Killian
The colors are all wrong.
There is a sallowness to the skin, the eyes aren’t a bright enough grey, the hair is a dull, lifeless brown. All of them, all fifteen of them, are all wrong. The shape of the eyes, the nose, the mouth is either too wide or too small, too red or not red enough.
I should’ve never attempted this exercise in futility.
I set the palette down a little more roughly than necessary and the remaining yellow paint on it splatters on my hand. My lip curls in frustration and I get off my stool, walking to the sink in my studio to wash my hands.
Wiping my hand on a dish towel, I turn to look out at the East River through the windows. I’m supposed to be at work soon, I have a client coming in at noon for her final sitting.
Tossing the dish towel on the counter, I walk out of my studio and down the hall to my room. Pulling on a black t-shirt, I grab my phone, wallet, and keys before taking the stairs down to the main floor of the apartment.
My phone buzzes just as I’m locking my door and Eve’s name appears on the screen. She’s my employee, but most importantly, she’s my friend. The first friend I made in New York.
“I’m on my way,” I answer.
“We need a receptionist,” Eve replies.
I sigh, taking the stairs to the exit. “I know.”
“Because if we had a receptionist, they could call you and tell you that your client is here,” Eve says.
“I know.”
“Because then I won’t have to leave my client waiting to entertain your client who wants to snoop around at your station.” She whispers the last part, probably so the client doesn’t hear it.
I push through the emergency exit door at the bottom of the stairs and pause.
It’s a bright morning and I suddenly regret staying up until 2:00am last night trying to paint.
Flowers bloom in the window baskets in the coffee shop next door to my building.
I don’t have time to stop in for a coffee like I usually do.
“What the hell is she looking for at my station?” I ask.
Leave it to me to have the weird clients.
“She’ll probably steal your tattoo gun and sell it on the black market,” Eve whispers.
“You’ve been reading too many crime novels again,” I tell her. “Bianca is not going to steal my equipment.”
“You say that now, wait till you have to buy a new gun,” Eve warns.
I tell her I’m on the way and to keep Bianca occupied if she’s so worried about her stealing anything. I don’t think Bianca is the stealing type, though she does hyper fixate on a lot of things. She’s having issues with her sister if her endless conversation about her is anything to go by.
People think of their tattoo artist as a therapist, or maybe it’s just me. They tell me about their lives while I work on their tattoos because they mistake my silence for me being a good listener. The truth is, I don’t want to talk to them and I’d rather they not talk to me.
I opened Black Ember Ink five years ago and the first person I hired was Eve since we’d apprenticed with the same artist. She lived two floors below me with her wife and usually, we walked to work together, except on the days she had an early client.
It was easy to get clients because I’d built a name for myself in the art world and a surprising number of those clients wanted tattoos.
The only rule I have is I never tattoo my own designs or art on anyone.
I can trust a piece of stretched canvas.
I can’t say the same about people. They can be cruel, twisted, a slave to their emotions and baser instincts. If that makes me pretentious, so be it.
Eve does all the designs, and we briefly had an artist working for us who was also our receptionist, until she told me she loved me, and I had Eve fire her. Things were starting to get uncomfortable, and she looked at me with hearts in her eyes every time I walked by.
The shop is only three blocks away, so it doesn’t take long for me to get there. I walk in, and Eve turns to me, raising a perfectly arched black eyebrow that has a silver barbell through it.
“I’m putting an ad out for a receptionist today,” she says, walking back to her station.
I shake my head, turning to Bianca. She’s dressed in all white, like always, but she’s left her blonde hair open.
“You’re early,” I say.
I lead her back to my station and start to set it up.
“I know! I didn’t go to yoga today since I found out through a mutual friend that my sister was going to be in class and since we’re still not speaking, I figured I’ll skip today.”
Reaching for a towel, I hand it to her and keep my back to her while she undresses. The tattoo is on her back and we’re just filling in the colors today.
I only turn when I see her leg in my peripheral vision, and I know she’s situated on my chair. She keeps the towel pressed between her chest and the back of the chair.
“I’m sorry if I talk too much,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “I’ve had a lot of coffee. Also, I don’t think Eve likes me. She was watching me the whole time I was waiting. Although, I shouldn’t have insisted on being back here without you because she didn’t seem to like that.”
“Clients aren’t allowed back here without one of us,” I remind her.
“No, I know. But I was getting antsy waiting for you,” she says with a soft giggle.
I pull on my gloves. The snap of the latex against my skin makes Bianca jump slightly.
“Ready?” I confirm.
“Yep.”
The weight and buzz of my tattoo gun in my hand eases any lingering dissatisfaction from not being able to paint. It makes me feel like less of a hack.
I had three more clients after Bianca and once Eve locks the door, I set about sterilizing my station for the night. Like any good tattoo artist, I sterilize my station between clients and at the end of the day.
“Lil is asking if you want to come over for dinner,” Eve says, leaning against the wall which separates our stations.
“Tell her thanks, but I’m busy.”
Invitations to have dinner with Eve and her wife, Lilith, come frequently. I usually take them up on their offer because it gives me the opportunity to get out of the apartment. Also, because I’m worried if I don’t go to them, they will come to me.
I don’t like anyone in my personal space, and no one is ever allowed over. No one.
“She also wanted to know what it is you do up there all night,” Eve says, watching me wipe down my chair. “Sometimes we’re out walking late at night and your lights are still on.”
I give her a weird look. “What are you doing looking at my windows?”
She shrugs, crossing her tattooed arms. “I want to know if someday I’m going to be interviewed for a documentary about you because I never knew you were a sick serial killer.”
“For both our sanities, please stop watching true crime documentaries. I’m not a serial killer.”
She narrows her brown eyes. “That’s what a serial killer would say.”
I toss used wipes in the trash. “Serial killers are also known charmers. The fact I’m banned from five bars in DUMBO should tell you I can’t charm my way out of shit.”
“Not even your pretty face or that fancy law school education helps you any,” Eve says, finally cracking a smile.
“That fancy law school education helps us run a tight ship around here,” I say.
Not that I use it beyond drafting the agreement and waiver we have clients’ sign. In another life, I would have been in San Francisco, I would have made partner, found the perfect wife to nullify my parents' need to preserve the sanctity of the family name.
Thank fuck I had the balls to leave.
We lock up and walk back to our building. There’s a vibrant energy in the neighborhood, loud music coming from bars, people laughing and talking with no inhibitions. It’s the reason why I always keep my windows closed and music loud.
“Tell me honestly, if we live until we’re ninety, will we come up one day and find you dead on your couch with your hand under your pants and some game show on?” Eve asks.
Her words make me stumble. “The workings of your mind astound me. I don’t know how Lilith puts up with you.”
“It’s not hard. I’m very lovable.”
I grunt in response. I love her because I’ve gotten used to having her around. Our friendship is a habit I’ve developed over time. Though I doubt that’s why Lilith loves her.
We part ways when we get to our building and Eve gets off the elevator on the fifth floor while I go to the eighth.
As I enter the apartment, I’m debating whether I want to make dinner or order takeout while I sit in front of my canvas and try to paint.
The entrance hallway is dark and the only light coming in is from the large windows and the lights above the kitchen counter.
But somehow, I still manage to stumble over the suitcase left haphazardly in the middle of the entrance hallway because I’m surprised by the naked woman standing in my kitchen.