Chapter Two
Ava Bishop
Tattoo Artist
The needle hums against skin, and everything else falls away. This is my meditation. My church. The place where my hand is steadiest and my mind goes quiet. Outside, the world can throw whatever chaos it wants at me, but inside Ink District Studio, I’m in complete control.
“You’re not even looking,” my client, Marcus, says with a nervous laugh.
“Don’t need to.” I don’t glance up from the delicate line work I’m tracing across his forearm. “I could do this blindfolded. But then you’d probably sue me, so.”
He chuckles, and I feel the vibration through my gloved fingers. I pause, waiting for him to settle.
“Sorry, sorry.”
“Breathe. You’re doing great.” I resume the fine detail work, a geometric compass rose that’s taken me three sessions to perfect.
Marcus wanted something that represented finding his way after a divorce, and I’d sketched twelve different versions before landing on this one. “Almost done with this section.”
The studio smells the way it always does, like antiseptic, ink, and the faint vanilla from the candle Zoe insists on burning at the front desk.
Late afternoon sun filters through the industrial windows, catching dust motes in the air.
My station is in the back corner, my kingdom, decorated with flash sheets I’ve designed, framed photos of my favorite pieces, and a sign that reads ‘Your bad decisions are my rent money.’
“Ava, you got a walk-in!” Zoe calls from the front.
“Booked solid,” I call back, not breaking my focus. “Tell them to check the website for openings.”
“He says he’ll wait.”
“Then he’ll be waiting a while.”
I finish the last line, sit back, and finally look at Marcus’ arm. Perfect. The shading is exactly what I wanted, with subtle gradients that make the compass appear three-dimensional, almost floating above his skin.
“Check it out.” I hand him the mirror.
His eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”
“Language,” I deadpan, though I’m grinning. “This is a professional establishment.”
“Ava, this is… I mean, this is exactly…” He shakes his head, actually getting choked up. “Thank you.”
And this is why I do what I do. Not for the money, though I charge what I’m worth. Not for the Instagram follows, though @InkDistrictAva has a decent following. I do it for this moment right here, when someone sees a piece of themselves reflected in art that’ll stay with them forever.
“You’re welcome.” I start wrapping his arm, my movements practiced and efficient. “Same aftercare as before, keep it clean, moisturized, out of direct sunlight. No swimming, no soaking, no picking at it when it peels.”
“Got it.” He’s still staring at his reflection in awe.
After Marcus pays and leaves, with a generous tip that makes me do a little internal fist pump, I clean my station. Zoe appears at my elbow, twirling a pen between her fingers.
“So, that guy who’s waiting…”
“Zoe.”
“He’s hot.”
“Don’t care.”
“Like, stupid hot. Tall. Great arms. Has this whole athlete thing going on.”
I freeze mid-wipe. “Athlete?”
“Oh yeah. Definitely. He’s got that walk, you know? All confidence and—”
“No.”
“Ava.”
“No.” I toss the used supplies in the bin harder than necessary. “You know the rule.”
Zoe sighs dramatically. She’s twenty-two, wears her hair in elaborate braids, and has exactly zero patience for my rules. “Your rule is stupid.”
“My rule keeps me in business.” I start prepping for my next appointment, a cover-up that’s going to take some serious skill to pull off. “No athletes. Not now, not ever.”
“But why? They tip well, they have money to burn.”
“And they have egos the size of this city, publicists who breathe down your neck, and the emotional maturity of teenagers.” I arrange my fresh needles with more force than necessary.
“Plus, half of them want something they’ll regret in six months when they get traded or injured or decide to ‘rebrand’ themselves. ”
“That’s super judgy.”
“That’s experience talking.” I pull off my gloves, toss them, and grab new ones.
“I had a football player in here two years ago. Wanted a full backpiece of himself catching a touchdown. Himself. Do you know how many hours that would’ve taken?
And then six months later, his career tanked, and he threatened to sue me for ‘damaging his image.’ ”
Zoe winces. “Okay, that’s bad.”
“That’s just one story.” I’ve got plenty more, but I don’t feel the need to justify myself further. “Athletes are walking red flags. They’re used to people falling all over themselves, doing whatever they want, treating them as gods. I’m not here to feed anyone’s ego. I’m here to create art.”
“What do I tell him?”
“Tell him we’re fully booked for the next three months. Tell him to try Wildcat Ink down the street. They love that crowd.”
She gives me a look that says she thinks I’m being ridiculous, but she heads back to the front anyway.
I turn back to my station, but something nags at me. Probably the adrenaline from finishing Marcus’ piece. Or maybe it’s the fact that I stood outside Wildcat Stadium last night, watching the crowd go feral over some pitcher, and felt…
Nothing.
Actually, that’s not true. I felt annoyance at the traffic, the noise, and the way this entire city loses its collective mind over grown men throwing balls.
My phone buzzes.
Dad: Dinner Sunday? 6 pm?
I smile despite myself.
Ava: Only if you’re cooking.
Dad: Deal. Bring wine.
Dad, Coach Bishop, the man who raised me to take no shit from anyone, who taught me that respect is earned, and boundaries are sacred, would have a field day if he knew some athlete was trying to get into my chair right now.
“Hey, Ava?” Zoe’s back, looking sheepish. “He, um… he left this.”
She hands me a business card. It’s cream-colored with expensive stock and embossed lettering.
Reece Steele
#30
Wildcat Baseball
On the back, in sharp, confident handwriting…
I’ll come back.
Everyone breaks their rules eventually.
I stare at it for a full five seconds.
Then I tear it in half.
“Not everyone,” I mutter, dropping the pieces in the trash.
But as I turn back to prepare for my next client, I can still feel the ghost of those words on my fingertips.
‘Everyone breaks their rules eventually.’
Not me.
Not for some cocky baseball player who thinks his fame is a free pass into my studio.
I’ve got standards.
I’ve got boundaries.
And I sure as hell don’t break my rules for anyone.