Opposites Ignite by Sadira Stone (crime books to read .txt) 📗

walls covered with neatly framed drawings. A band of glass bricks high on the rear wall let in light, supplemented by frosted glass fixtures that reminded her of an old-time saloon. Bronze velvet curtains separated the large room into work areas for each tattoo artist.

“C’mon back, don’t be shy,” a woman called from behind a curtain on the right.

Rosie followed the sound. The tiny artist inside glanced over her shoulder before returning to her client, a large person with short salt-and-pepper hair whose broad back she was inking with a very detailed tarantula. “How you holdin’ up, hon?” she asked the customer.

“Gotta piss,” Spider-person said and lifted off the chair, holding a towel to their chest.

“I got a meeting with this youngster,” the artist said. “Gimme ten minutes. There’s coffee in the break room.”

“Roger that.” The customer eyed Rosie up and down on their way out. “Good luck, kid.”

That sealed it. This petite woman had to be Magda Wosniak, the only female studio owner she’d met so far. A Bangers customer tipped Rosie that Magda’s apprentice had been arrested, leaving her in need of a new one. “Watch out,” the guy warned her. “Magda don’t take no shit off no one. Tried patting her ass once. She ’bout broke my arm.”

With her thick silver mane and delicate build, Magda looked like an aging beauty queen—that is, if beauty queens came with full-sleeve tattoos and a neck design of bloody barbed wire. She raised one perfect eyebrow. “Well?”

Afraid her voice might wobble, Rosie cleared her throat. “Good afternoon. Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Wosniak.” She extended her hand.

The older woman took it and squeezed. Hard. “It’s Magda. Never Maggie. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The boss inclined her head toward the recently vacated tattoo chair. “Have a seat.”

Rosie sat and clasped her portfolio across her lap, feeling like a second grader called to the principal’s office.

Magda pivoted her wheeled stool and fiddled with the ink caps on her tray. “How old are you, kid?”

“Twenty-five, ma’am.”

She clucked her tongue. “Enough with the ma’am shit. This ain’t the army.”

“Um, of course.”

Magda peeled off her black nitrile gloves and held out her hand. “Let’s see what you got.”

Heart hammering, Rosie passed her the portfolio. Magda flipped through far too fast, her face stony. “Adequate. Show me the one you like best.”

Worry snaked through Rosie’s belly. This was like those job interviews where they asked you to name your biggest flaw. So much riding on this. Rather than let her mental wheels spin out, she decided to trust her gut. “These two. This one’s a Chinese phoenix. My grandmother’s design.”

One perfect eyebrow rose. “Your granny’s an artist?”

“A dentist. She works in embroidery floss instead of ink, but yeah, she’s very artistic.” She tapped the other page. “This one’s a Russian phoenix, from a quilt my boyfriend’s grandmother made.”

“Huh.” Magda tapped her lips with one fingertip, then flipped through the binder again, more slowly this time.

“I have more stuff on my website.” She fished one of her new business cards from her jacket pocket. Charlie’s idea, the glossy cardstock displayed one of her Chinese dragons. The flip side held her contact info and the URL of her new online portfolio.

“Huh.” Hard to tell if that soft grunt meant approval or disdain. Magda slid the card into the pocket of her low-slung jeans. “You like kids?”

“Uh—sure?” Kids in a tattoo studio?

“Victoria, my right-hand girl, sometimes has to bring her baby in. Cute little bug. We keep him in the break room. He likes company.” Another elevator glance. “I like the hair. Let me see your ink.”

“Oh, I, uh—” She shed her jacket, untied her sweater at the waist, then glanced around.

“Just your arms, hon’. You ain’t shy about skin, are you? Not a good look on a tattoo artist. You’ll be up close and personal with tits, asses, all kinds of body parts.”

Rosie peeled off her sweater, leaving her in just a flimsy satin camisole. Magda circled her, peering closely. “This Bernie Smith’s work?” She tapped the chubby cherub on Rosie’s right shoulder.

“Yeah. It’s the angel from the bar where I work.”

“Angel bar?”

“It’s called Bangers. There’s this carved back bar, huge antique mahogany piece from a saloon in Alaska.”

“Ohhh.” Warmth threaded into Magda’s whiskey voice. “Dawn’s place. I inked her dad’s face on her calf.”

Rosie blinked in surprise. Dawn had never let on that she had any ink under the hoodies, jeans, and Seahawks jerseys she wore to work.

Magda moved around her back. “You any good at portraits, kid?”

No use lying. “Depends on the face. I’m working on that.”

“How about lettering?”

“Pretty good. Lots of samples on my website.”

Magda chuckled. “Nowadays, everyone wants big ol’ chunks of text on their skin. I don’t get it, but since when did fashion make sense, right?”

“Sure.”

Magda poked Rosie’s elbow. “What’s this clusterfuck supposed to be?”

“Amethyst geode. Gift from my Dad when I was little. The artist’s sketch looked great, but—”

“Color’s wrong. Looks like a squashed flower. Who did it?”

“Guy in Bremerton. Willie something.”

Magda snorted. “Total hack.” Finished with her inspection, she sat on her stool, crossed her ankle over her knee, and massaged her stockinged foot. Rainbow polka dots, Rosie noted.

“Okay, kid. Here’s what I’m looking for.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Front desk, over there. Paperwork and phone skills. You gotta deal with assholes who want what they want right now. I’m booked up for months. You can’t let anyone bully you.”

“Got it. What else?”

“Clean-up, fetch supplies for the artists, watch and shut up and learn. Tattoo oranges. When you prove your skills there, I might let you try some simple line work. I’ll pay you for manning the desk from noon to six Monday through Friday.”

“What about weekends?”

Magda grinned. “Don’t work weekends anymore—privilege of my position. Sometimes Vicki and Tina do, though. Up to them.” She stood and hollered toward the back corner where a tattoo machine buzzed over the sound of giggling. “Yo, Tina!” The buzzing stopped. “Come meet the new girl.”

Hope fluttered in her chest like a freakin’ butterfly