“We have needles for you,” he announces as he tosses it to me. Grabbing the other, he says, “And needles for me.”
“Cartridges,” I correct him for the ten thousandth time as I take the box from him.
I met Connor what feels like a million years ago, not long after I left the faith and was forced out of the life that I knew right along with it.
We ran into each other during our apprenticeships, mine for tattooing and his for piercing. I let him practice on me a handful of times and vice-versa; he’s responsible for every hole that’s ever been in my head, and in turn, I’m responsible for the few pieces of ink littering his body.
“How did things go with the princess?”
“Theprincess,” I chuckle, “still wants me to sell the shop.”
“And you said ‘screw that,’ right?” He asks with an arched brow.
“I sold one of the bikes,” I tell him. At the concerned rise of his brow, I raise a hand. “Not the R7.”
“Want to take her out later?” He asks over his shoulder, tucking the box underneath his arm as he moves toward his station.
My eyes flit to my phone and the thought of the wife who may or may not be waiting up when I’m finished here tonight. If she is, she’ll most likely be engrossed in some new ebook or, if she’s really bored, trying to get the gunk out from between Drumstick’s nails.
I’ll walk into the house and I’ll either shout my goodnight up the stairs or we’ll share a quick peck on the lips and an even faster hello. Then we’ll either part ways for the night or we’ll start arguing about something stupid; like whether or not we should leave a light on in the kitchen before we go to sleep.
“Yeah,” I finally nod, “absolutely.”
My gaze trails toward the large digital clock hung on the back wall of the shop, then over to Connor’s station. Pushing myself off of my chair, I stride toward it and lean closer to take a look at the displays set out in his case.
Blocks upon blocks of displays host different types of body jewelry – gemstones, precious metals, diamonds, and engraved pieces; barbells, hoops, and posts – the options laid out seem almost endless.
Reaching into the case as if he’s reading my mind, he pulls a block from inside and passes it to me across the counter. I turn it over in my hand, scanning the various end pieces held throughout, and finally settle on one in the shape of a spider.
“I wouldn’t. That one is liable to snag on…well, on your wife,” he teases, smirking with a suggestive lift of his brows.
“Not a concern,” I tell him, setting down the small display. “I am in a committed relationship with our shower at this point.”
“Been there,” he laughs. “Unfortunatelylivethere.”
Pulling the jewelry back into its cabinet, he turns to the small storage compartments hung on the wall behind him. He spends a while pulling open the drawers only to push them shut again before he finally returns to me with two small peel packs in hand, dropping them onto his table before he slips into a pair of gloves.
“You’re overthinking it,” he tells me. “You don’t need it to be flashy for it to look good.”
Reaching toward me, he uses his pinkie fingers to stabilize his hands against my face as he takes hold of the jewelry in my lip, carefully pulling to separate each piece from one another.
After replacing the lower piece with his face inches from mine, he feeds the jewelry back up through the piercing.
“Drop trou and bend over for each other already,” one of my artists says with a snicker as he steps into the studio, headed for his station.
“Fuck off,” I bark.
Connor makes quick work of finishing his task, securing the rest of the jewelry into place without offering any of his attention to the artist as he moves to his own station.
“You cool?” I ask him quietly.
He nods. “It doesn’t bother me,” he insists. Reaching for a mirror from his kit, he hands it to me, jerking his chin in my direction. “Now tell me I did a good job and get out of my space.”
The gemstone ends of the piece have been replaced with a small black bead of smooth metal at the top, connected to a matching piece that comes to a sharp point at the lower end. Not flashy, but still something to suit my style.
“You did a good job,” I teasingly coo to him, dropping the mirror onto the counter space next to me.
Leaving him to clean up and prep his station for any incoming appointments that he might have, I offer a playful pat to the top of his head and cross the studio to step into my other artist’s station. He’s sitting in front of a sketchbook, using a pencil to scribble out a few pieces of flash to offer his clients.
