Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Emily
“Iwant to get my piercing changed.”
Great. A customer with an attitude an hour before closing time. The perfect end to an otherwise great day.
“Oh, I’m…not sure that’s a service we offer,” I say, smiling apologetically. I mean, they've never mentioned doing any kinds of piercings, and I haven't booked anyone in for one before. Surely they'd have told me about it during training. “I’m not sure where to recomm – ”
“I had this done here, so I think you do,” he says rudely, glaring at me.
“Oh…I’m…sorry,” I stammer, “I’m new, I’ll…
” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll check,” I say quietly, picking up the phone and dialling Sadie’s extension with fingers that are starting to shake.
Sadie’s perfectly capable, but I get the definite impression he’d respond better to someone with a penis; unfortunately, Leo’s out, and Eli and Dean are occupied.
He’s not Gav…he’s just a little moody because his piercing hurts… you’re fine…you can handle this...
“Yeah, you do that,” he snaps, placing both hands on the counter in front of me, closer than I’d like, and huffing impatiently.
“And I’m not too happy that it’s become infected already.
Wouldn’t be surprised if you used a dirty needle.
Fucking disgusting.” I flinch at the accusation more than the swearing.
Using unhygienic equipment is something I know we’d never, ever do, under any circumstances, and we can’t have him badmouthing us around town.
The phone rings, and I seriously hope that I’m wrong and that we can sort this out for him. I really don’t fancy telling him ‘no’ again.
“S’up, babygirl?” Sadie says on the end of the line.
“Hi, we, ah, have a gentleman here who wants his nose piercing changed,” I say quickly, feeling my pulse starting to race and my head start to feel a little lighter with panic, “and he says we did the original piercing, so – ”
“No, we don’t do that,” Sadie says, confirming my worst suspicions, “we’ve never done that, so he must be mistaken.”
“We don’t,” I repeat, my guts sinking, “OK, thanks, Sadie.”
“No worries,” she says, and ends the call. I want to call her back and plead with her to come through, and not to leave me alone with this man. The thought makes me feel low and pathetic. This is my job. I need to handle this. I need to be a grown-up, not a feeble little child.
I turn to him and quietly take a steadying breath. It doesn’t work. “I’m-I’m sorry, sir,” I say quietly, trying not to let my voice tremble, “we don’t offer any services connected with piercings – ”
“You bloody do,” he barks at me, “because I had this done right here two months ago, so try again. Stop trying to weasel out of it and sort your fuck-up.”
Fuck-up.
My stomach clenches as the memories assault me.
God, you really can’t do anything without fucking it right up, can you, like, not a single thing, a familiar masculine voice sneers nastily in my head, and my throat clenches in remembrance.
I’m hot. I’m too hot. It’s stifling in here out of nowhere.
My skin is too hot. Need air. Open a window. AIR.
No. Focus.
“I’m…I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve been open for a few years now, a-and I’ve just been told we don’t do – ”
“Are you fucking calling me a liar?” He nearly roars the words, and I cringe, pushing away from the counter.
The door opens, and another guy, a friendly looking Jim Halpert of a man with vaguely familiar eyes, walks in.
They're like night and day. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he continues, clearly stewing up and whirling on the new customer, “I’m being called a liar. ”
“N-no, no, please,” I beg him, because I really don’t want him levelling that accusation at me, even though I am basically telling him he’s wrong.
His eyes are dark and livid, and his anger is escalating.
I know the signs too well. De-escalate NOW, calm him down, quick…
“I just…I…” Oh god, my mind is going blank.
I can’t handle this. I’m out of practice.
I never thought I’d have to do it again.
Icy cold fear spreads through my gut, and my eyes aren’t working properly.
I’m dizzy. I’m blurry. I can’t inflate my lungs all the way.
My throat is too tight for me to be able to swallow anymore.
“I just, uhhhhh, uhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he mocks me viciously, slacking his jaw, and a little of his spit flicks onto my face. I freeze. “Get me your manager, now. NOW.” He yells the last word, and I flinch and cringe again.
I knew this would happen. I knew something would happen and I would show myself up for the useless waste of life I am and crumble under any sort of pressure. I want to go home. I want to be in my bedroom, alone, under the covers, where nothing can hurt me.
“Hang on a minute, mate,” the other customer starts to say in a calm tone, his hands up in a placatory gesture, and then I hear Sadie’s voice as if from a long way away, but she’s just by the door to the studios, which is a long way if you have jelly legs, I guess.
All I can do is gulp and clear my leaping throat and whimper.
“What’s going on?” she says sternly, and I can see that she’s frowning a little, and I try so hard to breathe and to find words to tell her what’s going on, but I....
“Finally! Are you the manager?” Angry Man demands.
I can’t do this.
“Can I help you?” Sadie says frostily, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes, steady as a rock, clearly unimpressed by Angry Man’s tone.
I wish more than anything I could be her, and be unafraid, and stand up to him like a pro.
Instead, I’m stuck being me. Jellyfish, lily livered, stupid, useless me.
“Yes,” he snarls, and points at me. “This stupid bitch called me a liar, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it! AND the piercing you gave me is fucking infected…”
Like the coward I am, I cut and run, ditching Sadie to deal with this client on her own. A horrible thing to do.
Yeah, go on, Em, Gav’s voice drawls through my brain, run off and leave someone else to clear up your mess, that’s what you do best, isn’t it, isn’t it, you useless, selfish…
My legs are numb and shaking and then I’m in the kitchen and I can’t breathe through my throat because it’s closing up and I’m burning hot and everything is too close to me and too loud and I can hear him still yelling at Sadie and I want to go home and I want my mother but she’s dead and I can’t breathe I CAN’T brEATHE
Eli
BAM BAM BAM
I stop drawing small designs for next week’s walk-in tattoo promotional offer and rush to my door to see what the problem is.
Dean was about to slap my door again when I opened it. “What’s up, what – ”
His face is hard, eyes looking angry and worried, and he points at the kitchen next door. I walk over, and I hear her before I reach the doorway. “Hgggggggghhhh…”
Emily is holding onto the counter, her knuckles white, and she’s knocked a glass of water over the work surface.
It’s dripping onto the floor. She’s leaning forward and seems to be struggling to breathe, frantically dragging air through her lungs in desperate, shallow huffs.
Her eyes are wild, and tears are streaming down her face.
I can see her legs shaking; they don’t look like they’ll hold her up much longer.
I rush over to her and take her hands, which are clammy and cold, and place them on my shoulders.
“Emily?” She struggles for control, but she’s too far gone.
I know what’s up. I’ve dealt with this with Dean more times than I can count.
The urge to hold her and protect her floods through me even harder than normal.
“Panic attack?” I ask. I’ve found it’s better to keep questions as brief as possible when Dean is struggling.
She manages to nod, just barely, and I go into calming mode.
I know the drill. I just want to destroy whatever has frightened her, wipe it from this earth so she never has to deal with it ever again, but first things first.
Her hands are clutching at my sleeves, biting a little into my skin with a death grip like I’m all that’s keeping her alive right now.
I ignore the pinching pain and speak in a low, clear, calm voice, holding her wrists gently but firmly.
“Emily, look at me. Look at my face.” She’s staring unseeing at my chest. “Tilt your chin up just a little bit and look at my face.” After a couple of squeaky pants, she lifts her gaze up to my chin.
“Good,” I say quietly, “now look at my eyes.” She swallows tightly, as though it hurts, and lifts her eyes to mine, and I see a world of pain and terror that shocks me to my core.
“That’s real good,” I murmur calmly, “now, keep looking into my eyes - no, keep looking,” I gently encourage as her eyes dart about all over the kitchen in a panic, “and breathe with me.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Dean set the tipped drinking glass upright and then leave the room.
He doesn’t like an audience when he’s having a meltdown, and I guess he’s satisfied that I’ve got this. And I do.
“Breathe with me,” I say again slowly, and take a deep, slow inhale through my nose.
She clutches tighter onto my sleeves, not breathing in or out. “I can’t,” she croaks, sounding strangled, trembling as more tears spill over her face.