"Tell that to my existential dread." She attempts a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Besides, nothing says emotional stability like getting a spine tattoo."
The Black Rose sign comes into view, its thorned lettering from Brodie's artwork casting elegant shadows in the morning light. New tattoos cover the exposed brick—everything from bold sailor pieces to finely detailed Japanese work. A massive dragon wraps around one corner, its scales shifting from traditional to neo-traditional, while geometric patterns float beneath it like modern constellations.
The door chimes as we enter, and Marcus glances up from where he's perched on the reception desk. His styled chestnut hair falls just so over one eye.
"Uh-oh, birthday tattoo?" His grin turns wicked. "That's how I ended up with a crying sun on my butt."
"Please tell me you're joking,"
"A gentleman never tells. But Mia has pictures."
I'm about to respond when something catches my eye—a hot pink fluffy pillow nestled among the leather cushions of the waiting area couch. Next to it, looking hilariously out of place, sits a Cliffside Sunrise Yankee Candle.
"Don't ask about the pillow," Marcus stage-whispers, catching my confused glance. "Mia and I have a running bet on how long before Brodie notices. She says a week. I give it till Thursday."
A delighted squeal interrupts our conspiracy as Mia appears from the back room. Her red hair catches the light like copper wire, framing a face dusted with freckles. Today she's wearing a dress of pale blue tulle, soft layers floating around her tiny frame, paired incongruously with silver glitter-covered boots. Everything about her radiates joy, from her bouncing steps to the way she practically dances across the floor.
"Finally!" She launches herself at Amelia. "I've been practicing that design all week." She pulls out her sketch pad, filled withvariations of the koi fish pattern she'd chosen. "I even did some on oranges to get the curve right."
"Mia." Brodie's voice carries from his station, where he's setting up with military precision. But I notice the way his gaze softens on her, how he's already shifted everything to the perfect height for her small frame. "What did we say about tackling clients?"
"That it's only okay if they're ready?" She grins, unrepentant. "And Amelia's basically always ready. Right?"
"For you? Without question." Amelia returns her hug with equal force. "Though I'm still not convinced about letting you near me with needles."
"Actually," Brodie cuts in. "She's doing the outline. Her line work's cleaner than half the artists I've trained. That is if she can keep her hands that steady while bouncing around like a sugar-high pixie."
"Are you sure?" Mia's eyes go wide. "But you said—"
"I said when you were ready," Brodie cuts her off. "And after seeing those practice pieces yesterday . . ." He trails off, focusing intently on arranging his machines, but we all catch the slight smile he tries to hide.
I settle into the spare seat next to the tattoo chair. Everything here has its place. The machines lined up by size, ink caps organized by shade, even his reference sketches perfectly aligned.
"I've got the perfect playlist!" Mia announces, twirling toward the sound system. "I call it 'Songs to Get Stabbed To: The Gentle Edition.'"
"The gentle edition?" I ask. "As opposed to what, exactly?"
"Oh, you don't want to know about Murder Hours," Marcus chimes in. "That's strictly reserved for chest pieces, and angry exes getting cover-ups."
"Stop hovering and sit down," Brodie tells Marcus, who's circling the station. "You'remaking me nervous."
"Why does your setup look like a medieval torture device?" Amelia shrugs off her jacket, eyeing the chair.
"Because I'm about to tattoo a professional whiner."
"Excuse me? I am a customer. Show some respect."
"Drama queen." Brodie adjusts the chair's height with practiced efficiency.
Marcus and Mia exchange delighted looks. "He's just cranky you're not letting him freestyle a skull with angel wings," Marcus calls out, ducking the towel Brodie throws at his head.
"And you're absolutely sure about this?" I ask Amelia. "Because as your best friend, I feel obligated to remind you that you once cried getting your ear pierced."
"That was different," she protests, shifting on the chair. "I was sixteen and did it with a safety pin at home."
"You did what?" Brodie's head snaps up.
"In my defense," Amelia grins, "I was going through my rebellious phase. Also, I had excellent technique."
