“She’s new. Started today.”
“Just my luck,” he mumbled, making my lips twitch and Ama scowl.
“Don’t worry, she’s just shadowing me. Now, you miserable bastard, what do you want this time?” I winked at Ama as I settled into the booth. There was a hidden drawer in the wall where I stored all the pads and pencils I needed to design, and I grabbed them the second I took a seat.
It was only now when I was showing Ama my routine, my world, that I realized how particular I was. Everything had a proper place and stayed in that place until I was ready for it. I guess it could be said I was anal-retentive but fuck, time in the army did that to a man.
When I settled back in the booth that had a vintage vibe thanks to the shell-like cutouts of the cushion, I motioned at Ama who scuttled in beside me.
Because this wasn’t Bridges’ first time with me, he’d waited until I’d grabbed my stuff from the drawer to say, “Need a picture of my momma.”
“A portrait? That’s unlike you.” He was into Japanese ink. His back was a masterpiece we’d crafted together of a Samurai warrior. The headpiece started at his nape before flowing down all the way to his upper ass cheeks.
Bridges frowned down at the table, but he rubbed his thumb against a ring that he wore suspended on a chain. “She died two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ama whispered the same time I did.
I cut her a look, well aware that this was probably her specialty. Nobody could draw faces like she did.
“Do you have a picture?” I asked, holding out my hand. He passed it to me, showing me a woman in a simple dress who was smiling with bright eyes at the camera. She had to be around thirty-five in the shot. Her hair was styled into a tight bob and she had a baby, who I assumed was Bridges, on her hip.
As I studied the picture, I felt Ama fidgeting at my side. Handing it to her to study, I told Bridges, “I’ll need some time to come up with something. Want to do her justice, you know?”
“I get that. I expected as much.” He cleared his throat. “Would a week be enough?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you when I have something ready and give you dates for when I can fit you in.” I studied him, thought about all the space he had left on his body and stated, “You can only really have it on your calf.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Left one. The right is fucked up with those scars I got. I want the whole image. Not just her face. Me in there too.”
“Okay, so without a doubt, I’ll be doing the ink.” When he scowled, I raised a hand and said, “Wait. Ama just got accepted into the Rhode Island School of Design. She’s a fucking phenomenal artist. I’ll design something, of course, but would you mind if she did too? Then you can pick which one you like.”
“But you’d do the ink?” he repeated, needing the confirmation, and I understood that. No one wanted a noob massacring a tattoo that held a lot of meaning.
“I swear. I just… I’d like to do your momma justice, and in all honesty, I think Ama will do that. You should see her stuff, man.” I cut Ama a look and said, “Grab your notebook from the desk.”
She scurried away and returned with the pad in less than twenty seconds—her excitement was evident, and I was hard-pressed not to smile.
There was a shyness about her as she handed over the notebook to Bridges, and I got that—it was always nerve-racking showing someone your art. When Bridges flickered through the notepad, I saw his eyes widen and knew he was impressed.
There was something about Ama’s style that was raw but somehow clever too. It was like she photoshopped the bits people didn’t like with her hand, while intensifying the parts people loved. But, underlying it all was a depth of realism that was envious.
I had to admit, I’d like to try to ink one of her pieces, see how it worked out with a different medium.
“Yeah, okay. Give it a go. Thanks.” He dipped his chin at Ama, but didn’t really look at her as he began to edge out of seat. “I’ll wait on your call.”
With that, he headed out and I understood. He’d cast a final glance at his photo and tears had moistened his eyes—Bridges was too much of a dick to be happy about anyone seeing him crying.
When the door closed, I told Ama, “Turn the sign to ‘open,’ would you?”
She nodded, did as I requested, then returned to the booth. “Thank you for doing that.”
I shrugged. “It’s your strength. Probably how you’ll make your name if you can translate what you do with pen and ink to this kind of medium.”
“You think?” she asked, excitement making her bounce in the seat she’d taken opposite me.
“I do.” I tore off a sheet and passed it to her. “Don’t forget, this has to be an outline. It’s going to go on his calf. We create an image that we can trace onto his leg. Most of the details are there, but any flair, that comes after, okay?”
She nodded her understanding, then propped the picture against the booth. It was interesting watching her work. I knew for a fact her process wouldn’t be fast. Hell, it was bound to be slow. I’d watched her drawing Saint and Keys, had heard them moaning about how long she took, and I knew that they only let her get away with it because they either wanted in her panties or because they loved her.
For her sake, I hoped it was the latter over the former.
As I got to work sketching, well aware that a new customer could come in now, she stared at the picture for so long, I wasn’t even sure what she was looking at.
Then, after twenty minutes—I swear to God, twenty fucking minutes—she picked up the pencil and began to scratch the first few lines onto the paper. My own pencil slowed as I switched my attention onto her and her work, and fuck, it was like watching magic happen.
A few lines in, and somehow, she’d perfected the neat-as-a-pin bob that looked as though it had required a ruler to cut it. And Bridges’ mom’s smile? With that slightly goofy edge to the right side of her mouth? She perfected that with barely any work at all.
I knew her style, had seen it before. I’d even seen the portfolio she’d put together for her exams, and had watched her gather the pieces required for the entrance requirements to the colleges she’d applied to, but watching her do this with a tattoo in mind?
All of a sudden, it was like she was talking my language and I just got where she was coming from.
After five minutes, I knew there was no way Bridges was going to take on my portrait. I’d stopped working on mine, but I’d finish it, just so he’d have a choice. But no one would take mine over hers. No one.
I could see exactly where I’d use shadow and grayscale to create the shading she was being cautious with adding. From her style, I knew she’d prefer watercolor, but Bridges was a black and grey lover who preferred realism to anything vaguely feminine.
As I watched her work, my hard-on made a reappearance. How couldn’t I be turned on? Her talent and flair combined, and she exuded a joy as she drew that was irresistible to me. It also made me wonder if this wasn’t where her talents lay. I’d teach her to ink, but fuck, that would take years before she was ready to even go near anything other than oranges and pigskin to practice on…