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Around that time he started to work on this place; renovating an old building and transforming it into an ink kingdom any artist would drool over, an escape during the night where you can get lost in the shadows and a home.
We get inside the shop and the black-tinted mirrored wall is the first thing that catches my attention—always does.
“You got someone special already to ride with?” I ask, staring at my reflection.
“Nah, she’s hiding somewhere.”
“How’s Ronnie?”
“Operating the ICU like a champ,” he jokes and through the mirror I see him extracting water bottles from the fridge by the corner of the room. “The club is really busy and he is… working a lot lately.” His gaze trails off. “Bad breakup.”
I know something about that.
Turning to him, “Call him upstairs later, we can have a chat about it. Or laugh and forget it ever happened.” I grab the bottle he hands me.
I’ve never seen best friends who work together so well as Luka and Ronnie—Ronnie manages the nightclub downstairs like a well-oiled machine, and they both treat me with so much respect every time I’m here.
A wide grin stretches back on his face right as his phone starts ringing, “He would love to see you.” He takes it out of his jeans pocket and accepts the call. “Hey, Ronnie we were just talking about… yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Do they need a surgeon stat?”
“Actually, we planned a fun week for your arrival. We booked a few artists to perform in the club. And some other activities.” He takes a few sips from his bottle. “You sounded like you needed it on the phone.”
I still don’t know if what I did was the right move. The right strategy in the short time we got to spend together.
What I do know is that I needed this trip for an unknown reason that my visceral feeling urged me to accept.
“I’ll be back quickly.” He makes his way to the elevator in the back hallway. “We’re going on a ride later, I have a spare bike for you.”
I take a seat around his sketching table, flicking my cap backward, and leaning back, “Take your time.”
The live stream of my shop’s camera is playing on my phone—I promised to look after her on the first day she showed up, and I kept my promise.
So far nothing happened.
She’s safe.
I whip the air above my head in frustration.
The creases across my forehead deepen with each frame I capture.
The flow of our recent conversation has been lacking. I get lackluster responses to my messages and I don’t blame her for pulling back.
Her pink hair is tied back in a knot, she looks peaceful while still assessing every detail she inks—the most important thing to remember before tattooing is to leave your bullshit behind and center on what you need to do otherwise the results would be catastrophic, especially for your client.
The minutes slip away like sand in an hourglass as she continues to work.
She is getting bolder with her client’s designs. Before that, she was hesitant and kept her best work to herself. For two months I’ve been following her progress—the differences are remarkable.
She practices hours on end on the shop’s gear as a routine any tattoo artist needs to obtain. I even caught her tattooing one of her anime designs on her leg a month ago. It made me chortle to myself—I used to do that when I was younger; my legs were my canvas and I first practiced on myself before I tattooed a client.
I don’t know what to say to her but I want to show her that I’m always a text or a phone call away. And that I didn’t go away on a whim—I did it to give her space so she would find her way in this rocky industry and be in a place where she could make a name for herself—without me around.
She can do it all on her own.
I wanted her there to allow her the freedom to explore her art without the clutches of a boss who refuses to open one’s mind. Her last boss was great but she kept her hidden.
I wanted her to blossom.
