by Avon Gale
Jericho
My back was aching pleasantly, my right hand just on the okay side of cramped as I finished up Callum’s tattoo.
“Let me see.” He sounded like an impatient little kid, and you’d think he’d be over this by now—given Callum had so many tattoos he couldn’t tell you what number this one was.
“Would you wait a second?” I gave him a glare, but he was so used to me by now that it barely fazed him. He batted those pretty blues at me and grinned, and I shook my head and went back to add a little more shading in the sun design.
Callum was one of my few customers who’d never had a single tattoo fixed or improved. And I couldn’t say it was because I’d done them all (he had one on his lower back that made me snort every time I saw it), but he didn’t believe in imperfect art. Or something to that effect.
Callum was a lawyer-turned-sculptor-turned-nonprofit-manager, and we’d dated for a few years when I first opened the shop. He lived near the Central West End and managed a local art organization called Urban Art Works, which reached out to more impoverished areas and tried to provide local youths with a safe outlet to explore their creative sides. He was doing wonders with it, and he’d been written up in some magazine that was, as he put it, “Showing us a lot of love.”
That was why he was here to get some of the work done on his left sleeve. It was all solar inspired (because Callum was a sunny bastard), and thankfully, it’d been a bare canvas when I’d started. No stupid 2-a.m.-bad-decision tattoo that he wouldn’t let me cover up. No, that was the constellation on his lower back that I could swear had made a face up at me while I was ramming him from behind. I couldn’t remember what constellation it was supposed to be, because I was almost certain that Callum couldn’t, either, and made up a different one each time I asked.
“There,” I said, pushing my stool back and straightening up. I winced. My body was used to the contortions and positions of tattooing, but that didn’t make it ache any less. The older I got, the more it seemed like I carried a piece of my clients’ tattoos in my joints. But they’d have to pry the tattoo machine out of my gnarled, wrinkled fingers before I retired. Even if I was training my first-ever apprentice, that didn’t mean I had any plans to stop. Hell no.
I glanced up as I saw Poe move to start cleaning up. So far he’d been a lot better as an apprentice than a receptionist, that was for sure. Then again, I didn’t think I’d ever had anyone as good as Harriet at my front desk. I would start a war for that girl, if someone tried to hire her away from me.
Callum glanced at Poe and smiled his usual friendly smile. Poe gave the I’m smiling because Jericho told me customer service was important smile, but didn’t say anything.
“Poe, you mind getting me a refill of the green soap from the back room?” I asked, holding up the squirt bottle I used to apply it to the skin while working. “I’m low.”
He jerked his head, grabbed the bottle, and headed out of the room.
“Your apprentice.” Callum’s eyes glinted.
“Yup.” I patted his arm one last time with the paper towel, snagged a nonadhesive pad, and gently laid it over the fresh ink so I could tape it up. “My apprentice.”
“He’s cute.” Callum winked at me. “Nice ass.”
“Stop it,” I said, giving him a glare. As usual, it had absolutely no effect.
“I’m just saying. I know you better than to think you haven’t noticed.”
I watched Poe come and go out of the room a lot. Of course I’d noticed. But it wasn’t professional to talk about it at work, especially when he could walk into the room at any moment. And there was that whole thing where his father was my best friend.
“Is he working out?” Callum asked, after I’d finished up.
“Yeah, actually.” I tried not to sound surprised, but I was. I knew Poe had talent, that wasn’t the problem. But the life of a tattoo apprentice wasn’t glamorous. Temperamental, impatient people rarely made it in this industry, no matter how good they were. “Which, I’m glad. I’d feel like shit if I had to tell Landon it wasn’t working out.”
I didn’t think Poe knew how thrilled Landon was that his son was doing something productive with his time. He was probably worried that if he let on how much he approved, Poe would rebel out of sheer contrariness. God, I was glad I’d never had kids. That shit would drive me fucking insane.
Poe came back in the room, tossing his head to get his hair out of his eyes like he did a thousand times a day. He was wearing his usual skinny jeans, Chucks, and a tight T-shirt. Poe handed me my now-full bottle of green soap. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. You want to tell Harriet to ring this up at two fifty even? And see if she can get Callum back in here in . . . two months?” I raised my eyebrows at Callum for confirmation.
“Better make it three,” he said. “I’ve got a lot going on, especially with buying the building.” Callum was finishing up the paperwork to buy a space downtown to host Urban Art Works, including an office, workspaces, and a gallery.
“Sure.” I knew from experience how much work it was to set up your own business in your own space. “Sounds good.”
Callum followed Poe out of the room, and I stood, stretched, and eased the tension out of my muscles before going into the back to drink some water. By the time I walked into the lobby, Callum was finished paying.
“Thanks, sweetie,” he said, and leaned in to kiss me. I caught a whiff of his scent, citrusy as if he bathed in those damn protein smoothies he was always drinking, and his lean body was warm against mine as he pressed a kiss to my mouth. Usually he kissed me on the cheek, but going for the mouth seemed intentional. Troublemaker.
And he called me “sweetie.” I hated that. But I let him kiss me, and while it wasn’t the sort of kiss we used to share, it was more action than I’d gotten from a man in a while. Which, fuck, that was depressing.
“Call me if you want to come over and see how it’s healing,” Callum said flirtatiously, which almost made me smile. As much as I liked Callum, and as hot as he was all smirky and tatted up and sprawled naked in bed, it would be a bad idea. He was one of the only exes I’d stayed friends with, and I didn’t want to screw that up by fucking him. Hell, he was probably kidding. Callum wasn’t one for casual, especially not lately when his work had basically become his significant other.
He’d just left the shop when I heard someone mutter, “Ugh, fucking guy like that getting a tattoo.”
Anger sluiced through me, and I whirled toward the seating area. There was a girl filling out her paperwork—Pete’s next client—and she was giving the guy who’d spoken a singularly unimpressed look. The guy, who was also filling out paperwork, didn’t seem to notice me staring at him. He also didn’t realize the temperature had dropped about twenty degrees, and kept running his mouth.
“Sissies shouldn’t get tattoos, it fucking ruins it for the rest of us,” the guy said, pen moving over the paper.
Seriously? Fucking asshole thought he was gonna waltz into my shop and go all homophobe tough guy in here? Hell no. I walked over and yanked the clipboard out of his hands. “Out.”
He looked up, blinked, then got to his feet. He was about three inches shorter than me. “What the fuck, dude? Give that back!” He reached for the clipboard.
I held it up like you’d do if you were playing keep-away with a child. “I don’t think so. I said, get out.”
“I have an appointment,” dude started, huffy, and I cut him off.
“Yeah, well, it’s been canceled. So get the fuck out.”
“I’m going to leave you a one-star review on Google!” the guy snapped.
“Oooh,” said the girl on the couch.
He glared at her, but I took a threatening step forward. “You’ve got two seconds before I throw your ass out.”
The guy looked briefly like he was contemplating arguing, but apparently my frame—and my glower—was enough to convince him that was a bad idea. He muttered under his breath and turned to s
lam out of the shop.
“I bet he can’t figure out how to leave a review on Google,” the girl said. As if she were trying to make me feel better. “Besides, I’m going to leave you a five-star review for throwing that guy out. On Google and Yelp.”
I smiled briefly and reached out for her completed paperwork. On it, I wrote give her a ten percent discount, and tell Pete I’ll pay him the difference and handed it to Harriet.
She smiled at me and went to enter the information in the database.
I noticed Poe was giving me a look as I headed back into my room to get ready for my next client. “You got something to say?” I didn’t think he would. Landon knew I was gay, though I had no idea if he’d mentioned it to Poe. Most of my artists knew, and if they cared at all, I’d never gotten a whiff of it. I had a pretty firm nondiscrimination clause in my new-hire paperwork that made it clear I wouldn’t put up with any of that shit.
“Nope. That guy was a dick. He wanted Tim McGraw lyrics anyway,” Poe scoffed. “Like, dude, there’s country music that doesn’t suck. Listen to that.”
I smiled despite myself. “True. But I wouldn’t tattoo any of that on him, either. That guy’s never getting back on the books.”
“Good,” said Poe. “I wouldn’t want to tattoo that douche canoe, either.” He was still looking at me strangely, and I wondered if I was going to get the but you don’t look gay thing from him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Hell, it wouldn’t be the eighth or tenth or twentieth time.
But Poe didn’t say that, which made me glad, because I couldn’t stand that kind of shit. I’d known I was gay since I was twelve, maybe before that, and for some reason people took one look at me and thought just because I was a big guy with tattoos and drove a motorcycle, I was more likely to make comments like that asshole in the lobby than suck dick. Stupid.
It was maybe one of the few times I could remember Poe looking curious—not about me as a tattoo artist or his boss, but me as a person. And there was something in it I recognized, a brief spark of awareness, and ah. Is that how it was? I kept up our eye contact, and eventually Poe looked away, a light flush on his face.
Huh. I was almost sure Landon had referred to Poe being on a date with a girl once or twice, so maybe he didn’t know. Or, shit, maybe Poe was bisexual. All I knew was, he couldn’t be looking at me like this. Shouldn’t be. Because now I wasn’t thinking about Callum’s naked, tattooed body spread out in bed, but Poe’s, all that skin begging for ink and for my—
“Why don’t you go out and get us some lunch,” I said, shutting the door on that particular fantasy. Bad idea, Jericho. Bad idea. And I was probably misreading the situation anyway. Callum’s presence had reminded me how long it’d been since I’d gotten off with anyone but my right hand, that’s all. And Poe was attractive. It was simple transference. And completely inappropriate. “Take some cash from the drawer from Harriet.”
I didn’t usually make Poe get us lunch, but if the thought rankled, he didn’t let it show. “Okay, sure,” he said, and then he smiled at me.
Poe had smiled before, of course. At me, even. But not like this, with this sudden openness, like he was trying to tell me something. Something I definitely didn’t want to hear.
“Jimmy John’s,” I said. “Get me a Hunter’s Club, extra cheese.” My voice was a little gruffer than normal.
“Whatever you want,” said Poe, and I hoped to God I was imagining the invitation in there. I had to be. And I had to stop. Also, if Poe was into men, why in the fuck would he be into me? Half the time, I was sure he didn’t like me all that much.
Landon’s son. Your apprentice. Sulky millennial who is way too young for you. Get it together, idiot. Also you’re probably making all of this up anyway.
I went into my room and left him standing in the hallway, then pulled my phone out. Callum had left me a message.
I think I made your apprentice jealous *winky face emoji*
Goddamn it.
Poe
“That’s not half-bad, shop bitch.”
I looked up from the piece of synthetic skin I was shading to see Pete leaning a bony hip against Jericho’s storage cabinet, his thin, heavily tattooed arms crossed over his chest. I straightened from my hunch and sneered at him as I rolled my shoulders to work out the kinks. I’d been at Jericho’s desk all day, working on one piece of fake skin after another, and even a honeydew melon, a grapefruit, and a few bananas.
When Jericho had plopped the bag of produce on the desk this morning, I’d hiked an eyebrow and stared at him. “What is this? You want me to make you a fruit salad?”
Jericho had snorted. “Hardy har. You’re a regular comedian, chuckles.” He’d jerked his chin at a black cardboard box I hadn’t noticed. “That’s your starter kit, courtesy of your father. You should thank him, by the way.” The advice came with a pointed look. “I already showed you how to set up liners and shaders. Now I want you to start practicing.”
I lifted the bundle of bananas. “On these?”
“Yeah. Forearms and ankles aren’t flat like that practice skin. You need to learn how to work on different shapes and contours.”
With that, he’d walked away, only pausing to watch over my shoulder and offer suggestions between his appointments. I couldn’t guess what time it was now. Late, judging by the darkness outside the window. The entire day had flown past without me noticing. Normally it didn’t take much to distract me—my brain spotted something shiny and off it went—but I’d been so focused on my task I hadn’t noticed Jericho leave the room with his last client.
I realized Pete was still standing there staring at me. Out of everyone else who worked in the shop, I liked him the least, which sucked because he was also the loudest and the one around most often, aside from Jericho and Roxanne. Zeek kind of drifted in and out of the shop like a ghost. Pete, though, he could be annoying as fuck. “I have a name,” I told him. “It starts with the same letter as yours, if that makes it any easier to remember.”
Pete shrugged, his lips curling into an amiable smile. “Doesn’t matter. You’re ‘shop bitch’ till you earn your stripes.”
I ignored him and went back to the compass rose I’d been shading. The quality wasn’t anywhere near as good as I wanted, or remotely close to what I could’ve drawn on paper, but as Pete said, it wasn’t half-bad—especially for a first attempt. Jericho made tattooing look easy. It really, really wasn’t. My lower back and right hand ached like I was an eighty-year-old with rheumatoid arthritis. The posture I had to maintain while working and the weight of the machine would take some getting used to.
“You know, you’re lucky.” Pete stepped closer. “Artists as talented as Jericho can make serious bank from apprenticeships. He could probably charge ten grand for what he’s giving you for free.”
That drew my attention back to him. I hadn’t considered that I might be charged for basically being the shop grunt for however long it took me to complete the apprenticeship. I’d been told I had to do at least one hundred “free” tattoos before I could go for my license. Free to the person getting the ink, at least. I knew I’d be expected to buy my own supplies to provide said tattoos, so in reality I’d be losing money.
“Didn’t know that, did you?” Pete laughed. “Man, you seriously don’t have the slightest clue about the value of what you’re being given.”
“Hey, he offered,” I said, unable to keep the defensiveness out of my tone.
“Sure. You’re his best friend’s kid, and from what I’ve heard, you’ve been a total fuck up until now. He’s trying to help your father, not you. I don’t see why, though. You couldn’t handle the front desk, so—”
“That’s enough, Pete.” Jericho’s voice came from the doorway, startling us both.
Pete looked guiltily over his shoulder. “Um. Sorry, man. I just wanted him to know what—”
Jericho raised a hand. “I appreciate that, but it’s none of your business. If and when you take on your own apprentice, you can s
ay whatever you want to them. Leave mine alone. Got me?”
“Yeah, man. Sorry.”
Pete eased past Jericho, out of the room.
I set down the tattoo machine and turned the chair to face Jericho. “Is it true what he said?” I asked as I peeled off the nitrile gloves. Jericho had insisted I wear them while practicing to get used to having them on all the time. I tossed the used pair in the garbage bin. “Like, could you be charging me for this?”
“Yeah. A lot of artists do. We’re taking time out of our schedules to teach you the trade. Some people won’t do that without compensation.”
I lifted my chin. “I didn’t know. I can pay you back once I start working. We can—”
Jericho shook his head. “Nah. I would’ve told you from the get-go if I wanted money. Don’t worry about that. Like I said before, someone did me a solid when I needed it most. I’m doing the same for you.”
“For me? Or for my dad?”
Jericho shrugged and rubbed a hand over his combed back, black-and-silver hair. “Both, to be honest. But I wouldn’t have taken you on if I didn’t think you had talent. I’m not running a charity here.”
He crossed to the desk and started inspecting the fruit and pile of fake skins I’d already worked on. “You’re getting the hang of it. This isn’t bad for your first day.”
“How many days of this before I can try it on a person?”
Jericho made a small, amused sound, tossing the skins back on the desk. “A lot. You have to do the same things over and over again, until you’re sick and damn tired of looking at the same designs. Then you do it some more. That’s how you get good. No one starts off like Ed Hardy or Paul Booth. You have to put in your time. It’s the same with graffiti, I’m sure.”
