Page 289 of Hell Hath No Fury
POISON PEN
BELLADONNA TATTOO BOOK ONE
DOVE CAVANAUGH KING
CHAPTER ONE
Ricki
“Ouch. Watch it, woman.”
I rolled my eyes at Javier, the whiny man-baby currently laid out on my chair, keeping my head down so he couldn’t see my face as I hunched over his skinny chicken legs, putting some bullshit flash art on his calf.
“Sorry,” I muttered, gritting my teeth at the insulting and derogatory way he saidwoman, but knowing better than to say anything.
“Don’t know what Murray was thinking, letting a bitch work in his shop.”
“And yet, here you are. Under my machine,” I replied with fake innocence, digging the needles in just a bit harder.
“Fuck!” he hollered, leaping from the chair like I’d lit him on fire or something.
“Oops,” I deadpanned. “My bad.”
“Murray,” Javier shouted, and stomped away from my chair. Setting my machine down, I leaned back on my stool and rolled my shoulders, the persistent ache reminding me just how many hours I’d worked already this week. “Murray, can’t anyone else finish my tat today?”
Murray looked up from his own client, a scowl on his bearded face.
“Fuck, no, Javier. I told you when you called, I only had slots in the apprentice chair.” He made it sound like a prisonsentence instead of a reduced rate tattoo by a talented—if mildly inexperienced—woman.
But I had a feeling that it was the last part that was really fucking with Javier’s head.
I was a woman.
Not something most people expected when they agreed to get a tattoo by a person named Ricki, but if they didn’t ask, I wasn’t going to be held responsible for their misogynistic preconceptions about traditional gender roles in the tattoo industry.
Just because I was a woman didn’t mean I couldn’t do the work.
But it seemed that no one really wanted toletme do the work, and that was the entire goddamn problem.
“This is bullshit, man,” Javier continued, hands on his hips as he tugged his low-hanging shorts back into place. Skinny little weasel, probably still shopped in the kid’s section. I could see the half-finished piece, a traditional Day of the Dead skull with marijuana leaves instead of flowers.
It was actually pretty dope—pun intended—if he’d suck it up and let me finish.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if Javier would quit skipping leg day and bulk those gams up a bit.
I snorted to myself at my uncharitable joke, then covered it with a very fake cough when everyone turned to look at me.
“We can take a break before we continue,” I suggested, not really looking for a confrontation. “If you need to, like, hit the john or wipe your eyes or something, go ahead. I could use ten minutes myself.”
“The fuck you say?”
“I think I have some tissues here, somewhere,” I said plainly, turning to the desk behind me and pretending like I was lookingfor real. “Once you’re done crying, I’d be happy to finish your ink.”
“No way,” Javier spat, his narrow face pinched like he’d smelled something awful. “I’m not letting someputafuck up my tat.” Turning back to Murray, he crossed his arms. “I’m gonna find me a shop where they don’t let bitches inside, thinking they have a right to be there. And I’m not paying for today.”
Pete and Jason—the other two employees—were both staring, neither of them polite enough to evenpretendthey weren’t completely engrossed in this shitshow.
“It’s coming outta your pocket then, Ricki,” Murray growled, and I ground my teeth again.
