by Sophia Henry
“Yeah,” I lie. Nodding my head. “Yeah, I’ll be good.”
For the last ten years, I’ve fooled family and friends into thinking I’ve healed from the embarrassment and anguish of fucking up my career. Naming our company after the bridge and using a bridge type picture in the logo was my way of proving I’d turned the symbol that reminds me of the moment I hit rock bottom into one of rebirth and positivity. That was the point—turning fear into strength.
But sometimes that’s bullshit.
Sometimes, I miss my soccer career.
Sometimes when I meditate to lower my stress levels, I’m not thinking about gratitude or putting good vibes in the universe. I’m cursing myself for fucking up my life.
I have no clue how I’m going to handle being in Detroit. It’s the place I won my first MLS championship. The place I inked my first multi-million-dollar contract and my first endorsement deal.
The place I drank and snorted my money—and career—away.
Chapter Three
Emily
I’m racing down I-77 trying to get to the shop as fast as possible, when my car starts to shake and veers to the left, hitting the rumble strip next to the median. I tighten my grip on the wheel, straightening it out, and glancing at the speedometer. I’m going 80 in a 55. The last thing I need is to get pulled over, so I take my foot off the gas pedal and check my mirrors before sliding into the middle lane. Sometimes I forget my car is almost twenty years old and I can’t push too hard, or he’ll blow a gasket.
Two years ago, Fozzie and I road-tripped to Easton, Pennsylvania to pick up Loki, my gorgeous, black Volvo 760 sedan born in 1990. Though it was in reasonably good shape when I bought it, Fozzie took it on as a restoration project. The work he did was so phenomenal; I get compliments all the time. He’s still working on the inside—probably because of my impossible standards. I want to keep as much of the original dash as possible, yet have a stereo system that can blast music from my phone.
Typically, I wouldn’t be going this fast or feeling so off, but I’m still rattled from getting offered a spot on the Ambassador pro team, a four-city tour, and running into that boorish—yet super sexy—yuppie in the hallway while reading a text from our shop manager saying I have a client waiting for me. I made sure I didn’t have any appointments scheduled this morning because of my meeting at Ambassador. Who the hell could be there?
And who the hell was that cocky jerk who was rude enough to comment on my skirt? I’m all for calling people out, but only if I’m being razzed first, not out of the blue. It’s just plain uncalled for to pick on someone for no reason. Maybe I’m old school, but I still live by the classic advice: If you don’t have anything nice to say, shut the fuck up.
It’s sad that I’m kinda giving him a pass because he was fine as fuck. Can’t wait to tell Trixy about him when I get to work.
After swinging into the parking lot, I jump out of my car and run to the glass doors of Krasivo Custom Tattoos. Instead of a pissed off client waiting on me, I find my oldest sister and her boyfriend sitting on a large, antique trunk in the lobby.
“What are you two doing here?” I ask, swiveling my head to see where my client is. “I don’t have time to visit. I’ve got a client I didn’t even know about.”
“Em! It’s us! We’re your clients!” Liz says using air quotes. The excitement in her voice helps take my anxiety down a notch.
“I pushed Loki to eighty on seventy-seven for you guys?”
“That wasn’t smart,” Austin quips. “Not at his age.”
“No shit, Sherlock! I thought I was rushing to meet a paying customer I somehow forgot about.”
I should have known how unlikely that was. I’ve never forgotten an appointment. I may have slept through my alarm and been a few minutes late a time or two, but an appointment has never completely slipped my mind.
No matter how I feel about my parents and how they run their business, I’m grateful I grew up as the daughter of successful business owners. It’s helped me take that side of my job seriously at a young age.
Liz raises her hand. “I take full responsibility. We thought you were at work when you texted us. We rushed up to congratulate you.”
Time to tone the sarcasm down a bit because it’s the sweetest thing anyone has done for me in a long time. As the nurturing, caring sister, I can always count on Liz to be thoughtful.
Can't say the same about Maddie, my other sibling. We fight more than we get along.
“Aww. Lizzy Lou! That’s so sweet!” I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her to me. “Thank you.”
Once we untangle, Austin brings me in for a hug. “Sell out,” he teases.
“Says the fucker whose band is opening for Turn Left—pop-rock darlings.” We’ve had the discussion multiple times about doing what you have to do to get noticed in our industries, so he knows I’m kidding. It’s still fun to give him shit.
“Jealousy isn’t becoming EmVee. You know you’d lick a cow to tattoo any one of them.”
Liz’s lip turns up in disgust. “Lick a cow? What in the world, Austin?”
“He’s not wrong,” I say, licking my lips involuntarily. “Put in a good word for me. I’ll work them into my schedule when you guys are in town.” Tattooing a member of Turn Left would be ridiculous marketing. Hell, I’ll even take their tour manager. That guy has fifteen thousand Instagram followers alone.
“Are you gonna tell Mama and Daddy the news?” Liz asks. There’s a hopeful glint in her eye, one that I hate to extinguish, but I can’t help it.
“Negative,” I say, shrugging out of my lacy black cardigan. “It’s not like they’ll care.”
“You may be surprised. Daddy has changed over the last few months.” My face must show the perfect amount of disbelief, because she follows up with, “Maddie leaving really rocked him.”
Of course, when his beloved Madeline left it rocked him. Liz called my parents out to their face—they still adore her. Madeline fell in love with our landscaper and moved to the Czech Republic with him—they still adore her. No matter what happens with those two, there will always be forgiveness. Because at the end of the day—Liz is still a doctor and Maddie is still the heir to the family business.
When I packed two bags and moved out at fourteen, the door couldn’t have busted me in the ass fast enough.
What’s the difference?
I have no value to my parents. My body is covered in art they don’t understand. My skirts are too short. I wear too much makeup. I’m a lowly tattoo artist who hangs out with an unseemly crowd. I have no redeeming qualities.
After all these years on my own, you’d think I’d be over it. I’ve tried my best to push them out of my mind. I deal with the bullshit the few times of year I have to and live my life the rest of the time. I’m happy with who I am and how I’ve made something of myself in a very competitive industry.
I shouldn’t want their approval—but sometimes I do. And I don’t know how to suppress those feelings. Maybe I should go to therapy.
“You guys getting ink?” I ask, walking to my station. I’ve gotta get set up for my first appointment anyway.
Liz follows me. “How in the world are you going to tattoo in that skirt?”
Despite being a hot rock star’s girlfriend, she’s still pretty conservative. At least, she is in public. Fozzie and Austin are roommates, and I’ve been at their place while Liz and Austin were going at it. I’m pretty sure my sister is a freak behind their bedroom doors. I’m so glad they spend most of their time at Liz’s house. I know she has sex, but I don’t want to hear it.
“Always be prepared, Liz!” I reach into my bag and tug out a pair of worn, holy black jeans. “Isn’t that something they teach you in med school?”
“I think that’s the Boy Scouts,” she says. “Are you—? Yup. You are.”
Evidently, pulling the jeans up my thighs and shimmying out of my skirt right in the middle of the tattoo shop isn’t something Liz expected. After having m
y ass and tits bare for all to see while they were inked, I don’t have much modesty, but it’s not like I’m gonna drop trou in public without knowing how to cover everything I need to cover.
I wink at my sister. “Everything was covered. Don’t get your panties twisted.”
I flip the lights on at my station, then wash my hands at the sink next to it.
“What does it mean to be on a Pro Team?” Liz asks, watching intently as I cover the chair and its armrests with cellophane. Then I pull a roll of aluminum foil out of the bottom drawer of a huge black toolbox. All tattoo shops are set up differently, but Stan uses toolboxes because they have all the drawers we need to keep our supplies, they lock and have a rad industrial look.
“Basically, I use their ink, and they market me,” I answer, slipping one hand into a surgical glove.
“Hey! I know that thing.” Liz’s eyes light up when she sees me pull over my mayo tray. The stainless-steel tray she once used to hold surgical instruments is the same kind I use to hold caps filled with ink, antibacterial soap, and other supplies I need within reach.
“Between mayo trays, all the sanitation requirements, and bloodborne pathogen seminars, there are a ton of similarities between our careers,” I tease. It’s not a joke I can make with any doctor, since being compared to a tattoo artist would probably be appalling, but Liz has a good sense of humor.
“It a lot different than I thought it would be in here,” she says, scanning the shop quickly.
I keep forgetting she’s never been here before. She’s never expressed interest in getting a tattoo, not even after she started dating Austin, who is literally covered with them from neck to toe.
I can’t even imagine what she thought it would look like inside a shop. If she was expecting a seedy, dirty, back-alley-type place, she’s mistaken. The Health Department regulates all tattoo parlors to meet sanitation standards.
I’m sure some shops do the bare minimum, but not Stan. He makes sure Krasivo Custom Tattoo is modern, funky—and absolutely immaculate. From the floors and work areas to the artists working here. In addition to the permit tattooers are required to have, he also makes us take a continuing education course every two years to keep up with the latest on infectious diseases and bloodborne pathogens. I’m thankful to work with someone who takes the safety of his employees seriously. The last thing I want is to be exposed to blood with some funky-ass disease in it.
Liz and Austin stay until my client arrives. It was really cool of them to come up just to congratulate me, especially since being at a tattoo shop is out of Liz’s comfort zone. Though the situation with my family is rough, I’m grateful Liz lets me know she’s proud of me and my accomplishments.
It’s dark by the time I finish my last client. On a normal week night, the shop closes at seven, but I squeezed in one of my regulars who’s appointment was supposed to be next month. Thankfully, Stan and Adam, another artist in the shop, stuck around with me. Adam’s wanted Stan to finish a piece he started for him years ago. They’re working on that while I work late.
“What time is it?” I ask, waving goodbye to my client and locking the door to the shop behind him.
I roll my shoulders, then try to touch my elbows behind my back. It’s a great stretch, but the relief doesn’t last long.
“Quarter to ten,” Adam responds.
“I’m gonna diiiie if I keep up this schedule,” I whine, collapsing onto the couch in the lobby. I worked for ten hours today, and have multiples days just like it over the next few weeks. Ambassador might need to have an on-call masseuse for me next month.
“You should get acupuncture,” Stan suggests. He’s hunched over, focused on shading his art on Adam’s calf. “Works wonders.”
“Not what I thought you’d say.”
He lifts his eyes to me quickly, but there’s no expression on his face. “You expected vodka.”
“Heck yes! You said vodka cures everything,” I tease, sliding off the couch. It’s fun to throw his pearls of wisdom back at him. “And what else did you tell me about how you used to relax in Russia? Sitting in a sauna naked with other dudes?”
“That’s how you relaxed?” Adam asks, looking down at Stan for clarification. “I see you in a new light, man.”
“Vodka and sweaty naked dudes sounds like a perfect night.”
“Keep making fun of my culture, and you never get to Moscow convention,” Stan teases. “I blacklist you.”
Despite being in America for twenty-some years, he still has a heavy accent. I think he chooses when he wants to lay it on thicker, like when he’s trying to intimidate someone—or pretend to intimidate someone. Still, that guttural rasp gets me every time.
We’ve known each other so long—and have a good enough relationship—that I feel comfortable teasing him as long as I’m respectful about it. Just like with anyone—you know how far you can go when teasing, or you should. Hell, I see a ton of idiots who always take it too far, piss someone off, and a fight breaks out.
“It’s true though, right? You’d go to your summer cottage in Siberia and get naked--”
“Stop pissing him off while he’s got a needle on me,” Adam pleads.
“Keep making shit up, and I send you to Siberia.” Stan sits up and sprays hospital grade green soap diluted with water on Adam’s leg, then wipes excess ink off with a paper towel. “Go look at my masterpiece.”
Adam jumps off the table and checks out the tattoo in the mirror—a crow with a dagger through its heart. “Fucking sick, dude.”
“That is sick.” I nod.
Stan is a fucking genius artist, which is exactly why I wanted to apprentice under him. His eye for detail, composition, contrast—everything is surreal. I’m not jealous of him, but damn, I hope I can be half as good as he is someday.
The guys and I clean up the shop before we had out. As we’re leaving, Stan puts an arm across my shoulders and squeezes me slightly. It’s a very rare display of affection.
“Big things happening for you. And you deserve it. Never let anyone intimidate you, Emily. You work very hard for this.”
It’s over quickly, but the physical contact and compliment from my mentor are exactly what I needed to calm my insecurities. Our relationship may be less brother/sister and more father/daughter. Stan’s praise means everything to me, especially since I don’t get it anywhere else.
“Girl!” Fozzie yells as I slid in the door. He’s sitting behind a beat-up, black Yamaha set. His “home” drum, a scaled-back version of what he plays during live sets, is always set up in the living room, which makes for an interesting seating area.
He scrambles to get out and rushes over to gather me in his arms before I’ve even had a chance to shut the front door. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I say, resting my head on his chest and clasping my hands behind his back, sinking into him as if he’s a human pillow.
Being in Fozzie’s arms always calms me. Sometimes I feel like I’m too dependent on him, but he’s the only person who’s ever made me feel safe. He’s the only person who knows almost everything about me and likes me anyway. He doesn’t talk much, which is the most frustrating part of having him as a friend. But it’s also one of his best qualities because he doesn’t tell anyone my business.
“I knew big opportunities were going to reveal themselves to you. You’re too talented for people not to notice.”
I close my eyes, tightening my arms around him and taking a moment to appreciate his encouraging words.
When I said he doesn’t talk, I meant he doesn’t get involved in small talk or gossip. He’s a quiet, speak-when-he-has-something-important-to-say kind of guy. When he does speak, it can be profound—sometimes.
“Hey, Em,” Austin calls. Slightly startled, I lift my head off Fozzie’s chest and see Austin on the couch with his guitar. I didn’t even realize anyone else was here.
“Hey, Austin!” Fozzie releases me, and I take a step back. “What’re you guys up to?”
“Austin’s trying to write a special song,” Fozzie says.
“They’re all special, boys,” I clasp my hand on Austin’s shoulder.
“This one is for Liz.”
“I thought Open Your Heart was for Liz?” I drop onto the couch and curl one leg under me.
Liz and Austin’s story is so sweet; I get a toothache just thinking about it.
Austin found her on the side of the road in an ice storm. She’d lost control of her SUV and crashed, getting stuck between two huge trees. He dropped her off at the hospital, then wrote a love song about the beautiful girl he found and would never see again. A few months later, Liz came with me to the Drowned World show in Charlotte. She assumed it was an ambulance, not a mystery man, who’d brought her to the hospital, so none of us would ever put a connection between the song and Liz. But they locked eyes during the concert—and the rest is history.
“It was, but it was more of a star-crossed-lovers song. I need this one to be a you’re-stuck-with-me-for-the-rest-of-our-lives song,” Austin explains.
“That sounds romantic,” I deadpan, clasping my hands over my heart. But I’m serious. Doesn’t everyone want a love song written about them?
After about an hour of listening to the guys work on the same song, I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s not a bad song. I’m just exhausted from the day.
Slowly, I lift myself off the couch, and head for the door. “You guys sound amazing, but I gotta get going.”
“You’re not staying?” Fozzie asks.
“Dude, I’m so tired I might fall asleep behind the wheel. Plus, Ramos is waiting for me,” I say, reminding him that I’ve got a dog at home that needs me.
When Maddie and her husband, Erik, moved to the Czech Republic, they needed someone to take their dog. I agreed happily. My roommate will let him out if I don’t come home, but I feel overwhelmed tonight. I should be home figuring out my schedule and wrapping my head around how to be a brand ambassador.