The door opens and Christos walks in, tossing his bag on the first chair from the door. Our half-Greek, half-Italian piercing expert has shaved his hair into a bright-green Mohawk, and matching green snake tattoos adorn his muscular arms. When he’s not at the studio, he’s kicking it up with his thrash band, Cerebral Slaughter. He nods to Slim and Rose and then gives me a warm smile that somehow accentuates the prominent piercings in his eyebrows and lower lip.

“Sia’s taking Jay’s chair,” Slim calls out as Christos heads for the coffeepot.

Christos’s smile fades. “So that’s the end of Jay then?”

“Yup. D-E-D,” Rose says.

“Street gang got him?”

Slim and I share a glance, and Slim shakes his head. “How about next time everyone knows something about one of my employees, like he’s in bed with a gang, they mention it to me, so I can make sure I’m not putting everyone else at risk? What about Duncan? Anything I need to know about him? He’ll be in for the evening shift later tonight.”

Rose, Christos, and I share a glance and come up blank. Duncan is just about the nicest guy anyone could meet. Although he looks like he’s in a street gang, with his bald, tatted head; short, stocky body; and full-on swagger, he’s the kind of guy who’ll pick up a spider and carry it outside instead of stomping on it like everyone else. Although it is anathema to even think it, his art is wasted on skin. His designs should be hanging in museums or private collections, or traveling the world in exhibitions.

“Serial killer,” Rose says finally. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Speaking of quiet”—Slim raises an eyebrow at Rose—“I noticed we had nothing in the book for this morning. How about Sia and I finish up with your boobs?”

My nose wrinkles. “Actually, I’m not really keen on inking Rose’s boobs first thing Monday morning. I have a delicate stomach.”

Rose laughs. “You’re just jealous ’cause you got nothing worth inking up top.”

“Sure, she—”

“Don’t even go there.” I fold my arms across my chest and glare at Christos, who is staring at my breasts in an entirely assessing, nonsexual way. So, I’m not well endowed like Rose. Not something I need to be reminded about before I’ve even had my morning coffee.

“If Rose isn’t up for more work, I can finish up with you, Sia.” Slim traces a line across my throat. “Didn’t you want a collar connected to your sleeves?”

“I’m not ready for the collar yet.” I rub my hands up and down my arms, exquisitely inked by Slim with an intricate rose and thorn design, so realistic the pink petals glisten. Although I had wanted a rose and thorn collar inked around my neck, when it came time to do it, I called a halt. For some reason, it felt too final, as if an ink collar would bind me to this world of needles, leather, ink, and skin. And I wasn’t ready to be bound.

Christos agrees to work the reception desk while I assist Slim with Rose’s ink and learn a new airbrush technique he picked up from a scratcher friend down in San Diego. Some tattoo artists excel at line work or calligraphy, others have a knack for the rhythms of tribals, and still others are better at peonies than pirates. Slim is master of them all, and yet he is always open to learning new techniques.

By the time we’re done, Rose’s left breast is red and swollen, but the feathers Slim has inked around it are so real, I can almost imagine they ruffle when I sigh. Not that I have any desire to breathe on Rose’s breasts. She gets enough attention as it is.

Rose invites Christos to the back to admire her new piece and then hands him her phone to take a few pictures for her mom. I imagine getting my boobs inked and sending a picture to my mom, and almost collapse in hysterical laughter. The O’Donnells are so not a liberal family.

A steady stream of walk-in customers keeps us busy for the rest of the day. Rose maintains a good background music vibe with a mix of hip-hop, jazz, and house, and I relax into my work. Some clients bring their own music, but rarely does anyone complain about her choices. I ink a few college girls who have just finished exams, a Marine just about to ship out, and a bride and groom who want matching tats to mark their special day.

A few minutes before Duncan is due to arrive for the evening shift and relieve me for the day, I head to the back room to sterilize my equipment in the autoclave. Moments after I turn on the machine, Rose steps through the door.

“You’ve got a new client.” She self-adjusts, plumping her breasts and tugging down her already-low neckline, which tells me the guy must be on the scorching end of hot. “He’s drop-dead gorgeous, but in a rough, craggy kinda way.”

Hand to my mouth, I groan. “I need the work, but I’m supposed to be off in five minutes. Blind date tonight. Do you think Duncan would do the consult, and I’ll do the ink, and we can split the fee?” Not that I want to go on the date. They usually end with either an awkward peck on the cheek, if we make it through the evening, or an emergency text to Jess after five minutes begging her to come and save me. After a string of safe, vetted, but boring partners, I’m not looking for a relationship. Jess thinks I’m too picky, so every few weeks she fixes me up in the hopes I’ll get, at the very least, some missionary action between the sheets. Two months without sex is a dry spell Jess can’t handle. Twelve months, and she thinks I might as well just pack it in and give up on life.

Rose shakes her head. “He wants you and he’s not the kind of guy who takes ‘I’m off in five minutes’ for an answer.”