Page 8 of Savage Hate
I glance at my reflection in the mirror before smoothing my hair. I’m not exactly sure what to wear for my first day at Savage Ink, so I opted for something comfortable andme—ripped, high-waisted skinny jeans and a black tank top. Wright would’ve hated everything about it, which makes me smile as I style my hair in long, loose waves. I apply a bit of makeup and then pull on my black boots.
I can do this.
They are just three people I went to high school with.
There’s nothing special about them.
Silas, Damon, and Jude had no idea what my life was like back then, but hopefully we can all make amends now that we’re adults. I need a job, and they need a receptionist… it’s time to move on. I grab my purse and phone, seeing it’s almost six, and then I head downstairs.
It’s still light out when I push the door of Savage Ink open. Lola is sitting at the desk, on her phone, and she’s spinning from side to side in her rolling chair.
“Hi!” she welcomes me, standing. “I can’t stay long,” she adds quickly, looking down at her phone. “But I can show you the ropes before I go. It’s easy, so it should only take twenty minutes.” Her phone buzzes. “Fuck, one second.” She answers and turns around. “Hi, sweetie. What’s wrong?” She looks over her shoulder and gives me an apologetic look. “Ah, I see. Did you ask Vivienne to share her toys?” She pauses. “Okay, sweetie. I will be home soon.” She hangs up and sighs. “Sorry, I have a very strong-willed toddler who’s at her friend’s house right now,” she says, shaking her head. “My partner is a firefighter, and he works nights, hence why I can only work Fridays.”
I nod and smile. “I appreciate you taking the time to train me.”
She smirks. “Trust me. You’re doingmea favor. I come in every Friday to a billion post-it notes because these dolts never learned how to use QuickBooks or Microsoft.”
I laugh, but then my nerves get the best of me.
I’ve never used those things, either–unless you count memorizing cookie and cake recipes, and spending all day perfecting the perfect brownie. To give myself some credit, I do know my way around a professional stand mixer… but that is about as far as my real-world knowledge goes. College ended six years ago. And I never learned any of this shit. Any real-world experience Ishould’vegotten was always taken care of by Wright or someone in his family, and they swooped in right after college.
I don’t know anything about having a job. My resume says otherwise, though—that I helped Wright and his father at their firm for a few years after we graduated. But that was an embellishment. I only helped to decorate it, and by always ensuring the front desk was stocked with baked treats.
I wince a bit when I think about that. About how he had me cooped up in our penthouse for years without even realizing it. He constantly threw money at me for baking accessories, baking courses, fancy cookbooks… and I was too distracted with measuring and fondant to really take a closer look at what my life had become.
Lola gestures for me to take a seat at the second chair she’s pulled up to the large iMac computer. She tells me how to log into the scheduling program, how to track expenses, how to work the phone system and answer emails. Everything is online now. There is a cleaner that comes twice a week, and the equipment supplier that comes once a week.
She then goes into each of the guy’s styles, so if someone calls and wants something done, I can refer them to the right person. She shows me a book of pictures of their work, and I flick through, amazed. They’re all incredible artists, having created some of the best tattoos I’ve ever seen.
Silas’s style is very fine. He specializes in single needles, and his work is largely of nature, landscapes, flowers, and drawings. It’s stunning and delicate, and he also has a lot of experience with gorgeous typography.
Damon’s style is more traditional–heavy on the black ink, lots of calf and sleeve tattoos, and things a first-timer would get, like symbols and motifs. He has a surprisingly feminine touch, including lots of pink, purple, and blue. Lots of color in general, whereas Silas stays mostly in the black and grey arena.
And Jude? He’s a true artist, one that recreates famous paintings, portraits, and large-scale masterpieces. It’s all extraordinary, with swathes of color that look like true brush strokes and abstract drawings. The attention to detail in his work is breathtaking.
She then goes on to explain the jewelry and piercing station. I try not to squirm in my seat. I’m not exactly a huge fan of blood, which is funny because I’m working in a place full of needles.
The last thing she shows me are the social media pages for Savage Ink, and the kinds of images she typically posts. They’re not super active, but it’s something Lola likes to try to engage with a few times a week.
My head is spinning by the time she gathers her things. I try not to sound desperate when I ask if she’ll be back tomorrow, but she shakes her head.
“No, but if you need anything, just give me a ring.” She smiles and hands me a business card. “I bake cakes on the side, and my number is on there.”
“You’re a baker?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. “Me too.”
She quirks her lips to the side. “That’s cool. I’m trying to open a bake shop, but I’m still saving up,” she explains. “If I ever do it, maybe I can snatch you away from here to come work with me.”
I laugh. “You won’t have to snatch me. I’ll leave willingly.”
She smiles. “Mmmhmm. Give them a chance. They’re good guys.” Looking around, she nods once and sets a spare key on the desk. “They want the doors open at six, but their lazy asses don’t show up until seven.” I swallow, and she tilts her head as she smiles. “You’ll be fine here,” she yells over her shoulder, walking out. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me, or to herself.
And then she’s gone.
I familiarize myself with the computer, checking out the calendar for tonight. It’s fully booked, and all three guys have appointments starting at seven, which is only fifteen minutes away. Sipping on some water, I text my mom about lunch and confirm with Mindy about our coffee date tomorrow. I’m just about to turn on some music when Silas walks through the door, stopping completely when he sees me.
In the light of the studio, I can already tell the last ten years did him some amazing favors. In fact, I can’t even see the guy I used to know in his face at all. It’s like he’s a completely different person. I would almost believe he was if it weren’t for the look of pure hatred on his face. And his eyes–I’ll never forget how his crystal blue eyes always seemed to bore right down into the depths of my soul. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, and his muscled arms are covered in black ink. His blonde hair is falling over one side of his forehead, and his pouty lips are ticked downward as he studies me. Standing stock-still, his eyes flick down my body unabashedly, appraising me. He must not like what he finds, because his eyes meet mine again and he looks away quickly, unimpressed.
“Lennon,” he says, a bite to his voice.
