“Hey, nobody’s as good as Amy.” He’s still unhappy we had to swap associates, and he ended up with Sasha and I got Amy. But now that Amy’s his wife, it would be awkward for him to do performance evaluations on her. Not to mention, if he gave her a glowing eval, nobody would believe it wasn’t biased. “But she’s good. Much better than Marjorie.”
Emmett’s laying it on thick. He knows I’ve been frazzled without Renée, and Marjorie doesn’t cut it for me. I don’t know how he puts up with her.
“All right. I’ll see how good she is on Monday.”
“Trust me. I have the hiring instincts of a god!”
“Uh-huh. One of those tiny little plaster cherub gods that pee into fountains.” I snort a laugh, then hang up.
Emmett wouldn’t be praising the new hire if she sucked, so a bit of optimism starts to well up. I have so many admin tasks to unload. I realize as I climb into my Maybach that he didn’t mention her name. Oh well. I’ll meet her soon enough.
I maneuver through the late Friday afternoon traffic, heading to Ink Art. I visit that tattoo studio every year on this day. I connect my phone to the car via Bluetooth and call Dani, the owner and lead tattoo artist at the place.
“Ink Art. How can I help you?” Her voice is raspy and low from years of smoking.
“This is Grant.”
“Hey. I was just thinking about you.”
“Likewise.”
She laughs softly. “You stopping by today?”
“Uh-huh. I know it’s last minute, but can you fit me in? I couldn’t make an appointment because I was out of town and wasn’t sure if I could make it.” No Renée to manage that for me, and Marjorie would’ve forgotten.
“Of course. It won’t be a problem. It isn’t like it’s going to take long, Quickie.”
I chuckle at her nickname for me. “Okay. See you soon.”
Half an hour later, I pull in in front of a pleasant tat studio. The textured tile floor is black and white, and the white walls are covered with Dani’s original designs. Some of them are marked with a small red star in the upper-right corner to show that they’re taken—and turned into tattoos on her clients’ bodies—but some are still available. There are also some by her other artists.
Dani comes out around the counter. She’s paler than last year, but she’d been in Hawaii for a week before I saw her back then. Her hair’s dyed blue and cut short with a sloping bang that covers almost all of her right eye. Black kohl lines her eyes, and a blood-red shade glints on her thin lips. Intricates tattoos consisting of swirly lines and poetry quotes cover her long, lean arms. There is a thin black band around her ring finger. She said only an exceptionally worthy man will be allowed to put a ring there and cover the ink.
“Kinda slow today,” I say.
“A customer just left. He’ll be back later to finish it up.” She cocks her head. “You’re the only person who doesn’t want anything fancy.”
“I don’t need fancy.”
I get ready, unbuttoning my shirt and revealing my shoulder. She looks at the smooth expanse of skin, then runs an antiseptic swab over it, since the tat’s going to be tiny.
“So why do you get just one at a time?” she asks, picking up the tiny needle.
“Because doing them all at once wouldn’t be the same.”
She adds a short black dash to my shoulder. Now there are fourteen. I look at them dispassionately.
“You add a dash on your shoulder every time you make another billion?” She knows I’m a venture capitalist.
“No. I don’t need tats to keep track of how much I’m worth.” I keep my response light and playful. The black dashes mean another year has gone by with my head screwed on tight.
“I’d feel guilty if you were anybody else. I charge a minimum of a Benji and a half.” She shakes her head.
“Aren’t you lucky I’m a billionaire?”
She laughs. “Yeah. Well, you ever want something fancy, lemme know.”
“Will do,” I say, although I know I won’t.
