Page 17 of Roma King
“People don’t really choose these, do they?” He scowls, distaste all over his face. “Love hearts? Mermaids? Cartoon dogs? Seems a little fucking stupid if you ask me.”
I place the tracing paper down onto the counter and walk around to the other side, clenching down on my jaw. “Now’s not a good time. I have an appointment in five minutes. Whatever you’ve come for is gonna have to wait.”Until hell freezes over. Or pigs fucking fly.
Patrin’s head stays still, but his eyes swivel to look at me. He winks. “Ah, yeah. Your one o’clock. I’m afraid I have a confession to make. I may have made that appointment.”
No. Fucking. Way.
I’m gonna need a crowbar to prise my jaw apart, I’m clenching it that hard. A loud humming sound fills my ear: the high, monotonous pitch of rising fury.
I…am…going…to…kill…him.
Patrin offers me the same boyish smile he always used to use on his mother when she caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been. “Now, before you go shitting all over yourself, here’s your money.” He already has it in his hand. He slaps a wedge of bound notes against my chest. There’s no need to count it. There will be exactly one thousand dollars in there, probably in twenty-dollar bills. A Roma never stiffs another Roma, after all. “You said the first session for that back piece was gonna take five hours. I could technically claim that time from you, brother, but I don’t want to waste your day or mine. So how about you spare meonehour instead, and we can call it quits.”
I take the money and I mimic his action, slapping it back into his chest. “If you don’t want ink, I don’t want your money. Now get out of my shop.”
“Calm the fuck down, Pasha. I don’t know why everything always has to be all out war with you. Can’t you just take a breath and—”
I’m not listening to him. I’m already at the door to the studio. I’m tugging on the handle, yanking on it so hard the damn door near comes flying off its hinges. “Goodbye, Patrin.”
“Pssshh.” He shakes his head. “These last three years really have sent you squirly in the brain, haven’t they?”
“These past three years have been a breath of fresh air,” I counter.
“Fine.” He slides his hands into his pockets, grimacing as the wind floods the studio again. “Shut the damn door, Pash. It’s fucking freezing, and you’ve made your point. I’ll get a stupid fucking tattoo if you’ll agree to listen to me while you’re doing it.”
Well.
I let the door fall closed. Patrin’s hardly covered in tattoos like I am, but he must have at least nine or ten separate pieces, over various areas of his body. He must really need to talk if he’s willing to take some ink in exchange for an audience. “All right. You’ve got one hour.” I storm passed him, into the back of the shop, collecting the mockup with the owl and the ouroboros from the counter. The design goes directly into the trash can by my station. I sit myself down on my stool, and I point at the black leather chair in front of me. “Sit,” I growl. “And lose the jacket and shirt.”
He obeys me, shucking off his coat and dropping onto another chair before pulling his t-shirt up over his head. He’s a big dude. Almost as big as me, and in fighting shape, too. When we were kids, we were always scrapping, trying to assert dominance over the other. One week, Patrin would have it. The next week, I would. Now, I reckon I have the upper hand on him. But only just.
“Don’t I get to pick a design from the display?” Patrin asks, voice laden with mockery.
“I’ll freehand something special for you. On your front.” I slap the back of the chair as I lower the back, making it flat so he can lie down. Patrin eyes me like he knows this is a horrible idea, but then he does as I’ve told him and lies down on his front, his bare back exposed to me. I snap a pair of black nitrile gloves on and swipe a load of Vaseline onto the back of my hand, then I pick up the gun I’ve already prepped for this afternoon’s session.
“Hope your pain threshold’s improved,” I murmur, beginning my work of art. Patrin winces at the first touch of the gun, but then his body relaxes.
“They’re going ahead with the ceremony,” he says.
I stop what I’m doing, my eyes boring into the back of his head. “What?”
“I told her what you said. I told her you weren’t coming back, and…let’s just say she didn’t take it too well. She had everyone vote on a proxy ceremony, and they all agreed.”
I try not to laugh, but then I actuallyforcemyself to do it. If I don’t laugh, I’m going to start smashing things. “What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t be proxy crowned.”
“Shelta says you can. And what Shelta says, goes. You know that.”
“Who? Who are they gonna get to stand in for me?”
Patrin doesn’t say anything, which pretty much answers my question. “Awesome. I bet you’re fucking thrilled, huh? The crown and the title might not be yours, but at least you get to prance around with that lump of metal on your head for a day. I’m sure you’ll love having everyone fawn over you.”
“I don’t give a shit about the crown, brother. I just want what’s best for thevitsa. And us having no true leader right now? When we’resupposedto have one, and we’ve come all the way back to this shitty state just to collect him? That’s not good for thevitsa. Not good at all.”
I lean against the gun, the needles driving way deeper into Patrin’s skin than they should go. I don’t give a shit, though. “You’ll survive,” I grind out.
“Will we? You don’t know how things have been, man.”
“You’re right. I don’t. And I don’t want to, either.”
