2. Julian
TWO
JULIAN
Ihate my job.
No, I guess that’s not fair. I love this fucking job. I’ve had shitty jobs; I’ve left shitty jobs. Right now, I have the best job in the world. I work in a popular tattoo shop with some cool fucking people. Most days my clients are amazing.
Then there are days like today.
Putting on a smile that will probably do fuck all to ease this woman’s anger, I try again. She’s perched on top of my table, blonde hair pulled into a messy bun. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her mouth is pinched.
Okay, let’s try this again.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear but I’m just saying—”
“Is it too difficult?”
I blink at her. Then blink at her again. My chest is starting to feel tight. I hate confrontation, it makes my skin vibrate. It’s weird to say, but that’s exactly what it feels like. It’s like my atoms are shaking at the thought of conflict.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Where the hell is Ian? Rude clients are his thing. He’s so unbothered, smooth, and deadpan in his delivery when people give him shit. He doesn’t give a fuck. I want a little slice of that.
Instead, I sit here with my lungs rattling.
Breathe.
“No.” I try again. This woman is testing my patience. “It’s not too difficult. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
Since I can feel her fucking eyes on us, I glance up and see Anna at her desk, black boots kicked up and resting on top of it.
She recently dyed her hair. It’s aqua blue, and how the hell it hasn’t fallen out of her head is a miracle.
She shakes her head and reaches for her nunchucks with a questioning look, but I shake my head subtly and focus back on the lady.
I’m mad at her right now anyway. Nearly slipped on one of the ducks she placed by my station floor, and almost took my eye out tripping over it.
Her obsession with these little ducks is odd.
I have no idea where it started, but she loves to leave them around my station for me to find.
She sits at her desk, not answering phones but coloring and painting them into weird-ass characters.
The one that nearly killed me this morning was painted to look like a nun.
She apologized. I accepted.
It doesn’t matter, I’ll get my revenge.
Anna gives me a look, pleading with me just to give her a reason to use them. I shake my head again.
“Well?!”
Right. This woman. I pull my eyes from Anna and look up at my client.
“I think an internet search engine isn’t the best way to translate tattoos.”
“Well, can’t you translate it?” She runs a pale hand through her blonde hair.
“Ma’am—”
“Please stop calling me ma’am,” she grits. “I’m probably younger than you are.”
Okay, ouch, but no. No, she is not. Not that she looks bad, she looks great for her age, which going by the birthdate on the waiver brings her to forty-two. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid to tattoo something you translated quickly online, it may be inaccurate.”
“How could it be inaccurate? It’s an internet engine.” She gives me an annoyed roll of her eyes as if I’m the idiot. This is another thing I hate, when someone’s in the wrong and then they act like you’re the asshole.
Lord fucking help me.
“Okay, well, here’s the deal.” I’m losing my patience.
I feel like I want to jump out of my skin, but it’s either deal with this myself or turn Anna loose on her.
She’s a horrible receptionist, but a kickass bodyguard.
“I don’t feel comfortable tattooing the design without knowing for sure that this means what you think it does.
” The last thing I need is someone to read it, have it be wildly wrong, and have my name attached to it.
There are designs I’ve done that I haven’t been crazy about.
Not bad, just not my taste, which is more than okay.
I’d never shame someone for a tattoo they wanted.
Poorly translated tattoos or ones with significant cultural meaning that are applied wrong, however .
. . I’m not doing that. Find another artist. I’m not attaching my name to it.
Her lips purse tight. “Well, I don’t know anyone who speaks Korean.”
“Hangul,” I correct. “And me neither.” Well, I guess I do, but I’m not bothering Elijah. He’s still in the process of moving down this way after transferring hospitals. He’s been back and forth for months now, and I know he’s tired of the commute.
The last thing he needs is for me to bother him.
I bother him for other things, but um . . . yeah. That won’t help her right now.
“I want this tattoo. It’s what we agreed on.”
No, what we agreed to was her getting a paragraph tattooed. That’s fine. Great even. When she came in today and translated it right in front of me in a language none of us in this shop speak, I put the brakes on real quick.
“I understand you’re frustrated. I just don’t want you to wear something and have it be wrong.”
“So you can’t do it?” She smirks as if she has me. As if my ego can’t handle that.
“Won’t. In theory I could. But I won’t.”
“Where is the owner, this is ridiculous? I paid already.” No, you paid the deposit on something completely different.
I can feel Anna’s eyes on us both without even looking. Anna is tiny, but she’s our guard dog, and I know she’s foaming at the mouth right now. The nunchucks she keeps at her desk are more of a scare tactic, but I know she’s dying to use them.
Ian and I want an environment that’s welcoming. We’re sick of all the stories about tattoo artists being dickheads; that’s not us. This is a pretty laid-back shop. All are welcome. It’s queer owned and run, and we do special events for Pride month too. It’s a great place to work.
Most days.
“I’ll refund the deposit no problem. I just don’t feel comfortable putting that on your body if it’s not accurate.
Or we can do something else. I’ll knock off some of the price.
” I am easygoing. Honestly, it’s Saturday, and I just want to fuck off and enjoy my damn weekend.
I mean, I have no plans, but that’s okay.
Doing nothing after how busy we’ve been is perfect.
Give me some movies, a couch, and my sketch book, and my weekend is booked.
Every year this shop grows more popular, which is amazing.
I’ve been here a little over six years now and it’s been the greatest experience of my life.
It’s an incredible and rare thing to make art for a living and be successful.
I’d been working a corporate nine-to-five job for years, and it made me so fucking miserable, but I’d always had a passion for art.
Then I met Ian.
He tattooed my ribs. I was a dumbass for choosing that for my first tattoo, and Ian had tried to talk me out of the placement, but I was set on it.
That was the start. Now most of my body is covered.
Well, except for my neck and most of my face.
The neck shit scares me, more than the Treasure tattoo above my eyebrow did.
That’s for my mom. She used to call me her treasure and I don’t know, seeing it in the mirror makes missing her a little less painful.
When she passed she left me some money. She wanted me to pursue my dreams, but it wasn’t until I started tattooing that I felt complete.
I felt like I was meant for this. I’d practiced on fake skin for a while, studying techniques and forming my own.
Eventually Ian offered me an apprenticeship.
I was determined to work my ass off, and for years he trained me with the kindness and patience I’ve come to love about him.
Ian’s a few years younger than me, but I look up to him.
He hustles, works his ass off. He almost works too hard.
He’s a little quiet, but once you get to know him he opens right up. He’s also an incredible artist.
And I may or may not be a little sort of possibly in love with him.
Which is insane because I know Ian doesn’t look at me that way.
He looks at no one that way. He’s still grieving a huge loss.
I didn’t know Maddox, but I heard about the accident when it happened.
Maddox was Ian’s boyfriend, and Anna’s best friend.
Neither of them talk about him much, but he’s everywhere in this shop, lingering like a shadow.
“No. I want this.” Her voice cuts through my thoughts.
Right. Tattoo.
“Well then, you’re going to have to get someone else do it.”
“Are you serious?”
“As having to piss in traffic.”
“It’s a fucking tattoo, why do you care? It’s my body.”
“Because I have fucking respect—” I take a breath.
My knee starts bouncing. I glance at Anna quickly.
“I have respect for artistry and other cultures. I don’t want my name attached to some poorly translated fucking song.
It would take no time at all for you to do actual research and get the correct translation.
Your job, mind you. Not mine. Instead, you showed up today and did this right in front of me.
It’s been months since your deposit, you had plenty of time.
You’re welcome to your deposit back, but you need to leave. ”
I take a breath. It feels like my blood is boiling under my skin. My lungs are too tight. An anxious hum buzzes beneath my skin. I swallow.
My brain is starting to shut down. Forming a single thought is becoming hard. I’m trying to keep it together.
I grew up with undiagnosed ADHD. I get frustrated and upset and I have a hard time regulating myself. I’m trying to rein it in. When I’m upset my brain gets this foggy feeling and it’s hard to think.
“Is it because I’m a woman? If I were a man—”