I pat her shoulder. “You took it like a champ.”
When I’m done explaining how to care for the piercings, I motion toward her. “Do you have any questions?”
“Yeah, I do.” She licks her lower lip that’s stopped quivering. “Think you might have time later for a drink?”
Bad idea.
“Wish I could take you up on that, but my schedule’s pretty packed.” Not a lie. “Maybe some other time.” Or maybe not.
Be nice, man.
I force myself to smile. “If you decide to get a tattoo, I’ll draw something for you.” Piercing helps pay the bills. Tats are what I love.
Her eyes brighten, and she nods.
I turn away before I let something rude slip. Because when I’m this exhausted, I have one mode—asshole—and I don’t want to treat this girl that way. Or any girl for that matter.
That's why I’m better off alone right now. Flying solo seems to be the only thing I have time for.
In between clients, I text my father an update on the Jackson property. He responds immediately. Great job, son! Can’t thank you enough.
No thanks needed, my thumbs tap out.
I stare at the screen, hoping we’re done and he doesn’t launch into another round of apologies, apologies that aren’t his to make.
Part of me feels guilty about not wanting to run my father’s landscaping company. But this was supposed to be temporary. Just until my brother Cal returned and he took over for my dad, who had a heart attack.
My jaw tightens.
Cal’s down in Texas, kicking back with his new wife—the one he eloped with after knowing two weeks—and their baby. Ironically, he was down there taking courses I paid for so he could return to Boston and take over our family’s company, but he got sidetracked when some chick tripped over his dick. How else do you have a baby nine months later?
I should be over it by now. Cal’s kid is a year old, and the writing is on the wall. He’s not coming back. But my parents keep holding out hope. They’re afraid he’ll get bored down there like he gets bored with everything. And in the time they’ve held off selling their business and retiring, they lost a great offer on the company and my father’s health has gone to shit.
As the night wears on, every time I flip on the ink gun, that staccato buzz heightens my awareness of the clock and builds a slow dread in my chest. It should be a relief to have one less thing to worry about. Except this is the part I love. This is the part that actually feels right when I’m not in such a piss-poor mood.
But I can’t keep doing this to myself. Running half a dozen crews on my father’s landscaping business and tattooing all night will put me in an early grave.
Chugging down some coffee, I nod toward the dude in my chair. He points to his bicep where I’ve already transferred a drawing of a pair of oars. “I’m rowing for BU in the fall,” he says proudly.
Mustering a smile, I tell him congrats and then focus on the lines I etch into his skin.
We get a lot of college kids in here. I used to enjoy hearing their stories and understanding the meaning behind the symbols I inked on them. Hell, I used to be one of those BU kids.
But now it’s tough to stomach the optimism in their voices. It’s a reminder that I was a dumb asshole for getting my master’s in art. For not going to law school. For not studying something that could’ve bailed my parents out of their financial crisis.
For thinking like a dreamer.
After my last client, I remove the key from my key ring and hand it to Rudy.
“You always got a place here, man,” he says, leaning forward for a bro-hug.
I grumble a thanks and a farewell, knowing full well my spot will be filled by the end of next week, as will the opportunity to partner with him on the new shop.
The whole drive home, it eats at me, missing these opportunities. But there’s no one to complain to, and even if there was, there’s nothing to say. I’ve made my decision.
The sound of my keys echoes in the dark apartment. I toe off my work boots, caking the floor in mud, but my roommate is probably over at his girlfriend’s, so he’s not here to bitch about it.
I’m yawning and so tired, I’m a little nauseous. As I head for my bedroom, I reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans to set an alarm. Cal’s message flashes on the screen: I need to talk to you. I have some news. Stop being a cock.
My temple throbs.
It’s two a.m. here, which means it’s only one in Texas. He might be up. But can I really deal with talking about this shit right now? I’ve been up since five this morning when I hauled my ass to the Jackson property.
Scrubbing my face with my palms, I groan.
I’ll say something I’ll regret if I have that conversation tonight. I’ll call him tomorrow or next week or whatever.
With labored movement, I strip out of my jeans and t-shirt, and my muscles scream in protest when I stretch out in bed.
It feels like I’ve barely fallen asleep when the phone rings. I fumble for it and answer in a daze. The voice sounds a million miles away.