5. Lila
FIVE
Lila
“Your shop is nice,” I said, stepping into the cramped office Harrison led me to. The walls were covered with tattoo sketches, framed art, and shelves holding everything from ink bottles to strange knickknacks. His desk looked more like an artist’s den than a place to handle business. Organized chaos, much like Harrison himself.
“It’s a mess. You don’t have to be nice.” He brushed past me to sit at the small, battered metal table in the corner of the room. It looked like it had been dragged out of a thrift store; one leg was shorter than the others, a book wedged underneath to compensate.
“Is this it?” I eyed the ancient desktop that sat atop the table. It looked like the prototype Steve Jobs himself created.
Harrison ran a hand along his jaw and stared at it. “I have a laptop at home. I just didn’t want to leave a nice computer in here. There was a break-in down the block a few months back. Nothing serious, but I don’t want to deal with replacing anything expensive.”
The monitor came to life with a loud whirring sound.
“That’s what insurance is for. Besides, this thing is ancient. You should probably upgrade to something from this century.” I tapped the top of the machine. The heat caught me off guard and I snatched my hand away. “This thing is more likely to catch fire and burn your shop to the ground than it is to send an email in a timely fashion.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up and I felt a surge of pride that I’d almost made him smile.
“I’ll look into it,” was all he said.
“May I?” I gestured to the chair in front of the computer.
“Be my guest.” He pulled out the chair and I slid into the worn seat.
A loud buzzing sound rang from the computer while it booted up. I eyed Harrison when the vibrations grew so intense that the metal desk began to rattle.
“I’ll look into it,” he repeated, rubbing the back of his neck. His chin-length dark hair fell forward. He often wore it pulled back into a small bun, but I liked it down. It made him look less intense, somehow. Or maybe his new hint of approachableness was a result of the uncertainty behind his eyes. Harrison never looked uncertain.
When the browser finally loaded, the site used to host his website was already pulled up. An angry red error message popped up. I clicked into it to investigate.
“Yeah, it’s been doing that all week. I tried chatting with the support team, but it was useless.”
“It looks easy enough,” I said, clicking around.
“Really? Because it’s been giving me a hell of a time.” His voice held a hint of doubt, but it was overshadowed by his obvious hope.
I typed something into a box before copying and pasting a new link. Harrison braced his hands on the edge of the metal table, leaning closer to the screen to get a better look at what I was doing. Tension coiled in my stomach and my heart rate shot up. I made a few typos, rushing to delete them and correct my mistakes.
“One of your page references was broken,” I said, purposefully steadying my voice. “That’s all the error was saying. I just reconnected it and refreshed the page. Let me just hit publish and... there.” I pointed to the screen. “It’s back up.”
“Seriously?” He looked from the screen to me. “Damn, that was fast.”
Pride coursed through my veins.
“Told you I could help.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off my comment, but he maintained eye contact, and not in that menacing way he usually did.
“Thank you,” he said.
The sincerity in his voice melted right into my chest. It made me want to lean in even closer. Damn. Why was him saying the bare minimum so ridiculously attractive? And what did it say about me that I had a crush on a guy who made me work so hard for the tiniest scrap of approval?
Not a crush, I reminded myself for the hundredth time. I’d have to bring this up in therapy.
“You’re welcome.” My voice came out like a squeak, and I tried not to wince when he tilted his head in amusement.
One of those old swivel stools sat untouched in the back corner of the room. Harrison went over to grab it before scooching it right up next to me and straddling the seat.
“What do you think of the rest of the site?” he asked with his eyes trained on the website that I was now scrolling through.
“Honestly?”
“Give it to me straight.”
I smiled and turned toward him, momentarily forgetting that there had ever been a time when he’d seemingly disliked me.
“It’s a little dark,” I said.
He let out a loud sigh. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Because it’s true,” I insisted, pointing to the homepage that looked like it could be a tour announcement for an old death metal band.
Harrison pinched my bright pink blouse between his fingers and held it up as if to show me. “Be objective. I own a tattoo shop. I can’t just make everything pink and call it a day. Think about my target market.”
“I obviously know that. Don’t insult my marketing capabilities.” The skin underneath where he’d just touched my shirt felt branded. I was acutely aware of it even though his hands now rested on the table. “First off, you’re trying to attract a wider market, no?”
He ran a hand over his face. “I guess. But?—”
“And even for your current target market, there is such a thing as too dark. I mean, come on, Harrison. Dark gray font over an almost-black background? Who do you expect to be able to read this?”
He squinted at the screen. “I can read it.”
“Because it’s easy for you to read, or because you typed every word yourself and you already know what it says?” I challenged him. “And this font. Did you just select the first choice and run with it?”
“It looks fine.”
“It’s Times New Roman. Of course it’s fine, but it’s also a hundred years old. Here.” I clicked around as Harrison angled himself closer so he could see every change I made. The deep furrows between his brows warned me he was ready to object if the cursor even hovered near a shade resembling pink. Instead, I updated the header font to a blockier choice, with a different one in the same family for the paragraph text. I left the background dark, but changed the font to a light gray that was about as close to white as you could get without being too stark.
“See? Isn’t that better already?”
He shrugged stubbornly. “Doesn’t look that different.”
I smiled and swatted his shoulder. “You’re a liar.”
“Fine. It looks better. Thank you.”
Something flickered across his face that I couldn’t quite place—but it looked like intrigue. A lock of my hair fell forward and I tucked it behind my ear, brushing past the piercings that lined my lobe. His eyes lingered there, and I could practically see the judgment forming. He probably thought I got them done at some cheesy teen store or something.
“I didn’t get them pierced at the mall, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said, unable to keep my mouth shut.
He blinked a few times, looking guilty. “Why so many?”
“Because despite what anyone else thinks, I like them,” I said simply, not caring to get into the story of how my ex made me take out my first piercings in high school because he said they looked “trashy.”
“I like them too.” Harrison studied me but didn’t say anything more. The air felt heavier in the room. Part of me wanted to make an excuse and get the hell out of there, but I forced myself to push through.
“What about this section?” I pulled up the “about me” page that was painfully bare.
“What about it?”
“It’s just a picture of you with your name and how long you’ve been tattooing. It’s basically empty.”
He just stared at it before returning his gaze to me. “Right. About me.”
A small laugh escaped my throat at his seriousness. “You can’t include one singular personal detail? Getting a tattoo is personal. Some people want to know something about the artist who will be etching something permanent into their skin.” I poised myself at the keyboard, ready to type. “How did you get into tattooing in the first place?”
His eyes scanned my face. My skin grew hot under his stare, and I shifted in my seat to break the tension.
“Um, hello?” I said, hoping on everything that my cheeks weren’t as bright red as they felt. “Earth to Harrison. I asked you a question.”
“How I got into tattooing?” He blinked a few times before repeating my words. “Why would anyone care?”
“It’s interesting. Plus, I care, you dummy. I’m genuinely asking you.”
His leg bent slightly under the table as if he were stretching it out. It bumped my knee, and he moved it so swiftly I was almost convinced I had imagined the contact.
“Um, like everyone does, I guess. I had an apprenticeship. Just some divey shop downtown.”
“What does an apprenticeship entail? Like, you draw tattoos and learn how to use the little guns?”
The corner of his lip curled up. “Yes, I eventually learned how to use the little guns .” He looked at me the same way one might look at a puppy—mild amusement, perhaps he even found me slightly adorable. While my first instinct was to bask in the glow of not being outright disliked, the harsh reality hit me straight in the gut that adorable was certainly not Harrison’s type.
“Apprenticeship is code for shop bitch,” he continued. “I cleaned everything and ran errands. I was basically a glorified assistant.”
“But you got to learn.”
“Exactly.”
“You must have liked art before then, right? I mean, I’m assuming you don’t get into tattooing unless you have some sort of inclination toward drawing.”
I had tried to connect with Harrison in the past about our possible shared interest. I had been doodling in sketchbooks for as long as I could remember, long before going into graphic design. But the last time I’d asked him if he liked to draw, he’d looked like he wanted to bite my head off and called graphic design a pointless waste of potential. I hadn’t revisited the subject with him since.
“I guess,” was all he said. Funnily enough, those two words were a notable improvement.
“I’ve always loved to draw,” I offered. I wasn’t sure why I was being so generous with my conversation, especially since he hadn’t given me any reason to be. “My parents begged me not to get an art degree, though. That’s why I went the digital route instead and went into graphic design. Honestly, at first I thought I’d be disappointed, but I ended up falling in love with it. I guess I have more of a business acumen than I originally thought, because every marketing problem or branding misstep feels like a fun challenge.” His blank stare sent my self-consciousness into overdrive, so I ducked my head. “Probably sounds stupid. I know it’s nothing like tattooing.”
The tendon in his jaw pulsed a little, like he was trying to work through something. He ran both hands over his black jeans before finally breaking eye contact.
“I wasn’t going to say it sounds stupid. Maybe a little trivial, but...” His words trailed off, but they had done their job. I straightened up and frowned. That’s what I got for letting my guard down around him. He’d never change.
“Right, of course. Nothing could compare artistically to jabbing a needle into some drunk biker’s forearm. What you do is truly on another level.” I let hostility coat my words, letting him know just how irritated I was that he had to turn a civil, almost friendly, moment into another cheap shot at me.
His lips parted and I swore I saw something that looked like remorse in his eyes. But he blinked and it was gone, replaced by a smirk. “You know, you should come by sometime. Get yourself a tattoo. I can be your first.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I said. “I’d rather go somewhere a little less condescending.”
“So, you do want a tattoo,” he pressed.
“Maybe I do. It’s none of your business.”
“Where would you get it?” His eyes roamed over my body.
My face was probably a shade of scarlet at this point. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“A tramp stamp, right?”
My lips parted at the tactless phrase. “A lower back tattoo is just that, Harrison. A tattoo on someone’s back. I can’t believe that you’d use that kind of sexist language as a tattoo artist. No wonder your business is struggling. No woman in her right mind would come in here.”
Anger flared in his eyes at that, confirming that I’d prodded at a sensitive spot.
“With all those dates you go on, a tramp stamp would be a pretty fitting placement,” he muttered.
My ears rang. “That’s it.” The chair screeched against the floor as I stood up sharply, sending it backward.
He inhaled sharply and tried to grab my wrist. “Wait?—”
“Don’t touch me.” I yanked my arm away and glared down at him. “And good luck with your website. Honestly, I hope it’s a bitch to figure out.”
His footsteps hurried behind me as I pushed the door to the office open and stormed back out into the shop. Shane looked up from his phone, eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“I’m sorry—” Harrison tried to say.
“No, you’re not.”
“That was too far. It was a dumb joke.”
“I know,” I spat, turning around just so he could see how completely and utterly pissed I was. “But it’s my fault. I was stupid for coming here in the first place. Everything about me is a joke to you, and that will never change. I shouldn’t have wasted my time.”
“Lila—”
“Bye.” I glared at him before spinning around and getting out of that shop as fast as my feet would carry me.
“Fuck,” I heard him mutter behind me, right as the door slammed shut.
Oliver was a dead man for sending me here, and I intended to tell him so. This whole charade had been some kind of weird, twisted plan to get Harrison and me to get along, but it had been an epic failure. Harrison would never like me, and I was done trying.
A biker came zooming down the sidewalk, forcing me to step aside and interrupting my rage-fueled walk home. Hot tears welled up at the corners of my eyes, and I cursed myself for letting someone who cared so little about me affect me. I swiped at them and continued on my way, eager to put as much distance between this shop and me as possible.
And as for this little surprise trip we’d all be taking in a couple weeks, Oliver would just have to live with the fact that we wouldn’t all be sitting around a bonfire singing kumbaya together. Of course I’d put on my best smile for Charlie’s sake, but I wouldn’t say two words to Harrison if I could help it. Maybe I couldn’t ignore him completely on a trip with only five other people, but I could certainly limit our interactions.
Harrison would not get the best of me, and he certainly wouldn’t be getting even a second more of my precious time. As long as it were up to me, I’d avoid him like the plague he was.