by Sophia Henry
In a split second, EmVee’s entire demeanor changes. Her posture stiffens, the sparkle in her eyes dims. She bends down and retrieves her phone and headphones from her bag. “You’re kind of a drag to talk to, man,” she says, before sliding the headphones over her ears.
The music is so loud; I can hear it in the air between us.
“Good thing we’ll be in Philadelphia soon,” I say, even though she can’t hear me.
Thirty minutes in a plane with EmVee is a rollercoaster of emotions— annoyance to slightly smitten to surprise and back to annoyance. It’s exactly how I expected traveling with a twenty-two-year-old would be. An entire month of dramatic ups and downs might drive me to the looney bin, but there’s no way to change it now, so all I can do is buckle up and endure the ride.
Chapter Five
Emily
Philadelphia
Who the fuck texts at eight am when the shop I’m working at today doesn’t even open until eleven?
Our flight left Charlotte two hours later than it was scheduled to due to a weather delay, which got us to Philadelphia after eleven. By the time we waited for our bags and picked up the rental car, it was after one am when we got to the hotel.
Without opening my eyes, I pat the nightstand until I find my phone. My room is pitch black, thanks to the phenomenal darkening shades. When I tap the screen to open my messages, the brightness makes my light-sensitive eyes water.
Zayne: Making sure you saw the itinerary Amber sent over. We have a breakfast meeting before your big day.
Big day? Is this guy for real?
Me: I’m not getting married, Zayne, I’m tattooing at a different shop.
Three dots flash under my message which tells me that he’s typing something. Then they stop. Flash. Stop. Flash.
I’ve almost fallen asleep again when his text finally comes through.
Zayne: We need to discuss your schedule for the week. I’ll see you downstairs at nine.
Me: Let’s say ten.
I need another hour of sleep before I can even think about showering and getting ready. In reality, I need five more hours of sleep, but I know that’s not possible.
Zayne: See you downstairs at nine thirty.
What an ass.
I roll over onto my back and hold my phone with both hands, ready to rip him a new one. Before I start typing, I stop myself. It’s the first day on this awesome trip set up by Ambassador. I can’t take out how tired and ornery I am on this random Ambassador employee who’s just doing his job.
Me: Nine-thirty it is! See you then.
I set a ten-minute timer before tossing my phone onto the nightstand. I’ll be able to deal with Zayne after a few more minutes of sleep.
When I get to breakfast, Zayne is already at a table, tapping the keyboard of his laptop like a fiend. Maybe he’s so busy he won’t even notice that I’m a few minutes late. Fifteen is considered a few, right?
“Good morning, Sunshine!” I greet him with a bright smile, ready to start our week off on the right foot.
Instead of answer, he points to his wireless earbuds.
“Sorry,” I mouth, sliding into the booth across from him and tossing my messenger bag next to me.
“I understand that it’s a lot of work for you, I do. But you and Jody started this project, and we need to see it through. It’s an amazing idea. I’ll get you the people you need. But right now, we have to work with what we have to get this shipment out, okay? What’s Amber doing? Tell her to put the phones on do not disturb for an hour and get her to help.”
Whatever he’s working on sounds intense.
There’s already a carafe of coffee on the table. I glance at Zayne, silently asking for permission to grab a cup. He nods. Just as I’m about to pick it up, a server rushes over, grabs it and starts to fill my mug.
“Oh!” I lean back and let him finish. “Thank you.”
Talk about great service. I can’t remember the last time someone rushed to pour me coffee. I thought the whole point of having a carafe on the table was for self-service.
“Of course, ma’am.” He finishes and sets the container on the table. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”
“No, I—” My eyes scan the table looking for a menu, but I don’t see one. I lift my napkin as if it’s small enough to hide under there. “I’m vegan, so it’s probably easier if you tell me what you have than get me a menu.”
“I ordered for both of us,” Zayne interrupts, placing his finger over the mouthpiece of his phone.
The waiter nods. “Of course, sir. It should be ready soon. I’ll go check on it right now.”
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the coffee cup to my lips. No one has ordered for me since I was a little girl. After years of being on my own, the feeling of being taken care of by someone is surprisingly pleasant.
“Where’s Louis?” Zayne closes his eyes and rubs his eyebrows.
“Excuse me?” I ask, before realizing he’s not talking to me.
We’re booked at a super posh hotel, the kind my parents would pick if I were on vacation with them. The breakfasts tables are all swathed in white tablecloths with fresh roses in tall, slim vases in the center.
“No, I’ll call him,” Zayne assures whoever is on the other end of the line. “I’m in a meeting from now until around eleven. It’s on my schedule. Text me if you need me, and I’ll answer as soon as I can. Hey! Keep your head up, okay? It’ll be fine. Have a good day, Kathy. Yup. Bye.”
He yanks the earbuds from his ears and sets them on the table. “Hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you.”
I look up, surprised that he’s making sure I’m okay with his decision. He seems like a guy who says things like “sorry not sorry” and “it is what it is” which are two of my all-time least favorite phrases. “No. That’s fine. I appreciate it, actually. I hate looking at menus and having to ask what they can make vegan.”
“Yeah. That’s the worst.” He lifts his eyes from his computer screen quickly as he types. “Or when the only thing vegan at the hotel’s breakfast set up is peanut butter toast and fruit.”
“Right? Although I’ll take fruit any day if there’s a good selection. I was at this one restaurant that only had bananas. Literally. No apples. No oranges. Just bananas. I hate bananas.”
“I hate bananas, too.”
Could Zayne be a regular old nice guy? Maybe his grumpiness was a product of travel stress. Could this be a fun trip with someone easy to get along with? I’m taking it as a good sign if HR guy has a sense of humor and tries to find commonalities between us. The thought makes me loosen up a bit.
“That was a pretty intense call.” I point to his phone. “Everything alright?”
He sits up and arches his back. While he stretches, I watch as the muscles in his neck lengthen. His dark hair has grown out a bit since I bumped into him at Ambassador, curling slightly around his ears. That coupled with a five o’clock shadow dusting his jawline makes him look handsomely rugged. It’s a slight surprise since he seems like the kind of guy who gets a haircut every six weeks like clockwork.
“Yeah. We have a lot going on right now. We’re in a huge growth mode, and we just moved to the new warehouse. Not quite running at full capacity.” He presses a few keys on his laptop and shuts it. “You’ve got a full schedule this week.”
“Yeah. Tats galore.”
“Well, sure, but—” His eyebrows veer together in confusion. “Did you have a chance to look at the itinerary Amber e-mailed you?”
“No. I haven’t checked my e-mail since yesterday. I was too tired last night, and today I was rushing to be ready for breakfast.”
“She sent the e-mail over a week ago. I remember her copying me on it.” He picks up his phone and taps the screen. “Here it is. Did she not have the correct address?”
“I—” I falter for the right words. I barely check my e-mail at all. Trixy does all of my scheduling. She enters it into the computer at the shop which is linked to all of the artist’s c
alendars. It automatically uploads to my phone, and that’s what I live by.
“These next few weeks will be different than you’re used to, EmVee. You’re a representative of Ambassador Ink. We’ve set up various media opportunities to get you and your work in front the most people we possibly can. I expect you to know what’s going on and where you’re supposed to be. I expect that you’ve done research on the publications that will be interviewing you.”
As if the week wasn’t going to be exhausting enough, now I have to add all the research I should have done already to my list. Maybe I need a personal assistant to keep track of all my shit. Still, Zayne doesn’t need to know I’m a bit unorganized when it comes to parts of the job. If it’s a client, I’m golden, but my e-mail inbox gets inundated with spam and invites to things I don’t want to go to and people trying to get me to endorse shit I don’t want to.
Fozzie was right when he said everyone wants a piece of me right now. My way of dealing with it was ignoring it.
“It would have been nice to know the expectations you had beforehand rather than the first day of the tour.”
Zayne holds up his phone as if I can see the tiny type from across the table. “We set the expectations in the e-mail Amber sent you last week. It’s a generic e-mail we send to all of our Pro Team members before they go on tour. We adapt the schedule and information according to the artist.”
Fuck my life.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see the e-mail. I didn’t realize it was coming and I rarely check my e-mails.” It’s a reluctant apology, but at least I admitted fault.
“I expect you to be on time for all of your events. Whether it’s tattooing at a shop or our morning brief.”
I swallow back my embarrassment. “Are we done with our morning brief?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I mumble, throwing my napkin on the table, and sliding out of my seat. “I’ve never been late getting to the shop and I’m not about to start today. I’m gonna check out the vegan breakfast scene alone.”
As I rush out of the hotel restaurant, I throw my bag over my neck, so it hangs across my chest. I’m so used to having a hands-off, laid-back boss like Stan, that I forgot that not all people have that same management style. Not to pat my own back, but I’m a pretty good employee, so being in a situation where I’m attacked makes me anxious. Sure, I fucked up, but there has to be a less dickbag, more effective way of coming at me, especially on day one, when we’re just getting to know each other.
How in the world am I going to make it four weeks with an angry troll like him?
While grabbing a quick, but delicious, breakfast at The Yummy, a cute, little vegan diner in South Philly, I took the time to familiarize myself with the schedule for the week. It’s packed, but I’m excited about all the opportunities Ambassador has set up.
By the time my Lyft driver drops me off at The Kandy Shop, which is the name of the place I’m tattooing this week, I’ve already forgotten about what an ass Zayne was.
“Well, if it isn’t the one and only, Em Vicious!” Kandy Kayne, the shop owner, greets me with a smile and arms open for a hug.
“Great to finally meet you!” I say, stepping into her embrace.
We’ve been Instagram friends for years, but I’ve never had a chance to get to her shop. When I go on vacation, I go on solo missions to get away from everything—Costa Rica, Cancun, Iceland, to name a few places I’ve visited recently. When I’m not on a trip for work, I don’t want to be thinking of tattooing. I’ll draw, paint, or talk about tattoos, but I don’t want to tattoo.
As we hug, I hear a click and see a quick flash out of the corner of my eye. When I look up, I notice a photographer and videographer in the shop.
“Oh! Hey!” I lift my hand in greeting. My stomach sours at the thought of all the candid shots they’re taking. Hopefully, I get a chance to talk to these guys and explain how I use photography to enhance my brand.
I know I can’t control what other people post, but I try to make sure I’m prepared when I know a photo is coming. I have go-to poses, facial expressions—the works. Social media is the biggest vessel I have for showcasing my brand. Which is why I try to have as much control as I possibly can. Hell, if you check the hashtag of my name on Instagram, there’s not a bad picture.
“We’ve got a spot for you over here,” Kandy leads me through the funky lobby filled with red chairs and plush purple couches into a wide, open room that was probably a living room back in the day.
“Awesome. Thanks.” Rolling the suitcase of my stuff behind me, I follow her to the middle of the room. The camera people are hot on my heels. I wonder if all The Kandy Shop’s guest tattooers get the paparazzi treatment.
“Guys!” She calls out, bringing all eyes to us. “This is Em Vicious. She’s hanging with us for a week.”
“How could we miss her? She brought an entourage.” Someone calls. I don’t have a chance to see where it came from, because of another flash in my eyes.
Wait. Does everyone think I travel with a camera crew of my own? That’s so pretentious. Later, I should make it clear that Ambassador set that shit up.
“I watched Ink Wizard Charlotte on YouTube. That eagle back piece you did was sick,” a stubby guy with dark hair and a thin goatee says as he sets up the station next to mine. A huge tie-dye flag with the Instagram logo and “IFart” printed across it in bold typewriter lettering covers the wall behind him. It’s an interesting flag to fly proudly.
My chest fills with pride, surprised that artists in Philadelphia have seen YouTube videos of the Charlotte competition.
“Stop fucking kissing up, Ike.” It sounds like the first male voice I heard. When I look up, there’s a guy in a tight, Green Lantern T-shirt standing tall, his rotund belly protruding like an homage to Dionysus. “You know we’re doing our own version of Ink Wizard sometimes this week, right? I want a shot at beating Em Vicious.”
Who the hell is this guy?
“Last I heard, my entire week here got filled within an hour,” I say, lifting my suitcase onto the table. “What’s your schedule look like, big boy?”
Kandy smirks. “Bryan hasn’t been booked solid a day in his life.”
“Roasted!” Ike yells.
“What’s with the flag?” I ask Ike, as I line up my ink bottle in the cabinet next to my chair.
“A friend made it for me to promote my work. It’s my IG handle. IF art. Ike Fowler Art.”
“That’s a bold handle.”
“It’s memorable.”
“That it is, Ike. I, for one, will never forget how to find you on IG.” I say as I finish unpacking my suitcase.
After Kandy gives me a quick tour of where I can find supplies in the shop, I’m off to the races. When she told Louis my schedule was booked solid, she wasn’t kidding. I’ve been tattooing for four straight hours before I finally get a second to check my phone. Notifications fill the screen—texts from Fozzie, Liz, Stan, Trixy—the shop manager and scheduler back home—and Zayne.
I grab my phone and head outside for a quick break before my next client shows up. It was so much easier to remember to take a break when I smoked because the nicotine craving always reminded me. But I quit a few months ago, so now I have to tell myself, or I’ll keep working for hours without stretching. My back can’t take too many days like that in a row.
The morning was filled with flash tattoos—small, quick tattoos clients picked out of the books up front. They came one after the other; a new client was waiting while I was still finishing up the one before. I don’t mind doing flash tattoos. I’m thrilled that someone set up an appointment just to get tattooed by me, even if they didn’t want to commit to one of my original pieces.
Before I do anything, I take a deep breath, exhaling as I bend over and touch my toes, then inhale again as I stretch my arms up, as if I trying to reach the sky. Three more rounds of that loosen the muscles back and shoulders, giving them the relief needed after being hunched over for the e
ntire morning.
After the mini-yoga session, I open my messages and click on Zayne’s. Reading his first seems like the right thing to do since it might be the most time-sensitive regarding something that’s going on today. The last thing I want to do is give him a reason to rip me a new one if I didn’t realize something changed with my schedule.
Zayne: Wanna grab lunch? Found a place that’s supposed to have an amazing vegan Philly cheesesteak.
Stuffy handler-guy comes through with the grub. Score! I’m so glad Louis told him I was vegan. I check the time stamp—thirty minutes ago. He might not have left yet.
Me: Hell yes! But I’m swamped here. Can you bring it to the shop?
I’m about to check Stan’s message, but Zayne’s reply comes through immediately.
Zayne: Sure. I’ll be there within the hour.
Me: Cool. Thanks, man. I appreciate you.
“Em!” Kandy pops her head out the front door. “Your next client is here.”
“Be right there.” I zip through the rest of the texts. Thankfully, it’s nothing pressing that I have to respond to right away.
When I walk back into the shop, there are two guys sitting on the couch and a tiny girl with a short, pink pixie cut who looks like she got swallowed up by the huge chair.
“Sandy?” I ask her.
“That’s me!” The petite woman launches herself toward me. “I’m Sandy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
She ignores my outstretched hand, leans in and wraps her arms around me. “I can’t believe I got an appointment. I’ve wanted a tattoo by you for so long. I just—I love your work.”
There’s a massive sense of pride when people tell you they’ve been waiting to get a tattoo by you. It reinforces my choice to do this as a career, no matter what anyone else thinks.