Permanent Ink

by Avon Gale

  Like I said. Don’t let anyone at you with a tattoo machine if you don’t know what the fuck you’re putting on your body.

  Kristen’s tattoo was fairly easy to cover up, and it took me very little time to change it from her nonsense Chinese into a fox and send her on her merry way. Pete was getting into a very loud argument with his client—a regular—about Doctor Who of all things. I had to shake my head. Pete had a TARDIS tattoo on his back. He was intense about Doctor Who, and I knew better than to try to get involved in that conversation.

  Roxanne had left after giving a guy a nipple piercing and then waiting patiently for him to stop throwing up before he decided not to do the other one. I heard Poe talking in the lobby, and wondered if there was another client he’d forgotten to tell anyone about.

  “Yeah, yeah, I gotcha,” Poe was saying, as I rounded the corner and stood out of his sightline. He was on the phone—the work phone, praise be to whoever the patron saint of unmotivated millennials was—and I could see him writing something on a pad of paper. “That would look pretty cool, but I gotta tell you, a lot of people come in here and they don’t realize that, like, if they want the tattoo not to look like shit, it’s gotta be bigger than they think they want.”

  My eyebrows rose, though if you spent two days in a tattoo shop, you’d learn that. “I didn’t think it would be that big,” was about as common as “I didn’t think it would be that expensive.”

  “I mean, if you’re wanting to do a skull like that, you could probably do something a little smaller if you don’t mind it being more stylized.”

  That was when I realized that Poe wasn’t writing—he was drawing, and nodding along while he was talking. “Yeah, when do you want to come in? I can show you.” A pause. “Consults are usually from noon to one, but it depends on who you’re wanting to get in with. Jericho’s booked until, like, the end of time.” Another pause. “Oh, uh, no, I’m not— I just work the desk. I don’t do tattoos or anything. I can leave a drawing so you can see it, but you want to talk to an actual artist about getting it done.”

  I waited out of sight until Poe finished scheduling the client, then walked around the corner. Some of my earlier irritation at him had faded. “‘The end of time’?”

  Poe’s expression was a little sheepish. “Dude, seriously, your books are, like, stupid full. You must be good.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and didn’t respond to that. “What did she want?” I assumed it’d been a girl on the phone. Something about the way his voice sounded. Interested. Engaged.

  “He,” said Poe. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Uh. He wanted a skull but, like, here?” He held up his hand and showed the spot between his thumb and index finger. “It sounded like he wanted a sugar skull, with all this detail. So I suggested something more stylized.”

  I glanced down at the desk, and he was trying to hide the pad with the drawing he’d made from me. I wondered why. “Show me.”

  Part of me expected him to argue, but maybe the tone of my voice—which clearly suggested he not do that—convinced him otherwise. For the first time, he seemed almost nervous as he pushed the paper over at me.

  It wasn’t an earth-shattering drawing, but it was a nice rendition of a stylized skull that would fit in the specified area and not end up a hot mess. “Not bad, kid.”

  I thought he almost—almost—smiled. I noticed there were other sketches on the paper too. There was a fox, similar to the one I’d given Kristen. And a lightning rod, which was the tattoo Pete was giving his wrong-about-Doctor-Who client.

  Poe noticed me inspecting his other drawings and flushed. “I heard you guys with the clients. I . . . you know.” He shrugged, his muscles tight.

  “Look at me.” I waited for him to do it, and took a bit of pleasure in the way his eyes finally darted to mine, like he couldn’t help but do what I said. Good. It made me a lot happier when people did that, especially when I was in charge of them.

  That gave me a thought I definitely didn’t need to be having—either at work, or about my best friend’s punk-ass son. But Poe’s sulky mouth, the way he was staring up at me . . . sue me, I was gay, he was hot, and I bet my dick would shut him up nice and—

  The fuck, man? Landon’s kid. Keep your brain out of your pants.

  “So, that apprenticeship thing,” I said. “You into the idea?”

  Poe immediately went on the defensive. “I was bored and I like drawing.”

  Was this fucking kid for real? “Listen, Poe, I know you like art. I’ve seen your shit. It ain’t half-bad.”

  All trace of disinterest fled from Poe’s expression. His eyes flashed at me, full mouth tightening in the first display of real emotion I’d seen from him. That wasn’t irritation, at any rate. “I’m a good fucking artist, dude.”

  “Artists have discipline, kid,” I said, and I wasn’t sure how much I believed that, but I knew that saying it would get his back up, and I preferred that to the weary I’m too good for this bullshit he’d been dishing up for the last three weeks. “You want to do more than answer the phone around here, see if maybe you can get some of those designs on actual people?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  Jesus, what the fuck? “I’m only gonna ask once, kid.”

  I thought the nickname wasn’t helping, but when he stopped acting like a kid, I’d stop calling him that. I did actually like his given name. It made sense why he tagged all his graffiti with a skull and a raven. “I mean, if you’re happy working the desk job, great. You can stay the receptionist. But if you want to maybe do something that isn’t answering phones and doodling . . .”

  He glanced at me, clearly not sure what to say. I glowered at him and said sharply, “Stop trying to act like you’re a petulant high school student and answer me like a fucking grown-up.”

  I could tell he wasn’t used to people speaking to him that way—people who weren’t his father, that is.

  “Yeah,” he said defensively, chin tilting. “I’d definitely like a job where I wasn’t fucking bored to death.”

  What a punk. I had to stop myself from smiling. “Here’s the deal. I’ll advertise for this position, and when I get someone, you train them. Then you’re with me. I’ll teach you everything I know, show you how to get licensed with the state, and serve as your supervisor.”

  “Why?” Poe’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck would you do that for? I’m not an idiot, dude. I know I’m, like, not your favorite person.”

  “It’s not about you being my favorite person,” I said, leaning back against the wall. “It’s about exactly what I told you when you first showed up. I’m giving you a shot. You want it or not?”

  “Is this because I’m so great at answering the phone?” Poe asked. Before I could answer, he added, “Or because I’m shit at it?”

  I laughed before I could stop myself, and shook my head. “Last chance.”

  “Okay.” Poe appeared momentarily uncertain. I liked that look a lot better than the petulant-brat one. “What if, I mean, what if I suck at it?”

  “You won’t,” I assured him.

  “How do you know? Lots of people can draw. Doesn’t mean they’ll be any good at doing what you do. Maybe I’ll fuck it all up.”

  I smiled at him. A real smile. “I won’t let you.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, but that was fine. “I mean . . . I can’t really . . . I don’t have the money. Not with paying my dad back and everything.” Guilt flashed across his face, and that made me think better of him. At least he knew he was being a pain by racking up legal debt for his dad.

  “I’ll talk to your dad,” I promised. “And it means doing exactly what I fucking tell you, when I fucking tell you to do it. It means you work the desk—on time, motherfucker, five minutes late is still late—until I get someone in here. Then you show up, you watch, you learn, and you keep your mouth shut unless you’ve got a question. You don’t show up at work with paint on your fingers,” I said pointedly. “Yes, I noticed. Do
n’t get drunk, don’t get arrested, and don’t piss me off. Think you can handle it?”

  “Maybe . . . That last one might be hard.” Poe gave me what I thought was the first actual smile I’d ever seen on his face. “You’re kinda easy to piss off, dude.”

  I smiled right back at him. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, kid. Believe me. Now let’s get this place closed up.”

  Poe

  In late September, a few weeks after he offered me the apprenticeship, Jericho finally hired someone competent to work the front desk.

  Her name was Harriet. Cat-eye specs perched on her cute snub nose, framing vivid blue eyes. She kept her ginger hair swept back into a severe, no-nonsense bun, her face free of makeup, and wore no perfume that I could detect.

  She looked like an uptight, pencil-pushing nerd—until we sat down so I could train her on the phones and scheduling system, and she shed her stuffy olive-green cardigan to reveal toned arms covered in ink from shoulder to wrist. Both sleeves were book-themed—one dedicated to Terry Pratchett, the other to Neil Gaiman, with a rendition of the character Dream taking up the bulk of her upper arm, encircled by the quote, I will show you terror in a handful of dust.

  “Whoa.” I sized up her tattoos and the tight muscle underneath. “You’re kinda ripped, aren’t you?”

  Harriet didn’t take her gaze off the computer screen. “I spend a lot of time at Upper Limits. It’s a rock climbing gym.”

  “It shows.” I couldn’t quite keep the appreciation from my voice. “How about you flex a little for me?”

  Harriet turned her head and tipped her chin down so she could pin me with a stare over the frames of her glasses. “How about you dial back your clumsy flirting attempts before I tell Jericho you’re harassing me?”

  I held up my hands and pushed my chair back a few inches. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I was playing around. Seriously. No disrespect intended.”

  Harriet rolled her eyes. “Get back over here and show me how to get to that screen where I can add notes again.”

  I rolled closer and indicated the button she was looking for. “Right there.”

  “Thanks.” She clicked, inspected the screen, and I walked her through a few steps before she cleared her throat and said, “You’re not my type, FYI. No offense, but don’t waste your time trying to win me over. I’m not into guys, and I won’t date anyone under thirty.”

  I grinned at her. “Something we have in common, then. Well, the older part, at least.” I did a quick scan of the waiting area and saw a pair of women engrossed in a conversation. They weren’t paying any attention to us. Still, I lowered my voice when I added, “I’m equal opportunity.”

  Harriet arched a red brow. “You’re bi?” she murmured. “Or pansexual?”

  “Bi. But, I mean, I’m attracted to all kinds of people, on or off the binary, y’know? I do like them older, though.”

  Harriet nodded. “I’m a card-carrying lesbian. Kissed my first girl at eleven and never looked back. I told Jericho during my interview because I didn’t want it to be a problem if my girlfriend stops in sometimes.”

  Curious, I scooted my chair closer to hers. “What did he say?” I asked in an undertone.

  Harriet lifted a shoulder. “He said he doesn’t discriminate and left it at that.”

  The phone rang before either of us could say anything else.

  Harriet reached for the handset. “I’ll get it.”

  She snatched up the phone and spouted off a cheerful, much more professional-sounding greeting than my half-grunted “Permanent Ink” whenever I answered. It hadn’t been an hour and she already seemed to have a handle on things. Then again, it wasn’t overly complicated. Just boring.

  As she spoke to the customer, I idly considered her. Harriet was cute—really cute—but even if she weren’t gay, I hadn’t been lying when I told her I was playing around, not flirting. She had maybe a year or two on me, and I almost never dated people my age. I loved sexy, confident cougars who knew exactly what they wanted in bed and weren’t afraid to ask me to do it, and rough older men who fucked me hard and ordered me to call them “Daddy.” Nothing made my dick perk up like a big, beefy dude who could manhandle me into any position he wanted. Or a woman like the fiftysomething fem domme I subbed for from time to time. She got off on shoving various vibrating plugs up my ass, tying me to her bedposts, gagging me, and riding my cock as many times as I could get it up—which was a lot. She’d milk my prostate too, making me come for what felt like hours.

  Damn. I was chubbing up from only the memory of her many talents. I might have to call her soon.

  What could I say? I fucking loved being used. It turned me on like nothing else.

  I tamped those thoughts down before my semi became a full-fledged erection. The last thing I needed was for Jericho to catch me sporting wood next to his newly hired receptionist. I couldn’t exactly explain it wasn’t about Harriet but Sylvia, the lady who occasionally beat my ass raw with her riding crop while making me say, “Please, ma’am, another,” between each rough whack.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking about that either. Focus, Poe. Focus.

  Harriet finished the call and turned to face me. “Can you check this over, make sure I did it right? The guy wanted me to reschedule his appointment with Pete.”

  “Sure.” I turned my attention back to training her—where it belonged. “Yep, that’s perfect. Look at you. You’re an old pro already. Here, let me show you what we do with the paperwork.”

  For the first week of my apprenticeship, I was pretty much an unpaid gofer for the artists in the shop. I cleaned stations. I tossed trash. I washed the dishes and wiped counters in the break room. I swept the floors. I kept the bathroom spotless.

  It irritated the shit out of me. I’d already been doing some of those things as the receptionist, but at least then I’d been getting paid for it. Now that I was officially Jericho’s apprentice, I was working my balls off for free. Somehow he’d convinced Landon to cover my living expenses while I did my time as his lackey—which, hell yeah, I appreciated—but I hadn’t signed up to be the damn janitor.

  “When will I get to start practicing?” I asked Jericho the second week.

  Jericho snorted without looking up from the design he was working on. “When I’m ready to let you.”

  “This is bullshit! How am I supposed to learn anything by cleaning up your garbage?”

  Jericho raised his head and gave me a look so cold it made my nipples tighten. “You’ll pay your dues like everyone else. You’re not special. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

  If we were engaged in a staring contest, I would’ve lost. I dropped my gaze and went back to emptying the trash bin. I knew I wasn’t anything special. I wasn’t much of anything at all. Even in the graffiti community, I was still relatively unknown. No need to reiterate the point.

  “Your father made it clear when he agreed to fund your apprenticeship—one screwup and all bets are off,” Jericho said. “Unless you want to go back to that gas station, leave your attitude at the door. Got it, kid?”

  I glanced up, but Jericho had already gone back to his drawing. “Yeah, I got it.”

  Honestly, I didn’t have much room to complain. My father was essentially sponsoring my apprenticeship. Granted, it probably had more to do with Jericho’s powers of persuasion than any real confidence in my abilities, but still. He’d shown enough faith in me to give me the opportunity. I couldn’t afford to screw it up before I even found out whether or not I could be successful at tattooing. I owed it to both Landon and myself to try.

  It went on like that for a few more days. Cleaning and restocking between observing Jericho as he did tattoos.

  Then one afternoon, a woman named Valerie came in. She was red-eyed and clutching a picture of a toddler in her fist.

  Jericho escorted her to his studio space with me trailing awkwardly behind.

  “This is my apprentice, Poe,” he told her. “Do you mind if he observes?”<
br />
  She shook her head. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Take a seat.” Jericho sat on his work stool and rolled it closer to the tattoo chair. “Poe, will you close the door?”

  I did and stood with my back against it.

  “Show me the tattoo again, please.”

  Valerie unzipped her hoodie and pulled it off. Beneath, she wore a spaghetti-strap tank top. The name Aidan was scrawled across her chest surrounded by pretty scrollwork. On one side, there was a date from a few years ago.

  Jericho inspected her ink for several minutes. “So you wanted wings?” He sat back. “And the date your son passed?”

  I blinked, startled. The date he passed. That picture she was holding. My stomach plummeted. Oh fuck.

  Valerie opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her eyes got redder, and she nodded stiffly.

  “I considered designing a stencil around the existing tattoo, but after giving it some thought, I’d prefer to freehand the wings,” Jericho said. “Is that okay with you? I’ll draw an outline on your chest and let you see the basics of what I have in mind. I thought maybe we could also add some morning glories, for his birth month.”

  “That . . . that sounds good.” Valerie’s voice was a rasp and brimming with the tears she held back.

  Jericho nodded. “Lower the straps of your bra and tank top and stay sitting like that. I’ll get my markers.”

  He went to his desk to grab a couple of the markers he kept there. I stayed where I was, watching as he disinfected her chest with green soap and then freehanded the bare bones of a design around the tattoo she already had. Long, flowing wings on either side of the name. The clustered outlines of flowers. And opposite of what must’ve been Aidan’s birthday, the date of his death. It was recent, only six months ago.