watching each other, and he wanted to know what Shane saw in the man.
“Can I take a look?”
Without a word Billy slid his stool back and turned to
several photographs of a young woman in a wedding dress. Ivan bent over the customer’s
chest. Though Billy worked from one photograph, he’d managed to get some nuance
from the other pictures in the tattoo, creating something unique. It appeared
as though the picture came to life on the man’s skin. Below the image were some
roses, as well as a birth and death date, earlier in the year. The woman was
Emily’s age exactly.
“That’s my wife.” The customer leaned up on his elbows.
“I’m very sorry.” His throat dried out and he wondered if
anyone bothered turning on the air conditioning. Memorial and tribute tattoos
always affected him. Every tattoo told a permanent story.
“Funny how fast life changes. I was upset because she didn’t
make dinner,” the man said, then returned to position.
“I understand.” The day Ivan’s mother died, he was pissed
because she forgot to give him money for game he wanted. Ten-year-old Emily
fronted it. In fact, he didn’t think he ever paid her back.
“Billy’s doing her justice. I’ll always have her with me
now.” The man held his hand out.
Ivan shook it and nodded at Billy. “Really nice work.”
Billy only acknowledged him with a tilt of his head, and
Ivan continued to the front.
In his new morning routine, he went through the mail, and
messages, and checked his appointment schedule as well as the schedules of the
other artists.
A knock at the front door jolted him out of his
concentration. He pounded his fist into the counter. He couldn’t handle
walk-ins. He had a customer coming in, and both artists on the floor were busy.
People needed to read the sign stating the hours of operation.
He stepped around the counter and opened the blinds. A man
in a suit stood there, and he rubbed his hands together before unlocking the
door and flinging it open. “We’re closed.”
“Shane Elliott?” The man flipped his sunglasses up.
“What about it?” People thought that if they knew Shane’s
name from some show, they’d get treated like a damn VIP.
“You have been served.” He thrust a thick envelope in his
direction.
Reflex alone made him take the envelope. “Served?”
“Shane Elliott, you have been served.” The man nodded and
with a military precision turned and walked back to his car.
Ivan froze as he watched the man climb into a nondescript
grey sedan and drive away. Only when the sun hit him in the eye did he blink,
relock the door, and return to the counter.
In a daze, he stared straight ahead and opened the envelope,
took out the contents, and lifted the pages to his face. Although he only
skimmed the documents, the words infection , negligent , and lawsuit jumped out. They may as well have slapped him in the face, but the final
blow came when they named the artist. “Booker!” He turned to the back.
Billy stood and they looked each other in the eye.
Every nerve ending longed to run over and beat the crap out
of the man who caused such a fiasco.
It was either that, or he wanted to leave, throw in the
towel, get down on his hands and knees in front of his best friend, and tell
him he couldn’t cut it.
Before he made another move, or pounded Booker’s ass into
pulp, Ivan needed backup, someone stronger than either the pretty boy or even
him. He picked up the hated papers, stomped out of the shop, hurried to the
next-door over, and barged into Lindsay’s accounting office.
Lindsay’s empty accounting office.
“Emily Elliott!”
A loud boom from under the desk greeted him, followed by a
whimper.
“Em?” He dashed around the desk and found her underneath
with her hand on the top of her head. “What are you doing under here?” He
dropped to his knees and rubbed her head.
She tensed.
The avoidance game had run its course.
He continued to comfort her and at last, like erosion,