A few hours later,I am cleaning the tattoo station after my last client for the day just left. Once I am done, I head back to the register, where Carolina is sketching something in the sketchbook Clay got her.
She is so engrossed in her work that she doesn’t notice me standing behind her, peeking over her shoulder at her sketch. It’s a drawing of a skeleton hand, forefinger outstretched, with a butterfly perched on it.
“That’s beautiful,” I compliment, startling her a little, and take the sketchbook from her to examine it more closely. “Have you ever thought about tattooing? You have a good eye for stuff that would transfer well onto skin. Not every good sketch makes a good tattoo, but this…” I glance down at her. “Do you want to design your own sleeve? I can tattoo it, making sure it’s still your style.” She looks ready to dismiss the idea, so I quickly add, “Just think about it.”
“Sure.” She shrugs, and I hand her back the sketchbook.
“You told Clay your mom was an artist?” I ask.
“Yeah, I mean, she wasn’t known or anything, but she did a lot of landscape paintings at home. Every wall in the apartment was covered with her paintings.” She smiles, but it fades quickly. “He didn’t even let me keep one, even though there were like fifty they just trashed.”
A surge of hatred for the man runs through my veins. Every morning, it takes all my self-control not to walk into his bedroom and strangle him. The only thing that stops me is the realization that that piece of shit is not worth going to prison for.
“There is an exhibition tomorrow that I would like to go to. Would you come with me?” I ask her, stepping closer and cupping her cheek, stroking it gently. “It’s more abstract art, not landscapes, but it is dark and twisted, and from seeing the stuff you draw, I think it could be something you enjoy.” I feel a smile tugging at my lips.
“I…” she starts, looking unsure.
“Say yes,” I whisper, leaning into her space a bit more.
“Yes,” she whispers back.
“Perfect,” I reply, letting go of her and stepping back. I smirk as I notice the dumbstruck look on her face. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the bar.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I know, I am sorry…”I fake a cough, “… I can come in, though, since it really does not work without me,” I tell Donny over the phone while heading upstairs to my guest room at Sophia’s.
“As if I’d let you cough into the patrons’ drinks. Stay away, Costa,” he warns, hanging up.
I have never called in sick before. I’ve even worked with a fever. But Donny would never let me take a Sunday off just because I have plans. And since the internship pays so well, it is not the end of the world to miss a night’s worth of tips.
Fuck, life must be so easy if you don’t have to fight for every damn penny.
I open the door to my room and walk in, needing to get ready for the exhibition. I hope there is no dress code because I don’t think they’ll let me in wearing jeans and a hoodie if they do.
When I look down at my bed, I am left in disbelief. There it lies, the absolute dream dress I tried on while shopping with Xander and Sophia.
It is beautiful, Bordeaux-red, sparkling, soft, and way too expensive for me.
I pull my phone out and text Xander.
This is too much.
Xander
It was made for you.
It’s still too much.
Just say thank you.
Doesn’t have the same effect over text.
While I wait for his answer, I stand there, stroking the fabric and contemplating if I can be a little bit selfish this one time because,fuck, the dress is so damn pretty,when my door opens, and Xander walks in.
He is dressed in a black suit, his hair on top of his head in a man bun, looking sleek and bitable.
“Hey, ever heard of knock—” I start, but he stands in front of me and grips my chin, effectively cutting me off.
