Page 8 of Possessive Ink

“Am I?” I question, glancing at the clock on the wall that shows the time at eight twenty a.m. “I’m not scheduled to start until eight thirty a.m.”

“I expect you to be here and ready to work at that time, not just strolling through the door.”

Trying not to show how absurd I’m finding this conversation to be, I glance at the clock again. “Is that clock showing the wrong time?” I question.

“No,” he says, glancing up at the clock before scowling at me.

Parting my lips, I consider telling him that I’m early and here with more than enough time to get set up and ready to start working, but honestly, what would be the point? He’s being an asshole, but telling him this will only make him angry.

“I wrote you a list of all the things I need you to do today,” he says, thrusting a piece of paper toward me, then wiggling it at me when I don’t immediately reach out and take it from him.

Reluctantly taking the list, I glance down at it. I should have known better than to expect it to only be one or two things. The sheet of paper is full from top to bottom with errands he needs me to take care of.

“You should be able to get all of that finished by lunch.”

“Lunch,” I splutter. “The plant nursery you want me to collect the palms from is over an hour away in a car. On the bus, it’s a three-hour round-trip journey.”

“The bus? Why would you take the bus? How are you going to carry two six-foot palms back on the bus?”

For some reason, even though I’ve been working for Wes for almost two years, he never seems to remember that I don’t drive or own a car. “I don’t drive,” I remind him again.

Sighing, like I’ve chosen not to learn to drive purely to inconvenience him rather than because I had some epilepsy incidents when I was a kid, he snatches the list back from me and crosses a thick black line through the plant nursery item before handing it back to me.

“Shouldn’t I be taking care of guest check-out this morning and the new arrivals this afternoon?”

“Yes, you should,” he says, with a sneer stretched across his lips. “So I suggest you hurry and make sure you’re not late again.”

“I wasn’t late,” I say under my breath as I slide my cake into the small staff refrigerator in the break room, then carry my coffee and list back out of the door again.

THREE

ATTICUS

Waking up in my new bed, in my new room, in my new loft is fucking perfection. My Egyptian cotton sheets feel amazing against my skin as I roll to my side and glance out of the window, wondering what the day has in store for me.

The best thing about my job is that I’m in complete control of my own schedule. I don’t think it’s conceited to suggest that my art is in demand. I have a waiting list of over a year for new clients, and when I do decide to work on people I haven’t worked with before, I’m selective.

I know there are tattoo artists who offer a range of styles, willing to put their own stamp on anything their client wants. I’ve done it too, when I was an apprentice. Back then, I was grateful to get a chance to work, and I honestly didn’t care what I was tattooing as long as I had the gun in my hand.

But these days, I’ve honed my craft, and I only work in my preferred style. I don’t just tattoo. I create works of art on skin. I offer ultrarealistic portraits and highly detailed fine line work. While I appreciate all tattoos as an art form, I love the intricacies of fine lines, minute shading, and making a flat image come to life on someone’s skin.

I’m one of the best in the country at what I do, and that means I get to pick and choose which pieces I want to create and who I want to work on. For the last five years, I’ve been based out of a studio in New York, but when the owner, Donovan, tried to pressure me and the twins into being featured on a new tattoo studio reality TV show, I knew it was time to move on.

It’s taken me a long time to get to where I am in my career, but now that I’m here, I’m enjoying the freedom to work at my own pace. Taking a chair in Betty Barnett’s studio was an easy decision for me. I’ve known her for years, and while I respect her as an artist, I appreciate more that she understands my need to support Felix.

Donovan never got why my work schedule was based around my brother’s. He wanted me to work ten- or twelve-hour days, taking every client request that came through because the more I worked, the more money he made.

But I don’t work that way. Felix and I share a bank account, and these days we’re not short of money. I don’t need to be killing myself and trying to squeeze in as many clients as I can. My art isn’t just a case of a simple transfer. I can spend hours, sometimes even days, drawing bespoke pieces or perfecting the details of a photograph to recreate it so it comes to life.

My clients understand that, and they’re willing to pay my rates to get a beautiful tattoo. Betty understands that too, and when we spoke about me taking a chair in her studio, she easily agreed not to interfere and to let me handle my own career, which is why I don’t have any clients booked in for the rest of the week. Come Monday morning, however, I have a full schedule, so I’m taking the time to decompress while I can.

Rolling over, I lift my arms into the air, then slide my palms beneath the back of my head. Blinking slowly, I try to decide what to do today. Although I haven’t left my bedroom yet, I already know that Felix will be downstairs in his workshop, sketching and throwing out random requests at Marcus for things to make his new studio space more comfortable for him.

In a couple of weeks, his chaotic thoughts will start to filter down until he has a firm idea for his next series of sculptures. His creative process would probably seem entirely random to anyone else, but I understand my brother. I get his micro-expressions and tics. His thought process makes total sense to me. I just hope he settles on something sooner rather than later, because until he does, it’s doubtful he’ll sleep for more than an hour or two a night because his mind will be too busy to allow him to relax enough to rest.

Climbing out of bed, I plump the pillows, smooth the sheets, and pull the comforter back into place, fussing with the fabric until it’s wrinkle-free and pristine. Padding naked into the bathroom, I turn on the shower, giving the water time to heat as I brush my teeth.

Once steam has fogged the air, I step into the shower and tip my head back, letting the water drench me. Grabbing my shower gel, I coat my skin in it before I wash and condition my hair, reluctantly turning off the water when my fingers have started to shrivel at the tips.