Uncaged (An MMA Stepbrother Romance) (57 page)

Tina Azume is beaming at me, and I feel the welcome flutter of pride in my chest and belly.

Before me, she holds up the imitation skin, a bespoke fabric designed to emulate real skin for tattoo artists to practice on.

Of course, nothing is the same as real skin. Nothing is the same as inking a living, breathing human who bleeds, whose temperature changes, who sweats, who feels pain.

But damn it if I haven’t done a good job. Tina had me draw that optical illusion where everybody is walking up and down steps, but there’s no way to tell which way is the right way up. It’s a visual trick; the lines are dishonest, but that we can’t make total sense of that reveals the brain’s willingness to try and interpret
anything
, and to mold information into something understandable.

Like with spelling errors, the brain can usually skip over them, automatically fill in the blanks. The same is true for perspective.

The point of the exercise was to evaluate my
feel
for perspective, to see if I easily confuse, or if I can orient myself quickly. The optical illusion is, of course, a cheat. But at first glance, it looks like a window into some weird dimension.

“It’s perfect,” Tina says, grinning. “Even on my first go I couldn’t emulate it right.”

“The needle sometimes stuck a little,” I tell her. “There was some, I don’t know, drag?”

“Well, if people clam up you’ll definitely experience some of that. Different people have different skin, too. You wouldn’t know it on the outside, but I’ve tattooed two people who looked basically the same in terms of their skin, but one was far more difficult than the other.”

Tina gestures for me to sit down, and she comes over to the small sofa we’ve got. When she sits next to me, she doesn’t fall into it like I do. Even the way she sits is precise, practiced, and, fittingly, severe. She crosses a leg, her back is straight as can be, and her shoulders are pulled back.

Tina looks like the kind of woman who never, ever is unprepared. She’s confident, not because she’s cocky, but because she understands… well, everything.

I want to be like that. I want to be in charge of my own domain, successful, judgers be damned. The tattoo industry, like most others, is still dominated by men. Women are only just finding their foothold, only just reclaiming back territory that should have been theirs for the taking.

Tina is the top female artist, and one of the top overall artists in the world, and she knows it. More than that, she has the respect of all the male artists. They fawn over her, defer to her. She’s a fucking superstar.

I want that. My ambition won’t let me settle for anything less.

“Look,” she says, showing me one of her tattoo books. It’s so clients can see tattoos she’s done on others, or otherwise reference designs. Tina flicks through to a girl with a shaved head. There’s a tattoo of a tribal-ish dragon on the back of her neck.

“For some reason, with Claire here—”

“You remembered her name? This photo is four years ago.” I point at the small date stamp.

“I expect you to remember all our clients’ names, too.”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” Tina explains. “The ink just wouldn’t take to the back of her neck. It was the skin type. It took me forever just to get the outline.”

“But she’s so pale,” I say. “And her skin looks really soft.”

“Exactly.” Tina quickly flips through the book. “Now this was another client I worked on. Her skin looks practically identical, right?”

I study the photo, and for all I know it might just be the same woman with hair. Her skin looks the same, her shoulder shape is the same.

“The ink took exceptionally well here. I scheduled myself twice as much time as I needed to do this piece.”

This time it’s a black eight-ball on the back of her neck. I’m fairly astonished, as that requires a lot of ink. To do it in half the expected time…

“I didn’t realize skin could vary so much.”

“It can, and certain inks do well on some skin types.”

“Has this been studied?”

Tina shakes her head. “Not exhaustively, no. Most tricks and tips you learn are anecdotal, from experience. There is no scientific journal measuring the differences between skin types, and how they pertain to ease of tattooing.”

“Why not?”

“Who would fund such a study? We’re already stigmatized as it is, though it is much better now than ten years ago.”

I nod, and hum. “The imitation skin took the ink well, but it felt sticky.”

“That’s because it’s not real skin. Tomorrow we’ll do another exercise, on imitation skin that doesn’t take ink well. It’s deliberately made more fragile, so you can see how you can damage the skin if you try too hard.”

“That happens to people?”

“Of course it does. If you damage the skin too much, your tattoo may not take at all, you may scar the client, and they’ll certainly feel it for a long time while it heals. Tattooing is not just about being a good artist, it’s about understanding the technique, and the technique is what I would call very technical. It will take a lot of training.”

“I’m ready to train, Tina. I’ll put in all the work I can.”

“Working hard is important, of course,” she says. “Having talent and innate understanding is vital, too. I think you’ve got it.”

I hold back a smile. “Thanks.”

“But we need to turn you into more of a people person.”

I grimace. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Trust is very important. You are marking somebody for life, and tattoos often have immense sentimental value. How can you get people to trust you if you are not skilled at socializing?”

“I’m just not really a social person.”

“Think about all the women in history who were forced to socialize – likely against their will – hanging onto the arms of men. Are you going to sit here and tell me that being socialable is not a skill that can be honed, like drawing?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Tomorrow we have three clients booked for the afternoon. I want you to sit down with each of them and talk to them.”

“Really? Do I have to?”

“Yes. Talk, get to know them. Ask about their tattoos. Show interest. Don’t be awkward or combative. At least, try not to be. You’ll meet people from all walks of life. Different ages, races, classes, and religions. I hate to say it, but some of our clients are genuinely slow. Some are very smart, quick. Some are sensitive and take offense easily, others can take jokes all day long. It’s imperative you understand how to connect with them
all
. Especially if you want to run your own shop one day.”

I nod, but stay silent.

“Did you have many friends in school?”

“Not really,” I whisper. “I wasn’t one of the cool girls if that’s what you mean. People thought I was ‘punk’ or whatever because I painted my nails black and had tattoos and wore black t-shirts.”

“What about that tattoo artist you said you were friends with?”

“Well, she was more of an older-sister, I guess? We weren’t really, like, you know, real friends. I liked her because she could teach me.”

Tina smiles warmly. “Okay, well, listen, it may not come easily, but it’ll come with practice, like most things in life. Anyway, I wanted to ask you, how are you doing? Settling in fine?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I say. “Still not used to all the slang, and in America you’d never hear the c-word as much as you do here.” I give her a sheepish grin.

“And Pierce?”

I stiffen up. “What… what about him?”

“Is he bothering you still?”

“Not… exactly.”

“Be careful with him,” Tina warns me. “Do you understand?”

I furrow my brow, attempting to shrug it off. “Come on, Tina.”

“No, really Penelope. Be careful with him. He’s a heartbreaker.”

The words come out of my mouth in a whisper. “Right.”

“I assume you know what he does, right?”

“He’s a fighter… underground.”

“As in illegal.” Tina sees how uncomfortable I’m getting, and puts a hand on my knee. “I’m just looking out for you. If you ever need to talk, you can call me, okay?”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Now go on, get out of here. You want a lift home?”

“No, I’m going to walk.”

Tina’s voice grows stern. “Penelope.”

“Okay, I’ll take the tram.”