“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the couches by the front window before turning around and walking toward his office.
“I’m not a dog, Seb,” I snapped.
His shoulders tensed beneath his T-shirt as he let out afrustrated groan.
“Jesus Christ, Lydia. Is everything a fight with you?” He turned to me, adding sweetly, “Would you like to take a seat while I get us some waters?”
“That sounds great, thanks.” I smiled sarcastically.
He rubbed his hands down his face, and I couldn’t help but think maybe this would be more fun than I expected.
* * *
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Seb said.
It was my second day on the job, if you could count yesterday’s planning session as a workday. I came in today to start photographing his wall of previous work. It was a good starting point to get something up on his pages, and honestly, it was cool as hell.
There was just one problem.
“I need access to your socials, or I can’t help you. As your social media manager, it’s literally my job to post on your accounts.”
He didn’t say anything to that. He just sat on his rolling stool, black disposable gloves hiding the tattoos that covered his hands.
“She’s got a point,” Bryce said from his position in Seb’s chair.
“Careful, boy. I’m the one with the needle,” Seb threatened.
Bryce Dilberg aimed his nineteen-year-old smile at me. “I’ll risk it.”
“Thank you, Bryce,” I said with a wink. “Seb, do you nottrust me with your accounts? Is that what the problem is?”
“Of course I don’t. Do you think I’m fucking insane?” He never picked his head up from where he glided the tattoo machine across Bryce’s inner forearm.
Now it was my turn to not answer. I walked around Seb and Bryce, taking pictures of the process, of Seb’s concentrated brow, of Bryce’s relaxed pose.
“What are you doing?” Seb asked.
“Documenting.”
“Do you have to move around so much while you’re ‘documenting’?”
“Yes,” I answered, sticking my tongue out at the back of his head, much to Bryce’s amusement.
“What is she doing?” Seb asked nervously.
“Nothing,” Bryce and I answered in unison.
“Suspicious fuckers,” Seb grumbled. “If she hits me over the head with a frying pan, it’s going to be your arm that’s all jacked up,” he said to Bryce.
I left them alone for Seb to finish his session, only coming back around to take a few shots of Bryce’s finished tattoo while he paid Seb in cash.
Just as Bryce walked out, he held the door open, and an older woman came in. She was probably in her sixties, with no visible tattoos that I could see. She didn’t seem like the type to start decorating her skin now, but hey, who was I to judge?
“Are you here for an appointment?” I asked.
“Yes. With Sebastian.” She fiddled with her purse, her soft voice making it even harder to believe she was here for some fresh ink.
“Darlene,” he called to her cheerfully as he cleaned andsanitized his equipment. “I’ll be right there, honey.”
