The word Tonic was printed in a font that looked like an old Victorian apothecary label with gold leaf and line work above and below, framing the word. When I pulled open the door, the sounds of Nirvana hit my ears as the sights the shop had to offer washed over me.
Everything looked vintage with a Victorian flair. Old velvet couches lined the full waiting area, and the walls were covered in macabre paintings in elaborate frames. Booths lined the long wall, all with counter-high walls to mark each space. Each booth contained a retro black tattoo chair, an antique desk, and cabinets for inks and supplies, I assumed. The electric buzz of tattoo guns hummed in an undercurrent to Kurt Cobain as he sang about heart-shaped boxes, and I scanned the room, looking for the flash of purple that would tell me where Penny was.
She bounded out from a hallway leading to the back, smiling and practically skipping to me as everyone in the shop watched her — her coworkers curious, the people in the waiting room practically salivating.
I had no idea the protocol for such a public greeting, so I stood there smiling, waiting for her to make a move that would tell me where the boundary was.
The thought was moot. She practically jumped into my arms, hooking hers around my neck as she kissed me hello with enough gusto that I felt it all the way down to my shoes.
She broke away, smiling at me with twinkling eyes. “Hey,” she said, the sweet scent of bubble gum on her breath.
“Hey,” I echoed, setting her feet on the ground.
She grabbed my hand and pulled. “Come on, let me introduce you to everybody.”
I already knew who everyone was from watching the show, which was really weird. So I played dumb, following her into the shop a bit, walking up the line of booths to start at the front where a gigantic dude with an intense beard and the thickest head of hair I’d ever seen was tattooing a girl’s back. She was stretched out on her stomach, back bare, and he moved his machine, stopping the buzzing by removing his foot from the pedal.
“This,” Penny said, extending a hand toward him, “is Joel, the owner of the shop.”
Joel smiled, but his eyes sized me up. “Good to meet you.”
“You too.” I tried to smile in a way that was amiable but also as masculine as possible, feeling the alpha roll off of him. He was most definitely the boss.
“And this,” she said, guiding me to the next booth back, “is Tricky. Patrick if he’s in trouble.”
Patrick stood and extended a tattooed hand for a shake. The guy looked like a male model with a sharp jaw and deep, dark eyes, every inch of his skin tattooed, except for his face.
“Hey, man,” he said with a sideways smile. “Heard a lot about you.”
I took his hand and pumped it. “Thanks,” I said lamely, wishing I had something to offer other than, Cool tattoos, bro.
Next down was a dark-haired, leggy brunette with lined eyes and red lips.
“So, you didn’t officially meet the other night, but this is one of my roommates, Veronica.”
Veronica smiled and waved. “Glad to finally meet you, Bodie.”
“And this,” she said as she dragged me across the room to the counter where a blonde stood, smiling, “is Ramona, my best friend and our piercer.”
“Need your dick pierced?” she asked brazenly.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m good today, but thanks.”
She shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ve heard good things.” She looked down and jerked a chin toward my waistline.
The girls cracked up laughing, and I shook my head, not even embarrassed. I took the fact that they had talked about my dick as a good sign.
A couple of guys were laughing in the booth behind Veronica’s, which was our next stop.
“These knuckleheads are Eli and Max.”
“Hey,” they said at the same time. One punched the other in the arm.
I waved a hand, and she pulled me back to her booth.
It was very Penny. The artwork on her walls was everything from comic-style to detailed portraits. The largest heavy-framed painting was of a woman with a starburst crown, holding a flaming heart in one hand and a rosary in the other. And in the center of the smaller pieces on her wall was a gilded mirror, speckled and veined with age.
She smirked at me and patted the seat of her tattoo chair. “Come on. I don’t bite.”
“That’s a lie, and I have the marks to prove it.”
She giggled, her cheeks high and flushed and pretty.
I took a seat, and she moved to her desk to get the transfer she’d printed.
“Shirt off, please.”
I waited until she turned around to face me before reaching back between my shoulder blades and grabbing a handful of T-shirt, pulling it over my head.