Page 1 of Omega Artist
No Woman No Cry
PROLOGUE
Tig
“You’re gonna be late.”My brow knits. “Again.” I can’t resist smacking Delia’s plump ass playfully. Bewildered, she shrieks and jumps, giggling, and her long dark curls follow.
Bob is singing per usual, filling our Brooklyn apartment with perfect vibes. It’s been settled for years: the day that Delia graces me with a child, whether it’s a he or a she, the kid’s name will be Marley. Plain and simple. No second thoughts.
“I’m never late!” My wife flips me the bird, her big brown eyes dancing with glee. Damn, I adore this fiery woman! We’re not even thirty, and over twelve years have already passed since our first kiss. Right in the middle of our small colorful kitchen, I lean her way and plant a kiss on her cheek. She immediately relaxes. “I make a point to be early when it’s a new venue.”
Agitated, she swipes her oversized purse from the kitchen stool and scurries out of the room to find her car keys, and when I hear the telltale sound of a zipper, a smile tugs at my lips.
I’m familiar with all of her little idiosyncrasies by now. I cherish all of her little habits by now. I revel in all of her little obsessions by now. Buying mostly organic is one. Daring me to do something insanely stupid every Friday the thirteenth is another. Misplacing her car keys is also typical.
Meanwhile, I’ve been cleaning up after our Saturday breakfast: dishes in the dishwasher, food in the cabinets, juice in the fridge… And, of course, the coffee pot is still hot.
Delia’s deep voice tears me out of my reverie. I shake my head to escape my trip down memory lane; I often get stuck inside my head, and our late night doesn’t help me focus on the present. Smiling, I look in her direction only to register that her light jacket is already on and she’s ready to depart. I take a deep breath, and the mixed aromas of coffee, weed, and her unique feminine fragrance suddenly assault my nostrils. Yesterday’s party definitely took its toll on our beauty sleep; Delia and I don’t smoke like we used to, but we enjoy a rare joint on special occasions. Needless to say, Soraya and especially Mr. Big Prick—I mean Soraya’s husband Graham—disapprove, but yesterday evening fit the bill.
“The distance to middle of nowhere upstate New York won’t be an issue, trust me. And if you’d talk less, I could actually go pick up Soraya.”
“Oh, right! I forgot that she was tagging along.”
“Well, she basically begged me, claiming that she needed a break from Lorenzo.” I seem to remember her telling me that they’ll get back home late tomorrow afternoon. “He’s barely a year old!” Delia’s famous for exaggerating: Lorenzo’s eighteen months old. “Who’d want to abandon that adorable boy’s side for more than a second?”
“Our best friend, apparently.” My wit earns me a sloppy kiss in haste, and I slap her ass again as it disappears behind the door.
Her last words resonate through the door. “Shame on her!”
The tornado that is my lovely wife is away for the weekend, piercing strangers’ body parts that I’m not eager to tally, and shortly after, I’m off to Tig’s Tattoo and Piercing. Yeah, yeah, we should’ve come up with something more original or witty to name the tattoo parlor that we co-own on Eighth Avenue! Well, we couldn’t agree for once, so on a drunken night prior to our opening years ago, Soraya suggested putting names on scraps of paper and picking one at random. Work ethic, a safe environment, and word-of-mouth have helped our small family-owned business to thrive. We’ve considered renaming it, but success picked up quickly, and it’d be counterproductive at this point. Given Delia’s efforts to boost our online presence, the name will definitely stick.
The drizzle that covers my face when I exit the subway annoys me. Thankfully, it’s only a short walk.
“Thanks for opening the parlor for me, Claire,” I say in a cheerful voice, waving to the tall girl with long purple dreadlocks. “Sorry for running late this morning. Delia’s little adventure didn’t help. She always takes forever to get ready and worries that she’ll forget something. And you know the drive makes her nervous, especially with this unpredictable November weather. I’m just hoping that Soraya will be behind the wheel.” My wife is such a crazy driver—typical Jersey girl!
Laughing at the thought, I peel off my wet coat and am about to head to the back of the shop when Claire nods and replies, “No problem.” She’s never been talkative, but she’s damn good at her job.
I check my watch and grumble to myself, “Where the fuck are you, Marco?” I hate when my cousin’s late. He obviously cares since he was the one to offer to hold down the fort until we find a hostess. We had a temp who stole from us when we first filled the position, and we’ve had a hard time trusting the applicants since. Luckily, Marco was out of a job at the time and stepped in… I probably shouldn’t be glad about his jobless situation, but I am! Not that I’ll ever admit that to him, though.
I take a look around, paying special attention to make sure that nothing’s missing from the stations where Claire and I will be working today. Out of habit, I take my rings off to wash my hands.
We take pride in giving each client the best experience possible. You see, Delia and I usually work hand in hand, so to speak; she handles the piercings and I work on tats. She lives for these gigs—fairs, conventions, and markets—and this one gives her and Soraya a chance for some solo girl time, which has been more sporadic lately. My wife and I are happy to share our best friend, and Soraya is adamant that she instantly gained a friend when I grew closer to Delia in junior high. Back then, I was relieved that the two of them hit it off, and now we’re glad that sassy Soraya has found her significant other. Prior to Graham, her romantic life was a challenge which she blamed on being a loser magnet rather than on her Italian smart mouth. Yes, our best friend has her hands full with her busy high-maintenance husband, their baby son, and Graham’s daughter, Chloe, who spends her weekends with them so that she can stay with her mom on weekdays for school.
My own life was the polar opposite; from the moment that I set eyes on the curvy Delia, I knew that I would belong to her forever. I’d be lost without her in my life. There isn’t a day that we don’t bicker like teenagers, because we love it. There isn’t a day that we don’t want to be together, because we love it. There isn’t a day that we don’t enjoy working side-by-side, because we love it.
Our booming business recently required two adjustments to accommodate more clients. The first one is to our schedule, adding Sunday morning walk-in appointments, which allows us to hire some regular help, like Claire, here and there. The second one is the pro bono customers—that Delia refers to as survivors—that I gladly help, whether they’re victims of violence or self-harm or recovering patients.
I walk back up front and nod at Marco, who finally retrieved his pretty face from his muscular ass and made it here. I pretend to scold him as Claire leads her first client of the day to her work area. Moments later, the bell over the door rings and a quiet dark-haired girl in her early twenties comes in, eyes glued to her feet and swirling her perfectly groomed straight hair around her index finger. Next thing I know, her Burberry rain jacket lands on the coat rack. A couple more steps, and she pauses to assess the place before settling on us. Then, her eyes return to her riding boots in record time; they’d be more at home on Fifth Avenue, but what do I know about all that?
I don’t miss the raunchy once-over that she gives me, nor do I miss the flush that colors her pale face. Marco elbows me, and I regret that he saw that too. Trust me, I’m flattered by the attention I get. All the same, her game is clear: everything about her screams preppy girl in search of an adventure.
“Hello, my name’s Sybil…” I have the hardest time understanding her last name, but I don’t interrupt. “I have an appointment today.” Her accent is strong. Her nervous smile is painful. Her obvious cluelessness is endearing.
Marco and I exchange a knowing glance; despite making the first move, her face wears a wild expression that proves her bravery has limits. That’s why the fact that she already made an appointment puzzles me. Usually, the first step is either to chat with us via our website or social media, call, or pay us a visit.
Interesting…
“I have an appointment,” she repeats, “with…” She stares alternatively between me and Marco. In spite of the family resemblance, if she checked our website, she shouldn’t be mistaken. She retrieves the latest iPhone from her Prada purse—is she the devil in disguise or what?—“Tig,” she announces, reading the information from said phone.
