Chapter Three
The next morning, Bailey stood outside of Fallen Tattoos, clutching Cash’s card. It was black, with his name, contact details and business address printed on it in a stark white font. Something about it was… imposing.
And the facade of the shop standing before her was pretty imposing too. This was definitely the place. But God, what the fuck was she doing here?
For a moment, Bailey wavered, fiddling nervously with zip of the leather jacket slung over her arm. But then she steeled her spine and mentally pulled on her big girl knickers. After the events of last night, she really had no choice—she needed a job. Now.
So why look a gift horse in the mouth? Even an incredibly hot, intimidating gift horse who apparently owned a tattoo parlour?
Okay, yeah—she should leave.
But as she turned to scurry off home—not that it would be home much longer if she couldn’t pay the bloody rent—the shop’s front door open a crack. A girl’s head poked out of the gap, her short, choppy hair dyed a screaming pink. “Hey,” she said. “Are you waiting for Cash?”
“Um….” Bailey faltered, her mind scrambling.
“Well, come in then,” the girl said. “I’m freezing my bloody tits off here.”
“Right,” Bailey muttered. “Sorry.”
And for some reason—because she was a pushover of epic proportions, clearly—she turned right around and marched herself into Fallen Tattoos.
Stepping out of the icy street and into the shop’s cozy warmth was a treat for the senses—except her sight, which immediately blurred as her glasses fogged up. With a sigh, Bailey waited for them to calm the hell down.
And then, when they finally did, she gaped at the magic surrounding her like a kid at a fair. Because, as dark and intimidating as Fallen seemed on the outside, inside it was a Christmas wonderland.
The room was a foyer of sorts, holding a desk along with a comfortable seating area. Every spare surface was festooned with brightly-coloured tinsel, or fairy lights, or some combination of both, and a small Christmas tree stood proudly amidst the brown, leather armchairs and comfy-looking sofa at one end of the room.
The festive cheer was even more incongruous when one considered the decor beneath: the room’s walls were covered in a variety of artwork, from hand-drawn tattoo designs—accompanied by photographs of the finished tattoos themselves—to bold depictions of animals, landscapes, and pop-culture motifs that were painted directly onto the wall. At various points around the room, there were framed posters exhibiting bright, cartoon-like pictures that reminded Bailey of the old-fashioned tattoos she’d see in comic books as a kid. Each image had a price beneath it, and the posters were all entitled ‘Flash’.
“Wow,” Bailey breathed, taking in the brilliance of the many-layered contrasts. “This is…”
“It’s cute, isn’t it?”
Oh. Somehow, she’d managed to forget that she wasn’t alone.
The pink-haired girl was smiling at her from behind the desk, her elbows resting against its dark surface and her striking face cupped in her hands.
“Yeah,” Bailey smiled back, shifting awkwardly. “Um… Should I…?”
“Oh, yes, sit down! Cash will be here soon. He usually comes in earlier than me. I don’t know what’s held him up today.”
Nodding, Bailey unzipped her coat and settled herself down into one of the leather armchairs. It sank comfortingly beneath her weight, like the kind of chair you’d find in an old family room—or at least, the kind of chair Bailey imagined you’d find. Her experience of family wasn’t exactly traditional. But a girl could dream.
“What’s your name?” The pink-haired girl asked. She had the kind of bright tone and staccato voice that young children used, full of hummingbird energy.
“Bailey. What’s yours?”
“Gemma,” she said. “Everyone calls me Gem.”
“Ah. That’s cool.” In fact, everything about Gem was cool. Her short, pink hair, the silver studs through her nose and eyebrow, the countless mismatched earrings running along her earlobes. She wore a band tee cut up into a vest, and its short sleeves displayed a ton of colourful little tattoos scattered up and down her arms. There were words and phrases, symbols, fractured images—none of them seemed connected, but somehow they looked perfect together.
Gem cocked her head to one side, the movement birdlike, and Bailey realised that she’d been staring. Her cheeks heating, she stammered, “I, um, I love your hair.”
“Thanks,” Gem smiled, running her fingers through the choppy strands. “I like yours too.”
“Oh.” Bailey raised her hand self-consciously to her plain bun. She’d had no idea what to do with her hair—or her clothes, for that matter—and now here she was in an old skirt-suit that was clearly unsuitable, her hair pulled back severely. But Gem was probably referring to her locs, rather than the bun. “Thanks,” Bailey said, fingering the leather of the jacket in her arms like a talisman.
Another awkward silence descended.
Looking around for some kind of conversation starter—or any sign of her brain, which she’d clearly left out on the street—Bailey’s eye caught on a little table beside her. A sloppy pile of magazines was splayed over it, their covers showing scantily-clad women with porcelain, tattoo-covered skin.
Bailey chose one at random, flicking through the pages as her nerves increased. Why had Cash invited her here? He said he had work for her, and she definitely needed that—but what could she do in a place like this? She was a psychology undergrad and a part-time barista, not a tattoo artist.
Her rapidly-moving fingers paused as her gaze snagged on a familiar pair of piercing green eyes. Bailey’s brows shot up as she recognised the very man she was here to see, smouldering up at her from the magazine page. Cash’s hair hung over his handsome face, a smirk tilting his lips. His arms were folded over his broad chest, corded with muscle and covered in ink.
Wunderkind Cash Evans Returns As Hometown Hero, the article said. Bailey zeroed in on the opening paragraph.
Cash Evans burst onto the international scene way back in 2010, and he’s stayed relevant ever since through a combination of fine-artistry, innovative techniques, and global touring. Now the versatile artist is back in his home city of Nottingham, opening his own studio: Fallen Tattoos.
Bailey flipped to the magazine’s front cover, searching out the publication date. September 2016. So Cash was some kind of, what—tattoo superstar?
She skimmed through the next paragraph, which described the shop, eagerly searching for more information on her enigmatic rescuer. But her focus on the magazine was interrupted by the sound of the shop’s door opening. She looked up in time to see Cash himself walk in, a black crash helmet tucked under his arm.
“Morning, Gem,” he said, his voice low and weary. It was a little past 10 A.M., yet he sounded like he’d just finished a day’s hard labour.
“Hey,” Gem said, looking up from her computer screen. “You have a visitor.”
Cash followed her gaze to the seating area, a frown furrowing his brow. Bailey rose from her seat, clutching his jacket like a talisman under the full force of his glare.
“Hi,” she said, stepping forward hesitantly. “Um… I brought your jacket.”
His lip curled. The expression wasn’t a smile. “Is that all?” He asked.
Bailey bit her lip. She had no idea why, but the sweet guy she knew from the coffee shop appeared to have disappeared; in his place was an intimidating bear. Perhaps the dark circles under his eyes explained his sudden attitude—he looked like he hadn’t slept all night.
Yeah. That was all. He was just tired. Pushing her nerves aside, Bailey straightened her spine and forced herself to speak clearly. “That’s not all,” she said, her voice firm. “You mentioned last night that you could help me with… With my job situation.”
Okay—was she imagining things, or had Gem’s jaw just dropped? If it had, the girl regained her composure in record time. She was now tapping away at the computer as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Yes,” Cash said. He stalked towards Bailey like a tiger after its prey. She had to force herself to stand still as he loomed over her, mere inches between them. He reached out a hand, and she held her breath as she waited for him to touch her…
Only to exhale when he took the jacket she was holding out.
“Thanks,” he said with a smirk. The knowing gleam in his emerald eyes brought a blush to her cheeks. Cash turned and headed towards the far end of the room, where an open doorway beckoned. “We’re looking for a receptionist,” he threw over his shoulder. “Come up to my office and we’ll discuss the position.”
After a moment of indecision, Bailey scurried after him in her sensible heels. She smiled at Gem as they passed by the desk, only to falter as she saw the expression on the other woman’s face.
Gem’s jaw had definitely dropped this time.
Oh, dear.