Page 4 of Midnight Ink

Julian . . . well, Julian is just for me.

TWO

JULIAN

Ihate my job.

No, I guess that’s not fair. I love this fucking job. I’ve had shitty jobs; I’ve left shitty jobs. Right now, I have the best job in the world. I work in a popular tattoo shop with some cool fucking people. Most days my clients are amazing.

Then there are days like today.

Putting on a smile that will probably do fuck all to ease this woman’s anger, I try again. She’s perched on top of my table, blonde hair pulled into a messy bun. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her mouth is pinched.

Okay, let’s try this again.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear but I’m just saying⁠—”

“Is it too difficult?”

I blink at her. Then blink at her again. My chest is starting to feel tight. I hate confrontation, it makes my skin vibrate. It’s weird to say, but that’s exactly what it feels like. It’s like my atoms are shaking at the thought of conflict.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Where the hell is Ian? Rude clients are his thing. He’s so unbothered, smooth, and deadpan in his delivery when people give him shit. He doesn’t give a fuck. I want a little slice of that.

Instead, I sit here with my lungs rattling.

Breathe.

“No.” I try again. This woman is testing my patience. “It’s not too difficult. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

Since I can feel her fucking eyes on us, I glance up and see Anna at her desk, black boots kicked up and resting on top of it. She recently dyed her hair. It’s aqua blue, and how the hell it hasn’t fallen out of her head is a miracle. She shakes her head and reaches for her nunchucks with a questioning look, but I shake my head subtly and focus back on the lady.

I’m mad at her right now anyway. Nearly slipped on one of the ducks she placed by my station floor, and almost took my eye out tripping over it. Her obsession with these little ducks is odd. I have no idea where it started, but she loves to leave them around my station for me to find. She sits at her desk, not answering phones but coloring and painting them into weird-ass characters. The one that nearly killed me this morning was painted to look like a nun.

She apologized. I accepted.

It doesn’t matter, I’ll get my revenge.

Anna gives me a look, pleading with me just to give her a reason to use them. I shake my head again.

“Well?!”

Right. This woman. I pull my eyes from Anna and look up at my client.

“I think an internet search engine isn’t the best way to translate tattoos.”

“Well, can’t you translate it?” She runs a pale hand through her blonde hair.

“Ma’am—”

“Please stop calling me ma’am,” she grits. “I’m probably younger than you are.”

Okay, ouch, but no. No, she is not. Not that she looks bad, she looks great for her age, which going by the birthdate on the waiver brings her to forty-two. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid to tattoo something you translated quickly online, it may be inaccurate.”

“How could it be inaccurate? It’s an internet engine.” She gives me an annoyed roll of her eyes as if I’m the idiot. This is another thing I hate, when someone’s in the wrong and then they act like you’re the asshole.