Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
"There's sophisticated accounting?"
"There are all sorts. But I didn't get very far. It was too dry. I like the space in psychology, the complexity of the mind, the surprises. Human beings believe they're logical, but they're really not. We're more animal than we want to admit."
"Oh?" He raises a brow.
My cheeks flush.
Patrick settles on a low couch in the corner. It's turned away from the other men. Private, but not as private as the booth in the bar.
Is he daring me? Fucking with me? Trying to carve space for actual conversation?
No. That can't be it.
What man turns down a blow job for conversation?
"I took a class last year." In the middle of everything. Maybe that was it. I was trying to punish myself. Or I was trying to be the person my parents wanted me to be. I don't know anymore.
"It, uh—" This is not a sexy topic. I need to move back to a sexy topic. Or at least a less fraught one. "I wish I did like accounting. Or something else more practical. Wouldn't that be nice, to have a passion for computer programing?"
"Economics seems pretty in demand."
"Not in the same way, but it is."
"Do you ever think about writing?"
Do I talk about it that much?
"I bet you're good."
"Based on what?"
"How you text."
"That seems like a flimsy basis."
"I'm not the scientist."
I smile. "As much as I love the feeling of losing myself in words, I love this too. I love being a scientist. And I don't really want to make a creative passion my career. I don't know how you do it, actually."
"Work as a tattoo artist?"
"Take something yours and sell it. Not that there's something wrong with selling it—"
"But you couldn't do that with your writing?"
I nod. "I'm not judging."
"I didn't think you were."
Right. He doesn't jump to that assumption the way other people do. I like that about him. "You're curious about people."
"About you."
"It's very scientific of you."
"The scientific people I know aren't curious," he says. "Only Luna. The others are nerdy guys who think they know everything, because they're more educated than I am."
"I know that kind of guy."
"In your classes?"
"Everywhere, yeah." I like that he isn't that way. "Don't you have to apprentice to work as a tattoo artist?"
"For about two years, yeah."
"That's an education."
"It is and it's hard. But I understand it's not the same. It's not as intellectual."
"Intellectual is over-rated."
He smiles. "Really? You believe that?"
"Intellectual people."
"I don't know. I like them."
My cheeks flush. "We, uh, we were talking about you. Your job. Selling your work."
He nods if you insist. "It's hard to sell my work sometimes. Clients don't always want something great. Sometimes, I come up with an amazing design and they ask me to get rid of everything interesting about it," he says. "But I still have my sketchbook. I can still draw for myself, design a piece for myself or a friend. And I've put some of that on my skin. Who else can say that?"
"Can I see?"
"This one is obvious." He pulls up his t-shirt to show off the Latin quote on his ribs. "But it's mine."
luctor et emergo
I struggle and I emerge.
I know that one. It was on my shortlist for my first tattoo. What has he been through that inspired him to pick those words?
I want to know.
I want to touch him, trace the lines, absorb every ounce of his experience. "It's beautiful."
"Thanks."
"Is that your favorite? Of yours?"
"I can't pick."
What does it mean? How did you struggle? What happened? "Of the designs you've done for clients?"
"Yours."
"Really?" I ask.
"No. But I do love it."
"You promise?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die." He drops his shirt. "But it doesn't always go that way."
I take a long sip of my drink. It cools my temperature. It slows my thoughts. "And you have to do it, because that's the job?"
He nods.
"A family friend is in that position. She always loved acting, practically ran drama club, tried out for every play. She was great and she got lucky too. A friend of a friend offered her a role on a show with a last-minute 'diversity push.' She's not waiting tables anymore. She's following her dreams. And she makes good money, but she doesn't have her outlet anymore. And she's not performing Tennessee Williams. She's on sitcoms playing the dragon woman neighbor. Or she's on dramas as the Asian sex worker. She has chances to do real work, but most of it is bullshit."
"I get that."
"I guess it's different, being the one in control."
"Kind of," he says. "I'm the one crafting the design, but I have to put my clients' needs first. I enjoy the challenge, most of the time, but sometimes—"
"People are difficult."
"Yeah. And I'm not constantly doing badass, unique sleeves. I'm drawing hearts on wrists—"
"Hey."
He smiles. "It is one of my favorites. I promise." He slips his hand under my jacket and presses his palm against my ribs. The spot where he adorned my skin.