19. Wolf
I watch Serena glide through my shop before perching on a chair. Though I may call her that stupid name of “princess,” she looks more like a dejected queen overseeing a kingdom. It doesn’t take long for Aubrey to spot her, and I settle, comfortable that my closest friend is taking care of the woman who’s blindsided me.
I run through the words she shouted into her phone, and fuck if her frustration and anger don’t make my chest physically hurt. Based on my interactions with Serena, I’ve seen her chameleon personality: shy and quiet, feisty and passionate, angry and explosive. It’s not mood swings but how she reacts to situations and processes them. I don’t know much about her family life, but I think back to the warning Dante gave me and the insinuation that people have hurt her; it pisses me off more than any cheap shot black eye from Gage.
“She’s cute.” Trent’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I grunt, not giving him any ammunition. “Isn’t that Celeste’s friend?”
Another grunt confirms his question.
“Okay, you silent fucker, I see that you’re being a little gremlin about this shit. If that’s Celeste’s friend, then Sloan is doing her back piece. But Sloan’s not here, so want to tell me what’s going on with you that has you ready to bite everyone’s fucking head off? Because if it’s a matter of needing to get laid, I know a few of Aubrey’s friends that will volunteer as tribute.”
“Stop with your Hunger Games references.” Trent may be a dipshit, but he’s a dystopian movie and book fanatic. It doesn’t matter when it was made, Trent has consumed it and then memorialized it on his body. For 1984, he has the eyes of Big Brother; for Brave New World, he has tiny pills meant to represent soma, the “happy pills” in the book. He has the Mockingjay tattoo, a silhouette of a red robe for TheHandmaid’s Tale, divisions from Divergent, and a mask from The Purge. He’s a walking conglomerate of symbolism, but his reference does nothing but annoy me. “I don’t need to get laid.” A lie.
“Fine. Back to the other question. If Sloan is doing the tattoo, why is she here?” He nods toward Serena.
“Because Sloan isn’t doing her tattoo.”
“You’re mumbling. Say that one more time.”
I look over at him and see the shit-eating grin on his face. It takes a lot of willpower not to jab him in the nose. “Asshole. You heard what I said.”
“I fucking knew it. Sloan owes me twenty bucks; I told her you’d never let her touch Serena.”
“She wanted to put hot air balloons,” I offer by way of an explanation, as though a design that I don’t like is the reason why I don’t want Sloan handling the cover-up.
“Which sounds cool as fuck, especially with her watercolor designs. I don’t think anyone would complain about art by Sloan.”
“She’s not putting hot air balloons on Serena’s back. Does she fucking look like the type of person who would want flying balloons all over their back? She’s butterflies and rainbows and flowers, not The QuickChek New Jersey Festival of Ballooning.”
Trent rolls his eyes at me. “You sound like an idiot. Did you even ask her what she wanted, or did you just decide?”
I glower at him, not correcting his assumption because he’s right, and we both know it. “I’m doing the tattoo, and I’m giving her something that she’ll love.”
Trent just laughs, clapping me on the back before walking to the front of the shop, where Aubrey and Serena sit with glasses partially filled with brown liquid. I squint my eyes, trying to identify the liquid sloshing around in the glass; I wouldn’t be surprised if Aubrey poured my O.F.C Vintage 1994 Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey into each of those glasses. Never mind that the bottle costs over six thousand dollars and I receive it each year from one of my high-profile clients as a Christmas gift, but I’m acutely aware that Serena needs to drive home, is underaged, and drinking in the front of my shop, on display for everyone to see.
I take in the expression on her face; she looks like she’s grimacing, though whether it’s from the taste of the expensive alcohol or Aubrey’s words is anyone’s guess.
I should go over there, take the glass from her hand, and force her to wait for me in solitude. I watch as Serena takes a small sip, coughs, and puts the drink down on the side table next to where she’s seated. She says something that has both Aubrey and Trent laughing before Trent takes the glass Serena just put down and tilts it to his lips. I can tell from here that he’s savoring the flavor and has no designs to give the glass back, which is both a relief and annoying.
“Fuckers,” I mumble under my breath and turn to the large photocopier I keep in an alcove in the back of the shop. I have another printer in my room, but it’s smaller, and I need something that will capture the entire sheet. Scanning the paper, I make several copies so that I can play around with the design I’m envisioning. The paper maps out the dimensions of her back and the placement of the supposed “butterflies,” and though I did a rough placement of the image I have in my head, it’s light enough that I can rework the art to better fit the shape of her back.
Taking in the stem and the petals on the flower I drafted, I pick apart the areas where I can add or change elements to make it a better-looking, sexier piece. I know I want to follow the curve of her spine while simultaneously camouflaging the preexisting artwork. She loves butterflies, evidenced by the small script tattoo I drew on her and her latest request. I’ll incorporate them, somehow, so that she has at least a semblance of what she initially wanted.
Turning off the copier, I run back into my room and deposit the original drawing and two of the copies on my desk, stuffing the rest of the prints into a folder and putting them in my leather motor bag. Placing the bag on my stool, I start to sanitize all surfaces and prep for my first client tomorrow. I keep all my equipment in their places and cases, but I take out the plastic coverings, paper towels, and squirt bottle and place them on the tray beside my station. I do a final wipe down of the counters before grabbing the trash bag in the waste basket and tying up the ends to place it just inside the door of the room.
A cleaning company comes each night to clean the general areas, vacuum, mop, and replenish the refreshment station at the front of the shop. Though we have them, I maintain a clean space and mandate that all my artists aren’t assholes who take advantage of the team that comes in after closing. That means they must sanitize their stations, clean up their shit, and tie off their trash bags before they leave the shop. I’m no exception; I follow the same rules I set for the people I employ.
Casting a glance, I make sure that my space is together before I shut the light and walk through the door. Be it fate, God, or the fucking universe, this is one of the few nights I have free from both the gym and clients. After Serena left last night, I went to the gym and did a few late-night rounds with Jedd, a standard for Friday evenings, even though my MMA career has dwindled to just one more fight in three weeks. This morning, I helped him by being the fuckwit’s sparring partner to help Jedd address issues with Gage’s form. At the end of the session, he got stupid and hit me in the eye when I dropped the focus pads.
Kelly, who has become a permanent fixture at these sessions, let out a horrified gasp as though the under-two-hundred-pound piece of shit could do real damage to me. My eye looks worse than it is and should heal within the next few days. However, my anger and annoyance at Gage are omnipresent; they aren’t going away any time soon.
Approaching Trent, Aubrey, and Serena, I catch the tail end of Serena’s words.
“… they’ve always been important to me; they symbolize growth and change, beauty and freedom, luck and perseverance. I’ve always loved them.”
“I hate that they messed it up for you. I should report them to the Better Business Bureau.”
Serena shrugs, looking at her hands as she answers. “It doesn’t matter; I knew better than to go into that shop and had a horrible feeling the moment the artist started. I didn’t stop it when I saw the sketch, nor did I stop it the minute he put his tattoo gun on my back and started digging into my skin. I have a lot of regrets, but they’re self-imposed. I doubt reporting them is going to do anything.”
“Serena, you ready to head out?” I cut in, halting the path of this conversation. I can see she’s uncomfortable; her body language is closed off, and she’s refusing to make eye contact, telling me that she’s both embarrassed and upset. Her emotions seep into the atmosphere, and I need her out of here before I do something stupid, like grab her in front of everyone in here and try to console her.
She nods her head and offers a small wave to Aubrey and Trent. “It was great seeing you both again. Aubrey, should I schedule something with Sloan now or…?” She lets her voice trail off, leaving the question open.
Aubrey’s eyes widen, and she looks at me before responding, “Uhm—”
“Let’s wait until you’re fully healed, then we’ll put you in the books. Okay?” I cut in again, raising an eyebrow at Aubrey and Trent. Neither one of them says anything, but both have wary expressions on their faces.
“Of course. Well…” She pauses, standing and wiping imaginary dust from her body. “I’ll see you guys.”
She starts to walk to the door, but I lightly grab her forearm, stilling her movement. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
She nods, still not looking at my face. “I’m fine, I promise.”
I survey her, taking in how closed off her body language reads. “Okay. Send me a text or call to let me know you made it home safe.”
She looks up, offering a tight smile, before she walks to the door and slips outside. My eyes trail her form as she makes her way to her car, and part of me wants to follow her home. Stealing myself against emotions I don’t want to name, I turn from the wall of windows, trying to expel all thoughts of Serena and her outburst from my mind.