Page 4 of The Opposite Effect

After ensuring my gear is in order, I nudge my head to my tattooing chair, silently demanding she sit. As she saunters across the room, I try to keep my eyes planted on her face. I miserably fail. Even with her bitchometer rocketing to the next galaxy, she has a tight, fit body that would only look better if she removed the massive chip off hershoulder.

After sitting in my swivel chair, I roll in close to her side. She stiffens when I lower the band of her panties to prep the area she wants inked. When our eyes briefly lock, her stern mask falters for the slightest second, exposing a side of her I’m confident she hasn’t seen in years.

“First time being tattooed?” I query while placing the used alcohol prep pads into a bin at my side.

When she fails to answer my question, I lift my eyes from the stencil I’ve placed on the creamy skin covering her hip to her face.

Four simple words and her stern mask has slid firmly back into place.

“Do we have to do the small talk?”

“I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t. You’renotmy friend. You willneverbe my friend. So, I’d prefer if you stayedquietand did thejobI’m paying you to do.”

My back molars smash together before I grind out through clenched teeth, “Then let’s do this, Princess.”Before you give me a motherfucking headache.

It takes all my strength not to dig my tattoo gun into her delicate skin deeper than necessary. The only thing stopping me is my professional obligation. As much as my client is a malicious cow, my name will forever be associated with this piece of artwork on her body, which ensures I’ll tattoo nothing but the best, even if I want to send her out in the world with a stick figure of me flipping her the bird.

Because of the intricate design she selected, the tattoo takes a little over two hours to complete. Princess Stuck-Up didn’t speak a word the entire time. I won’t lie. I loved the way herknuckles went white from her death grip hold on the armrest when I tattooed the skin near her hip bone.

“While it heals, it’ll itch like a bitch, but if you keep applying the ointment as per these instructions, you shouldn’t face too many issues.” I hand her a pamphlet on taking care of freshly inked skin.

When she snatches it out of my hand, I drop my eyes to my newly created masterpiece. My lips purse. It is a sleek design, feminine with the inclusion of a tiger lily, but not overly girly. If it didn’t have a name smack bang in the middle of it, it would have been a nice tattoo.

After wiping the excess ink off her hip, I wrap her tattoo with a protective covering and then assist the unnamed blonde from the chair.

A grin curls on my lips when a grimace crosses her face as she bends down to collect her handbag off the floor. “Run that while I get dressed.”

Heavy grooves indent my forehead when she hands me an American Express Centurion card. I’ve heard rumors that this card costs a quarter of a million a year just to have it. I shouldn’t expect anything less from a woman who looks like she uses Benjamin Franklins as toilet paper.

“It’s a credit card. You’ve seen one before, haven’t you?” she snarls, her tone condescending.

“Yes, madame,” I reply while fighting the urge not to salute her pompous attitude with my middle finger. I jerk my head to the bathroom attached to my cubicle. “There’s a full-length mirror in there if you want to check out your new tattoo.” When she smirks a condescending grin, I mutter under my breath before slipping out the door, “I hope you like your new tattoo, Princess.”

I’ve only just run her credit card through the terminal and placed the credit of her sale into Johnny’s account when the blonde storms out of my cubicle. She barely notices a group of fraternity brothers getting matching tats wolf-whistling and catcalling at her as she charges across the room in nothing but a pair of cream panties and a long-sleeve shirt. Her face is red with anger, matching her vibrant lipstick, and her pupils are massive.

“You son of a bitch!” she yells while raising her hand in the air.

A chuckle topples from my lips when her wildly flung slap fails to connect with any part of my face or body since I took a step back, moving out of the firing zone.

When she preps for a second swing, I point to a sign hanging next to the one I read earlier. “We also have the right to remove any clientele deemed to be abusive to our staff or clients.” My tone is as mocking as my expression. “If you try to strike me again, I’ll have no other option than to place you on the curb.” I lower my eyes to her scarcely covered body. “Panties and all.”

The anger lining her face increases. “Where is the sign that says you can tattoo whatever the hell you see fit onto a person’s body without first seeking their permission?”

The grin tugging on my lips breaks free. “In the top drawer.” I point to the drawer I stored her contract in. “It’s on the same contractyousigned stating the design of your tattoo was left at the discretion of your tattoo artist. AKA… me.”

I can see her scream work its way from her stomach to her lips. For every second that ticks by, the fury blackening her eyes grows significantly, but she detonates with only the slightest bit of carnage.

After releasing a window-shattering scream, she storms back to my cubicle, rambling incessantly under her breath about how she’s going to sue me for every penny I have.

If I were a good man, I’d tell her I don’t have many pennies.

Pity I’m not.

After redressing in her skin-tight designer jeans and four-inch stiletto boots, she saunters out of my cubicle, slamming the door behind her. Her nostrils flare when she snatches her credit card and receipt out of my hand, but she doesn’t murmur a peep as she scrambles for the door.

“Have a wonderful day.”

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