Jericho

It’d been three weeks since Poe had started, and I wasn’t overly impressed. Granted, he showed up mostly on time and wasn’t overtly rude, but there was this . . . distractedness about him, a disinterest, that drove me fucking batshit.

I didn’t expect him to be so into working the front desk that he showed up early to make us all fucking coffee or whatever. But I did expect that he’d sound a little bit less bored when he had to deal with the customers. Or the other employees. Or me.

This place was my pride and joy, and I knew it wasn’t fair to assume my employees would feel the same way. But I did expect at least some investment in the success of the place from the artists and the piercers, and for the most part, I got it.

The front desk position, though, that was another fucking story.

The thing about it was, most people who took the desk job were people who thought it would be cool to hang out in a tattoo shop all day. Either they were so busy trying to hang with the artists and seem cool as fuck that they forgot they were supposed to be working, or they assumed no one would care if they went outside and smoked every two minutes. The normal job duties—answering the phone, scheduling appointments, filing, all that shit—seemed to fall by the wayside. I didn’t know how I kept hiring people who couldn’t understand that this was a business that required a dependable staff to stay open—and therefore, pay their salary—but I did.

It seemed as if maybe Poe was no different than the others. Granted, he didn’t no-show like that dick Mikey, and as far as I knew, he wasn’t meeting girls after hours and promising piercings for sexual favors. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Just because the kid liked art didn’t mean he gave a shit about tattooing. Maybe he was one of those kids who rebelled by not getting tattooed, since his dad was covered in ink and Poe didn’t have a single one—that I could see, anyway.

I’d known Landon for four years, and there wasn’t much I could see of my friend in his son. Maybe there was some physical resemblance around the eyes, and possibly the mouth—it was hard since Poe was clean-shaven and I couldn’t imagine Landon Montgomery without that beard—but he had freckles that I was pretty sure must have come from his mother. His hair was always messy and hanging in his face, and while he didn’t have tattoos, he did have a lip ring.

It looked like a shit-job piercing too. If he didn’t fuck up my desk, I might offer to let Roxanne fix it for him.

It was nearly nine thirty on a Friday night, and things were picking up. We’d be busy until midnight, and maybe be in the shop until one or later if any of the others’ clients ran a little longer. I’d finished up with a girl who’d had me fix a terrible tattoo on her rib cage that was supposed to say Bittersweet Symphony, but was spelled Bitterswett Sympony instead. It’d taken me three sessions to completely get rid of it by turning it into climbing ivy and lush flowers, but it looked cool as hell when I was done. I took a picture, she gave me a hug, and I thought there were tears in her eyes as she examined the finished product in the full-length mirror.

Never doubt that art can change your fucking life. Or that you should use a goddamn spell-check program before you let someone near you with a fucking tattoo machine.

My client left, happy and bandaged, and I went into the break room to take a few moments before my next appointment, who was running late. I managed to scarf down the rest of my Jimmy John’s sandwich, drink some water, and answer a few emails before realizing how late my next client was. Frowning, I went out front into the reception area. Poe was lounging in the chair, long-limbs spread out and his attention on the computer. He was clicking through what looked to be photographs of graffiti. I cleared my throat, and instead of clicking off the non-work-related material like any sensible person when their boss was looming over their shoulder, Poe just glanced up at me.

“Hey.”

“Can you give my appointment a call and see if they’re running late? It’s ten fifteen.”

“Oh.” Poe nodded toward the lobby area, where a girl was playing on her phone and stealing looks up at us. “That’s her. Sorry. I forgot to tell you she was here.”

“Great.” I glanced at the messy desk for the paperwork that I somehow knew wouldn’t be where it should be. If it was even filled out. “You can stick around until we’re done, then.”

For the first time, Poe looked at me with something more than boredom. It was irritation. “Sure.” He was obviously trying to sound like he didn’t care, but I could tell he probably had plans. Which, seeing as how we closed late on the weekends, he shouldn’t. No one needed to go out after one in the morning unless they were up to no fucking good.

“Paperwork?”

“Oh, uh.” Poe shifted around and grabbed a clipboard. Instead of handing it to me, he said, “Hey, Kristen? I forgot you needed to fill this out.”

Kristen got up and headed to the counter, reaching out for the clipboard. I neatly intercepted it. “You can fill it out in the chair,” I said, feeling bad that she’d probably been here well before her appointment. “Give your ID to Poe so he can photocopy it, and we’ll get started.”

Kristen’s tattoo was also a fix, but it wasn’t nearly as difficult. It was a Chinese character that she’d thought meant something like “live life to the fullest” but had found out from her college roommate—a native speaker—meant nothing of the sort. I was curious what it really did mean, but when I asked, she blushed and said it was “basically nonsense.”

Like I said. Don’t let anyone at you with a tattoo machine if you don’t know what the fuck you’re putting on your body.

Kristen’s tattoo was fairly easy to cover up, and it took me very little time to change it from her nonsense Chinese into a fox and send her on her merry way. Pete was getting into a very loud argument with his client—a regular—about Doctor Who of all things. I had to shake my head. Pete had a TARDIS tattoo on his back. He was intense about Doctor Who, and I knew better than to try to get involved in that conversation.

Roxanne had left after giving a guy a nipple piercing and then waiting patiently for him to stop throwing up before he decided not to do the other one. I heard Poe talking in the lobby, and wondered if there was another client he’d forgotten to tell anyone about.

“Yeah, yeah, I gotcha,” Poe was saying, as I rounded the corner and stood out of his sightline. He was on the phone—the work phone, praise be to whoever the patron saint of unmotivated millennials was—and I could see him writing something on a pad of paper. “That would look pretty cool, but I gotta tell you, a lot of people come in here and they don’t realize that, like, if they want the tattoo not to look like shit, it’s gotta be bigger than they think they want.”

My eyebrows rose, though if you spent two days in a tattoo shop, you’d learn that. “I didn’t think it would be that big,” was about as common as “I didn’t think it would be that expensive.”

“I mean, if you’re wanting to do a skull like that, you could probably do something a little smaller if you don’t mind it being more stylized.”

That was when I realized that Poe wasn’t writing—he was drawing, and nodding along while he was talking. “Yeah, when do you want to come in? I can show you.” A pause. “Consults are usually from noon to one, but it depends on who you’re wanting to get in with. Jericho’s booked until, like, the end of time.” Another pause. “Oh, uh, no, I’m not— I just work the desk. I don’t do tattoos or anything. I can leave a drawing so you can see it, but you want to talk to an actual artist about getting it done.”

I waited out of sight until Poe finished scheduling the client, then walked around the corner. Some of my earlier irritation at him had faded. “‘The end of time’?”

Poe’s expression was a little sheepish. “Dude, seriously, your books are, like, stupid full. You must be good.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and didn’t respond to that. “What did she want?” I assumed it’d been a girl on the phone. Something about the way his voice sounded. Interested. Engaged.

“He,” said Poe. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Uh. He wanted a skull but, like, here?” He held up his hand and showed the spot between his thumb and index finger. “It sounded like he wanted a sugar skull, with all this detail. So I suggested something more stylized.”

I glanced down at the desk, and he was trying to hide the pad with the drawing he’d made from me. I wondered why. “Show me.”

Part of me expected him to argue, but maybe the tone of my voice—which clearly suggested he not do that—convinced him otherwise. For the first time, he seemed almost nervous as he pushed the paper over at me.

It wasn’t an earth-shattering drawing, but it was a nice rendition of a stylized skull that would fit in the specified area and not end up a hot mess. “Not bad, kid.”

I thought he almost—almost—smiled. I noticed there were other sketches on the paper too. There was a fox, similar to the one I’d given Kristen. And a lightning rod, which was the tattoo Pete was giving his wrong-about-Doctor-Who client.

Poe noticed me inspecting his other drawings and flushed. “I heard you guys with the clients. I . . . you know.” He shrugged, his muscles tight.

“Look at me.” I waited for him to do it, and took a bit of pleasure in the way his eyes finally darted to mine, like he couldn’t help but do what I said. Good. It made me a lot happier when people did that, especially when I was in charge of them.

That gave me a thought I definitely didn’t need to be having—either at work, or about my best friend’s punk-ass son. But Poe’s sulky mouth, the way he was staring up at me . . . sue me, I was gay, he was hot, and I bet my dick would shut him up nice and—

The fuck, man? Landon’s kid. Keep your brain out of your pants.

“So, that apprenticeship thing,” I said. “You into the idea?”

Poe immediately went on the defensive. “I was bored and I like drawing.”

Was this fucking kid for real? “Listen, Poe, I know you like art. I’ve seen your shit. It ain’t half-bad.”

All trace of disinterest fled from Poe’s expression. His eyes flashed at me, full mouth tightening in the first display of real emotion I’d seen from him. That wasn’t irritation, at any rate. “I’m a good fucking artist, dude.”

“Artists have discipline, kid,” I said, and I wasn’t sure how much I believed that, but I knew that saying it would get his back up, and I preferred that to the weary I’m too good for this bullshit he’d been dishing up for the last three weeks. “You want to do more than answer the phone around here, see if maybe you can get some of those designs on actual people?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

Jesus, what the fuck? “I’m only gonna ask once, kid.”

I thought the nickname wasn’t helping, but when he stopped acting like a kid, I’d stop calling him that. I did actually like his given name. It made sense why he tagged all his graffiti with a skull and a raven. “I mean, if you’re happy working the desk job, great. You can stay the receptionist. But if you want to maybe do something that isn’t answering phones and doodling . . .”

He glanced at me, clearly not sure what to say. I glowered at him and said sharply, “Stop trying to act like you’re a petulant high school student and answer me like a fucking grown-up.”

I could tell he wasn’t used to people speaking to him that way—people who weren’t his father, that is.

“Yeah,” he said defensively, chin tilting. “I’d definitely like a job where I wasn’t fucking bored to death.”

What a punk. I had to stop myself from smiling. “Here’s the deal. I’ll advertise for this position, and when I get someone, you train them. Then you’re with me. I’ll teach you everything I know, show you how to get licensed with the state, and serve as your supervisor.”

“Why?” Poe’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck would you do that for? I’m not an idiot, dude. I know I’m, like, not your favorite person.”

“It’s not about you being my favorite person,” I said, leaning back against the wall. “It’s about exactly what I told you when you first showed up. I’m giving you a shot. You want it or not?”

“Is this because I’m so great at answering the phone?” Poe asked. Before I could answer, he added, “Or because I’m shit at it?”

I laughed before I could stop myself, and shook my head. “Last chance.”

“Okay.” Poe appeared momentarily uncertain. I liked that look a lot better than the petulant-brat one. “What if, I mean, what if I suck at it?”

“You won’t,” I assured him.

“How do you know? Lots of people can draw. Doesn’t mean they’ll be any good at doing what you do. Maybe I’ll fuck it all up.”

I smiled at him. A real smile. “I won’t let you.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but that was fine. “I mean . . . I can’t really . . . I don’t have the money. Not with paying my dad back and everything.” Guilt flashed across his face, and that made me think better of him. At least he knew he was being a pain by racking up legal debt for his dad.

“I’ll talk to your dad,” I promised. “And it means doing exactly what I fucking tell you, when I fucking tell you to do it. It means you work the desk—on time, motherfucker, five minutes late is still late—until I get someone in here. Then you show up, you watch, you learn, and you keep your mouth shut unless you’ve got a question. You don’t show up at work with paint on your fingers,” I said pointedly. “Yes, I noticed. Don’t get drunk, don’t get arrested, and don’t piss me off. Think you can handle it?”

“Maybe . . . That last one might be hard.” Poe gave me what I thought was the first actual smile I’d ever seen on his face. “You’re kinda easy to piss off, dude.”

I smiled right back at him. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, kid. Believe me. Now let’s get this place closed up.”