Perfect, that’s what it would be. But how to convince her? For now, his best shot was to be the friend she wanted and make sure she knew he was interested in more. But he couldn’t be pushy. No more surprise kisses, especially in front of an audience. Maybe…
The door chimed again, jarring him back to soul-sucking reality.
****
Rosie pulled into the last parking space at the sad little strip mall. Flanked by a tidy Pho shop and the Hallelujah Christian Bookstore, Screaming Eagle Tattoo was definitely the black sheep of the family with its peeling window paint and half-lit neon sign.
“I got this, I got this, I got this.” Tucking her portfolio under her arm, she rose, popped the collar on her leather bomber jacket, and humming “Whole Lotta Rosie,” strode across the lot.
Typical tattoo studio, with flash sheets and photos of tattoos plastered on the walls and metalcore blasting from the speakers. The buzz of tattoo machines and the rumble of conversation drifted through saloon doors behind the front desk. A bored-looking receptionist held up a finger and continued her phone conversation. “Swollen? Does it smell bad? Well, smell it.”
It was pure luck that brought this studio’s owner into Bangers last week. They got to talking, he complimented her on her ink, and voilà, an invitation to bring her portfolio.
“Eew.” The receptionist screwed up her face. “Definitely see a doctor. That’s totally not normal.” She hung up and rolled her eyes. “We hand out aftercare instructions. Not our fault if they don’t follow ’em.” She tossed Rosie a half-assed grin. “What’s up?”
“I have an appointment with Bruno.”
“Really?” Wrinkling her pointy nose, she flipped through an appointment book. “’Cause he’s got the whole afternoon slotted for his brother-in-law.”
Had she screwed up the time? She checked the text he sent yesterday, then showed her phone to the receptionist, who shrugged.
“Go on back, I guess.”
Rosie pushed through the swinging doors to the studio floor. It was even more colorful back here. Each of the eight artists’ stations was painted a different bright shade, barely visible behind the artwork covering walls and cabinets. Bruno’s shop had all the bases covered, from Polynesian to Japanese, new school cartoons, American classics, watercolor, and at one station, biomechanical tattoos that made the wearers look like cyborgs with skin peeled back to reveal mechanical joints and gears. Except for the girl up front, all the artists were male.
Rosie inhaled the familiar tang of green soap and bleach, clutched her portfolio tighter, and approached the bald, ginger-bearded behemoth.
Bruno straddled his stool, its chest support creaking under his bulk as he shaded a storm cloud on his customer’s left shoulder. She knew better than to interrupt, so she carefully leaned in to watch him layer blue over gray, adding depth and a sense of roiling motion. Good stuff.
The skinny dude lying face down opened his eyes and poked Bruno. “Who’s she?”
Bruno lifted his tool, wiped his customer’s reddened skin with a paper towel, then turned. “Oh, hey. Was that today? Shit, I lost track.” He swatted the customer’s butt. “Gotta take this, bro. Gimme five, awright?”
With a grunt, the customer rose and ambled toward the coffee station in the corner. Bruno patted the now-vacant chair. “Have a seat, sweetheart. Let’s see whatcha got.”
She sat and placed her glittery blue binder in his huge mitt.
He snorted. “Seriously? Looks like a high school kid’s notebook.”
Rosie flinched. She’d watched dozens of online videos about how to make your tattoo portfolio, and plenty used binders like this.
Bruno rolled his stool close enough to feel the heat rolling off his bulky body. He flipped through her drawings, stopping here and there to huff into his wiry beard. Finally, he closed the binder with a snap and laid his palm on her knee. Which would be fine if they were friends. But they weren’t, and the gleam in his eye held a predatory edge. “You got potential, kid, but I don’t see nothing in here that makes me wanna shout hallelujah, ya know? Skulls, roses, all the usual crap. Training a new artist is a pain in the ass, and I’m not seeing that individual spark.” He slid his hand a little further north and kneaded her thigh like bread dough. “You want an apprenticeship? Convince me you’re worth the trouble.”
Heart thundering, she lifted his wrist and sucked in her cheeks. One more chance, just in case he was one of those touchy-feelie types who didn’t mean anything by it. “So, what exactly are you looking for? You know, to make you shout hallelujah?”
Bruno arched an eyebrow, his gaze raking her from head to boots. The artist at the next station snickered.
Rosie’s scalp prickled as she realized the buzzing had stopped and all eyes were trained on her. She’d stepped right into the trap.
“Tell you what, darlin’.” Bruno rubbed his shaved head. “You do a couple months on the front desk, get a feel for the clientele. If you do all right, we’ll start workin’ you in—supplies, clean-up, assist the artists.”
“You’re offering me a job, then?”
Bruno’s hand fell on her knee again. “That ain’t how it works, cupcake. You pay us to teach you. Five thou.”
She’d been warned about this. Some old-school tattoo artists expected an apprentice to be their shop bitch, doing all the grunt work in exchange for on-the-job training. And some charged for the privilege too. Apprenticeships were hard to come by, and Tacoma’s tattoo scene was especially competitive.
Last chance, horndog. She peeled his fingers off her leg. “What about the girl up front?”
“Candy? She can’t draw worth shit. Just wants free tattoos.”
I wonder if Candy knows that, or if she thinks she’s their apprentice. She rose to her feet. “You know, I’ve got a job I love. I’m not sure
