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One
Wes
“No way, not him,” the guy in my shop growls at the girl whom I can only assume is his girlfriend as he points in my direction.
“But, babes, he’s the one who did the design I want…”
The guy looks up at me, distrust clear in his expression. “Don’t you have any female artists on staff?”
I arch a brow at him. “Just Leela. But just so you know, she’ll be much more interested in your girlfriend’s tits than I am.”
The guy crosses his thick arms over his even thicker chest. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, and has a Jason Mamoa look about him, with a dark man-bun and full beard. If he weren’t such a twat, I’d probably find him attractive. Sod it, who am I kidding? He’s attractive. Ireallyneed to do something about this whole being-attracted-to-wankers thing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snarls. “Are you saying she has ugly tits?”
I shift my glance to the girl. She’s probably about ten years younger than the guy and is, objectively speaking, quite attractive. But honestly the most intriguing thing I find about her appearance is the ink. She has a full sleeve on one arm and a band wrapping her other wrist. She’s in here today because she wants to extend her sleeve over her chest. And Mr. Controlling Arsehole Boyfriend doesn’t want a guy tattooing her breasts.
“I’m sure her tits are very nice,” I say levelly. “But they hold no interest for me. You on the other hand…” I scan my eyes up and down his body, making sure to linger over certain areas in a way I know will make him uncomfortable.
“You a shirt-lifter?” He sounds confused, as though I’ve somehow wrong-footed him simply by not looking stereotypically “gay.”
“Duncan,”the girl hisses in an obvious reprimand.
I hold up my hand to ward her off. This is hardly the first time I’ve dealt with shit like this, and frankly I don’t have the patience to care. “Yes, I’m gay. Now will you let me tattoo your girlfriend’s breasts. I have other clients, you know.”
He nods, and I send the client—Amelia—into one of the tattooing rooms. I follow behind and Duncan makes to come after me, but I hold up a hand and point to the waiting area at the front of my shop. “Clients only.”
“But—”
I arch an eyebrow in challenge. “You don’t want me getting all distracted by your fit body and fucking up her ink, do you?”
He scowls and stomps off to wait at the front of the shop.
Then I enter the room and gesture for Amelia to make herself comfortable on the chair. “Your boyfriend’s a twat.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” she says fondly. “Just gets a bit jealous sometimes.”
I shake my head.That’s what they all say.It’s none of my business, though, so I just bring up the design I made for Amelia on my tablet and check with her that she’s still happy with it. Then I print out a stencil of the design and get to work.
“Do Ireallyhave to go to this thing tonight?” I whine to my best friend the second she answers my call. I’ve just finished up an incredibly tiring day—after completing my first session with Amelia, I had two other clients to see, plus an hour spent chasing up a supplier who messed up one of our piercing orders—and now all I want to do is fall back on my couch with a beer in hand and watch the football, but unfortunately life’s just not that fair..
“Your sister’s birthday?” Natasha asks, and I can hear the amusement in her voice. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.”
I let out an annoyed huff and swipe my Oyster card before dashing to the escalator. “Maybe I can beg off if they think I’m sick?” I suggest hopefully. “Some kind of flesh-eating disease or something.”
“No, you faked sick to get out of that invitation stuffing day,” she reminds me.
I groan at the memory of the near miss. I’m sure my family twigged that I wasn’t actually sick, but it was worth some extra disapproval to avoid what would have no doubt been a hellish day.
“Okay, so maybeyoucan be sick, and I have to be there at your bedside,” I suggest. “What can you be dying of?”
“Wes.”I can picture Natasha shaking her head in exasperation. “Come on, it’s Emma’s birthday. You can’t bail on this one.”
I sigh in resignation. “I know. I just wishhewasn’t going to be there. My parents, I can handle, but that guy—I swear, Tash. One day I’m going to snap and end up choking him with one of his overpriced ties and there won’t be a jury in the country that could convict me!”
Natasha sputters a laugh before saying wryly, “Okay, just on the off-chance Devon turns up murdered you should probably avoid saying that so loudly.”
I snort. “Please, I’m in a tube station in peak hour. No one’s listening to a word I’m saying.”
“What’s the line on the watch?” Tash asks, steering the subject away from murder.
