by Sophia Henry
“I regret that comment,” I tell her honestly. “I wasn’t insinuating that you were lazy or anything.”
“I know. I just like teasing you, Zayne.” She’s got big, beautiful eyes. I can’t help but get caught up in them every time our gazes connect.
“Speaking of regrets,” I say, moving on before I slip and say something embarrassing. “Do you have any tattoos you regret?” It’s a pretty general question for an artist. Louis will tell you it’s some jammers he got back when he first started tattooing, but some people get deep about their answers, and it tells a lot about them.
“Nope. Because they all meant something at the time I got them.”
I swivel my head side to side, scanning the cabin quickly, looking for whoever it is she’s trying to be PC for. “The cameras are off, EmVee. Spill the good stuff.”
“What does that mean?” she asks. When she tilts her head, her t-shirt falls off one shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. Wonder if it’s the one that busted earlier in the week.
“That’s one of those canned answers that public relations people love,” I explain. “I’d understand if the videographer were here, but it’s just us right now.”
She leans closer and whispers. “Maybe I’m keeping myself in check like my handler taught me.”
Her teasing me leaves me speechless, which is hard to do. Being intellectually challenged by a woman I’m beginning to admire is a huge turn on. She’s nothing like I imagined she’d be. I hate when people use the term “old soul,” but that’s the perfect description—an old soul in the body of a vivacious, twenty-two-year-old.
“I am a bit embarrassed about this one,” she continues, “but I still don’t regret it.” She lifts the armrest, so there’s no barrier between our seats, then crosses her right leg over her left and pulls up her body-hugging, black skirt. She’s got me seconds away from salivating, and she knows it.
On the outside of her silky, smooth thigh, near her hip, is a full-color Cookie Monster, complete with crumbs flying out of his mouth. It’s actually a really well-done tattoo, so her embarrassment must come from the story, rather than the artwork.
“I’m just going to—” Taking a deep breath, I reach out and slide her skirt down, so it’s covering her thigh again. “That’s better.”
“Sorry.” She bites her lip, which doesn’t help the situation. The image of her working her bottom lip with her teeth increases the blood flow to my dick. I adjust in my seat.
Louis would kill me if he knew the newest Pro Team member and I were flirting mercilessly—and loving every second of it. Everyone knows business and relationships don’t mix. Hell, I’m the one who used to have to remind him of that before he met Bridget.
“Let me guess?” I say, trying to keep my head on our conversation, rather than the sexual tension in the air between us. “You loved Elmo—but everybody loved Elmo, and you couldn’t do what everyone else does, because you’re you and you have to be different, so you got Cookie? And you regret it to this day because you wish you would’ve gotten that fuzzy, loveable, red creature on your body forever.”
“You’re really good at making up angsty stories.”
“But am I right?”
“Not even a little bit.” She shakes her head. “I mean, if I wanted Elmo that badly, I could have had someone make Cookie Monster red.”
“That wouldn’t have worked. It would have been purple at best. And there are no cool purple Muppets.”
She gasps, clasping her hands over her heart in shock. “That weird-ass, Siamese twin monster thing is gonna be so upset to hear that.”
“Your Muppet knowledge is scary,” I tease. “So what’s the real story?”
“My mama’s name is Cookie.” Her hands fall into her lap. “She keeps acquiring and acquiring and always wants more. Nothing is ever enough. She’ll never be full,” she says while picking at the chipped, black polish on her nails.
“That’s…wow.” I didn’t expect such a personal and raw answer.
“Too heavy?” she laughs softly.
“Never. I’d much rather the heavy shit than small talk,” I admit. That’s why Louis is better at being the face of Ambassador. He can carry a conversation about nothing for hours. “You think your mother is a consumption monster?”
Em nods. “That’s a perfect description.”
“Is she massively in debt or—? I mean, there’s significant meaning behind that tattoo. It must upset you.” I glance at her, trying to read her thoughts.
We all have issues with our family, some bigger than others. Some we let slide, some we hold onto until we have the power to forgive. Em has obviously been holding onto this for a long time.
“No,” she says. “She’s not in debt. The opposite, actually. She has more money than she knows what to do with. Hence, the consumption monster. More, more, more. Bigger, better. It never ends.” She curls one leg under her butt and scoots closer to me. “And when it does, it moves on to higher stakes.”
Maybe she’s being cryptic on purpose, but she’s hasn’t backed down when I’ve asked her a question yet, so I decide to push a little.
“I thought you left home at fourteen and had to make your own way and that’s how you got into tattooing?”
“I did. It is,” She answers.
“You just said your mom is loaded. How does that make sense?” I ask, perplexed at the curveball she just threw me about her background.
When I heard she’d left home as a teenager, I imagined someone who was in an awful situation and had no choice but to go. Finding out she came from an ultra-wealthy family sets off alarms in my head, wondering what the hell could have possibly happened that would make her leave a comfortable life at fourteen?
“My parents are wealthy, but I didn’t use any of their money when I left. I begged Stan to hire me to clean the shop, lived off ramen noodles, and slept on a couch in an apartment I shared with five other people.”
“So, until that point, you grew up with money?” It’s a revelation to me. The only research I did on her before I came on this tour was checking out her social media and website. I wanted to see what kind of brand she was putting out into the world. I would never have guessed this tatted up, punk-rock fairy was born into a wealthy family.
She sighs. “Yup. And that’s why I don’t want anything to do with that lifestyle. I’d rather people think I had it rough my entire life.”
“But that’s a lie. You aren’t being truthful with your clients—or your fan base,” I say, bringing up a public relations issue I see as common sense. “People want authenticity and honesty. When they find out you’re not who you say you are, there could be a huge backlash.”
Her body tenses up. “I am honest. I just omit the first thirteen years of my life. Those years have nothing to do with who I am as a tattoo artist.”
This is one of those conversations that only could have happened in the confines of an airplane. When you sit next to someone and start spilling your guts because you have nothing else to do for the next hour and a half you’ll be crammed next to each other.
“I’d argue that those years have everything to do with who you are as an artist.”
Sometimes I don’t even realize I say something that steps over a boundary until I see someone’s reaction. EmVee crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the window—as far as she can get from me.
“I just mean that those years obviously shaped you.” I reach out and take her hands in mine. Hopefully showing her I’m an ally, not trying to challenge or anger her. “You have a tattoo of your mother as an overindulgent monster on your leg. It says a lot about how you feel about wealth and excess.”
Her gaze drops to our joined hands, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. On the contrary, she moves closer, dipping her head as if she’s about to let me in on a secret. “My family is one of the oldest and wealthiest in Charlotte,” she says quietly. There’s no superiority in her tone. In fact, it seems more like embarrassment. “
When I was a kid, it was awesome. My sisters and I got anything and everything we could ever dream of. We went on extravagant vacations. Had all the latest clothes, shoes, toys—whatever.” She smiles, but when her gaze meets mine, there’s no joy in the memory recall. “Back then, I thought everyone lived like us. Like any kid, I only saw how I benefited from it, not the other side. I didn’t think about how people some become wealthy or how they use their power and influence to benefit their own interests.”
Evidently, a week at each other’s throats in Philadelphia loosened us both up a bit. I never expected her to open up to me like this.
“Is that what your family was like?” I ask.
“Well, they weren’t nurturing caregivers.” She swallows and shakes her head. “That sounded harsher than I intended. My parents weren’t that horrible to me at first, but my entire childhood felt like growing up in a finishing school. I learned the proper way to talk, how to sit, how to cook. I had to look a certain way, wear certain clothes, hang out with approved people. Nothing but the best for the Commons family. The most expensive, the most exclusive. We always had to keep up with other families. It was an unspoken competition. It’s a Stepford life—a fake life. How do you ever grow if everything you’ve ever known is just for show?”
“That’s a great question.”
“I just want to be true to myself and my art. I’m not better than anyone. Sure, I charge a certain amount per hour, but I’ve also done free tattoos for people who can’t afford my work. I’ve done charity days where all of my profits go to a family in need or an animal organization. I hate the entire thought of accumulating wealth and keeping it all for yourself because you think it makes you better than everyone else.” She laughs. “You can’t take it with you when you die. And the people you leave it to might not want to follow the rules that go with having it.”
“That’s commendable,” I say, though I’m still wondering why she skipped over a considerable chunk of her life. How does a girl go from loving the life to being so vehemently opposed?
“But it’s never good enough.”
“For who?”
She leans back. “For Cookie.”
EmVee reveals more and more of herself and what makes her tick with every answer. She’s very candid, which I appreciate. It gives me the depth that helps me understand her on another level. But there are so many things under the surface she’s not saying. “You left home at fourteen. Why does it matter?”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, lifting her eyes to meet mine as she does. “Why are you so hard on me, Zayne?”
Her question takes me off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Ever since we started this tour, you’ve really dug into me about acting professional. I’m twenty-two, as you like to remind me. There are forty-year-old artists out there living a much crazier, unprofessional lifestyle than I am, yet you’re on me.”
Another great question. She’s got me on my toes today.
Suddenly the reason I’m so hard on EmVee hits me. I see my former self in her.
When I was playing soccer, I had it all: Money, fame, women. Every night was a party, and I was the VIP. Getting caught up in that lifestyle made me feel larger than life—and like the rules didn’t apply to me.
I don’t want to see EmVee go down that same path. She’s smart and insightful. She And she’s far too talented to lose it all over a “lifestyle.”
“I know how it feels to be young and have the world at your fingertips. You have money, you’re well known, and more opportunities open up for you every day. Even people with a good head on their shoulders can get swept up in the lifestyle and succumb to temptation. And, as you know, tattooers are introduced to some of the seediest and darkest corners.”
EmVee nods as I speak, which makes me think she understands the extremely vague answer I’m giving. Maybe someday, we’ll both be completely honest with each other and share our full stories.
“Were you famous when you were younger?”
I shrug nonchalantly. She already thinks I’m an arrogant ass. I’m not trying to enhance her perception. “Do you follow soccer? Know of any players?”
“David Beckham,” she answers with a shrug. “But I only know he’s a popular soccer player because of his wife. Victoria is a fashion icon. And her cheekbones are goals.” She extends her index and ring fingers on both hands and taps them across each other.
“What the hell was that?” I mimic the action.
“Hashtag.”
“You can’t hashtag in face to face conversations!” I laugh.
Her lips turn up in a huge smile, giving me a peek of straight, white teeth against her cherry red lipstick.
“Anyway, Beckham was a famous soccer player. He’s retired now,” I say indignantly. Even after being retired for more than five years, he’s still the go-to guy everyone mentions when asked if they know of any soccer players.
“Me-ow.” She curls her fingers and pretends to scratch at me.
I chuckle. The comment did sound a bit catty when I honestly have no problem with Beckham’s fame or good looks. “Even people who don’t follow soccer know David Beckham or Cristiano Ronaldo because they’re hot.”
“Sergio Ramos!” she exclaims, bolting upright in her seat as if she can’t believe she forgot him.
“Yup, he’s hot too,” I quip.
“Really? I don’t know what he looks like at all. I just know he’s a soccer player. My dog’s name is Ramos.”
“You named your dog Ramos, yet you don’t call yourself a soccer fan?”
“I didn’t name him. He’s actually my Maddie’s husband’s dog. But they live in the Czech Republic until who knows when, so I have him. He’s my dog now.”
“You have a fascinating way of sharing information. I learned more about you during this flight than I did the entire week.”
“Well, you were an ass to me in Philly. I wasn’t giving you any more information than was absolutely necessary.”
“You’re right,” I admit. “But, I will say, you really stepped up your game over the rest of the week. I take full responsibility for your transformation.” I’m egging her on right now, trying to get a rise out of her because I like it when she’s feisty.
She stares at me, eyes getting wider by the second. If we were having this conversation anywhere other than an airplane, she’d be on her feet with her hands on her hips. I can picture it plain as day. I should calm her down before her head does a complete three-sixty.
“I’m kidding.”
“So were you the Beckham of your team?” She asks, undeterred.
It’s been ten years since my soccer success—and failure. Despite years of therapy, an extremely successful business, and using painting and meditation for stress relief—my ego still isn’t healed. It’s a scabbed over wound, still bleeding whenever the memory is scratched.
A bells dings and a flight attendant announces over the intercom that we’ve arrived at the gate in Chicago where the local time is 9:13 am. Seatbelts click open, and smart phones chime as restless passengers rustle about the cabin.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have enough time to list all of my amazing accomplishments right now,” I say, happy to be interrupted just as the inquisition turned to me. “Raincheck for another day.”
“Don’t worry, Zayne,” she says, leaning down to grab her messenger bag tucked under the seat in front of her. “We’ve got three more weeks together, and by the time we’re through, I’m going to know every inch of you.”
What the hell am I supposed to say after a comment like that?
My cock presses against my zipper, straining to get out and show her the inches of me it wants her to get to know first.
If I were going to fuck with a tattoo artist, Em Vicious would be at the top of my list. Everything about her is my catnip. Hot as fuck. Punk rock princess name, with fairy tale princess tats. Established in her career, super smart about her branding, and chill when it comes to the partying life.<
br />
But even if I wanted to hook up with her, I couldn’t because of the business. We can’t have relationship drama dragging the Ambassador name through the mud.
The funny thing is, I’m not even into dating women more than ten years younger than me—five to six years younger or older is my limit. When I turned thirty, I had a mini mid-life crisis. I thought I was hot shit fucking with twenty-one and twenty-two-year-olds until I realized it’s not the number of years that’s the problem—it’s the maturity level and where we are in our lives. I’m well established in my career and got all of my partying out of my system during my soccer days.
Not to mention, the peer pressure sucked. Some of my friends still haven’t let me live down the months I spent dating girls that much younger than me. The “robbing the cradle” and “daddy” jokes make my skin crawl. I don’t look at young girls, and it ticks me off that some of my asshole friends say shit like that.
I knew traveling with EmVee would be a rollercoaster ride when I met her, but I thought it would be her hormones that caused the ups and downs—not mine.
Chapter Ten
Emily
Chicago
Maybe it’s a stereotype, but I feel like Philadelphia has a reputation of being a rough, tough city. If anyone had told me the artists there would be kinder and more accepting than the artists in Chicago, I wouldn’t have believed them. Yet, when I get to Lake Effect Tattoo, the initial reception is a lot cooler than it was in Philly. No one is outright mean; they’re just more reserved right of the bat—which makes me a bit shier than I would typically be when meeting new people.
Though this month was the first time shop owners contacted me (through Ambassador) to do a guest spot, I’ve dropped into shops in major markets like LA, Miami, and NYC, where my friends work and tattooed for a day or two a shitload of times over the years. When I go to a new place, I try to read the vibe of the shop and act accordingly. I’m still myself, just a tamer version until they get comfortable with me.