Page 257 of Fatality

Riven

Bad Romance – Lady Gaga

The studio is completely packed. An event offering a free piercing with every tattoo is in full swing.

Since 8 a.m., people have been waiting in line, and Jules and I have been swamped with work.

It's currently 3 p.m., and I'm finally taking a break, or I'll probably end up tattooing my own eyeballs if I don't stop.

I keep getting texts on my comm from Evren. That bastard took it and changed his contact’s name from Unknown to My Fav Monster—a child.

I slammed a pan into his face for it, he laughed, but I didn't bother changing it back.

I rub the bridge of my nose, he is insufferable.

I’m in the break area near Charlie’s reception, just a black couch and a coffee table.

I slip my comm back into my pocket, ignore him, and go back to work.

Charlie is handing out goodies to the waiting clients, offering water or juice to everyone in line—that’s what I’m talking about when I say customer service.

While Jules is currently piercing someone's elbow.

I will never get used to the fact that people genuinely love getting piercings on body parts that aren't exactly meant to have them.

But taste is taste.

I sit back down at my station, clean it, and prepare everything for my next client.

I don't know why the hell I decided to hold this event. Probably to give the studio more visibility—and it worked.

Even though we were already pretty popular for our authenticity, I wasn't expecting this many people.

We kept the door open because that fucking entry chime drove me crazy after the first fifty clients walked in and out.

The buzzing of my machine, mixed with the chatter of people and Charlie calling out names, makes the studio loud enough that if someone farted, we wouldn't hear it.

I don't know why I'm this weird. I'm tattooing a gothic centipede on someone's forearm, and I'm thinking about people farting.

And I'd be offended if they farted in my studio.

“Ow!” my client yelps. “It's sensitive here. Are you dumb, woman?”

Dumb.

Woman.

I could tattoo a damn dick on your forehead, and you're talking to me like shit.

“Yeah?” I lift my head, my eyes meeting his. “My bad. I thought, since you're a grown-ass man, it wouldn't hurt.”

A sneer twists my lips directed at him before I return to work.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again and looks away.

That's what I thought.

The beep of my door pad telling me I can enter my own loft—the one I bought—after a twelve-hour shift makes my brain switch from exhausted and aching to having a deep urge to rip the damn thing out.