Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
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?
Not that there was anything wrong with those kinds of tattoos — in fact, I was over the goddamn moon about the fact that I got to do a flower and script tattoo on a willing client today. I didn’t care that it wasn’t my design, that it was one from Pinterest.
Because I would be the one driving the needle.
Still, I longed for the day when I’d have a chair at this shop, when clients would seek me out because of my art, my vision, my style.
I just had to figure out what exactly my style was, first.
I peeled off the rubber gloves when the bathroom was sparkling, putting all the supplies away before I slipped into the back and grabbed my water bottle. I downed half of it before I heard Nero chuckle.
“You’re drinking that water like you’re about to hike the desert,” he commented from where he was at the computer, finalizing the design I’d be working with. It was a Saturday, one of our busiest nights of the week, and every artist was either with a client already, or scarfing down a quick snack before their next one came in. Nero had the ability to be picky with his time, and he only did larger pieces now, a minimum of four hours work. His client had canceled today, and so he’d taken on a last-minute request from some girl on Instagram.
Some girl on Instagram who was willing to let an apprentice mark her for life.
God bless her.
“With how dry my mouth is, it feels about the same.”
He smiled, a toothy grin just barely visible through his thick beard. Nero was what I imagined the Roman ruler he was named after would have looked like if he was taller, beefier, covered in tattoos, and so full of metal he’d never get through any airport without a good pat down. His dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun near the nape of his neck tonight, his beard neatly trimmed where it framed his jaw.