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She’s a receptionist for a lawyer and while I work late nights, she’s done at five every day. It’s hard getting our schedules to match up.
Except for Sundays.
This is the only day that we have together, with our other best friend, Arya.
“Coffee is brewed in the kitchen. If you get your ass outta bed, I’ll gladly make you a cup,” she says, smiling.
I shake my head and climb out of bed. “It better be strong.”
“It is,” she sings, walking out of my room.
I grab my robe off the back of the door and groan when I see my reflection in the mirror. It looks like I was out drinking and fucking all night but that rarely happens anymore. I’m too busy running my tattoo shop. The hours are long, and the clientele list is even longer.
The success I’ve achieved in the last two years far exceeds my expectations. I’ve become one of the most sought-after artists and not just in New York, but in the country.
It’s mind-blowing and humbling. All the hard work I’ve put into this career has been so worth it. Even after two years of walking out of J.R. Watson’s shop, I still run into Corbin Stoll. That asshole has his shop around the corner from mine.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he did it on purpose. I was furious when I realized we were so close and even more livid when he started gaining success. He’s a douche and I’m surprised that he’s become as popular as he has. Not because he isn’t talented, but because his attitude fucking sucks.
“Leah,” Fay shouts from the kitchen.
I snap out of my thoughts and pad out toward her.
This apartment we rent is small. It’s New York, so not only is it small, it’s expensive. It only has three tiny bedrooms and one bathroom. There are three women in this place and one bathroom. It’s awful.
It might be small, but it’s cool, modern, and edgy. The walls have exposed brick from the old building. The floors are dark hardwood that carries throughout the entire apartment. There’s exposed ductwork and huge windows that give us a view that so many only wish for. The kitchen has black cabinets and gray cement countertops. It’s very industrial and I love it.
It’s the complete opposite of my shop which is bright, cheery, and very much reminiscent of the fifties. My favorite time. I should’ve been born in the fifties.
That’s why even with the industrial feel of this place, we have all the furniture from the fifties. A teal couch and love seat. A small yellow Formica table with metal legs and vinyl chairs. There are vinyl albums all over the walls and even a small jukebox in the corner I was lucky enough to find.
I love this tiny apartment.
“Here,” Fay says, passing me a cup of coffee.
“Thanks, doll,” I say, taking a sip.
“So, tell me about the tattoo you did last night,” she says, leaning against the counter.
I grin, wrapping my hands around my coffee. Her long red hair is in a high ponytail and her brown/green eyes seem greener today with the sage sundress she’s wearing. She’s a tattoo virgin. Perfectly untouched skin. She wants one and I’ve begged her to let me do it, but she’s too scared. So she lives vicariously through my clients.
As I tell her about the dragon tattoo I did, Arya, our other roommate, and best friend comes walking out of the bathroom.
“I used all the soap. Some asshole thought it would be a good idea to try doing a body shot off of me while I was standing,” she says, grabbing a mug out of the cabinet.
“Being a stripper has its downfalls,” Fay says, raising an eyebrow.
Fay hates that Arya strips but she makes great money.
It wasn’t like she came to New York hoping to dance around naked, but when you need to pay the bills, you do what you gotta do.
“It has its perks too,” Arya says, lifting a perfect eyebrow.
“Money or sex?” Fay asks.
I laugh as Arya shrugs, giving me a wink. She had sex. Probably mind-blowing, tilt the world on its axis, sex.
Bitch.
