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Eve: Like all the best places in the world, I only operate on EST.
Brady: 5pm, please.
Eve: BTW, that's Eve Standard Time to you. I'm a volunteer, not serving detention.
Eve:But if you want an excuse to punish me, Just wait…
I waited, wondering if he'd take the bait, disappointed when he didn't immediately respond.
Why did everything about him make me want to annoy and tease him until he snapped back? Dangling the idea of detention, time alone and under his control, had been reckless. Warming at the idea of sexy role play, I tossed my phone aside and started my car, focusing on driving safely over slick roads back to Fierce Ink.
My little studio may not keep me as busy as I'd like, but I loved the small space. It was fully my own domain. Being independent suited me. No one could control my art anymore. True, I produced for my clients, but for the most part I was free to accept the commissions I wanted, passing on things that didn't fit me. No more worrying about a curriculum approved by a school board, or the need to satisfy parents who thought their little darlings were budding Picassos.
Fierce Ink was housed in a narrow brick building, part of the tiny Campfire downtown center. Stretching a few blocks in either direction, I liked to think that our shops were small but mighty. I was a short walk to Slice of Heaven. Campfire also had a couple of antique shops, a used bookstore, a few boutiques and a good second-hand store, which was where I found most of my wardrobe. We were also a stone's throw from the downtown park, the high school, and the library. I loved the walkability of it all.
I'd taken care to decorate Fierce Ink to match my new aesthetic. A black leather fainting couch stretched along my display window, offering a cozy place for patrons to wait for their appointments. I'd chosen a sleek grey laminate for the flooring, painting the walls a smoky lavender. Framed artwork hung on the walls, a mix of my own original line art and flash stencils.
My workstation was set up perfectly, a mix of inks arrayed on my tray within easy reach, the rest of the tools of my trade at hand. I ran a gentle finger along my tattoo chair, pleased with the way it gleamed. Five years ago, I couldn't have imagined my life today, the peace I found focusing on a living canvas. There was something satisfying about knowing my art walked the world, instead of being confined to a wall or frame. Tattoos told a story, and I loved helping my clients make peace with their pasts or celebrate their futures through their designs. There was something unique about taking power over your body, making it reflect something exclusivelyyou.
I stroked a hand down one forearm, tracing one of my own favorite designs: the daffodil bunch symbolizing rebirth and new beginnings. Most of my tattoos were added in what I considered my AC phase: after my move to Campfire. The few that I'd had done living in Sammamish had to stay hidden beneath clothing.
The bell over the door to Fierce Ink rang, and I looked up, welcoming my first client of the day. I could only hope focusing on work would help me avoid thoughts of the handsome principal who hadn't texted me back.
I spent a productive day in the shop, glad for my full schedule. After saying goodbye to my last appointment, I stretched, trying to work out the kinks from sitting hunched all day. I needed to do better with my posture, but human subjects were a lot less movable than canvas. I flipped the lock on Fierce Ink, using my back stairs to reach my small apartment. Furnished in an eclectic mix of Buy Nothing castoffs and the few things I could pack in my car for the move east, it smelled of lavender and bergamot. I grabbed a heavy jacket and my keys before heading to the Pruitt Farm.
Campfire night called.
I loved the tradition we'd established of Tuesday nights by the fire. I'd been adrift, more than a little lost, when I first landed in Campfire. Gwen had scooped me up, including me in the small but savvy group of single women who wanted to see Campfire thrive. When it wasn't raining or snowing, we met Tuesdays after work for drinks and pizza, or just good conversation around the fire pit at the Pruitt Farm. Jo Pruitt brewed her family's beer brand, Pinkney Brewing, on their property, while her brother, Davis, farmed the hops. Their farm made the perfect place to gather, pour out our troubles, and find solace in the flames and good company. That sense of comradery had helped me feel like I’d found my home in Campfire. It'd been easy to go along with Gwen's campaign for mayor, see her vision for the town, after experiencing her warm welcome. Together, we'd managed to turn over the entire city council, launching Gwen's rebranding effort. I'd been happy to help behind the scenes, designing campaign signs, buttons, and other art in support of their cause.
When I pulled up to the Pruitt Farm, Sophie and Gwen's cars were already parked in the gravel lot. I followed the rocky path to the firepit, smiling when I spotted my friends. Jo, Gwen, and Sophie seemed intent on setting up the logs. Only Izzy was missing, no doubt still on her way from work.
"Hey, Eve," Sophie burbled, waving when she spotted me. "You're just in time to help with this week's sign."
Sophie's sleek, shoulder-length hair was mostly hidden by a bright yellow hat, complete with yarn pom-pom. She'd bundled up for the cold night with matching fingerless mittens.
Jo waved silently from her spot next to Gwen, stains covering her heavy work jacket. Somehow Gwen, in almost the same outfit, looked totally different. Where Gwen was expansive, Jo was quiet, more comfortable in earthy tones. Gwen’s reddish hair was in its usual no-nonsense ponytail, with nary a whisp disobeying her. Jo’s long braid had come nearly undone, and I thought I spotted a stray hops flower caught somewhere in the strands.
Gwen sat in one of the Adirondack chairs tugged close to the budding fire, feeding it kindling, a frown in place. "I can't decide how to respond this week."
"What does the Nemitz Construction sign say now?" I asked, wondering what kind of opening salvo Zander had made. Zander Nemitz co-owned Nemitz Construction with his brother, Ivan. Their family business sat next door to Gwen’s nursery. Somewhere around the time I moved to Campfire, dueling sign messages for their businesses had become a thing between Gwen and Zander. Snarky, silly, and sometimes brow-raising, they sniped back and forth in eight-inch letters for the whole town's amusement. Brainstorming Gwen's comebacks had become regular Tuesday entertainment for our group.
Gwen tossed a stray stick into the fire. “This week’s message is: let’s give ‘em pumpkin to talk about.”
“Ooh, song lyric pun. I like it,” Sophie said, rubbing her hands together. “What else fits that theme?”
We sank into silence, thinking. Jo pulled out her phone. As much as we wanted to come up with something amazing on our own, the internet usually helped.
“How about, pour some gravy on me?” I offered.
“Hey, I just met you and this is gravy, but here’s my stuffing, so carve me maybe,” Jo said.
“I’m all about that baste,” Sophie added.
“Those are all better than what I had in mind,” Gwen said, staring into the fire like it held the answers.
“What were you thinking?” I asked.
“Quit being a turkey,” Gwen said with a scowl.
