“I see I’m outvoted. Just don’t bring in some asshole,” Anthony said.
“I think we need to hire another female.” I smiled.
“I think you’re right,” Joe said.
The cock/pussy ratio was way off at Inked. Most tattoo shops had a disproportionate number of female employees, and we weren’t any different. I could use a little more estrogen around this place to help keep the guys in check.
Mike tossed his notepad on his work station and collapsed in the chair. “It’s settled. I’ll put out the word and see what happens, but I do have some portfolios already in the office.”
“We all have to be in agreement on this person,” Anthony chimed in, still being a stick in the mud.
“Shut up, man.” Joe turned his back to Anthony and started his prep for the first client of the day.
Anthony shrugged it off, going back to his phone because he’d prepped when Mike started the meeting because he hated Mike’s weekly chats as much as the rest of us.
“I’ll take a look at them today, Mikey. Just put them out, and we’ll all start. Right, Anthony?” I quirked an eyebrow, waiting for him to get mouthy with me, but he didn’t.
“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbled into the screen of his phone.
Within minutes of Mike flipping the open sign on the door, our morning appointment arrived, and it was time to dig in and get to work. My first client was the easiest of the day. A small little wrist tattoo that said “I am enough” with a thin cross at the right side. It was beautifully delicate and turned out perfect. The client left satisfied and over the moon excited about her first tattoo. It went so smoothly that I had an hour before my next appointment. I wandered into the office after cleaning my station and started to power through a stack of portfolios that Mike must’ve been compiling for years.
I opened Facebook and Instagram, figuring it was the best way to see their newest work and a great way to get a feel for the person before they stepped foot inside Inked. I sorted the pile into two stacks—cock and tits.
I opened the first portfolio which belonged to Telula Mabel Bell. The name was a bit wonky, but hey, who was I to slight a person for their name and fucked-up parents. Her line work was decent, but her saturation left a little something to be desired. I clicked through her Facebook profile, and she looked more like a church mouse than a tattoo artist.
We needed to find someone who could put up with the bullshit of not only the clients, but my brothers. The task wouldn’t be easy because they were…them.
I tossed Telula to the side and grabbed the next portfolio. Kat West. I liked the name. It was totally made-up, but it was one that sounded like a tatted-up, ballbustin’ girl. I flipped through the pages, studying her line work, saturation, and style. Everything looked spot-on and creative. She included some drawings that she’d created specifically for us to show us her range and creativity.
The one thing I didn’t want was someone who could only follow a pattern that’d already been created. This shit wasn’t paint by number. We needed anotherartistwho was going to bring her unique skill and style to Inked along with an established clientele.
Kat’s Facebook and Instagram told me everything I needed to know about her. Not only was it filled with her work, but also her family. She had two older brothers and a sister, which put one extra point in her column. If her brothers were anything like mine, I was sure she could handle the Gallo boys without an issue.
Kat had the look too. Long black hair, overdone eye makeup that made her large brown eyes stand out, and the complete rocker chick look that would have the men falling over themselves to get a tattoo from her. As far as I could tell, she was perfect for Inked.
“Izzy. Martin’s here,” Anthony yelled just as I was about to pick up another portfolio.
Martin was going to be my longest and final appointment of the day. We’d been working on a massive back piece for what seemed like months now. We were in the homestretch, filling it with colors out the ying-yang. I was stoked to see the final product, but we still had another session after this one before we could call it done.
I walked back into the shop to find Martin already lying down with his shirt off and ready. “Hey, Martin. Miss me?”
Martin looked over his shoulder as I sat down, giving me the brightest smile. “I always miss your kind of torture, Iz.”
I giggled and patted his back softly. “You love it. You’re a pain slut even if you’ll never admit it. How many hours do you want to go?”
He tucked his hands under his chin and readied himself. “Do it until I say stop.”
Martin Santorini lived about an hour away from Inked, but he said I was worth the drive. He was married with two kids and lived the American dream. He was a Pasco County Sherriff’s deputy and looked every bit the part with his flattop haircut and the badass ink that covered his arms. I knew if he pulled me over, I wouldn’t argue because he looked too mean to fuck with, even for me.
“I have all day.”
“Do your damage, babe.”
I loved clients like Martin. He never bitched or whined about the pain and never complained about a damn thing. He lay there with his eyes closed and sometimes chimed in on our conversation with some witty, smartass comment. He’d been a client for years, and he wore at least a half dozen pieces that I’d created specifically for him.
An hour later, Anthony came strolling out the office. “Who is this chick?”
I glanced up and noticed he was holding Kat’s portfolio. “I pulled her file. I think she’d be a great fit.”
