Hail Mary: An Enemies-to-Lovers Roommate Sports Romance(23)

“I think you’ve gotten really good at playing the part.”

Her words shocked me silent, all traces of humor leaving me at the sound of them. “What part is that?”

The corner of her mouth tilted up, but then she dropped her gaze, fishing her keys out of her purse. “I have to run. I have some laundry in the dryer, but I’ll take care of it later.” She pointed a key at me, then. “Don’t touch it.”

“What, you don’t want us to do something nice for our new roommate like fold her clothes?”

“I don’t want one of you perverts stealing my panties.”

“Oh, now there’s an idea…”

“Leo,” she threatened, poking that key out even more.

I chuckled. “Don’t worry, your thongs are safe. Now, your hot pink friend upstairs, on the other hand…”

Mary sucked her teeth before turning on her heels and swinging out the front door. “GOODBYE.”

I smiled until she was gone, thankful she left on a more playful note.

But once she was gone and the house was silent, that smile slipped.

And her words replayed in my mind for the rest of the night.





Mary

I never thought I’d be so happy scrubbing a toilet, but here I was with rubber gloves, bleach, and a giant ass grin on my face.

Because today, I would get to tattoo skin.

Not fake skin, not a grapefruit, not my skin — but a real live human being who trusted me enough to lay permanent ink into their body.

It was all I could do not to hum and skip around the shop as I cleaned, making sure it looked pristine from the moment the client walked through the door all the way back to the bathroom. I sanitized the iPads at the front desk, tidied up all the artist stations, swept and mopped and ordered the supplies we were running low on. All the while, the shop buzzed with conversation between artist and client, bass-heavy deep house music playing as a background to all of it.

“Mary, do you know where the—”

I handed a fresh bottle of black ink to Tray before they could finish their sentence, and they chuckled, taking it out of my hand.

“Don’t know where we’d be without you,” they said, the light gleaming off their turquoise hair.

“I’m sure you’d find someone else who could stock the shelves.”

“Maybe. But no one else who could organize our lives the way you do.”

With one last smile, Tray skipped over to where their client was waiting, and I beamed under the praise even if I knew it was superficial. Anyone could do my job, really, except for the tattooing part. But that was only really starting today.

Today.

I was tattooing skin today!

With more pep in my step, I continued through the shop, stopping by each artist station to make sure they had everything they needed for the week.

I was used to these duties — they were the same ones I’d had since I started as an apprentice at Moonstruck Tattoos over a year ago now. In the time I’d been here, I’d spent half my hours cleaning the shop like it was my home, and the other half studying every artist in here, notebook in tow, my eyes trained on their hands and watching their every movement.

My boss and the owner of the shop, Nero, was my favorite to shadow.

Not only was he skilled in a way I aspired to be, with steady hands and perfect lines and shading that made me physically drool, but he was also so comfortable in his work that he could answer my questions without a hint of annoyance in his voice. I’d peer over his massive shoulder and ask why he chose a specific needle, and he’d answer in full detail without breaking concentration with his art. I never had to wait for a break or worry I’d mess him up when a question popped into my head, and if anything, he’d give me a look of disappointment if too much time went by without me asking a question.

The rest of the artists?

Well, they all had their own ways of teaching, and most of them preferred me to stay unseen and quiet until they were done with their work before I asked anything.

I’d first come around Moonstruck as a fresh-skinned eighteen-year-old just desperate to get some ink on me. I’d still lived with my parents then, and Mom had actually fainted when she saw my first one — a little heart on my ribcage that I thought I would be able to hide.

And I had, until she’d accidentally walked in on me changing one morning.

After that, the rule was no more tattoos while I lived under their roof.

Naturally, that meant I had to leave.

My first apartment was a shanty that Dad didn’t really want me moving into, but I told him he didn’t have a choice. I worked day and night at a restaurant, hosting and bussing at first before I finally got bumped up to waitressing and could make some decent tips.

And any time I wasn’t spending making money, I was here — spending it.

I had a little piece of every artist who worked here on me, some more than others, and once I learned enough from them to feel confident trying it on my own, I was tattooing any piece of my skin I could reach.

Finally, maybe more out of pity than anything, Nero offered me an apprenticeship.

I’d never said yes to anything so fast.

In my year tenure, I’d learned that what made the difference between a good tattoo artist and a great one was style.

You had to have a voice, a vibe, an aesthetic — one that called to a certain kind of clientele. If you failed to have a style, you would end up doing the kind of tattoos brought in off the Internet, the ones with no artistic freedom. Hey, can you do this exact lotus flower on my wrist? How about the word ‘breathe’ in a script font you just trace from the stencil?