the water drench me. Grabbing my shower gel, I coat my skin in it before I wash and condition my hair, reluctantly turning off the water when my fingers have started to shrivel at the tips.
The huge towels I had my interior designer get for me are incredibly soft, and by the time I’m dry, I’m feeling calmer and more relaxed than I’ve felt in months. Stepping back into my bedroom, I open the closet door and wander in, perusing the cabinets until I spot the jeans I want to wear.
My style lands somewhere between rocker and Fortune 500 CEO. Some days I enjoy the way people treat me when I turn up to work in a perfectly tailored suit. Other days, I get turned on by the hint of fear in their eyes when they see my tattoos, ripped jeans, and piercings.
Today is a jeans day. Sliding my feet into my jeans, I button up the fly, not bothering with any underwear.
The sun is shining, so I pull a muscle shirt from the rail and slip it over my head before I head to the display cases that hold my belts, jewelry, and watches.
Unfurling a thick leather belt, I fight the urge to double it and test the sting of the leather against my hand.
Heavy impact play has never been my thing, but the sound of the snap and thud of leather hitting flesh has always made my dick hard.
Ignoring the urge to torture myself with an erection I’m not going to do anything with, I thread the belt through the loops at my waist and buckle it in place.
Selecting a heavy silver watch from my collection, I slip it onto my wrist, then add a few twisted leather bands beside it. Sliding rings onto both ring fingers and my right thumb, I drop a silver chain around my neck, then step back to check out my appearance in the mirror.
The ring in my nose, gauges in each ear, and other piercings, along with the outfit that shows off the tattoos that cover my chest, back, and both arms down to the ends of my fingers, all combine to accentuate the step-the-fuck-off persona I’m trying to enforce today.
Some days I actively try not to look like a scary motherfucker. But today I don’t care. Let anyone who looks at me see the darkness in my eyes. As I turn to leave the closet, my gaze lands on the only thing in this room that isn’t mine.
At the center of the display cabinet that holds my jewelry is a rose gold necklace draped over a black velvet cushion.
No one has ever worn it, and every time I look at it, I wonder why I still have it.
But the necklace is a reminder of what I want.
What I crave and need. It’s a reminder that I’m not willing to settle.
That half measures aren’t enough. That I’m still searching.
Hopefully, one day I’ll find the perfect woman, and I’ll put the necklace on her. Once I do, it’ll never come off, because circles are everlasting, and if I ever decide to give that necklace to someone, it’ll be because I’ve decided they’re mine and to never let them go.
After sliding on socks, I push my feet into sneakers, then open my bedroom door and step out into the rest of the loft. Just like I expected, Felix’s door is wide open, his bed sheets are a screwed-up mess, and the clothes he was wearing yesterday are haphazardly hanging half out of the hamper.
While his bedroom looks like he’s been living here for a month, not a day, the kitchen and living spaces are all immaculate, so it’s clear he hasn’t attempted to make himself anything to eat since I brought home the takeout from the diner last night.
Stepping into his room, I make his bed, slide his discarded shoes into his closet, and push his clothes fully into the hamper. While Felix might not care about how his bedroom looks, I know that he won’t sleep at all if he tries to get back into an unmade bed.
Opening the kitchen cabinets, I groan when I’m reminded that I haven’t been grocery shopping yet. Back in New York, I ordered all of our groceries through a delivery app and then had Marcus or our housekeeper put everything away.
Unfortunately, small-town Montana has yet to embrace DoorDash or Uber Eats, and I haven’t found us a housekeeper yet, so if I want food, I’m going to have to go and buy it from the grocery store.
My cell is charging on the kitchen counter, so I unplug it and slide it into my pocket before I push open the loft door.
I’m hit in the face by a wall of sound that’s pounding from below us.
Felix’s taste in music varies depending on where he is in his creative process.
While his mind is chaotic—like it is now—he listens to heavy metal or hard-core dance music, which is why it feels like I just stepped into a rave as I descend the stairs from our living space down into Felix’s studio.
I wave to Marcus, who is grimacing as he alternates between typing on his cell and checking on Felix, who is pacing back and forth across the floor.
Spread out on five easels are huge drawing pads that Felix is moving between, sketching things that right now only he understands.
As his thoughts and ideas gain clarity, the sketches will change from chaotic lines to intricate drawings of how his sculptures will look.
But right now, it’s a menagerie of unfocused thoughts and ideas.
Approaching Felix from the side, I step in front of him, blocking his path to one of his sketch pads.
His lips part as he speaks, but the music is so loud, I can’t hear what he’s saying.
Pulling my cell from my pocket, I open the app for the music system and turn down the volume until it’s low enough that we can speak without yelling.