| |
“I want a 1950s pin-up girl riding a rubber chicken,” the customer standing at Wicked Tat’s waiting-room counter said proudly.
Wicked really tried not to sigh, but it slipped out. At least once a week someone came in with a request that made her cringe and yeah, this guy was the start of her week. “Why?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Did you lose a bet?”
The man laughed but noticed quickly she was serious and frowned. “Ah, no,” he replied, looking uncomfortable and maybe a little angry. “I saw it on Master Ink and thought it was cool.”
And to think she used to like that show. “And where do you want this cool rubber-chicken-riding pin-up girl?” Ribs. He was going to say ribs.
“My right ribs.” His answer had her sighing again.
“Ding! Ding! Ding! What does she win, Johnny?” The sarcastic comment came from the corner of the room where her cat, Bruce, lounged, licking his paw. At least it wasn’t his nuts, which he gleefully did just to disgust her.
Ignoring Bruce, her familiar—yeah, she was a witch and was stuck with a rock ‘n’ roll loving, nut-licking, sarcastic, could-read-her-mind and always-had-something-to-say familiar. Yay, her!—she sighed again and then nodded toward the chairs. “Take a seat and let me see what I can draw up. Once you agree, we’ll talk price.”
“Hey, I’m walking out of here with a tat from Wicked, so price is not an issue.” He puffed out his chest as he looked her up and down. After giving her an awkward wink, he then turned, strutting toward the chairs.
Thank God he turned; her automatic eye-roll went into full action, and she couldn’t have stopped it if her life depended on it. Locking up her cash drawer, she headed toward the back.
“Ah, is that your cat?” Chicken dude called out.
Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted Bruce going to town on his sack.
“Isn’t that against code or something to have a nasty animal in here?” Chicken dude sat as far away from Bruce as he could.
Oh, shit! She shot Bruce a warning glare, but of course, he didn’t see her because his little furry face was buried in his nut sack. That was until his head snapped up to hiss at the man.
“I think a penis on his forehead would be a much better tattoo. Don’t you think, Wicked?” Bruce gave his nuts one last lick before standing. He prowled over by the guy with a hissy purr, lifted his tail and, by the look on the man’s face, let a horrendous fart before strolling away to follow Wicked. “And I would do that, but you’d only undo it so it would be a waste of my time.”
Wicked didn’t even respond, because it was true. She walked into her studio room where she did all her artwork and hopped up on the stool at her art table. Grabbing some transfer paper, she began to work on the hideous tattoo. The pin-up wasn’t the issue. The rubber chicken was.
“You know, all you have to do is twitch your nose, and the rubber chicken could be toast.” Bruce used his paw to hit the button on the radio. AC/DC rocked throughout the room.
“I could do the same to you,” Wicked reminded him, but they both knew that wouldn’t happen, as tempting as it was.
Tuning everything out, Wicked began her artwork. Her mind wandered as her hand began to work. As much as she hated to admit it, Bruce was right. She could easily twirl or snap her fingers, or twitch her nose, and the damn rubber chicken would be forgotten by the mortal in her waiting room. She could also do the same on this piece of paper instead of drawing, but she loved working on her art. She loved tattooing and wanted to do all of this without the use of her magic. So far she had, except for a few little mishaps with her tattoo machine, which she called Lenny. Her magic was a great eraser.
Taking a break from drawing, she looked up, letting her eyes roam over what she had worked hard to achieve without magic. Nothing involving her tattoo shop involved her magic. Absolutely nothing. She paid rent to a hot sexy Shifter who she would love to tat one day. Her clothes, however, were something totally different. She had an expensive taste in clothes, which included leather, real leather, plus her taste was eclectic. Wanting different styles to suit whatever mood hit her, she readily used her magic to satisfy her differing clothing needs. Yes, her wardrobe came literally at the snap of her fingers, wiggle of her nose or a twirl of her finger.
Looking down at herself, she smiled at her leather skirt, knee-high boots, and white off-the-shoulder halter. Her current fashion sense was seventies free-love mixed with today’s trendy style. Her eyes landed on Bruce, who was headbanging along with the Metallica song that was now playing. Rolling her eyes, she picked up a rubber band and put her hair up before finishing the artwork.
“Rubber chicken guy is getting restless.” Bruce nosed out the door. “Are you sure you don’t want me to send him out with a stubby penis on his forehead? It would be epic.”
“I’m sure it would, but no.” Wicked put the finishing touches on the design and stood. Walking to the counter, the customer stood and met her there. She laid the transfer paper down and waited for his reaction. This was what always made her nervous. She cared what people thought of her work, because it was the only constant in her life.
“Damn, you’re good,” Chicken dude said, staring at the sexy pin-up girl riding a rubber chicken, thanks to Master Ink. “Can’t believe you’re as good as they say. I mean, look at you.”
Wicked’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from the drawing to see rubber chicken man staring at her boobs.
“Penis! Penis! Penis!” Bruce chanted as he lounged in the corner of her office, hearing every word exchanged.
“Do you really want to piss off the woman who will be tattooing you?” Her voice was low and barely controlled. She needed rent money, but not that bad. She looked at his forehead contemplating Bruce’s tattoo suggestion. “My looks have nothing at all to do with my talent, so I suggest you stop ogling my tits and lay down five hundred or walk out the door.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth closed. He did lay down five hundred, signed the wavier form she laid out, then followed her to the chair, taking off his shirt.
Wicked sat on her stool and organized her inks, totally ignoring the man’s flexing. She then prepped the area on the ribs to be tattooed before laying down the tracing paper. Once the image was transferred onto the skin, she had him stand to check the layout herself and then had him look in the mirror to approve. With a brief nod, he went back to the lounge chair and got into position.
“You do know the ribs hurt,” Wicked warned, dabbing the needle in the first color she was to use.
He nodded again as if afraid to say anything at all. Wicked glanced at Bruce, wondering if he’d put some kind of spell on the guy to keep him quiet, but Bruce just gave his normal cat shrug. Yes, Bruce the cat shrugged.
“Here we go,” Wicked said, as the sound of Lenny filled the room. She loved the sound; it took her to her happy place as did the first dot of ink that penetrated the skin.
Bruce knew the routine and kicked up the music. The mixture of machine and music put Wicked at ease and let her mind wander, which admittedly wasn’t always a good thing.
Her shop was located just outside of Assjacket, West Virginia. Yes, Assjacket. Newly named by the new Shifter Whisper, Zelda, who Wicked had yet to meet. A witch was the only being able to step into the Shifter Whisper position. The Shifters who frequented her shop were full of gossip. As a result, she couldn’t wait to meet Zelda. Wicked had known Zelda’s Aunt Hildy, the previous Shifter Whisper, and was saddened by her death, as were all the Shifters. Wicked moved around a lot, never comfortable in one place for a long period of time, though she never went outside of West Virginia.
Wicked’s decision to move just on the border of Assjacket was because mortals who came into town never stayed. Assjacket was a Shifter town where mortals were not really welcome. That put a big strain on her business, so she had made the decision to relocate to a place where mortals would stay for more than five minutes, and Shifters could also frequent her shop. It had worked, and her business was great. She was content, except for her landlord.
The man flinched as she hit a sensitive spot, making her line of ink wonky. Lifting the needle from his skin, she twitched her nose, erasing the mistake. “Do you need a break?” Wicked asked, noting he was sweating and moving quite a bit. “We still have a way to go.”
“I’m fine,” he replied, his eyes closed tightly.
“He’s about ready to soil himself,” Bruce said with a snicker between grooming one of his paws. “I’d suggest you give him a break, so we don’t have a mess. Why these big macho guys pick rib tattoos is beyond me. And FYI, you have a big Shifter getting ready to walk in the door. Hope you have your rent.”