by Sophia Henry
I take the corner behind the reception area into the hallway a bit too fast, which I usually don’t do because I know it’s a blind curve and it’s impossible to tell if anyone’s coming from the other way.
I don’t even see the girl before I smack into her. Her forehead hits my chest and bounces off. I reach out, grabbing her shoulders to steady her, saying, “I’m so sorry.”
“Dude! I’m sorry.” She looks at me quickly, while tucking locks of gray hair behind her ear.
I use the term “girl” because she’s a tiny little thing. With her petite frame and diminutive height, she reminds me of a fairy—a tatted-up Tinkerbell with flowing gray hair and huge tits. Her features are quite striking if you can see past the thick, black liner circling her eyes and the blood red lipstick.
Her phone must’ve dropped during our collision. She steps back and starts to bend over, but must realize her entire ass will be on display if she does that because she straightens and lets out a huff.
At least she has a tiny shred of self-respect.
I should have picked up the phone by now, and saved her the dilemma, but I’m interested as to how she’s going to accomplish her goal. Wrinkles form between her eyebrows as she thinks. When she tries again, she slides into a squat position, lowering herself slowly until the back of her thighs press against her calves.
Jesus, that’s hot as fuck.
Once she’s down, she grabs the phone and pops up in one quick motion.
I wince at the action because I would be in a world of pain if I tried to lower myself like that. X-rays of my knees probably resemble a seventy-year-old man. Playing soccer for eighteen years wreaked havoc on my joints.
When she looks up at me, brilliant blue eyes that match the cerulean color I used in a painting I worked on yesterday peek out through thick, black, mascara-coated lashes.
“You could’ve helped, ya know?” She says.
My gaze drops, immediately drawn to the gorgeous, intricate black and gray art spanning her chest and shoulders. Various gothic fleur-de-lis-type petals and ornate filigree swirl from her biceps, over her shoulders, and up onto her neck. It seems to wrap around the back of her neck, like one of those shrug/shawl things women wear. A few intricate, teardrop jewels hang from a strand of “diamonds” across her décolletage that connects the tattoo to each side. A larger teardrop pendant falls directly in the middle of her chest and ends in the valley between her large tits. The white used to highlight the jewels makes it look like they sparkle. It’s absolutely gorgeous work.
And I’ve been leering like a creep for too long.
“Seemed like you were doing just fine,” I say absently, shaking thoughts of the tattoo and her large rack from my mind.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t call trying to bend down in this skirt ‘doing just fine,’” she says, seemingly unphased by my lingering gaze. She must get stared at all the time.
“If you don’t want people to see your ass, you should wear clothing that covers it.” It comes across harsher than I’d intended because this fairy has me flustered. Etiquette says I should apologize, but I won’t, because it’s true.
“Well, since we’re handing out unsolicited advice, when you see someone having a difficult time, you should help instead of judging them with a smug smirk on your stupid face.” She scowls, fumbling with flap on her tattered, oversized messenger bag before sliding her phone into it.
That scowl transforms her from fairy to vixen—bringing with it a flash fantasy of feeling her luscious red lips on my cock and her polished black nails scratching my skin.
“Excuse me.” She elbows me as she passes, knocking the ridiculous fantasy out of my head with the contact.
The smirk I supposedly had on my face slides into a full-blown smile as I wonder who this mouthy little vixen is. I glance over my shoulder, watching as she turns the corner. She looks up, catching my eyes before shaking her head and walking away.
Pushing the goth fairy out of my head, I slip into the conference room where—surprise of all surprises—my brother is already sitting. This is literally the first time he’s ever beat me to a meeting.
“Yo Zayne!” Louis calls, glancing up from his phone.
Instead of answering him right away, I stride to the table and press a button on the office phone. “Hey, Amber?”
“Yes, Zayne?” She’s always so cheery and ready to please. It’s a perfect attitude for an employee.
“We need to get one of those round traffic mirror things to hang in the hallway so people can see what’s coming before they round the corner. I don’t know that they’re called, but will you look into that for me?”
“Absolutely,” Amber answers.
I have zero desire to fuck with Amber, or any of my employees, but I do wonder if her happily submissive work attitude transfers into the bedroom. I’d never ask. Not only is that harassment, but it’s a fucking disgusting question for anyone I’m not on an intimate level with. Super creep status. It’s just one of those weird things I think about randomly.
I don’t know anything about submissive women. Not saying I have a “type,” but I’m drawn to alphas. I need someone who has passion and drive; a life she’s excited about outside of me and the relationship. I want her to adore the fuck out of me, but not be a needy mess when we’re apart. I stopped looking for her, focusing instead on the things I can control: myself and my business. Unfortunately, I haven’t come across anyone who fits my qualifications yet, which is probably why my relationships never work.
I press the button again, disconnecting the line. “You’re early.” I drop into a chair across from Louis.
“Had a meeting with a tattoo artist,” he answers without looking up. He must type a hundred words a minute based on how fast his thumbs fly across his phone screen. Finally, after another minute or two, he lets out a deep breath and tosses his phone onto the table. We may not see eye to eye on every decision for the company, but you’ll never hear me say my brother doesn’t work his ass off.
“Must be who I ran into on my way in here. Literally.” I say, rubbing my ribs in the spot where she elbowed me.
“Ahhh! So that’s the reason you requested the traffic mirror thing.” Louis props a weathered, multi-color cowboy boot on the table and crosses the other boot over it. They’ve been hideous since the day he bought them, back when the vibrant colors were still bold and glossy—age hasn’t helped a bit.
Lifting my eyes from his atrocious footwear, I say, “Well, I’m a full-grown adult, and when an adult runs into a child, it could hurt. And their parents could sue.”
“Oh my God, Zayne! Em Vicious isn’t a child. She’s, like, twenty-two or twenty-three, I think.” He throws his head back and laughs. Thick dark brown waves peppered with gray strands bounce around his forehead.
“That was Em Vicious? That tiny waif of a girl I almost steamrolled is your newest Pro Team recruit?” I’ll admit, I don’t keep up with all of the artists we bring on to sponsor. I know them by name, and I’m familiar with some of their work, but I wouldn’t recognize someone even if I ran into one—obviously. Talent acquisition is Louis’ area of expertise.
A wave of nausea passes through me. I pause and swallow hard, forcing myself to push through. For a second, I wonder if the coconut milk I’d used in my smoothie this morning was spoiled.
“You okay, man?” Louis asks, setting his feet on the floor and leaning toward me. “You look sick.”
“Yeah.”
I close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and picture myself standing waist deep in the Atlantic Ocean. As waves crash into me, I sway, jumping back slightly as I allow the force of the water to move me. And just as fast as nausea came on, it’s gone.
When I open my eyes, I realize that my coconut milk smoothie was fine. There’s an uneasy vibe in the room. The last time I had this strong of a feeling, Louis told me he was going to rehab for his coke addiction. That was eleven years ago.
Once I’ve collected myself, I lift my eyes to
my brother. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves my worries away. “So, remember how we talked about getting EmVee on tour for a week?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I called a few shops who expressed interested in having her and her schedule for that week booked in less than two hours. She’s finally getting noticed, and I want to capitalize on it, for her benefit and ours.”
“Makes sense,” I nod.
“My phone is ringing off the hook asking about how to get her to their shops, so I was thinking it would be epic if we made it a month-long tour,” Louis says. “It’ll give EmVee—and Ambassador Ink—maximum exposure.”
“Smart. I like it.”
“She’s completely booked for five-day stints in Philly, Chicago, New York, and Detroit.”
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “That’s fucking brilliant, brother. Nice work.” I reach out and offer him my fist to bump.
It sounds like everyone wants a piece of the sassy goth fairy. Big props to him for bringing a potential big gun to the team.
“Thanks.” He smiles as his fist connects with mine, but I sense hesitation. “There’s just one problem.”
There it is—the reason my stomach swirled ferociously upon entering the room. The foreboding feeling Louis is about to drop some big news.
“You know how hard this pregnancy has been on Bridget,” he begins.
“Yeah,” I say, jaw tightening because I know my big brother, and I know exactly where this is going.
“Her mom’s coming to stay with her during my trip to Moscow, but I can’t leave again right after.” He sets his boots firmly on the floor, folds his hands in front of him, and leans toward me. The leathery skin around his eyes crinkles as he pleads, “Will you please go on tour with EmVee?”
I know I sound like a complete and total asshole because we’re talking about my sister-in-law, whom I adore, and a troubled pregnancy. That’s obviously not what annoys me about the situation. I’m all for giving Bridget whatever she needs to be safe and comfortable. Blindsiding me with a change of plans instead of talking to me about it first is classic Louis.
Ten years ago, Louis and I bought Ambassador Ink, a vegan tattoo ink distribution company. Because he’s been a well-known artist—and personality—in the tattoo industry for twenty years, he runs marketing and talent acquisition. Loosely defined, talent acquisition is bringing on tattoo artists from all over the world to be part of our Pro Team. Members of the Pro Team agree to use our ink exclusively. In turn, we give them an unlimited supply of our ink and pump them up in advertisements, marketing, tattoo shows—the works.
While Louis is the “face” of the company, I’m behind the scenes. I run the business aspects—the operations, finances, and employee relations. What started as a small joint venture when I needed something to do after my pro-soccer career ended abruptly, and when Louis, just coming out of rehab, needed to divert his attention to something other than his tattoo shop, quickly became a very successful, very lucrative business.
Ambassador’s rapid growth and success can be chalked up to the trifecta: Louis’ continuous ability to come up with innovative ways to be relevant in the industry, smart financial decisions, and the fact that we offer a completely cruelty-free product in a world where veganism and animal welfare awareness is on the upswing.
For a guy who dropped out of high school to immerse himself in the tattoo community, my older brother has an incredible mind for marketing and business development. If he’s our development guru, then I can easily claim credit for the financial decisions, as numbers and budgets have always been my strong point.
Once we’d decided that an ink distribution company would be the best way to grow on the success that Louis had already created, picking a product to distribute was a no-brainer. My brother and I were born and raised in New York City to older parents who are complete and total hippies—from dancing barefoot at Woodstock to burning bras in the streets. They’re artists and activists who raised us vegan from birth. Louis approached the company that manufactures the vegan ink he’d been using for years, and we’ve grown into a multi-million-dollar corporation in less than ten years.
“Come on, man!” I lean back with a huff, causing my chair to slide away from the table. “You know I can’t be away from this place for an entire month.”
It’s been less than four months since we bought a warehouse and relocated the business from Brooklyn, New York, to Fort Mill, South Carolina. The fact that he thinks I can be away from the office shows just how out of touch he is with what a shit-show the move has been. I’m the one who shows my face here every day putting out fire after fire because Louis is still actively tattooing all over the world and trying to get more artists to use our ink.
“I’ll come in every single day,” he pleads. “Bridget can help me. We’ll handle it.”
“Sorry to sound like an asshole, but we both know that you’ve never spent more than five days a month in the office.” I get up, shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, and stride to the window. The parking lot is full, and we’re not even running at full capacity. It reminds me of another thing on my plate—getting some quotes for expanding it.
“Jesus, Zayne, you can be so fucking melodramatic sometimes,” Louis snaps. “We both know we can do most shit remotely. We have the systems on our laptops.”
“Yes, I know that, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re hanging by a thread right now. We’ve got to hire at least five people over the next month just to catch up to where we were before the move. That’s not including the positions we talked about adding due to demand and growth. Hell, Julie and Kathy took on the responsibilities of at least three other people. It’s a crazy fucking time.”
“Look, I know being in the shops and hanging with the artists is not your scene. And I know how important you are to how well this ship runs.” Louis falls back against the chair, defeated. “But I have to be here with Bridget. So we’re going to have to figure it out.”
I spin around, the anger tightening my chest turns to concern. “Is she okay?”
“Honestly?” Louis asks. “I don’t know. I mean, I think she is, but the doctor put her on bed rest because she’s been bleeding and—” He rakes both hands through his shaggy, graying hair. “This fucking Moscow trip has me stressed, but I can’t cancel because we have too much business over there. And I know she’ll be okay with her mom here.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I’m glad we moved down here.”
Louis tilts his head, staring at me with a slight smile on his face. “Never thought I’d hear those words out of your mouth.”
“Yeah, well, I love Bridget. I’m glad we’re here for her sake. She and my unborn nephews come before anything else.”
From a financial standpoint, we could easily cover the rent for a warehouse the size we need in New York, but once Louis and Bridget decided to have kids, she wanted to be closer to her parents and sister in North Carolina. When they found out she was pregnant with twins seven months ago, it kicked our move into high gear.
No one opposed the move to South Carolina more than I did. For someone like me, who was born and raised in NYC, and spent my entire professional soccer career in major markets, being too far from a city makes me anxious. When we looked into it, moving the business south made a ton of sense.
Not having to pay New York rent does beautiful things for our bottom line, and frees up more money to put into our employees, tattoo conventions we sponsor and run, new ink products to offer, and any other ventures Louis wants to get involved in. Plus, we were able to buy the warehouse here and we can modify this space however we want.
But the move has been a stressful experience. A lot of our employees moved with us when we relocated, including many who have been here from the beginning. We had such a well-oiled machine after ten years in Brooklyn, and we didn’t realize some people were hiding in the shadows of the ones doing all the work. The move made us realize who our bes
t, most dedicated employees were, and those who just stayed to get free relocation to a warmer climate with a more laid-back vibe. But I can’t complain, because our rock-stars have taken on extra duties and keep up with the workload as we iron out the kinks in the moving and growing process.
The idea of going on tour with EmVee makes my head ache already. She may be a great tattoo artist, but it doesn’t mean I want to spend a month with her. Babysitting any tattoo artist is not my idea of a good time, but twenty-four seven with a twenty-two-year-old female is especially cringe-worthy.
I bet every product on her face was from Kat Von D’s makeup line.
“It’s only a month. And you’ll be in the city again, so you can drop in and see Mom,” Louis says. “I’m already jealous of all the fucking amazing food you’re gonna get to eat.”
“True.” I agree. Charlotte’s food scene is okay, but their vegan options are ridiculously limited. Still, even the promise of fabulous food and being home isn’t making me as excited as Louis wants me to be.
Last time I went on a tour I barely slept a wink —and I was only gone for a week. Between the logistics and planning and being the artists’ handler of sorts, traveling is stressful enough. And that was during a time Ambassador was running smoothly. This time, I’ll be responsible for an artist’s itinerary, marketing Ambassador, and still responsible for all the day-to-day operations and management of the company. I’ve already been working fifteen-hour-days since the move—guess I’ll be pulling some all-nighters.
“You okay going back to Detroit?” he asks, his jovial tone dropping a few octaves.
My gaze shifts to the wall behind my brother, where he free-handed the Ambassador Ink logo. At my request, he’d fashioned the “A” in Ambassador to resemble a suspension bridge—more specifically—the Ambassador Bridge, which links Detroit, Michigan, and Windsor, Ontario.
The bridge I contemplated jumping off the night Detroit Metro FC released me from my contract.