I carried my morning coffee and my tablet over to the seating area and curled up in my usual corner spot. Sometimes, I still couldn’t believe this place was mine. That I’d created my dream tattoo parlor out of what had once been a lifeless concrete cube. It had taken a lot of hard work, countless hours of planning and drafting and arguing with contractors when they tried to nickel-and-dime me. There were moments when I’d felt like it would never get done, that I would fail at this like I had failed at everything else—too flighty to stick it out, too weak to follow through. But somehow, I’d persevered through that hellish, stressful year, and the reward of sitting here, staring at what I’d accomplished, made it all worth it.
I took a sip of coffee before setting it aside to pick up my tablet. The shop wouldn’t open for several hours, and I usually spent this time creating. All my tattoos were hand-drawn and unique. I was a neo-traditionalist, melding vintage and modern styles. My specialty was pronounced line work and vibrant colors with a dash of whimsical illustration, art nouveau meets Studio Ghibli. The style wasn’t for everyone, but those who loved it,loved it.
I’d been working at my craft for years. I was good at what I did, and it showed in my busy schedule. Today, I had three tattoos and two consultations scheduled, and while that might not sound like a lot to a layperson, itwas. One of the tattoos was small and wouldn’t take much time, but the other two were much more complex. I was looking at eight hours of tattooing, and I could already feel my back twinging with anticipatory stiffness. I’d need several painkillers and a heating pad tonight—but again, worth it.
A rattle at the front door had me lifting my head.
This part of the city was up-and-coming. Meaning, there were as many nice parts as there were bad ones, and the threat of break-ins was real. The curtains were shut, so I couldn’t see who was out there, but I wasn’t worried. Instead of glass, the windows were made of a clear, shatterproof polycarbonate. Every inch of the shop (both inside and out) was covered with cameras, and I’d installed Grade 1 commercial locks on all the doors. It wasreallyhard to break in here.
Trusting my security measures, I went back to drawing.
The door swung open.
Fuck!
I leapt up, grabbing a nearby urn to use as a makeshift club, when my mother walked inside. She was sixty-five but looked much younger, thanks to a mix of genetics and the money to afford the best skin care and cosmetic treatments on the market. Tall and trim, she was dressed in a hunter green, mid-length embroidered dress that probably cost as much as a used sedan. Her jet-black hair hung loose down her back. She wore red-soled stilettos. In one hand, she carried a custom Hermès handbag and the keys I now regretted giving her. In the other, she held... a lamp?
“What are you doing, Mom?”
She yelped and spun toward me, clutching her chest. “What amIdoing? What areyoudoing, standing there in the dark like a pervert?”
My mother was originally from England but had lived in the States for long enough that her accent had morphed into a strange blend of posh British and snooty American—some vowels elongated, others clipped. Because of it, “pervert” ended up sounding more likepearvert,and despite my annoyance, I almost grinned. My younger brother, Blake, and I were going to have so much fun calling each otherpearvertswhen I told him about this.
“I thought someone was trying to break in,” I said.
“And you were going to do what? Scare them to death?” Mom’s expression morphed into concern. “Darling, are you not moisturizing? You look positively ghoulish in this light.”
The threat of grinning vanished. I hefted the urn. “My plans are leaning more toward blunt-force trauma. What are you doing here?”
She indicated the lamp. “I saw this at an antique store downtown and thought of the perfect place for it.”
“You couldn’t have waited until we were open to drop by unannounced?”
That earned me an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh, please, Stella. Unlike you, the rest of us don’t have time to lounge about in dirty sweatpants all morning. I have a breakfast meeting and then a full day of work followed by a charity dinner for impoverished children. And if I didn’t pop by like this, I’d never see you.”
She turned and strode toward the front desk like she owned the place. I took a moment to glance down at myself. Ugh, I must have dribbled coffee on my sweats at some point. And no, I hadn’t moisturized yet. Leave it to Mom to point out all my morning failures within two minutes of clapping eyes on me.
I sighed and followed her. My mother had grown up in a cruel and unforgiving household where praise was anathema and warmth nonexistent. Despite all her years in therapy, she was still deeply uncomfortable with displays of affection and donned snobbery like armor. Especially when she was feeling vulnerable or neglected—which clearly she was, judging by that last comment. Instead of saying it outright, she came at it sideways, picking at me because she couldn’t bring herself to admit how much she cared and that she worried over me constantly, just like any other parent.
Instead, the signs that she loved me were more subtle, seen in the way she sneakily tried to pay my rent and randomly dropped into the shop with some excuse for needing to be here. Today, it was the lamp; two weeks ago, it was because she was “in the area.”
So yeah, Mom was a complete snob with tons of childhood baggage she was still working through, and we had a complex relationship. But I loved her, and she was the first person I would turn to if I ever ended up in real trouble. Again.
She set the lamp on the front desk, her back to me as she fiddled with its placement.
I used her momentary distraction against her, wrapping my arms around her narrow waist and giving her a quick hug. “I missed you, too.”
She started to stiffen, and I pulled away before she got too uncomfortable.
“Yes, well, no need to get overly emotional about it,” she said, but I knew she was mollified. She placed the lamp next to the computer monitor and stepped back. “Don’t let anyone put their grubby hands all over this. It’s Tiffany.”
I nearly choked. “Are you trying to get me robbed?”
She waved a hand, bejeweled rings flashing in the dim light. “I doubt any of the hooligans you work with could tell it’s real. Oh, speaking of which . . . ” She pulled a business card from her bag. “Give this to Elayne. It’s for a tenant rights attorney your father and I met the other night. I told him about her terrible landlord. He thinks there’s something to it and agreed to take her on pro bono.”
I accepted the card. It was thick, tactile, and understated. My eyes widened as I read the firm name—it was one of the most prestigious in the city.
I shook my head. Mom might be eccentric, aloof, and pretentious as hell, but beneath that lay a heart of gold. That charity she’d mentioned? I had no doubt she sat on its board, had organized tonight’s dinner herself, wrangled all her wealthy friends into attending, and would essentially hold everyone hostage until they reached whatever outrageous fundraising goal she’d set for the night. And then she would doggedly follow the money after it was donated, ensuring it reached those most in need first.
