Total pages in book: 221
Estimated words: 213317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1067(@200wpm)___ 853(@250wpm)___ 711(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 213317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1067(@200wpm)___ 853(@250wpm)___ 711(@300wpm)
Dad gives Ant such a genuine pat on the back, it’s lovely to see.
“We’ll be proud to have you as our son-in-law,” Dad says, and Ant smiles as he pats him on the back in return.
“I’ll be very proud to be your son-in-law. Your daughter is my world.”
They wave us off, and we’re away, all set to head back to the Malvern Hills. Or so I think. We’re barely through Bucklebury when Ant opts for a much different route.
“Where are we going?” I ask him, since we’re heading in the opposite direction.
“You’ll see.”
It only takes about ten minutes before I guess where we’re going, since I’ve been to Reading a number of times since I was a kid, but today I have no idea why we’d be visiting. Ant drives up to the north side, and swings right into a side road, pulling up at a row of shops with parking opposite.
My stomach does a flip as I see the sign above the tattoo parlour.
“Here we are, baby. Let’s go,” Ant says with a grin.
“What? Here?”
He laughs like it’s obvious. “Yeah, of course. Let’s get that mess on your arm cleared up and done with.”
I unbuckle my seat belt, but don’t move, my legs not wanting to carry me anywhere.
“Come on, baby,” he prompts, as though it’s another great gift of an adventure waiting ahead for me. But it isn’t. I don’t want to leave the car.
“But I don’t even know what I want–”
“We’ll work that out inside. No big deal.”
“Do you have an appointment?” I ask him.
He gives me a smirk. “We won’t need an appointment, baby, trust me.”
I’m not sure quite how much I trust his words right now, but my body moves for me, getting out of the car and following him up to the tattooist doorway. I look through the window and there are two people at work, busy with clients. Phew for that.
“They’re obviously booked up,” I say, taking a step back, but Ant doesn’t give a shit, just walks right on in.
I follow him, hating how I’m so edgy as he marches right up to the desk.
“We need an appointment, right now, please,” he says as one of the tattooists walks over.
“Sorry, mate, but we’re busy until late next week,” the woman says, and gestures to the people in the seats. “I can grab the diary, though.”
She picks up her notebook, but Ant clears his throat.
It’s the clients on the benches he addresses, not her, pulling his wallet from his pocket as he speaks.
“How much will it take for you two to bail on your appointments right now?”
They both look in shock. One of them is a pretty looking redhead having a beautiful peacock inked onto her shoulder. The other is a young guy getting a Viking symbol on his thigh.
“How much?” Ant asks again, and the woman answers first, with a laugh.
She seems to make a joke of it. “I dunno. Five hundred quid?”
The guy next to her laughs as well, but Ant doesn’t. He pulls a wedge of cash from his wallet and counts out fifties on the counter.
“Five hundred do it for you as well?” he asks the young guy.
The guy stares in silence for a few seconds before nodding.
“Um, yeah. Sure. Cool.”
“And how much for your time?” he asks the artist at the counter.
She looks confused and a bit flustered, no doubt still trying to work out what the hell is happening here. “Sorry, but you can’t expect my clients to just up and leave, they –”
“They already agreed,” Ant cuts in. “How much?”
Still concerned about her customers, the woman says the work they’ve just done needs to be covered up before they can go. And they need to be booked in again.
“Do whatever you need to do,” Ant says, “Now, how much for your time?”
The woman just stares at him.
“Will a grand cover it?” Ant pulls a bank card from his wallet.
“A grand?” she says, open-mouthed.
“Yes. One thousand pounds, for your time. Will that cover it?”
The woman nods. She takes his bank card.
I feel sick.
“What are you doing?” I ask him. “Ant, can we think about this, please?”
“No need, princess,” he replies. “These artists are good. She’ll do a great job.”
“But I don’t–”
“Don’t what?” he demands, still smiling. “Don’t want to get that piece of crap covered up? It’s not even like it’s a good one. The artist must have been drunk. This one will be way fucking better.”
Everyone is going along with it with happy laughs. The customers, with their half-finished tattoos now covered up, get up to leave, taking the cash from the counter with a nice one and a thanks and off they go, leaving us standing there in front of the artists.
The artist addressing us is stunning and blonde. She looks at me with a big smile.