17. Wolf
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me that you were still red and swollen,” I seethe, pissed that she came into this shop with a red and splotchy back, as though she was fucking ready to be worked on.
“You told me to come, basically demanded it, so I came. My God, you give me whiplash with your questions,” she retorts, sounding as exasperated as I feel.
“No, you don’t get to have an attitude with me, princess. I’m not the one who fucked up your back or convinced you that a back full of flying cocks would look good. I’m the fucker set on fixing this shit.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” she erupts, sitting up and sliding her legs over the side of the table until she’s seated before me, indignant and beautiful. “Listen, I appreciate the help you gave me the other night, and I’m thankful for your hyper-fixation on my tattoo, but do not, for a single second, think that you bossing me around or treating me like a child is okay, Wolf. I may be younger than you, but I’m not an idiot. Your warped belief of age as a sign of maturity is inaccurate and baseless. I may be nineteen, but I have lived a thousand lives, and I won’t allow you to make me feel as though I owe you a favor when you’re the one insistent on me being here and invading each other’s space. This entire thing is your fault because you refused to listen to me when I came into this room and asked for the tattoo I received at Royal Ink. Albeit it’s an ugly tattoo, but at least they attempted it.”
I stare at her in disbelief, processing her words. “Oh, fuck no, you’re not going to blame me for the cocks floating on your back. You were unsure and undecided when you came into ‘this room’ and asked for butterflies on your back, and I don’t fucking tattoo people who aren’t sure of what they want. So fine, paint me as the fucking villain, but know that you are the one who went to a shit-hole shop for a tattoo. You’re lucky you didn’t get hepatitis from the fucking needle.”
“Stop being vulgar.”
“Vulgar? You haven’t seen vulgar,” I growl, leaning forward until I’m in her space, speaking directly into her face. I would never put myself in this position, a giant looming over a woman in my shop, but Serena is my goddamn downfall.
“You know what? I’m leaving.” She pushes against my body with her dainty hand, and I allow it, moving as she exerts pressure on my chest. “And don’t you dare think about stopping me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” she grinds out, pulling down on her shirt as she moves past me. “When you get the stick out of your ass, I’ll be back. And if you never do? Well, then I’ll find someone else to fix this because I sure as hell won’t ask you.” She pulls open the pocket door with an aggression that threatens to tear the wood from the hinges. She shudders at the sound of the wood rattling against the frame.
I watch her as she storms out, stomping across the shop and pulling the door open like it’s done her a personal injustice.
“Fucking hell,” I murmur, not for the first time tonight.
“That looks like it went well,” sounds from next to me, and I turn to see Aubrey watching Serena pull out of the parking lot in her piece of shit car.
“She’s fucking unreasonable. I asked her why she didn’t tell me that her tattoo was still infected, and she lost it.”
“Did you ask or demand? Because it’s a big difference, Wolf.”
“Same shit,” I mumble, knowing that my delivery probably wasn’t the greatest.
“Oh, Wolf. There is much to teach you.”
“Go schedule some clients, Aubrey. I don’t have time for this shit.” Her laughter follows me as I turn my back on her and walk into my private space, sliding the door shut behind me.
“What the fuck,” I say into the space, glancing down at the table Serena just occupied. I try not to reminisce on the smooth, golden skin that framed the infected tattoo or the fullness of her lips as she yelled at me for dictating to her, an accusation I strongly fucking disagree with.
What a goddamn shit show.
A knock on my door breaks me from my musings, and I turn to see Sloan sauntering in.
“Hey, boss, have a minute?” She doesn’t pause before continuing, “So, I was thinking, I can take the flying penises and transform them into a bunch of cool watercolor hot air balloons flying through the air. I think that if I pair it with some background—”
“No,” I cut her off. “I’m doing the tattoo.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m doing the cover-up,” I repeat, slowing down my words to cement their meaning.
I’m met with silence. Looking up, I see Sloan twisting her lips as though she’s debating if she should verbalize her next words.
“Just fucking say it.” I sigh, waiting for the accusation that I know is coming.
“Fine. If you knew you were just going to do it yourself, why would you bring me in in the first place? It seems unnecessary and kind of mean, boss.”
“I made the decision five minutes ago, Sloan. I’m not letting you put fucking hot air balloons on that woman’s body.”
“They would have been sick as fuck.”
“I’m sure, but you’re still not doing it.”
“Wet blanket,” Sloan mutters under her breath.
“Go before I fire you.”
“I’m your best artist; you’d never.”
Sighing, I don’t bother correcting her statement because she’s right; Sloan is my most versatile and consistent artist and can tattoo watercolor, new school, and American traditional as though she’s a founder of each technique. She must know that she’s got me by the dick because she turns and runs off, sliding the door closed behind her.
Glancing up at the clock, I note that it’s been thirty minutes since Serena left; she should be home by now. Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text before I’m able to second-guess it.
Wolf: You make it home okay?
It’s lame, but watching her walk out of my shop and drive with rage in her eyes is something I never want to fucking repeat. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down, smirking as I read Serena’s text.
Serena: Are you stalking me? I just walked through my apartment doors, and I have the sudden need to call a security guard or ADT.
Wolf: No, but I’m decent at math, so I figured you’d be home by now.
Bubbles appear on the screen before they fall away, and I curse myself for the words I said to her before she left. Long minutes pass without a reply, and I mentally say, Fuck it, and decide to double-text her.
Wolf: Listen, I’m sorry I pissed you off, but I need to fix the piece on your back. Why don’t you come in tomorrow so that I can see how we can incorporate a cover-up on your skin.
I bring my thumb up to my lip, biting on my nail as I wait for Serena’s reply.
Serena: Fine. But just so we’re clear, Sloan is doing my tattoo, correct?
I look past the question she asked, not willing to lie to her but also not willing to tell the truth and risk her saying, “Fuck you,” and never coming back to my shop. I settle on a happy, vague medium.
Wolf: Sounds good. See you tomorrow around eleven.
Serena: I have work until two. I can be there at three.
Three it is.