I barely have the time.
???
Still no Amos.
It’s been more than half an hour.
What an inconsiderate asshole.
Probably thinks the world revolves around him, selfish prick.
I relax my shoulders.
Stop hating the client, I tell myself.
I nudge my friend toward the door.
“Come on,” I say. “I'll show you the setup.”
He grabs a cloth and wipes his hands as he follows me out of the kitchen.
I don’t look back.
But I have the feeling that Deacon is watching us leave.
My team have been ready for almost an hour.
The space looks incredible.
Everything has been measured, positioned, and checked off the list.
I push a chair slightly closer to the wall, then step back.
“You’ve moved that three times,” Roz says.
I poke my tongue out at her.
All we need now is for this tardy prick to walk through the space and sign off.
If he ever bothers to show up.
I check my watch again.
Almost quarter to ten.
Porter elbows me gently.
“Quit stressing, okay? He’s an artist. They’re allergic to clocks.”
But this guy isn’t just any tattoo artist.
His work has been featured in international magazines.
He gets tagged in posts by people who get asked for autographs.
The opening of his studio is already creating a buzz online.
My company will be on the radar of an entirely new tier of clientele.
