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Aurnia
I returned to Dublin Ink the next day because the social media account that I set up for them was blowing up. Because the art that I graffitied in the side alley was clearly drawing people to the parlour, despite the wretched location. I thought I had done enough to prove that I could earn my spot amongst the boys, that I was worthy of being a part of what they were doing.
The second I stepped inside the parlour with a smug grin on my face and a skip in my step, I should have known that I was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
The little bell above the door clanged. Conor, who had been pacing back and forth with stooped shoulders and a tight jaw, whipped around to face me. His nostrils widened and constricted as he breathed noisily. His eyes were dark, his brows low and knitted together.
I tried to keep my smile on my face as I walked slowly past Conor’s rapidly rising and falling chest and took a seat on the couch. I forced myself to try to look relaxed, though every muscle in my body was held tense.
“So I’m guessing you saw the art,” I said as he glared down at me. “Aaaand I’m guessing that you really, really loved it.”
Conor said nothing still.
I tugged up the corners of my lips a little further and gave a little modest bow of my head. “You’re welcome.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Rian entering the room with a sketchpad under his arm. When he saw Conor—more importantly, when he saw me—he quickly retreated. I heard doors closing upstairs. Mason and Miss Last Night probably.
Well, the cavalry is not fucking coming this time, Aurnia.
“Look,” I said as Conor continued to seethe with silent rage, “you don’t have to pay me for anything, okay? Not for the art. Not for the social media expertise. I’m not even asking for a percentage off the top from what you make from all the new clients. We can call it even from the whole hand-in-the-cookie-jar incident, if you know what I mean. I’m not asking for a dime. But I think it would be fair if you taught me how to tattoo.”
Conor loomed high above me, his broad shoulders outlined by the flickering pink neon, his eyes hidden in shadows as the afternoon grew dark.
“So should we shake on it?” I asked, extending my hand.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Conor asked at last, his voice shaking.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I helped.”
“Helped?” Conor spit out with a bitter laugh. “You vandalised my property!”
His voice boomed around us, a harsh contrast with the dollies beneath the fringed lamps and the floral pattern couch that I sat on.
“Vandalised?” I repeated, unable to believe my ears. “Did you say vandalised?”
Conor leaned his head down toward me. “I don’t believe I whispered, Aurnia.”
I gripped the edge of the couch cushion. I wasn’t sure which emotion was winning out: fear or anger. Maybe it was the combination of the two that was making my fingers shake as my nails dug into the old fabric.
“That’s my art,” I said.
“And that’s my wall.”
I glared up at him as I laughed. “It’s in a fucking alleyway. If there was anything else on it before I got there, it was piss.”
“You had no right,” Conor said.
“To paint over piss?”
“That’s not the point.”
I rose to my feet. To my surprise Conor retreated. I studied him curiously for a moment before taking a step closer. When I did, he took a step back. I licked my lips, narrowed my eyes.
“Clearly,” I said in a soft voice.
As strange as it sounds, I almost felt that Conor was afraid of me in that moment. He seemed ready to leap back should I lunge forward, even though neither of us had any doubt that he could have his hand around my throat in the blink of an eye. His eyes darted between mine and my feet, as if he didn’t want to miss the exact moment that I advanced on him.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Conor asked. “‘Clearly’.”
