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EMMA
There are many, many things that I love about living in Los Angeles. The traffic is not one of them.
And, gauging from how many horns I hear honking and the colorful array of cursing that I can hear out of my car window, I’m not alone in this.
I close my eyes, breathing in the heated summer air and reaching for the dial of the radio. The speakers crackle a little—the sound system in my 1970 Chevelle is one of the things that I desperately need to get repaired—but the faintly retro sound of Cannons filters through the car, making my shoulders relax an inch or so downwards. I try to ignore the fact that sweat is beading on the back of my neck, making the loose hairs of my ponytail stick to my skin. Nighttime in California cools off even in the summer, but sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic is enough to make things feel stuffy no matter what.
The clock on my dash tells me that I’m already five minutes late for my appointment, and I’m only halfway across town.
Another deep breath. The air smells of the city—which isn’t a good thing—but I try to pick out the better parts of it. The hints of salt from the distant beach, the sandy warmth of the desert air from the south, the leafy scent of palms. I’m good at imagining things as better than they are—it’s how I get through life, generally speaking. Even when everything seems to be at its worst, I’ve managed to muddle through.
The last six months have been harder than usual, though. And tonight feels like the rotten cherry on top.
Normally, I wouldn’t be hauling my ass from East LA over to the west side.Normally,I’d be driving a couple of miles to Night Orchid Tattoo, where I’ve worked for years since I was an apprentice.Normally, I’d be settling in by now, my station set up for the first of the few clients on my schedule for the night, with a little room left for walk-ins.
Instead, I’m stuck navigating Friday night traffic so I can tattoo some rich asshole who can’t be bothered to reschedule just because his artist—my boss—is out sick.
I’ve only ever tattooed out of the shop—friends wanting me to etch a smiley face on their ankle while we’re drunk at home don’t count—but there are plenty of wealthy celebrities and athletes who are willing to pay to have someone come to them. Those sorts would never be seen walking around the neighborhood I work in—they’re too good for that, but not too good to have Rico Axton tattoo them. As long as I’ve worked at the Night Orchid, he’s been the one who takes all of those upper-crust clients. It means he makes a hell of a lot more money than I or the other artist at the shop do, but I’ve never minded. I’d rather be in my familiar booth, with my art on the walls and the sound of the music Brendan and I picked for the night filtering through the shop, the smell of the Thai place behind us making its way in every time someone opens the door until one of us finally caves and orders it to split for dinner.
Besides, Rico is the boss, and I know I was lucky to get a spot as his apprentice.
Something he never, ever lets me forget. Especially when it comes time to call in a favor, like tonight.
My phone vibrates, sliding across the cracked leather of the passenger’s seat, and I snatch it up and put it on speaker. I’m sure I know who it is before I even hear Rico’s gravelly voice, and he doesn’t bother to wait for me to say hello.
“You’re ten minutes late, Emma,” he growls. I can hear the thick phlegminess in his throat from the shitty flu he came down with. “I just got a call asking where you were. What the hell? This is an important client.”
So were the ones I had to reschedule tonight, as far as I’m concerned.I bite back what I want to say, gritting my teeth. I’m beyond pissed that I had to shuffle around my schedule and put my clients off—all of whom have paid a deposit and are just as important as this dickhead I’m driving towards—and even more aggravated that Rico hasn’t so much as said ‘thank you.’ I won’t get paid for this appointment tonight, nothing other than maybe the tip, if one is offered. The entire fee will go to Rico. I can’t really afford to do this, but I can’t afford to lose my job, either.
“The traffic is hell, Rico,” I bite out, inching forward as the light turns green again. “Surely your client understands that.”
“Getting there on time is your responsibility.” He doesn’t sound as if he’s going to give me even an inch. “Don’t you know how to use Google Maps?”
“I left when it said I should. I don’t usually drive across the city, you know that.” I never have a reason to go to West LA. I’d rather not, all things considered. The best parts of the city—the interesting food, the vibrancy of the people, the less crowded beaches—all of that can be found in South and East LA. The west side, as far as I’m concerned, is nothing but celebrities and Hollywood types with too much money, tourist traps that cost too much, and everything choked with the kind of people I’d rather avoid.
“You’re gonna have to get used to crawling out of your hole now and then if you wanna make the big bucks, Emma.” Rico gives another hoarse laugh, coughing wetly. I wrinkle my nose.
“I like my spot in the shop,” I tell him defensively. “And it makes me enough.”
He and I both know that isn’t true. I’ve been a working tattoo artist for four years now—a good one, too, with plenty of recommendations from clients I’ve worked on—but LA is an expensive city.
Those expenses have only gotten worse in the last few months.
“Don’t fuck this up, Emma,” Rico warns. “I’ll let him know you’re on your way. But you’re dealing with this. You better make sure he knows just how apologetic you are for the tardiness, understand?”
I clench my teeth so hard I can almost feel my jaw pop. Thelastthing I want to do is bow and scrape in front of whoever this guy is, trying to get him to ‘forgive’ me for running late. As if I’m intentionally keeping him waiting—as if I’d rather be sitting in traffic than getting my fucking job done so I can go home to a bowl of ice cream and an Epsom salt bath for my hands.
But telling Rico that isn’t going to get me anywhere.
“Fine.” I’m sure he can hear how aggravated I am, but that I can’t help. “I’ll make sure he’s aware that I’m sorry I’m late.”
“I certainly hope so.” Rico coughs again, hacking long enough that I consider simply hanging up and letting him think I lost his call. “You do good work, Emma. He’ll be pleased, as long as you can keep that attitude of yours in check.”
“Sure thing, boss.” I do hang up then, before he can say anything else. I know the compliment was genuine, but I’ve had enough of Rico for one night. Anything kind he ever says is always sandwiched between two layers of shit.
If he wasn’t one of the most well-known and well-respected artists in the city, I’d have left the Night Orchid years ago.
