“Do you want to make an appointment for the rest of it?”
I reached for my schedule below the counter and flipped it open to the next month, desperately wanting to make sure Smith had enough time to heal fully before I opened his arm back up for more ink. There were plenty of people who got tattoos finished two weeks after their first appointment, but that had never been me, and I’d never encouraged my clients to rush the process either. Tattoos were a lifetime commitment, two extra weeks between appointments wasn’t going to be the end of the world.
“I’m shocked you’ll finish it,” he said.
“I can’t have you walking around with half a tattoo.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Only half?”
“You’re in the home stretch.”
Smith rubbed beneath his eye, fingers barely visible past the worn cuff of my hoodie. “I normally have dinner with my brothers on Friday night, and I work during the day, so if I need to take time off to come in the morning, I’ve just got to plan for it.”
“We can probably finish you up after work next month,” I said.
It was one thing to start from scratch at six pm, another to deal with shading between already established lines.
“You tell me when then,” he said.
Smith had his phone in hand, calendar app open.
“Fridays are my busiest day anyway. Then and weekends, so do you want to do four Wednesdays from next? A month out?”
As a general rule, the shop was closed on Monday and Tuesday, but considering I lived right upstairs and had annoying friends, I worked more often than not. But I definitely was not going to open that schedule up for a man who was too young for me that looked too good in a hoodie that didn’t belong to him. It was a curious feeling, I thought, the interest in another person, even though it wasn’t necessarily layered with attraction or with intent.
“That works.” Smith tapped the date into his phone and glanced up at me. “What time?”
“Six.”
He nodded and we both put the date and time into our schedules. I closed my book and returned it to its home beneath the counter, and Smith awkwardly returned his phone to his pocket. His color was absolutely back to normal, if not a little flushed.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “See you then.”
And just like that, he spun and all but ran out the door. The bells jingled behind him and the outside air wafted in, sendinga shiver up my spine. That was when I realized he’d never given me back my hoodie.
Shit.
I should have said something to him as soon as he lifted it up off the chair, but I hadn’t been thinking clearly, obviously as dazed by his crash out as he was. And I should have been more aggressive and told him I needed it back after he paid, but instead I let him get distracted and walk off with it.
With a quick duck, I darted out from behind the counter and jogged to the door. I shoved it open and looked both ways down the block, but Smith was nowhere to be found. He either set off at a full sprint as soon as he’d gotten out of sight, or he was the fastest driver known to man. I didn’t even remember hearing a car turn on.
“It’s fine,” I told myself, shuffling back into the shop.
I didn’t have an appointment for another two hours, so I locked the door and trudged up the steps to my second-floor apartment. The fifth and the eighth stair creaked their protest under my weight, but as always, I ignored them. The structure of the building was sound; I was sure of it. The inspections when I’d bought the place had been more than thorough, ensuring everything was retrofit and able to withstand much more than just my weight.
Back in the familiar safety of my home, I closed the door that separated my private space from the shop downstairs and banged by head against the solid wood. I forced myself to look at my living room, the inlaid wood floors and the plastered ceiling. My green velvet couch tucked into a corner and the window seat overflowing with potted plants. They loved being together and they loved the light. I loved being able to sit on the couch and see them, even if I was focused on the TV mounted on the opposite wall over the fireplace.
The kitchen and dining room were to the left and the bathroom and bedrooms were to the right. I’d been adamant about keeping as much of the original charm of the house as I could, at first because it was what Evander would have wanted, but eventually because I grew to like the features myself. The bathroom was a work of art on its own, with the yellow tile and the shower arch, the bedrooms simpler and more understated. The inlaid wood floors from the living room carried into the bedroom, the geometric art deco design blocking out the space for every room.
I toed off my boots in the doorway and followed the straight oak borders down the hallway and into my bedroom. There wasn’t much in there, just a bed and two nightstands, a matching dresser, some more plants. I had a lamp on the side of the bed I slept on, a stack of books ranging from tattoo art to fantasy messily arranged beside a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned on its face, and an open bottle of melatonin.
My body desperately wanted to lay down and rest because I was also experiencing a fitful adrenaline crash, but I worried if I sank down into the warm pillows of my bed, I wouldn’t get back up in time for my next appointment. With plenty of regret, I trudged into the kitchen where I grabbed a slice of cold pepperoni pizza from the fridge. I’d managed to eat almost the whole thing by the time I made it to the couch, which was nicer to look at than it was to sit on.
Ev had loved it, though.
I finished my snack and turned my attention to the window, and I found myself wondering if Smith had made it home okay. I had his cell phone number from when he’d sent me the inspiration for his tattoo. There surely wouldn’t be any harm in me reaching out to check on him. I was a professional and he was a client, and he’d passed out on my floor—in my arms—andit would be reasonable for me to make sure he had gotten home safely.
It was good business.
