Page 6 of Midnight Ink

I take a breath. It feels like my blood is boiling under my skin. My lungs are too tight. An anxious hum buzzes beneath my skin. I swallow.

My brain is starting to shut down. Forming a single thought is becoming hard. I’m trying to keep it together.

I grew up with undiagnosed ADHD. I get frustrated and upset and I have a hard time regulating myself. I’m trying to rein it in. When I’m upset my brain gets this foggy feeling and it’s hard to think.

“Is it because I’m a woman? If I were a man⁠—”

I hold my hand up. Absolutely not. Not on my fucking watch. “I’m going to stop you right there. First, I’m a queer man. I do not give a fuck about your gender. In fact, I prefer tattooing women.” They just sit better, are more fun and talkative. They’re all around warriors when it comes to pain. “This has nothing to do with your race, gender, or any other bullshit besides the fact I’d bet my life that translation is wrong. If you actually go and make sure it’s correct before asking me to put it permanently on your body, I’d be happy to tattoo you. Until then, we’re done here.”

“Where’s the owner? This is ridiculous!”

I ignore her. I’m done with this and I know Ian would have my back. “Anna, please give this nice lady her deposit back.” Where is Ian anyway?

“I’m going to give you a terrible review.”

“Right, well, you better get on that.” I stand, dismissing her and turning to my station to pretend to busy myself.

She stands still, stunned that I’m not giving in. I am not. She snatches her bag from my station, nearly knocking over the bottles of ink I’d prepared for her tattoo I will now not be doing.

She storms to the front, and I busy myself while I hear her bitch some more. Whatever. I’m not putting my name on it. It’s not that I care when people get tattoos in other languages that aren’t their own, but for fuck’s sake, do your damn research. It’s permanent.

The door slams with her exit. “Fucking fuck.” I throw my gloves at my station.

“What a bitch.” Anna bounces over to me and cocks her head in front of my face. “Hey. It’s okay, Jules. She was unreasonable. You’re fine.”

Hearing her say that out loud makes me breathe a bit easier.

Anna and I have this love-hate thing I kind of fucking love and she kind of fucking hates. She’s been here since day one.

She rubs my arm and I give her a grateful smile.

“Where is Ian anyway?” I say.

“Jules.” I look up at her confused face. “It’s the eighth.”

It takes a minute to understand. Maddox. “Shit. I feel like a dick.” I’d been so busy today I didn’t even realize the date. I don’t live by calendars, I live by sticky notes at my station, notebooks, and my notes app. Oh, and by Anna screaming at me if I forget something. Which is often.

My mind is still fogged from that lady. It takes a minute for my brain to start braining sometimes. I get so fixated on shit like this. I hate it. I don’t want this to ruin my day, but I already know it’s going to stay on my mind for a while.

I was right not to give her the tattoo. I know that. Still, what if I should’ve. Maybe I should have. I mean, it is her body. She wants it. I would have just⁠—

“Jules.” I look at her. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I just hate confrontation.”

She bounces and drops into my seat. “He’ll be here soon.” I’m happy now I didn’t call him to deal with her. That’s the last thing he would have needed today. “In the meantime. Tattoo me.”

“What?”

“You’re all set up. Whatever you want.” I survey her body; there isn’t much bare skin left. Anna is a five-foot-two Vietnamese woman made of equal parts chaos and unfiltered mischief. Her aqua-blue hair is twisted into two small pigtail buns perched high on her head. A hoop glints in her nose. Two snakebite studs line her lower lip. A bar pierces the bridge of her nose.

She’s covered in tattoos. The most space she has is on her face, and even there she’s got a few. Music notes trail from her left cheekbone along her temple. On her right cheek sits a tiny flaming heart, and near her hairline says the word Madd in small script. I assume for Maddox.

Aside from her face she’s completely covered in ink from the neck down. Artwork layered over more artwork. She’s wearing a black tank top and green plaid flannel that hangs loosely on her smaller frame. It was probably Maddox’s. She wears it nearly every day.

“Okay, but you can’t look.” I pull on new gloves and look at the colors I’ve already pulled out.

“No dicks.” She shivers. “It’s like a tiny little jump-scare every time I see one in the wild.”