I bit my lip. “Yes. Yes, it should.”
My laptop sat on a large stack of papers and books – research to finish a paper I had due in two days. I was six months away from finishing my MBA, but so far the fifteen hours a week I spent in classes didn’t seem to be helping the actual small business I owned.
“It’ll grow, Roxy. You’ll see. The only way out is through,” Mack said, sipping his tea. Mack was the only person in my life who could spout that nonsense at me.
“What way is that?” I asked, smiling grimly and shutting my laptop. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the exhaustion of three tattoo clients, class, and hours of studying settle over my body.
“Oh, sorry. I was just reading the quote on my tea bag,” Mack said, flipping it over so I could see.
I laughed, and Mack pulled me in for a hug. “Listen, I hate to run, but Rita expected me home hours ago. Is it okay if I…?”
I gave him a shove. “Go home to your beautiful wife and beautiful children. We’re basically cleaned up. It’ll take me an hour, tops.”
Mack slid his leather jacket on, grabbed his motorcycle helmet. “And you feel okay, locking up on your own?”
I arched an eyebrow. “Of course. It’s just me and the hipsters across the street.”
Mack opened the door, giving me a mock salute before leaving. I could see a long line of people waiting for the new artisanal ice cream parlor that had opened across the street. Next to it was a new brunch spot and next to that was a pet store that specialized in organic treats.
Five years ago, this block of Washington Heights, a historically Dominican neighborhood, was mostly older homes, families, and bodegas. But the neighborhood was growing more expensive by the day.
I let out another sigh. Before I’d purchased this parlor, it had been called ‘Skull and Bones’ and had been run by a real piece of shit named Arrow. It’d been around since the seventies, thriving during New York’s seediest years, specializing in vintage sailor tattoos. I’d always admired it, and after finishing my tattoo apprenticeship, I’d applied to be an artist there. I’d been thrilled when Arrow hired me.
And that’s when the problems began.
Because Arrow ran a bad shop. It was unclean. Managed poorly. And, worst of all, he treated his customers like shit. It was immediately obvious, within the first few weeks of working there, that ‘Skull and Bones’ was a sinking ship.
So I’d done something that I now feared was monumentally stupid: I bought it from him. It hadn’t been worth much, but it still cost me a small business loan from the bank (and an interest-free loan from my parents). Arrow had been happy to have it off his hands, and now I understood why.
Beyond the utter awfulness of how he’d run his business, there was the cold, hard fact that our block was becoming exponentially trendier. We didn’t have succulents in our windows or serve cappuccinos to our waiting customers. We didn’t specialize in the hip, new tattoo styles, and we’d been so broke I hadn’t been able to afford to change anything inside with the exception of reinstating levels of cleanliness that should have been standard practice for our industry.
But none of that mattered because we couldn’t get any customers to come in. Customers were heading toward the newer, nicer shops. A small, rational part of my brain knew that owning a small business (with absolutely no expertise) would be an uphill battle. And I’d happily accepted the challenge.
I was Roxy Fucking Quinn. I ate uphill battles for breakfast. Stomped on problems with my combat boots while shaving my head for the hundredth time.
Except… that profit squiggle was declining. Sharply. Persistently.
And so I’d grimly enrolled in CUNY’s Executive MBA program—one year, ten hours of classes a week—thinking it would magically fix all of my problems.
It hadn’t.
I turned on an old Misfits album as I wiped down the black leather chairs and cleaned the tattoo guns. Confirmed a few appointments for tomorrow and straightened my desk. Swept the floors and double-checked our inventory of ink. Tried to quiet my anxious thoughts with repetitive motions and loud punk.
Because even with all its problems, I loved this little shop as shabby as it was. It wasn’t as brightly lit or cheerful as the newer places, but once I took over I’d filled the walls with black-and-white photos of my favorite musicians and old snapshots of New York City. I hung my art on the walls next to Mack’s and Scarlett’s, my other artists. It was a hodge-podge of vintage sailor designs (my specialty), surreal landscapes, and intricate black-and-white portraits. It wasn’t overly inviting… but we were friendly.
We just didn’t look it.
And now I was up to my eyeballs in school debt and business debt, and even worse, I’d convinced Mack and Scarlett to come over from other shops. We’d been friends for years, and they trusted me to keep them safe. They relied on me for their paychecks, their reputation, their livelihood.
And I was squandering that trust away.
Exhausted, I hauled my books and papers into my bag and flipped off the music. I was just turning off the lights when the bell rang over the door.
“We’re closed,” I called over my shoulder although technically we were open for another hour. But I just wanted to kick off my combat boots and crawl into bed.
“Please don’t be closed,” the customer said, and I turned at the sound of his refined English accent. I narrowed my eyes at his appearance: three-piece, striped suit. Tie only slightly askew. Hair immaculate. Shoes a gleaming crimson.
“We’re closed,” I repeated. “And I think you’ve got the wrong place.”
The man sighed. “I don’t think that I do, actually.”
I popped a hand on my hip, smirking. “Yeah, the bank is that way.”
I muttered corporate asshole under my breath as I gathered the rest of my things and pondered pepper-spraying the man in the bespoke suit and shiny shoes.
“Interestingly, I’m not looking for a bank. I’m looking for a willing tattoo artist to place permanent ink on my body that will help me forget the fact that I was just spectacularly dumped. In public. By my girlfriend of two years.”
I stopped in my tracks. Noticed that he was listing, just slightly, against the doorway. My eyes narrowed further, raking over his form. He was white, with piercing blue eyes and light-brown hair. Tall and almost graceful, his broad shoulders also hinted at powerful muscle beneath those fancy threads.
I dropped my bag.
“Huh,” I said, sauntering towards him. I didn’t miss the way his eyes snagged on my hips. “Let me guess. You’re drunk?”
He blushed just slightly. “Let’s just say I’m not sober. Five strong drinks in. Drunk enough to make a decision I’ll regret the rest of my life. Not drunk enough to not want to do it. Does that make sense?”
His accent was doing things to me. Things I’d rather it not do.
“I don’t ink drunk dudes,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Even if you’re only not not drunk. This might look like a piece-of-shit establishment, but I take it seriously. This is my business.”
The man held his palms up. “Not looking for a fight, um, ma’am? I’m sorry, are you a ma’am? Or a… a miss?” He wasn’t joking, but he was adorable, and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.