by Sophia Henry
It takes me three tries, but I finally get the stupid key card thing to unlock my door. What the hell happened to real keys? Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?
Holding on to the handle to keep me from falling, I stumble through the door. Though I’ve aimed for the bed, my bag doesn’t quite make it there. It spills out over the floor about two feet in front of me.
“Fuuuuck!” I sigh.
I crawl to my bag, dig my phone out, and press Fozzie’s name. There’s no way I’m going to be able to hold the phone, so I press the speaker button and set in on the floor next to my head.
He answers after a few rings. “What’s up, Em?”
I press my cheek against the standard-issue, Berber carpet, and inspect the scratches on the bottom panel of the armoire. “Did I wake you up?” It’s a silly question because I can tell I did from the scratchiness of his voice.
“Yeah. No worries, kid. You okay?”
“I—I,” Choking on the words as emotion overwhelms me. Tears gush over my cheeks and onto the disgusting carpet, yet my head feels heavier than a pile of bricks. And I know my neck can’t bear that weight.
“Talk to me, Em.”
I sniff and swallow. “I want to go home. I want to be next to you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re right where you need to be,” Fozzie says softly.
“I’m fucked up. I’m a fucked-up fuck up. I have everything, Fozzie. Everything I could ever want. And I’m fucking drunk with my fucking face on the dirty-ass carpet of a hotel.”
“It’s okay to get trashed every once in a while, Em. You’re overwhelmed by all the amazing things happening. You’re allowed to let off steam.”
“I’m a nothing here. There are all these super talented artists doing amazing shit. Why the fuck would Ambassador want to fucking sponsor me, Foz? I’m nothing. No one.”
“That’s not true at all.”
“That’s what it feels like.” I sniff when I should be blowing. Thankfully, it’s Fozzie on the other line. He’s seen the Snot Queen in person on multiple occasions.
“In Charlotte, you’re a big fish in a small pond. There are only a few people on your level. But that’s the kind of market you needed to start in to gain experience and confidence. You would have never continued if you started in a place like New York. Not because you aren’t amazing, but because you would have compared yourself to others and let the doubt seep into your head and take over. Just like you’re doing right now.”
“They had a photographer and videographer in my grill all day. I’m doing all these mini-interviews like I’m on a freaking reality show. Who the fuck would want to watch a reality show about me?”
“Emily, you are one of the most talented tattoo artists I’ve ever met in my life, and I’ve met a lot of them.”
Fozzie’s about sixty percent into a full body suit, so he’s been tatted by a lot of artists. Sure, he has some random tats he got on a whim—but for significant pieces, he’ll wait and travel for the artist he wants to do it.
“Pick your face up off the floor, babe. If you can’t make it into bed, at least lean against the wall.”
“I can’t.”
“You can because you’re gonna be super pissed when you have gonorrhea or something on your face tomorrow morning.”
“Oh my god!” I push myself onto my knees and wipe damp hair off my sweaty face. “Can that even happen?”
“Doubt it. But if it can, I just saved your mug.”
“You really think I’m good enough to be doing this—photo shoots and guest spots and whatever kind of weird-ass documentary Ambassador has planned?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
If I learned anything from my teenage years, it’s that no one gives a shit about me. I’m nothing special. I’m not even someone my parents cared to go after when I left the house. I will never be good enough. Nothing I ever do will be good enough.
“The real question is: do you think you’re good enough to be doing this?”
“Fozzie, I’m too wasted for philasalavical conversations,” I slur.
“Philasalavical?” he asks with a laugh.
“Yes. I just want to hear that I’m not a fraud. That I deserve to be here with fucking cameras in my face recording my every boring move.”
I don’t know if he answered because my stomach rolled and I crawled away from the phone, making it to the toilet just in time to vomit my guts out. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up on the cold, tile floor the next morning.
When I walk into The Kandy Shop the next morning, the fluorescent overhead lights sting my eyes so badly, I can’t even take my sunglasses off.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Ike calls out,
“How vicious are you feeling this morning, EmVee?” Bryan teases, with a shit-eating smirk on his face.
I hate him and every ridiculously amazing shot he ordered for me.
“Better than you look,” I snap back.
“Oh man! Hungover EmVee is not all unicorns and lotus flowers, is she?” He laughs. “Did you puke rainbows?”
“I hate you. I hate Philly. And I hate…” I can’t keep talking because the sound of my voice booming in my head makes my head hurt even more.
“It was your welcome to Philadelphia. We had to do it right.” Bryan riffles around in a storage cabinet. “You need any paper towel over there, Ike?”
My pounding head reminds me of how much of a dumb ass I was last night. Why the hell did I get that drunk my first night here? Especially after barely eating all day. That cheesesteak Zayne brought me for lunch filled me up at the time, but it wasn’t enough to keep my stomach full for a night of drinking.
The buzz of tattoo machines usually doesn’t bother me. It’s like white noise at this point. Unless I’m hungover. When the sound rattles my brain non-stop for eight to ten hours, that’s probably the only time I hate working in the shop, but it’s entirely my fault.
About halfway through my first client, I start sweating. Though I chugged a bottle of water before he arrived, I’m parched. I try to push through but realize I can’t do it.
“Hey man, let’s take five. I gotta take a quick break,” I say, rolling my chair backward and jumping up without waiting for the approval.
The only thing worse than being on my knees hugging the porcelain throne is doing it in a public place where I don’t know when the thing was last cleaned. My throat aches as I dry-heave into the toilet.
Get it together, Emily. This is not you. This is not how you work.
This will not be how I spend my second day on tour. I’ve got just as many appointments as I did yesterday, plus Kandy talked about having me take a few walk-ins. They better be fast and tiny pieces, because I have no clue how I’m going to fit another tattoo into my day. With the exception of last month, when I worked in the clients I needed to free my schedule, I haven’t had a schedule this grueling since I first started tattooing. Back in those days, I had to take what I could get to build my client list and gain experience.
Once I get back to my feet, I run a paper towel under cold water and wring it out before dabbing it across my forehead and cheeks, careful not to mess up too much of the makeup I applied this morning.
There’s a rap on the door, and then I hear Ike say, “You alright, EmVee?”
I spit into the sink one last time, rinse it quick, and take a deep breath before yanking the door open. “Yup. Shouldn’t have chugged all that water.”
The rest of the day goes by excruciatingly slow. I have to swallow back the urge to puke on multiple occasions. If only I could just lay on my table and sleep. All I need is a twenty-minute power nap, and I’d feel like a new woman. But that’s out of the question because everyone has a client and I’d look like an unprofessional jackass if I did that. If I were back home, I’d run to my car, and nap during my lunch break.
By the time I’m working on my last client, I’m finally feeling better. Bryan�
�s client, his brother Bobby, starts asking us questions about crazy clients and pet peeves.
“What’s your biggest pet peeve, Vicious?” Bryan asks.
“Hygiene is probably my biggest pet peeve. I mean, basic hygiene. If I’m gonna be all up on someone, at least take a shower or wear deodorant.” My client lifts his head and glances at me, tilting his head in question. “Not you dude, you’re good.” I wink at him. “Oh! And people who don’t eat or drink anything beforehand. I had this girl come in just a few weeks ago saying, ‘It’s my first tattoo. I’m totally ready. I didn’t eat or drink anything.’” I say, reaching over to get more ink and ointment from my tray. A chorus of “No!” fills the room. I hunch over and press the foot pedal to start my machine again. “I was just like, this girl’s gonna pass out on my table.”
“Did she?” Bryan asks.
I snort. “What do you think?”
“I don’t understand why people think not eating is the right thing to do. You’re getting a tattoo, not riding a rollercoaster.”
“Maybe they think they have to fast like when they give blood at the doctor?” My client offers.
Most of the time, the experiences I have with the people I tattoo are awesome, but I think every artist has a story—or multiple stories—of crazy clients or situations. The internet is filled with instructions on everything from how to prepare for an appointment to proper aftercare. Tattoos aren’t a mysterious, underground world anymore.
Day two is in the books, and I’m feeling good about the tour so far. Everyone in the shop has been cool and made me feel comfortable like I’ve known them for years. I’m not sure how the rest of the shops will be, but the reception I’ve gotten here has taken my anxiety level down considerably, so that gives me hope for the future.
Chapter Seven
Zayne
When I get to The Kandy Shop to pick up EmVee for her interview with Philadelphia Weekly, an art and entertainment focused newspaper in the city, I see that she’s still working on a client, so I make myself comfortable on an oversized, purple couch in the lobby and pull out my phone. The e-mails never stop. I knew I couldn’t count on Louis to be in the office like he insisted he would. Day two of the trip and it’s already chaos back home.
While I’m sitting there, I can’t help but hear the conversation in the tattooing room.
“I’ve never seen a woman your size put back that many drinks.”
“You could definitely hold your own. You didn’t seem that wasted until we went to get food.”
Part of me hopes they’re talking about Kandy, but she’s got at least five inches and fifty pounds on EmVee, so it’s highly unlikely.
“I’m so glad I made it through the day. I felt like death earlier,” EmVee says.
I’m already stressed to the max with everything going on at the office, but instead of being there like I should be, I’m stuck in Philadelphia babysitting. Despite initial reservations about EmVee, I tried to come into this trip with an open mind. She’s been tattooing for seven or eight years and talks a big game about being on her own since she was fourteen, so I guess I expected the maturity that comes with that life experience.
Louis has always made excellent choices on who he picks for the Pro Team, but he usually focuses on established artists. EmVee may have years of experience, but she’s still too young and immature. Listening to the way she handled herself on our very first full night in Philadelphia grates on my nerves.
I expect her—or anyone—to go out on the town and get drunk, but it’s entirely unacceptable to get super shitfaced and come back to the shop and joke about it in front of clients and everyone. I can’t believe that’s something her boss stands for. Stan Rybakov is well known in the industry—and his reputation is not rainbows and puppy dogs. I’m pretty sure that dude would bite the head off a dove if given a chance.
“Yeah, we didn’t think you were coming out of the bathroom the first time you went in there.”
“I can’t believe y’all took me to Mardi Gras.”
“Whatever! You loved it! You downed that Hurricane faster than an underage girl on Spring Break,” Bryan teases.
“I’ll never turn down a hurricane.”
As they throw barbs and poke fun, I jump on the Ambassador Instagram account to do some research. It’s highly unlikely in today’s social media driven world that no one would take photos or videos of the wild and crazy night.
I go to EmVee’s page first, scrolling quickly and checking her story. There’s nothing there except a video of a group belting out an out-of-tune Bon Jovi song.
Before coming on this trip, I did my due diligence by checking out her website and social media pages to get a hint of what I might be in for. She’s really smart about how she uses social media to display her portfolio. Every photo looks professionally shot, including the selfies thrown in every so often. It’s like she has a photographer following her around all the time, but that seems highly unlikely. I’m more inclined to believe she has photographer friends or takes them herself. It wouldn’t surprise me if she were into photography as her profile seems very artistic. Sketches of faces and flowers—even clothing—stand out in between the tattoo posts.
I’m so enthralled looking at her work; I almost forgot why I’d jumped online. Instead of keep scrolling, I tap the search bar and type in IFArt, Ike’s hilarious handle.
There are a few group shots, seven or eight people raising their glasses in a toast. EmVee’s bold red lips stand out against her porcelain skin. Her smile is full and bright as if she’s known the others in the photo forever.
Before I log out, I tap on Bryan’s account to make sure I’ve covered all bases. There’s a duplicate of the group shot photo from Ike’s page and a few selfies of him and some friends. My nerves begin to settle since neither no one’s pages have anything posted that would embarrass EmVee.
When I click on his story, my jaw tightens. The very first video is EmVee leaning against a broad, lumberjack-looking guy—tattoos, muscles, and hard lines. At first, her eyes are closed, head tilted to the side while the man behind her presses his lips to her exposed neck. Then she rolls her head slowly until she’s facing the camera. Her eyes vacant, but confident; her lips slightly parted, as if an invitation. The guy’s hands slide over her hips and across her stomach, lifting her black New Politics tank top before cupping the underside of her tits. Scrawled across her tight, smooth abs are the words “Free Spirit” in a beautiful, swirling, Old English font.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Why am I wishing I were the one standing behind her, grinding my cock against her ass, cupping those large, luscious tits. It’s absolutely ridiculous to think about the goth fairy like this. She’s not what I’m looking for—not even as a hookup.
Plus, the video looks completely manufactured—like she’s posing for a photo shoot. She probably is. Social media is filled with “influencers”—people who live their lives in front of the camera.
Sexy, tatted up free spirit with a smart mouth and a lust for life.
Definitely not my type. I need someone to keep me grounded.
“Kelly and I are going to see a show at the Fillmore tonight,” Ike says. “You should come with us.”
“I’m down. But I cannot have a repeat performance of last night.” She laughs as she moves her machine over the guy sprawled on the table. “My head still hurts.”
“Hey, EmVee!” I call out, interrupting the conversation before I put my fist through something. “You have an interview Philadelphia Weekly tonight.”
“That’s right.” She looks up and smiles. “What would I do without you, Zayne?”
“Have fun,” Bryan mumbles as he sweeps the floor.
Prick.
“Just when we think she’s one of us, her handler comes in and sets us straight,” Ike says.
“Well, after her performance last night, he probably needs to tighten the reins on her,” Bryan quips.
“I’m almost done,” EmVee tells
her client as she wipes the extra ink off his leg in the spot she’d been shading. She glances at me quickly before returning her attention to her client. “You doing okay?”
I haven’t seen her since breakfast yesterday. When she didn’t show up for our breakfast brief this morning, I didn’t say anything because I knew she was pissed at me. She can try to pass the blame, but we both know the only person she should be pissed at is herself. It’s not my fault she didn’t check her e-mail. It’s not my fault she wasn’t prepared for what was expected of her for this trip. Hopefully, I pushed her in the right direction.
Once she’s finished with her client, she takes a few minutes to clean up her station and say good-bye to the others at The Kandy Shop.
“Ready, Zayne?” She stands next to me, both hands gripping the strap across her chest.
“Yeah.” I jump up. The video of a random guy’s hands all over her tits is ingrained in my brain, and I have this urge to protect her. My hand moves to the small of her back, guiding her to the door. She stiffens under my touch, so I drop it immediately.
“How’s the week starting off for you?” I ask, pressing the key fob to unlock the door to the car. Thankfully, when I pulled up earlier, someone else was leaving and I got a rock star parking spot right in front.
“It’s been great, actually. I’ve had some rad clients, and I really like Kandy and the guys in the shop.”
I rush to the passenger side and hold the door open, allowing her to get in. Before I can shut it, she grabs the inside handle and yanks it closed.
“Okaaaay.” I rub the back of my neck as I round the car to the driver’s side.
I hoped avoiding me for a day had given her enough time to cool off, but I was wrong. She’s really going to hate me after the discussion we’re about to have, but I’m not going to let what I saw on Instagram and the conversation I heard at the shop slide. We’re only two days into this trip, and I wouldn’t be doing her any favors if I didn’t address the issues now. Acting in a semi-professional manner for a month shouldn’t be that difficult.