"I've put in an order for you, Gig and Omar," Rachel called out. "Pink. We'll even shave your legs for you." She waved a razor. Gig strode across the floor, grabbed it out of her hand, and then bent her back over his arm and pretended to bite her neck.
Omar came to Gig’s rescue as Rachel was threatening to shave his balls off. "He's three months away from finishing his apprenticeship, and if he doesn't finish, you'll be stuck tattooing the sorority girls for another year until we train another person."
That was a serious threat, not because sorority girls were bad customers, but because the number one tattoo they asked for was their Greek letters in small lettering somewhere on their hip. Rachel had once commented that she’d seen enough emaciated hipbones to last a lifetime.
Rachel pushed Gig away and went to turn on the music. When we were located on the south side in a rundown strip mall by the National Guard base, Tucker played indie metal rock that fit the truckers, bikers, and military guys who made up most of our clientele, but then we moved to the East Village. Sandwiched between a boutique that sold four hundred-dollar coats—Rachel and I visited once and then ran out and never went back—and a blow-out bar that charged sixty bucks to get your hair washed and dried, Atra’s new location had upped its prices and toned down its music.
Rachel, Omar, and Tucker had spent a week arguing what music we'd play while I hid in the corner and drew a bunch of tattoos to put in the look book. They settled on 60s funk: Marvin Gaye, Aretha, Otis Redding, Sly & the Family Stone, that sort of thing. Everyone seemed to like it, even the crowd from the old days who followed us here.
The cop turned up at nine sharp when the doors opened. It turned out that Ray Dorsey was actually a state trooper, not that it mattered, and he was only twenty-seven and very attractive with a head of riotous blond hair and blue eyes. Not as blue as Finn O'Malley's. Finn's eyes looked like the sapphires in expensive jewelry stores, and when he was emotional they turned almost black.
"Ray."
"Tucker."
They did the handclasp and half-hug thing that guys exchanged because it apparently preserved their manhood in a way a full-on hug couldn’t. Tucker motioned me over. I slipped the pencil behind my ear and joined them.
"Ray, this is my artist, Winter Donovan. She's the genius behind the Atramentum designs. Winter, this is Trooper Ray Dorsey. He works out at my gym and finally found the balls to come and get some ink. It's his second. He had a crap one done when he got out of the police academy, and now he wants to get some real art on his arm."
He ran his eyes over me in a swiftly appraising fashion and then flashed me a wide grin, showing off a nice set of white teeth. He must not drink coffee or smoke. I didn’t trust men with no vices. Like Finn. He was almost too perfect. That was a good reason to stay away from him. "I can see why Tucker's place is so popular."
"Because we do great work?" I asked innocently even though I knew he was making a comment about my looks. I braced myself for some reference to being foreign, and I was not disappointed.
"That and because everything is so exotic," he replied. His voice had dropped an octave. Behind him, Tucker waggled his eyebrows at me in mock amusement.
Sighing internally, I held up my sketchbook. "Tucker said you are interested in a chainmail sleeve, and I have a couple of ideas. If you’ll follow me, we can talk about what you had in mind and see if I can't come up with the right design."
I waved an arm to the two chairs in the back that we used as our consulting space. Ray placed a hand on my back and escorted me over. It felt strange but maybe it was some sort of chivalry. Guys who opened a car door or pulled out your chair were rare these days. Finn had those manners. Old-fashioned, Ivy had deemed them, and not in a disparaging way.
I shook my head. I didn't want to think of Finn—not about his manners or his gem blue eyes. I smiled brightly at Ray. "Can I get you a water or soda?"
He looked stunned for a moment and blinked a couple of times before saying, "No, thank you. You have a gorgeous smile."
Not sure of how to respond, I offered up a feeble, "Um, thanks?"
My confused response made him laugh. "Okay, I get it. No come-ons in the workplace. Let's see what you have."
At his gesture, I opened up my notebook. "I heard you wanted it to look like armor. I wasn't sure if you had a time period in mind or even a particular culture, so I went with the popular medieval knight. There are about four main parts to the arm piece."
"Are you single?" I jerked my head up to see him smiling at me again. "Sorry, I know I said I wasn't going to hit on you again, but I have to ask."
"Yes, single."
"Do you eat?"
"Um, yes." I wrinkled my brow.
"Great, how about I take you to lunch?"
I glanced at Tucker, wondering if I said no whether I'd lose a three-thousand-dollar job for
the shop. Unfortunately he was busy working on a back tat for our local celebrity, Devon Jones—a superior high school athlete now a Pro Bowl tight end on a Super Bowl winning team. Other than his size, though, you'd never know he was a rich and famous athlete. He still wore his John Deere cap and high school sweats around town.
Omar had an attorney in his chair. They were doing a koi fish on his arm. I couldn't remember his name. It was Sven or Eric or something suitably Norse in nature. Privately, I referred to him as the Viking because he was big and blond.
Gig was manning the front desk, selling body jewelry and rub-on temporary tattoos and making appointments.
I was on my own. "It's against work policy to date customers," I said as politely as possible. While Dorsey had a great smile, he didn't make any of my body parts tingle—not like Finn did. And even if I knew Finn was bad news, I wanted to be with a guy who made me hot and bothered when he just looked at me.