Despite not speaking the entire time I tattooed this woman, she still slipped me her number on a dollar bill she added to the tip. She quite aggressively shoved it into my jean pocket herself. Brazen, I know. I don’t even remember her name. All I know is her confidence is next level and I respect that.
We take a little break between finishing up our first set and getting ready for the second. So for ten lovely minutes, I slip back into the office, chug half a bottle of water, and press my eyes shut.
I’m not feeling it today. I have no interest in flirting with these women. I thought I would. I really did. Don’t get me wrong; collectively, they’re beautiful. I’m sure I could convince any one of them to come home with me. Well, except the bride.
Drew knocks on the door. “Come out from hiding,” she says. “Time to stab the next one.”
One last big inhale through my nose as I exit, only to blow it out as soon as I approach my booth. The blonde woman standing there runs her delicate looking fingers over a painting I did about two years ago.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
She spins on her heels, clearly startled by my presence.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump,” I say.
“No, it’s quite all right,” she says. “And yes, I do. Very much.”
I take another look at the painting. Bright shades of red and blue, mixed with a little purple, make up something resembling an anatomical heart. Though, as an artist, I can’t seem to look past its flaws. And what I’d do differently if I were to paint it now.
“Thank you,” I say, pausing for her name.
“Helena,” she says.
“Well, thank you, Helena,” I say, smiling. “Please, have a seat.”
She sits and leans back into the tattoo chair, adjusting a few times until she’s comfortable.
“So,” I start, “what are we getting today?”
I watch as she bites her lip, not in a sexual way. It’s sort of like she’s biting the side, causing the entire bottom half of her face to shift. It’s not sexy but it’s definitely cute. Women often try too hard to make sure their actions are appealing visually. But when they don’t, those are the moments I truly enjoy.
“I’d like to get lavender. Like a small little blossom of it,” she says.
“All right, and where?” I ask.
She looks longingly at her arm for a moment, then says on her back, below her shoulder blade. The way she glazes over makes me think that’s not actually where she wants it, but I don’t push. I rarely try to talk clients out of these kinds of decisions. Now, a guy comes in and wants a unicorn horn on his bald head? Yeah, we’re having a little chat.
This woman is proper looking, in a silky white button-up blouse. She’s dressed much differently than the rest of the women in her party.
She slowly reaches up, unbuttoning the first pearly snap at her neck, then the next. I’m mesmerized as I watch, trying my best to keep a stern, professional expression. But I’m so surprised by what I see beneath the clean white edges of her shirt, I almost drop my jaw.
From beneath her breasts all the way to the edge of her pants, she’s covered in various tattoos. Several more can be seen coming around her sides.
“Wow,” I say. “I didn’t expect that.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I have them where I can.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“Meaning, for the sake of my career, I can’t have them on display for less intimate eyes,” she says.
“I get that,” I say. “Lots of people come in and can’t have them for their jobs.”
As she settles on the edge of the flat surface of the chair, rolling her back toward me, she sighs. “I’d hardly call it a job. Or a career even.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“At this point, it’s a way of life, who I am, my destiny,” she says.
Whoa. Deep. Silence falls over us as I place the stencil and get her approval. Her back has less ink on it than her front. Seems she’s just getting started back here.
As the needle hits her skin, a fellow party goer peers over the edge of my booth.
“Oh my god,” the woman giggles, “I can’t believe it. The Helena Davenport has tattoos.”
The Helena Davenport? This sounds like more than general teasing, so I flip through the rolodex in my brain to see if I recall her name. I’m a vault of news articles, random facts, and other useless encyclopedia babble. Davenport…Davenport. I’m fairly certain I recognize it, but from when or why I’m not sure.
“Yes, yes,” Helena replies, laughing. “Take your paparazzi photos and go. They should fetch a fair price.”
The other woman laughs and it’s obvious it’s a joke. I think. But, paparazzi? Who the hell am I tattooing right now? I make several more lines over the stencil on her skin, and then it’s time to switch to purple ink. Wait. Wait a fucking minute. The answer explodes in my brain and I’ve got it.
“Davenport?” I repeat—or, rather confirm.
“Yep,” she says, as if she knows I’ve realized.
“As in Jeffrey Davenport? The investor?” I ask.
“As in my father,” she confirms.
Now I remember. An article about his death, mentioning that his two daughters would be dealing with his affairs and taking the reins. Holy fucking shit. This woman is like, one of the richest people in America. And internationally, for that matter.
I keep a steady hand as I shade her lavender. Her status changes nothing in my world. I still have to give her a stellar tattoo. Though I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny bit more pressure.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I whisper.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice sounding a tad shaky.
I hope I haven’t upset her. Perhaps I should’ve kept my recognition to myself.
Hanson interrupts the moment. “Hey, A, you and Natasha wanna get some drinks after this?”
Oh, right. I haven’t had the chance to tell him. “Nah, man, Natasha and I aren’t seeing each other anymore. But I’ll get that drink.”
“Bummer, dude,” he says.
I shrug. It’s no great loss. “It’s fine, man.”
Helena immediately chimes in with, “I’m sorry for your loss.” And if I could see her face, I’d swear she was smiling, near a giggle even.
“Yeah, trust me, it’s fine,” I offer, laughing.
“What happened?” she asks. And while I can’t tell if she’s genuinely interested or just desperate to change the subject from her father, I oblige.
“Nothing really,” I tell her. “We were in different places.”
“Meaning?” she asks.
“Meaning, she was in a relationship and I wasn’t. I didn’t take what we were doing as seriously as she did,” I admit.
“What were you doing?” she asks. “On second thought, never mind. I’m sure I can guess what you were doing.”
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t judge me.”
Helena laughs more deeply this time. And it’s a pretty laugh—genuine and melodic. “Trust me, I’m not.”
“Yeah, well, I’m fairly certain I make a better friend than a lover anyway,” I say. “As a friend? Fiercely loyal, can always call me in a bind and I’ll always make time. As a lover? I forget dates, I don’t take it seriously, and I almost always disappoint in some way or another.”
She seems to mull this over for a second. “Well, then can we be friends?”
I laugh. “Sure, why not? We’ll be The Socialite and The Simpleton. Not quite a crime fighting duo, but sometimes we can solve the entire New York Times crossword puzzle without cheating.”
She laughs again. “Perfect.”