Page 3 of Four Tattoos

“Nope.” Zipper turns away without another word, and Rose’s shoulders slump.

“Okay, then. It was nice to meet you,” she mumbles as Mace returns to his stall.

“Did you meet Christian?” I ask her.

“The other artist? Yes, but I didn’t get his name.” She half turns toward the doorway. “It was nice to meet you. I’ll let you get back to work.”

“See you tomorrow, Rose.”

3

ROSE

See me tomorrow?

Hutch aside, the men were borderline rude and almost made me feel like an intruder, but I guess they need their caffeine and carb fixes. My brother will be happy to hear about another regular delivery customer, though he wouldn’t approve of the way a couple of the men were looking at me. Their mouths said very little, but their eyes said a lot.

Maybe they noticed my unmarked skin and were imagining what they might etch on me. A tattoo is another thing my brother wouldn’t approve of. He once met one of my college friends, who had a prominent tattoo on the back of her hand, and when he and I were alone, he expressed his disapproval. He didn’t care that she had a tattoo, of course, but he made it clear that he wouldn’t like it if I were to want one.

I’ve already pushed my luck with Patrick by taking a second job a couple of months ago. It wasn’t the fact that I was working two jobs that he didn’t like; it was because my night job is at Club Red, a male revue show. He was afraid I’d be exposed to a seedy element there—his words—but it’s not like that at all. The owners and the security guard ensure a safe environment, and really, it’s mostly just excited women there every night, looking to see some skin. Besides, the extra money’s going to come in handy.

* * *

I’m surprised when I find myself thinking about the Brothers in Ink men the next day when I’m working at the coffee shop. The first man I met, Christian, was undeniably hot, and the other three were also strikingly appealing. I don’t know what it was about them. I’ve never been particularly attracted to older men, and they were all definitely quite a bit older than me. Most of them had bits of silver in their hair, and rugged faces that told me they’ve lived much more life than I have.

As I’m pulling espresso shots and foaming milk, I keep picturing their faces, thinking of their names—especially the unusual ones—and trying to remember what body art I noticed on each of them. Collectively, they were a lot to take in during a brief delivery.

“Rose, can you cover the register?” My brother’s fiancée, Nancy, is already unwrapping her apron and heading toward the hall that leads to the office, where my brother said he’d be working on supply orders.

“Sure thing.” There aren’t any customers at the moment, so I take the opportunity to wipe down the counters and consolidate some items in the small bakery case. Delivery orders come in through an app, and I’ll confess that I check the volume on the tablet once or twice just to make sure it’s set to the loudest setting. It was around this time yesterday that the order came in from the tattoo parlor.

I’m wiping down the exterior of the coffee machine when there’s a loud throat clearing behind me, and I already know who it is before I turn. Ignoring the way my stomach tightens, I lift the corners of my mouth and greet the regular customer with a sunny smile. “Hello, Mr. Broderick. How are you today?”

“I wondered when you were going to acknowledge me.” The man’s mouth is puckered as if he just ate a sour lemon candy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. What would you like? Your usual?”

“Of course I want my usual. Small decaf coffee. No fancy stuff, no foam, no shots, no fussy this or that. You young people are ruining coffee.”

I’ve heard every bit of this before, and I can’t figure out why the man comes into my brother’s shop if this is how he feels about things, but he comes in every day and orders the same thing. We brew a fresh pot of decaf every afternoon just for him.

When I meet him at the counter with the steaming cup of coffee, his puckered mouth has relaxed into its usual scowl. “Is it decaf?” he asks, just as he does every time.

“Yes, sir. Decaf.”

“You filled it too full. I hope I have enough room for my cream.”

This is where his routine varies. Some days, the cup is too full, other days, it’s not full enough. It never meets his standards.

“I’m sorry. Would you like me to pour you a new cup?”

“No, you’d probably get it wrong again. How much do I owe you?”

“Two fifteen with tax,” I tell him. After he pulls three ones from his wallet, rubbing his fingers over each one to make sure no bills have stuck together, I carefully count out his change, laying the coins flat on my palm so that he can verify that the amount is accurate. “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your coffee.”

An unpleasant grunt is all I get in return.

As Mr. Broderick is walking over to the counter that holds the cream, sugar, and napkins, the tablet chimes with an incoming order, and my heart starts to beat faster, as if I’ve just had four shots of espresso.

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