Page 43 of Strelitzias in Spring

“You’re not fine, Serena. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I’ve seen your car, and it looks like it’s held together with duct tape and chewing gum. I’ll be fucking sick with worry if you get behind that death trap right now. So just leave the car here, and I’ll bring you home.”

“Wolf,” I start, drawing out his name.

“Serena,” he responds, mimicking my tone. “You shouldn’t drive, not after what I just heard. I have a few more things I need to do around the shop, and then I’ll drive you to your apartment. Okay?”

He disguises his statement by tacking on a question at the end, giving the pretense that I have a say in the matter when, in reality, he’s dictating me. I shake my head, offering a compromise. “First, don’t talk about my car. I worked hard for her. You don’t need to bring me home, but I will wait for a minute before I drive.” I pull on the door, ignoring the hand holding it closed. I tug on the handle until Wolf finally moves his hand, letting the door slide open with a bang.

At almost six on a Saturday, the shop is busy, the hum of tattoo guns infiltrating the bubble Wolf and I found ourselves in for the last few hours. I walk across the shop floor, ignoring the eyes on me as I make my way toward Aubrey’s desk. Settling myself in one of the chairs against the windows, I drop my bag on the floor and lean back, getting comfortable while I wait for Wolf to finish whatever it is he needs to do and let me leave.

Aubrey walks through a hidden door, stopping short when she sees me. “Oh no. You need a drink.”

I shake my head, opening my mouth to deny the offer, but Aubrey holds up her hand. “Nope, don’t thank me. You need whiskey.”

19

Wolf

I watch Serena glide through my shop before perching on a chair. Though I may call her that stupid name of “princess,” she looks more like a dejected queen overseeing a kingdom. It doesn’t take long for Aubrey to spot her, and I settle, comfortable that my closest friend is taking care of the woman who’s blindsided me.

I run through the words she shouted into her phone, and fuck if her frustration and anger don’t make my chest physically hurt. Based on my interactions with Serena, I’ve seen her chameleon personality: shy and quiet, feisty and passionate, angry and explosive. It’s not mood swings but how she reacts to situations and processes them. I don’t know much about her family life, but I think back to the warning Dante gave me and the insinuation that people have hurt her; it pisses me off more than any cheap shot black eye from Gage.

“She’s cute.” Trent’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I grunt, not giving him any ammunition. “Isn’t that Celeste’s friend?”

Another grunt confirms his question.

“Okay, you silent fucker, I see that you’re being a little gremlin about this shit. If that’s Celeste’s friend, then Sloan is doing her back piece. But Sloan’s not here, so want to tell me what’s going on with you that has you ready to bite everyone’s fucking head off? Because if it’s a matter of needing to get laid, I know a few of Aubrey’s friends that will volunteer as tribute.”

“Stop with yourHunger Gamesreferences.” Trent may be a dipshit, but he’s a dystopian movie and book fanatic. It doesn’t matter when it was made, Trent has consumed it and then memorialized it on his body. For1984, he has the eyes of Big Brother; forBrave New World, he has tiny pills meant to represent soma, the “happy pills” in the book. He has the Mockingjay tattoo, a silhouette of a red robe forTheHandmaid’s Tale, divisions fromDivergent, and a mask fromThe Purge. He’s a walking conglomerate of symbolism, but his reference does nothing but annoy me. “I don’t need to get laid.” A lie.

“Fine. Back to the other question. If Sloan is doing the tattoo, why is she here?” He nods toward Serena.

“Because Sloan isn’t doing her tattoo.”

“You’re mumbling. Say that one more time.”

I look over at him and see the shit-eating grin on his face. It takes a lot of willpower not to jab him in the nose. “Asshole. You heard what I said.”

“I fucking knew it. Sloan owes me twenty bucks; I told her you’d never let her touch Serena.”

“She wanted to put hot air balloons,” I offer by way of an explanation, as though a design that I don’t like is the reason why I don’t want Sloan handling the cover-up.

“Which sounds cool as fuck, especially with her watercolor designs. I don’t think anyone would complain about art by Sloan.”

“She’s not putting hot air balloons on Serena’s back. Does she fucking look like the type of person who would want flying balloons all over their back? She’s butterflies and rainbows and flowers, not The QuickChek New Jersey Festival of Ballooning.”

Trent rolls his eyes at me. “You sound like an idiot. Did you even ask her what she wanted, or did you just decide?”

I glower at him, not correcting his assumption because he’s right, and we both know it. “I’m doing the tattoo, and I’m giving her something that she’ll love.”

Trent just laughs, clapping me on the back before walking to the front of the shop, where Aubrey and Serena sit with glasses partially filled with brown liquid. I squint my eyes, trying to identify the liquid sloshing around in the glass; I wouldn’t be surprised if Aubrey poured my O.F.C Vintage 1994 Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey into each of those glasses. Never mind that the bottle costs over six thousand dollars and I receive it each year from one of my high-profile clients as a Christmas gift, but I’m acutely aware that Serena needs to drive home, is underaged, and drinking in the front of my shop, on display for everyone to see.

I take in the expression on her face; she looks like she’s grimacing, though whether it’s from the taste of the expensive alcohol or Aubrey’s words is anyone’s guess.

I should go over there, take the glass from her hand, and force her to wait for me in solitude. I watch as Serena takes a small sip, coughs, and puts the drink down on the side table next to where she’s seated. She says something that has both Aubrey and Trent laughing before Trent takes the glass Serena just put down and tilts it to his lips. I can tell from here that he’s savoring the flavor and has no designs to give the glass back, which is both a relief and annoying.

“Fuckers,” I mumble under my breath and turn to the large photocopier I keep in an alcove in the back of the shop. I have another printer in my room, but it’s smaller, and I need something that will capture the entire sheet. Scanning the paper, I make several copies so that I can play around with the design I’m envisioning. The paper maps out the dimensions of her back and the placement of the supposed “butterflies,” and though I did a rough placement of the image I have in my head, it’s light enough that I can rework the art to better fit the shape of her back.

Taking in the stem and the petals on the flower I drafted, I pick apart the areas where I can add or change elements to make it a better-looking, sexier piece. I know I want to follow the curve of her spine while simultaneously camouflaging the preexisting artwork. She loves butterflies, evidenced by the small script tattoo I drew on her and her latest request. I’ll incorporate them, somehow, so that she has at least a semblance of what she initially wanted.

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