Page 7 of Full Tilt
Camden crosses his arms, big forearms flexing under the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes still on me like he hasn’t quite figured out whether I’m the real deal or a liability. I take a breath and step back just enough to give him space without making it obvious.
“Want a drink?” I ask. “Water? Coffee? Something stronger? I make a killer herbal tea that would totally ruin your street cred.”
That earns a definite eye twitch. “Water’s fine.”
I grin and grab him a bottle, then gesture towards the chair nearest my station. He doesn’t sit. Of course he doesn’t. Standing means control, distance. I’ve met enough guarded types to know the drill.
Still, I’m not worried. I’ve got time. And I’ve got charm. I can wait him out.
I pass Camden the bottle of water and tilt my head towards the portfolio on the counter. “Want to see some of my stuff? Or are we just here to glare at each other until someone blinks first?”
He gives me a flat look, but after a second, he nods towards the binder. “Might as well.”
I slide it over and flip it open to a few pages I’ve marked—stuff that’s clean, bold, and not too flashy. Strong lines,careful shading. One is a full back piece I did a year ago, a Norse mythology spread that took weeks to finish. Another’s a minimalist series I inked on a couple who’d been together twenty years. Not everything’s dramatic. Some of it’s quiet, but meaningful.
Camden leans over slightly, water bottle still unopened in his hand, and starts flipping.
He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The little pause he gives on a shoulder mandala, the way his eyes linger on a crow piece I did last spring, that’s enough. It’s not enthusiastic praise, but for a guy like him? I’m reading it as:Yeah, all right. Not bad.
“So,” he says finally, still looking at the binder, “how long you been in the UK?”
“About eight years,” I say, leaning back against the edge of the counter. “Moved over when I was twenty-two. Originally lived in London, then Brighton, now here.”
He glances up. “Why?”
I shrug. “Felt like the right time. Got itchy feet after college. My mom said I always needed to touch every hot stove once before I believed it was hot. Figured if I was gonna make mistakes, might as well make them somewhere cool with better beer.”
Camden hums like that answer’s passable.
“I actually went to community college. I’ve got four not-so-little-anymore siblings, so I thought I’d give my parents a break from crazy college fees,” I add, seeing the flicker of surprise on his face. “Staying local also meant I could start apprenticing right away. Got a part-time job sweeping floors and scrubbing equipment in this old-school shop when I was seventeen. Worked under a guy named Dutch who smelled like motor oil and menthols. Taught me everything.”
He raises a brow. “Oldest of five, you said?”
“Oh yeah.” I grin. “Twin brothers—chaotic energy, the both of them—then a younger brother who’s basically TikTok incarnate and plays ice hockey at a college like he’s on a personal mission to become a legend. And my baby sister? She’s the scariest of us all. One look from her could end empires.”
Something shifts in his face at that. Maybe recognition. Maybe curiosity. “You always knew you wanted to tattoo?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “Started sketching in middle school, tattooed a banana once in science class. Went downhill from there. But yeah, art was always the plan. Skin just made sense. It’s permanent in a way most things aren’t.”
Camden gives a slow nod and finally—finally—lowers himself into the chair. It’s careful, deliberate, but it’s a start. It also feels like a win.
I don’t react, not outwardly. Internally, I’m doing a little touchdown dance. Quietly, respectfully, but with spirit. “So,” I say, keeping my tone light, “talk to me about what you’re thinking of next. Design? Placement?”
He leans back a little, arms folded, eyes scanning the wall behind me. He’s probably still on the defensive, but less tightly now. A crack, maybe. A sliver of light. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he says. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Got a general vibe? Meaning behind it? Space you’re thinking?”
Another pause.
My brain helpfully suggests,Ask him to take his shirt off so you can see the canvas.
My brain is also stupid and clearly trying to get me murdered.
Instead, I keep it professional. “You’ve already got some nice work started,” I say, gesturing to his right arm. “If you want to keep building around that, I can work with what’s there. Or start fresh, if it’s something different entirely.”
He nods again. Quiet. Thoughtful. It’s like trying to talk to a boulder that occasionally grunts back.
But he hasn’t left. He hasn’t shut down. And that? That’s something.
