Page 105 of Possessive Ink

“Okay,” she says, and then I’m forced to walk away, exiting the store and heading to my car.

It’s only seven thirty-five a.m. by the time I get to the studio, and my first client isn’t due to arrive until ten a.m. I could have gone home instead of coming here, but honestly, the thought of sitting in the loft and simply waiting isn’t appealing to me. The metal shutters are down over the front of the store, but I use my keys and roll them up, unlocking the door and stepping into the dark studio.

Using my flashlight, I quickly locate the light switches and turn them on, then I make the most of having the place to myself and have a look around. The one and only time I’ve been here before yesterday was when I met with Betty to discuss the idea of me having a chair here. At the time, the shop had still been in a state of construction. Now, as I wander into the breakroom, then over to the private workspaces, I’m amazed at how well the space flows and how well thought out each area has been. Most tattoo studios feel like they’ve been shoehorned into tiny buildings that aren’t fit for the purpose, but even if I didn’t already know, this place feels like it was designed with usability in mind.

The private studio spaces are big without being echoey, and the break room is comfortable and doesn’t feel like it used to be a damp storage room. The main raised stage is deceptively large, much bigger than it feels when you step through the door.

Filling the machine with coffee, I switch it on, then head back to my car to grab my stuff. Yesterday when I stocked my station, I didn’t bring my machine or my sketches. I’ve learned the hard way in the past that artists can be cutthroat and dishonest. I’ve had more than one design stolen and ripped off, so I never store my sketch pads at any studio, although I mainly use a drawing tablet and digital pen these days.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I carry it back to my station and sit on my couch, pulling my tablet out of my bag and bringing the screen to life. Clicking into my schedule for the day, I pull up the sketches for my first client and start to assess the design, making minute changes here and there. For the next couple of hours, I work through all the designs for my day’s clients before I browse through some newer commissions I’m considering.

While I work, my thoughts keep drifting back to Lemon, but I refuse to text her just yet. When the buzzer above the door sounds, I’m just perfecting a detail on a design, so it takes me a moment to look up.

“Holy fuck, you’re Atticus Hoffman,” a guy says, slapping excitedly at the arm of the guy standing beside him.

“And you are?” I ask, keeping my tone cool. I’ve had mixed experiences with other tattoo artists. Some, like Betty, Octy, and Suede, are talented artists and decent human beings. Others, like the guy who owned the studio I’d been working out of in New York, are self-absorbed assholes.

“I’m Brooks. This is Sully. Fuck, man, I’m a huge fan of your work.”

“You work here?” I question, probably sounding like an asshole, but honestly not really caring.

“Yeah, we’re both fairly new, but we’re doing okay,” the bigger guy says.

“Nice to meet you both.”

“You too. Fuck. Sorry, man, I’m fucking fangirling here,” Brooks says, flicking his shaggy blonde hair out of his eyes as he grins from ear to ear.

“No problem,” I tell him, then feel obliged to throw him a bone. “What’s your style?”

“Right now, we’re picking up pretty much anything and handling most of the walk-ins since we don’t have a huge client base, but my forte is old school and neotraditional,” the surfer guy says.

I turn my gaze onto the guy who looks like he could be a boxer. “Japanese,” he tells me.

“Nice. Coffee machine is on,” I tell them, dismissing them as I refocus on my sketch. I’m honestly not trying to be an asshole, but I don’t know these guys, and until I do, I’ll reserve judgment and my time.

Betty turns up next, followed by her husband, Cody, who is pushing a stroller with their son in it. “Atticus,” she says, her face lighting up when she spots me.

Standing up, I make my way over to her, then pull her into a hug, her huge pregnant belly pressing up against me. “Hey, Bett,” I greet her. “Jesus, look at you. I thought you’d have popped by now?”

“She’s still got three weeks left,” Cody says, lifting their son from the stroller and offering me his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Atticus.”

“I swear I’ve been pregnant for about six years at this point,” Betty says, rubbing her stomach happily. “Have you met the guys yet?” she asks, motioning to the two men who are sitting at the stations behind mine.

“We’ve met,” I tell her.

Rolling her eyes, Betty shakes her head. “Be nice. They’re good artists, and they’re more than happy to handle the walk-ins so you don’t have to.”

Scoffing, I smile. “I’ll handle some walk-ins. My next available appointment is next December.”

“Ha ha,” Betty says dryly, then she looks at me. “Wait, are you serious?”

I nod my head. “Of course I’m serious.”

“Holy fuck. I’m going to need to warn Leo and Etta about that if anyone calls in for you trying to book an appointment,” she says.

“I have an inquiry email that I’d prefer they refer clients to. I already have a waiting list on the off chance anyone cancels, although that doesn’t happen often.”

“Fair enough,” Betty says on a sigh. “We use an online booking system that Knight, Octy’s husband, set up for us. If you let me know your rates, I’ll get that added onto the system. All appointments have to be entered into the system, or you don’t get paid. The split is seventy/thirty, paid weekly on a Saturday. Tips can be cashed out at the end of each day. Etta handles the social media for the studio. She’s fantastic, but if you want her to manage yours, you’ll need to negotiate that with her.”