Wallflower Ink

Chapter 1

· Jace ·

I straighten the ink bottles along the counter for what seems like the hundredth time today, trying to find something to occupy my mind as I wait. But there's only so much a guy can do to keep his irritation at bay, to keep himself from getting more pissed off than he already is.

I glance at the full-length mirror to my left--the one my customers use to admire their new ink after a session in my chair--and I frown at my reflection. Though my dark hair isn't mussed, and my matching eyes don't look nearly as tired as they feel, there is still a shadow of worry that haunts the face of the man looking back at me now.

He hadn't looked that way just a few months ago, when he'd first turned the sign in the window to open, then later greeted his first customer. No, that guy, the Jace Declan of less than a year ago, was still high on the excitement of bringing his dream to life. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still smell the fresh paint on the walls, feel the former giddiness of that man. Usually it makes me smile; today, it doesn't. The new has worn off, and the reality of being a struggling artist has taken its place.

With a frustrated sigh, I turn my back on both the mirror and the ink, then drop back into my chair beneath the bright parlor lights; their familiar hum is immediately drowned out by the angry tapping of my foot. I glance at the chrome artistry tools of my trade, still sealed in their sterile packaging. They lie in a neat row on the steel table's surface before me, awaiting the arrival of the customer I'd cleared most of today's schedule for. But my three o'clock is late, almost certainly a no-show.

I frown, let out an angry breath, then lift my arm to look at my watch. Again. Three forty seven. I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, then take several deep breaths to calm myself. It doesn't work.

My fingers twitch, wanting to dial the number again. But I've already tried twice, and both times have gotten a "this number is no longer in service" message. Either I wrote it down wrong, or the guy's phone has been shut off. It's not a good sign.

I was counting on this job. Sales are down this month, which means money is tight. I'm not on the brink of bankruptcy, but neither can I afford to have a huge chunk of my day wasted by customers who don't even bother to show up. Time is money, after all, and like with any new business I need every penny I can make. The least the guy could have done was call--to postpone or cancel, it doesn't matter--but he hadn't even done that.

I open my eyes, push the table away, and stand, my mood darkening with every second that ticks by. Today is a bust--at least until seven, when a small job is scheduled to come in. It won't pay much, but something is a hell of a lot better than nothing.

With this gloomy thought in my mind, I set about putting my tools away. No use leaving them out until my next appointment, where they might get contaminated. It's highly unlikely, but I take my job seriously, and I never take chances. It would only take one bad tattoo to ruin the reputation I'm building, one preventable infection to get me shut down. I can't afford that. I'm pretty sure some of the paperwork I'd signed to open this place included the sale of my soul, and I'd like to have it back some day.

Once I've finished my task, I leave the parlor and make my way to the waiting area, my mind still focused on the upcoming loan payment. Flopping down on the couch, I prop my feet up on the table, then lean my head back and close my eyes.

My time will be wasted whether I'm here or at home, so I settle myself in to wait. Maybe I'll get a walk-in. It happens sometimes, and though I usually can't fit an impromptu ink session in, today it looks like I'll have plenty of time for one.