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I stop myself from analyzing my boss’s spectacular appearance.
He’s a sharp man but he appears to be exhausted.
Everything Dean does is everywhere around the web and he keeps posting on social media his next locations and collaborations—he works with brands and celebrities occasionally too.
He is such an accomplished man who is wearing himself down by the look of things. He is one person and thousands of people want to be inked by this master.
I press the needle to his tanned skin and pause methodically, making sure it won’t burn for a long period.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move a muscle. Quiet as a bird.
After an hour of radio silence, I stop, dart my gaze to his face, and the man is asleep.
Eyes closed.
Shallow breathing.
Full lips resting perfectly against each other.
“I’m not sleeping,” he informs, thick eyelashes still feathering his cheeks.
“A-ha,” I reply, totally amused by the sound of bullshit coming out of his mouth.
I’m pretty observant. I consider it part of the job to recognize the mannerisms the person I ink possesses. Yet, I don’t need to be a genius to assess this situation.
“Am not.” He continues with his ‘acting tough’ track of mind.
I fix the ink bottles on the table beside me, “If you need a break by all means.”
“No, proceed Lenny. I want this done today.” The stern tone of his voice tightens the imaginary knot in my core and my stomach somersaults.
I don’t want to disappoint him on my first day. It’s a major opportunity for a new artist such as myself to work with him. “Do you want to see?”
“I want to see the result. And my hunch tells me it’s going to look amazing.” He stretches and resumes his nap.
The natural light filters inside the shop and hits his perfectly structured face while the ring of light, I set above his hand highlights all the veins decorating his hand—I’m a sucker for those.
An extensive amount of drool cumulates on my tongue, and I gulp hard.
“Okie dokie,” I mumble to myself.
Keep my standards high at all costs.Some artists become slackers with time, that’s what my old boss used to say.
I take my time with every stroke, inking the lines as symmetrical as possible. They will never be perfect. They can still look spotless.
I mix yellow and a tad red to get a nice bright orange for the sun.
It’s not a big tattoo but not a small one either, hence why, it doesn’t take me long to fill in the color and call it a day—well, after approximately three hours.
Dean’s eyes flutter open while he stretches his stiff bones.
“What do you think?” my heart hammers in my chest while I’m praying to the gods of ink that he won’t hate it and throw me out the door. “It’s not original but it suits you.” My attempts at softening the blow churn my stomach.
He veers his gaze to his hand and I just can’t look. I clench my eyes shut, my face shrinks like I tasted the worst bitter medicine in the cabinet while my fingers play with my silver septum—a force of habit that turned into a stress relief.
“Fuck!” He doesn’t shout it but it still rattles me.
My heart drops.
