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“Maybe later. I’m not hungry yet.” I walk behind the counter, looking at my appointment sheet. I have two of the clients who rescheduled when I had to fill in to tattoo Dante, and then several gaps, which means I’ll be taking the walk-ins. A quick glance at Brendan’s sheet tells me he’s full up. I don’t mind—it’ll keep me occupied. And I’m happy for any opportunity to make extra money that I can get.
I’m also glad Rico isn’t back yet—it gives me time to decide what I’m going to do about the tip. It’s still sitting in the envelope on my bookshelf, and I want to use it to pay a bill. But I’m worried that if I do, he’ll find out, and then I’ll be in the position of owing him money I can’t really afford to give him.
I try not to think about it as I settle in for the night. There’s no apprentice or front-desk person working in the shop currently, so Brendan and I are responsible for setting up our own stations and cleaning at the end of the night. There’s a routine to it that’s relaxing, and I manage to put both my financial worries and Dante out of my head for a little while as I get ready for my first client and focus on the night ahead.
It all goes smoothly—a good night, all things concerned. Both of my clients are people I’ve worked on before, who sit well and know exactly what they want. I lose myself in the process, making casual small talk as I outline and shade, and in between my appointments, we have a few walk-ins. One girl wants a heart with an arrow through it on her ankle, another guy just wants a quote for a full sleeve and to discuss designs—and puts a deposit down before he leaves, which is great—and the third one that I end up with wants a triforce symbol on the back of his neck. By the time I’m finished with him—a more difficult tattoo than I expected, since he clearly didn’t realize how much a back-of-the-neck tattoo can hurt—I’m hungry and ready for the Thai that Brendan tempted me with earlier.
“What do you want?” I ask him, leaning over the edge of his station to watch as he works on a Star Wars leg piece he’s been tattooing on a guy for a few sessions now. “I’m going to go get us food.”
Brendan doesn’t so much as look up as he answers, fully engrossed in his work. He’s your typical California boy—shaggy blond hair shot through with lighter streaks from the sun, blue eyes, lean muscles, and tanned skin with freckles everywhere. He’s wearing the same thing he always does—cutoff cargo shorts, a brightly colored tank top, and sandals. “Just something with noodles,” he says, filling in a patch of white on Princess Leia’s dress. “I don’t really care what.”
“Alright.” I swipe some cash off of his station. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The night is cool, the sky velvety and full of stars that are just barely visible with the lights of the city all around us. I cross the gravelly parking lot to the Thai restaurant, my stomach rumbling as I breathe in the scent of the food. The last thing I had to eat was a grilled cheese for lunch, and I’m hungrier than I realized.
I glance back at the shop as I wait for our order, feeling more relaxed than I have in a while. It’s no mystery as to why—any night that Rico isn’t in is one where we can chill out a little. I have a moment’s longing for the possibility of having my own shop one day—a place where I can make the rules and determine the atmosphere—but I push it away quickly. The idea is so far off as to be nothing but a pipe dream—a risky and expensive venture that I can’t afford in a number of ways. A dream that, even if I found a way to make it possible, Rico could crush in an instant if he didn’t like the circumstances of my leaving—or me leaving the Night Orchid at all.
Rico is an exceptional artist—he deserves the accolades he has. But he’s also just as good at making connections as he is at tattooing. He’s made a name for himself in Los Angeles and beyond—a tattoo celebrity. There was even an episode of a show about celebrity tattoo artists across the country that was filmed at the Night Orchid, focused on him, a couple of years before I started apprenticing. A year or so ago, there were some whispers of a possible reality show—the only time I’ve really considered leaving regardless of the damage it would do to my career. I have no interest in something like that.
What Rico says is believed. By other artists, by clients, by anyone whose opinion could matter to my future. He could end me just as quickly as he made me into something. It makes me angry—I hate having anyone pulling my strings, for any reason—but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. And even if he can be an asshole, arrogant and greedy, I’m grateful for how much I’ve learned from him and the opportunities I’ve gotten. I can’t ignore that I’m better off than a lot of artists in this city—or in a lot of other places, to be honest.
The woman behind the counter brings me the bag of takeout, pushing it towards me, and I thank her and hand her a tip. I drop off Brendan’s pad Thai at the front desk for when he’s finished with his current client, and go back to sit at my station with my lemongrass soup and a styrofoam container of larb salad. My tips are sitting in an envelope next to me, and I sort through them, letting out a breath when I realize that I’ve made almost double what I hoped for. That, on top of the actual fees paid for the tattoos, will put me ahead this week.
“Hey, Ebenezer Scrooge. You wanna come eat with me, or are you going to sit there counting your gold all night?” Brendan pokes his head up over the wall dividing his station from mine as his client leaves.
“Your dinner is on the front desk. Come sit in here; I’m already eating.” I tuck the cash back into the envelope.
“Sure thing.” Brendan ambles across the shop, turning the music down a little as he gets his own styrofoam container and perches on my chair.
“I’m going to have to wipe that down again now.” I wrinkle my nose at him—his feet are on it, bare and tucked up under him as he sits down.
“It takes five minutes. Don’t be dramatic.” Brendan slurps up a noodle. “Looks like you’re having a good night, though.”
“It’ll help, that’s for sure.” I scoop up some of the spicy salad, and reach for my water bottle. “The property taxes went up on the condo. With that and the mortgage—”
Brendan leans against the back of the chair, twirling his fork in the noodles. “There was nothing left to help with it? Not at all?”
I shake my head, biting my lower lip. I don’t like talking about this, but I know Brendan means well by asking. He’s probably the only person Icouldtalk to about it. “My dad wasn’t great at saving. What he had paid for the leftover medical bills and the funeral, and that’s about it.”
Brendan frowns sympathetically. “Shit, that’s rough, Em. I wish there was more I could do to help—”
“You’re a good friend, and that’s enough.” I force a smile, turning back to my soup. I don’t like complaining to others about what I have going on in my life. LA is a tough city for anyone to live in—I know Brendan rents a tiny studio apartment that doesn’t even have a kitchen and is only slightly less expensive than my mortgage. I’m lucky to not need to deal with a landlord or rental hikes, although I suppose an HOA and property taxes aren’t much better.
“If you need someone to do any repairs on the place—” Brendan shrugs. “My boyfriend is pretty handy. I bet he could come over and help with anything you need.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” I tell him, but from the look Brendan shoots me, I can tell he knows I’m full of shit. I’ve always been averse to asking for favors. I don’t like feeling as if I owe anyone anything. It’s not the best personality trait—my father was quick to point that out when he was alive—but I don’t really know how to change it. I’ve been fiercely independent since I was a toddler, and I’ve never grown out of it. A trait passed down to me, I always used to point out when my dad gave me shit about it.
My throat closes over at the thought, making me choke a little on my soup and cough. I blink back the heat of tears at the back of my eyes, not wanting to start crying in front of Brendan. I don’t know what the statute of limitations is on grief, but I had hoped it would begin to ease up after six months. Instead, it still feels as fresh as a new wound. I keep waiting to hear my dad’s footsteps in the condo, or smell the whiff of smoke from the balcony where he always used to take his cigarettes.
Which killed him in the end,I think resentfully, blinking rapidly as I take another bite of soup and try not to choke on it this time.
“You better not be getting sick.” Brendan recoils from me playfully, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “I can’t afford to be out of work. And you know Rico will give us shit, even if he’s the reason either of us would probably catch what he has in the first place.”
“I can’t afford it either. But I’m fine. Just a little dry throat is all.” I swallow hard, giving Brendan another forced smile.
“Uh-huh.” He peers at me as if he knows what’s really going on, but he doesn’t pry further. It’s one of the things that makes us get along so well—Brendan doesn’t push too hard to talk about personal stuff, and he knows when to back off if he tries. I don’t like to talk about my personal problems at all, so it’s a win-win all around.
My phone vibrates, startling me, and I grab it. The number on the screen is one that’s not in my phone—but I recognize it anyway. I haven’t been able to forget it since it was first put into my phone a few nights ago.
