Permanent Ink

by Avon Gale

  Besides, he paid me for the tats. In cash.

  I was starting to think I should drop this. Landon knew his son way better than I did, after all, and if he thought it was a terrible idea . . . then it probably was. But I couldn’t help remembering Chris, with his no-nonsense gruff voice that sounded like he was perpetually hoarse, his liberal use of the word fuck, and how he never wore anything but tie-dyed shirts. He’d done more for me than just about anyone, and I’d probably been as big of a prick as Poe. A little younger, maybe, but I’d held my own. “It’s fine if you say no, Landon. Your tattoo discount is safe, believe me. How many times have you fixed my truck?”

  “You need new brakes,” Landon said, automatically, like he couldn’t help himself. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. Believe me, I do. I don’t want to fuck you over because my kid can’t be responsible.”

  Finishing my beer, I took Landon’s empty bottle and carried them back to the recycling bin. “I’ve got things in hand,” I assured Landon. “I’m already functioning without a responsible front desk receptionist, and I have been since Becca left. And, believe me, if he’s not cutting it as an apprentice, he’s finished. I won’t go easy on him, but I will give him a chance.”

  That was all I’d needed, but I couldn’t say whether or not the same would be true for Poe.

  Landon was quiet as I finished turning off lights, making sure things were clean, and emptying the trash my goddamn slacker employees had forgotten about as usual. I didn’t mind cleaning up the shop—not that I wanted to tell them that, obviously—because it gave me such a sense of pride to know that this place was mine. I ran my hand over the counter at the front desk and smiled.

  “If you’re sure,” Landon said, hesitantly. “I’ll ask him. I—I really appreciate it.” Landon’s voice went soft. “He’s a good kid. Underneath it all. I think he’s aimless. And that he needs to move out of my house.”

  I gestured for Landon to go outside so I could lock up. “I’m not sure I can get him to move out, but maybe I can give him some direction. Talk to him about it, and send him over to see me if he’s interested.” I didn’t mind giving the kid a chance, but I wasn’t going to chase him down or anything. “I’m pretty much always here.”

  I had no idea if I’d see Poe Montgomery in the near future, but he had about two days before I advertised the front desk job. After that, there wasn’t much I could do.

  Poe

  The thud of my father’s footsteps on the basement stairs gave me enough time to shove my markers and piece book under a pillow before Landon appeared in the doorway to my bedroom. He paused on the threshold, tall and imposing in his mechanic coveralls, and stared contemplatively into the room while stroking his thick beard with a big, grease-stained hand.

  As far as bedrooms went, mine was nontraditional. There was no actual bed to speak of. I slept on a futon shoved into the gap between my dresser and drafting table. The rest of the space served as a mini indoor skate park, complete with a half-pipe and quarter-pipe I’d built myself. Vivid, sprawling color decorated the walls from ceilings to floor—my evolution from childish stick figure doodles to an Edgar Allan Poe–inspired mural featuring ravens, skulls, and a large cameo-style portrait of the man himself. Aka, the one and only painting of mine to ever actually earn my father’s approval. Not surprising, considering he named me after the guy, a lingering testament to his high school goth days.

  Despite the hopper windows I almost always had cracked open, the smell of spray paint lingered faintly. I hadn’t written on the walls in weeks, but the fumes were pretty much saturated into every surface by now. The scent would probably never entirely fade.

  When Landon didn’t speak right away, I grabbed my phone and paused the old Sublime album I’d been streaming for background noise. “What’s up?” I asked.

  His dark eyes swung toward me. “I have a job offer for you. Or rather, Jericho does.”

  “Jericho, as in your friend from the tattoo shop?”

  Landon arched his brows. “You know any other Jerichos?”

  I sat up on the futon. “What kind of job offer? And why? I don’t remember applying.”

  Landon stepped into the room. “You didn’t. I was talking to him about your run-ins with the cops and all the money I’ve already dished out to save your hide. He offered to let you man the front desk, with pay, until he finds a permanent replacement.”

  My forehead wrinkled as I frowned. “Why would he do that? He doesn’t even know me.”

  Landon sighed. “Well, he knows me, and he’s willing to help us both out. He said he’d consider taking you on as an apprentice in the future, if you do a good job and prove your work ethic.”

  “I don’t give a shit about tattoos.” I only had the one—a small raven on my right hip that I’d gotten from a friend’s cousin at a party when I was seventeen and drunk off my ass. It looked like a melted Hershey’s Kiss.

  Sighing again, Landon rubbed his temples. He looked weary, older than usual, the line between his eyebrows deep and pronounced. Guilt flashed through me, and I squirmed. I knew the blame for some of the gray peppering his hair rested solely on my shoulders—especially lately.

  “I want you to do this, Poe,” he said, “and I don’t want you to fuck it up. Jericho is a good friend, my best friend, and he’s willing to give you a chance to make something of yourself, maybe do something constructive for once in your life.” Landon gestured around the room. “Unless this is your plan—to keep drawing on walls, skateboarding, and getting arrested?”

  “Well, yeah, that sort of was my plan, aside from the getting-arrested part.”

  Landon gave me a flat, unimpressed look. “If that’s the case, it’s time to rethink your priorities. I’m tired of getting calls from the police station. And last I checked you owe me hundreds of dollars. I haven’t seen a single dime of that money. You’re in no position to be picky.”

  He had me there. Part-time cashiering wasn’t exactly lucrative work. At least a tattoo shop would be cooler than a gas station, and it would spare me the idiotic customers who did stupid shit like driving away from the pumps with the fuel nozzle still inserted in their tanks.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell him I’ll do it.”

  “I’m not telling him anything. You’ll go in there tomorrow afternoon and tell him yourself. And maybe add a thank-you while you’re at it.”

  “Fine.” I bit the word out, and Landon grunted in response.

  He turned toward the door. “I’m ordering pizza, if you’re interested.”

  “Pepperoni and bacon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks. Call me when it gets here?”

  “Yep.”

  As Landon stomped up the stairs, I slumped back onto the futon. Well, that was unexpected. Jericho could keep his apprenticeship, but really, how could I complain about a job pretty much landing in my lap without an ounce of effort on my part? There were few things I hated more than the application and interview process.

  My phone buzzed, and I took a moment to shoot a quick reply to Blue, letting him know I’d meet up with him after dinner. I wasn’t one to pass up a free meal.

  Withdrawing my book from its hiding place, I flipped back to the page I’d been working on. It was a concept sketch for a collaboration Blue and I would be painting together. We’d be bombing some freight trains tonight, but this . . . this was special, a mural in a heaven spot that would finally get our names—Raven and Azure—some real recognition. If we pulled it off. It was on a rooftop, dangerous and hard to reach, but if we wanted to get up, we needed to take risks.

  I touched the face I’d drawn, which would be the stenciled, black-and-white focal point amid an array of shapes and colors.

  No guts, no glory.

  The next afternoon, a muggy day in mid-August, I strolled into Jericho’s shop, Permanent Ink, a few minutes after twelve. A girl who looked like a 1940s pinup model lounged against the front counter filing her nails. She wore a black dres
s covered in cherries, and her bright-red hair rivaled the shade of her perfectly applied lipstick. She glanced up at me with complete disinterest and kept working her thumbnail with what looked like a glass file. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Jericho. Landon told me to come by and see him about the front desk job.”

  She jerked her head toward the rear of the shop. “He’s making coffee.”

  I took that as permission to escort myself to him, passing several closed doors and darkened rooms along the hallway. One appeared to be the pinup girl’s domain, with pictures of her and a bunch of people who dressed like her plastered collage-style on the walls. I assumed the rest of the rooms were tattoo spaces, but the lights were off in all but one. The place was a lot bigger on the inside than I thought it would be.

  When I found Jericho in what must’ve been the break room—the very last open doorway before the emergency exit—he was in the middle of filling a carafe with water from the sink. I rapped on the doorjamb with my knuckles, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He nodded at me and returned to his task. “Hey yourself.”

  I stepped into the room, shoving my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, and stared appreciatively at the way Jericho’s thin black T-shirt clung to the well-defined muscles of his shoulders. We’d only crossed paths a handful of times during the years he and Landon had been friends, but I’d always thought Jericho was fucking hot. He had to lift weights. His biceps were clearly defined under all the ink, and judging by his ass and thighs, this was not a man who skipped leg day at the gym.

  Fuck, I should not be looking.

  “Um.” I tore my eyes away from his ass and sucked my lower lip into my mouth, briefly catching the stainless steel hoop that pierced it between my teeth. “My dad told me to come by to see you. Said you need someone to work the front desk.”

  “I do.” Jericho poured water into the coffee maker and shoved the carafe into place before jabbing at the power button. He pivoted to face me, arms crossed over his chest. “Are you interested?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Jericho’s dark eyebrows drew down over his hazel eyes. Despite his youthful face, silver liberally threaded his short beard and hair, the close-cropped sides revealing more gray than black. Somehow it intensified his appeal instead of aging him. I knew he couldn’t be much more than forty—younger than Landon for sure—and I loved the fact that he clearly didn’t give a fuck about the gray. He was all natural, not trying to cover it up with that cheesy ass Just For Men shit. “If this is how you talk to your prospective employers, I’m surprised that gas station hired you.”

  I started to reply, but Jericho held up a tattooed hand.

  “This is how it’s going to be,” he said. “If you show up on time and do your work, you’ll get paid. If you do a good enough job, we can discuss an apprenticeship once I find a decent replacement.”

  I tried to protest the apprenticeship thing, but he kept right on talking.

  “Don’t steal anything. Don’t be rude to my customers. And don’t think I won’t send your ass packing the second you step out of line with me.” Jericho backed his words with a hard-eyed glare. “I’m giving you a chance because I like your father, and because someone helped me when I was doing my damned best to ruin my life. I’d like to pay it forward, but I won’t tolerate your bullshit. Got me?”

  I tipped my chin. “Yeah, I got you.”

  “Good.” Jericho grabbed a mug from the dish rack in the sink. “You can start today, if you want. You’ll work the desk from noon to eight Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday. Four to midnight Friday and Saturday. We have three tattoo artists—me, Pete, and Zeek—but we don’t all keep the same schedule, and Zeek splits his time between here and Chicago. Roxanne is our piercer, and she also covers the desk whenever the receptionist isn’t working. She’ll show you the ropes. But remember clients can only book appointments in person. Also, we usually do consultations from noon to one, so if anyone asks, tell them that’s the best time to come in.”

  “Okay.”

  “You probably met Roxanne on your way in. Go see her, and she’ll help you sort out your new-hire paperwork.” Jericho turned to the coffee maker, clearly dismissing me.

  That was that, then. Apparently, like my father, Jericho didn’t mince words.

  I went to find Roxanne.

  Jericho

  It’d been three weeks since Poe had started, and I wasn’t overly impressed. Granted, he showed up mostly on time and wasn’t overtly rude, but there was this . . . distractedness about him, a disinterest, that drove me fucking batshit.

  I didn’t expect him to be so into working the front desk that he showed up early to make us all fucking coffee or whatever. But I did expect that he’d sound a little bit less bored when he had to deal with the customers. Or the other employees. Or me.

  This place was my pride and joy, and I knew it wasn’t fair to assume my employees would feel the same way. But I did expect at least some investment in the success of the place from the artists and the piercers, and for the most part, I got it.

  The front desk position, though, that was another fucking story.

  The thing about it was, most people who took the desk job were people who thought it would be cool to hang out in a tattoo shop all day. Either they were so busy trying to hang with the artists and seem cool as fuck that they forgot they were supposed to be working, or they assumed no one would care if they went outside and smoked every two minutes. The normal job duties—answering the phone, scheduling appointments, filing, all that shit—seemed to fall by the wayside. I didn’t know how I kept hiring people who couldn’t understand that this was a business that required a dependable staff to stay open—and therefore, pay their salary—but I did.

  It seemed as if maybe Poe was no different than the others. Granted, he didn’t no-show like that dick Mikey, and as far as I knew, he wasn’t meeting girls after hours and promising piercings for sexual favors. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Just because the kid liked art didn’t mean he gave a shit about tattooing. Maybe he was one of those kids who rebelled by not getting tattooed, since his dad was covered in ink and Poe didn’t have a single one—that I could see, anyway.

  I’d known Landon for four years, and there wasn’t much I could see of my friend in his son. Maybe there was some physical resemblance around the eyes, and possibly the mouth—it was hard since Poe was clean-shaven and I couldn’t imagine Landon Montgomery without that beard—but he had freckles that I was pretty sure must have come from his mother. His hair was always messy and hanging in his face, and while he didn’t have tattoos, he did have a lip ring.

  It looked like a shit-job piercing too. If he didn’t fuck up my desk, I might offer to let Roxanne fix it for him.

  It was nearly nine thirty on a Friday night, and things were picking up. We’d be busy until midnight, and maybe be in the shop until one or later if any of the others’ clients ran a little longer. I’d finished up with a girl who’d had me fix a terrible tattoo on her rib cage that was supposed to say Bittersweet Symphony, but was spelled Bitterswett Sympony instead. It’d taken me three sessions to completely get rid of it by turning it into climbing ivy and lush flowers, but it looked cool as hell when I was done. I took a picture, she gave me a hug, and I thought there were tears in her eyes as she examined the finished product in the full-length mirror.

  Never doubt that art can change your fucking life. Or that you should use a goddamn spell-check program before you let someone near you with a fucking tattoo machine.

  My client left, happy and bandaged, and I went into the break room to take a few moments before my next appointment, who was running late. I managed to scarf down the rest of my Jimmy John’s sandwich, drink some water, and answer a few emails before realizing how late my next client was. Frowning, I went out front into the reception area. Poe was lounging in the chair, long-li
mbs spread out and his attention on the computer. He was clicking through what looked to be photographs of graffiti. I cleared my throat, and instead of clicking off the non-work-related material like any sensible person when their boss was looming over their shoulder, Poe just glanced up at me.

  “Hey.”

  “Can you give my appointment a call and see if they’re running late? It’s ten fifteen.”

  “Oh.” Poe nodded toward the lobby area, where a girl was playing on her phone and stealing looks up at us. “That’s her. Sorry. I forgot to tell you she was here.”

  “Great.” I glanced at the messy desk for the paperwork that I somehow knew wouldn’t be where it should be. If it was even filled out. “You can stick around until we’re done, then.”

  For the first time, Poe looked at me with something more than boredom. It was irritation. “Sure.” He was obviously trying to sound like he didn’t care, but I could tell he probably had plans. Which, seeing as how we closed late on the weekends, he shouldn’t. No one needed to go out after one in the morning unless they were up to no fucking good.

  “Paperwork?”

  “Oh, uh.” Poe shifted around and grabbed a clipboard. Instead of handing it to me, he said, “Hey, Kristen? I forgot you needed to fill this out.”

  Kristen got up and headed to the counter, reaching out for the clipboard. I neatly intercepted it. “You can fill it out in the chair,” I said, feeling bad that she’d probably been here well before her appointment. “Give your ID to Poe so he can photocopy it, and we’ll get started.”

  Kristen’s tattoo was also a fix, but it wasn’t nearly as difficult. It was a Chinese character that she’d thought meant something like “live life to the fullest” but had found out from her college roommate—a native speaker—meant nothing of the sort. I was curious what it really did mean, but when I asked, she blushed and said it was “basically nonsense.”