Sean groped for the vibrating alarm. Was it ten already? He didn’t need to look at the iPhone to turn it off. For a second, he considered keeping his head under the pillow and sending a passive fuck you to the shop.

But he didn’t. Your sponsor would be so proud, he thought as he blinked into the morning light that streamed through the window.

I really need to buy some curtains. Or something, he thought. Shirtless, he made his way to the shower with its clawfoot tub. “All original!” the leasing agent had crowed at him. Obviously, he’d wanted to reply, but he needed that apartment.

It wasn’t much, but it was his. Even through the steam of the shower, he could smell the pizza joint on the first floor of the building. Every goddamned morning. No amount of musky soap could overpower wood-fired pizza.

His stomach growled. Pizza. And an ice-cold beer. Or two—or a six-pack. Stop it, he told himself. Weak ass.

As he toweled off, his phone blinked at him, the blue light of a text message. “You better not be late,” his boss had said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and turned on the read receipt function just to let that asshole know he saw it.

“I’m serious,” came the second text. “You know we can see you up there, right?”

Sean sucked in his breath and turned off the read receipts again. You were an idiot, getting a job in the same building where you live.

He pulled on a black, fitted tee-shirt and ripped jeans. One of the perks about being an upper-level apprentice at an ink shop is nobody gave a shit what you wore. The clothes perpetually smelled like pepperoni thanks to Dolce Vita downstairs, but it was a hell of a lot better than being a trust fund kid. Like dad, he thought. Or Connor.

He knew that wasn’t fair, that his big brother had made it on his own. Eventually, he added as he finger-combed some product a hot piece of ass had sold him through his hair.

Sean glanced at the biggest mural in his little apartment while he gathered up his keys. Thank god for landlords who never check in, he thought. Sure, he’d promised himself he’d paint over whatever he did in here. A nice, safe egg shell just like when he’d moved in. But he knew he never could. Even when he moved out—if he ever moved out—there was something about art that lasted forever.

In the past few months, though, his books had started to overtake the walls. He’d filled up those second-hand bookshelves instantly, crammed with first editions of China Mieville’s Kraken, a dog-eared Finch, and several editions of H.P. Lovecraft’s work.

Surrounded by art, visual and literary, it made him feel safe. He fingered the collar work that had slowly started to creep up his neck, an extension of the full sleeves. Even without seeing it, he took comfort in the oil-black raven embedded in oleander. One of the most beautiful and deadly of flowers, he thought.

He glanced at the phone. Just 10:45, there’s still time. God, I could use a drink. Sean’s thumb, covered almost entirely with a black cross, hovered over his last call. “Sponsor.”

“Sean,” said the familiar voice, the slightest trace of a Korean accent. “You okay, man?”

“Hey, Joon-Ki,” Sean said. “Yeah, I’m good. Just …”

“What is it? You need me to hit up a meeting with you?”

“Nah, no. Nothing like that,” Sean said. Even after three years of being sober, Joon-Ki was a hardcore AA advocate. At Sean’s first meeting, he’d been the only one who was close to bearable. All those whiny alcoholics, so proud to claim the label. “Just, I don’t know.” Wanted to hear your voice? Fuck, that sounded gay.

“It’s cool,” said Joon-Ki. “You still working out like a beast? That’s one of the best, and healthiest, lifestyle changes.”

“Yeah,” Sean said. “I quit the early morning shit, though, it’s not for me. Every night though, right after the shop.”

“Routines are good,” Joon-Ki said. Sean could almost see him over the phone, that spiked black hair and surprisingly long lashes.

“Well, then I got that down,” he said. “Work, run, lift, sleep. That’s my life.”

“That’s a good life.”

His phone buzzed against his jaw. He could still hear Joon-Ki as he pulled it away to see a text from Connor. And there’s big brother, arm wrapped around some THOT. “Sam says hi,” Connor had added to the MMS. Sam, that was her name. He didn’t want to admit it, but Connor really had scored with that one.

“Hey, man, I gotta go,” Sean said into the phone. He only felt slightly bad about cutting Joon-Ki off.

“Yeah, okay, it is about that time for you. Thanks for checking in. Call or text if you need me.” God, it was like having a mom again. Or, at least what a doting, caring mom is probably like.

Sean filled his thermos, filled it with the cheap coffee timed to be ready at 10:30 daily, and grabbed a pear. As he battled the door to lock behind him, he swore under his breath. He was going to be late. By three minutes, max, but still.

“You’re late,” his boss said as soon as he stepped through the doors.

“Yeah, well. Close at midnight, then open the next day, doesn’t really make for sound sleep,” he said as he shrugged off the leather jacket.

“Leather?” asked one of the apprentices. He seemed like a kid to Sean, looked like a high schooler. It infuriated him that they were at the same level. “You know this is L.A., right?”

He ignored Daniel, and his boss gave him one of those frustrated, sitcom-level what on earth will I do with you? expressions.

You won’t do shit, he thought to himself. “My bad, Josh” he said, just in case. “I prefer the morning shifts, you know that.”

That was an outright lie. He hated the morning shift. Less walk-in money, but better appointment money—when appointments happened and the clients actually showed up. He checked the schedule and sighed. No surprise there. Once again, no appointments lined up.

“Daniel? You can go on home,” Josh told the other apprentice. “You know the rules. The one on the schedule shows up, you get the boot. Be back in two hours for your usual shift.”

“Fucker,” Daniel said under his breath to Sean as he walked out the door.

Josh had just finished up a septum piercing on a girl who had to have lied about her age. “All done,” he said as he handed her a mirror.

Piercings were easy money. Sean was sure that’s why it’s all Josh did these days. Why labor over some ink for hours when you could stick a pin through some twat and get a hundred bucks?

He knew the reason, though. When you were a tattoo artist, it wasn’t a choice. You drew because you had to, and skin was the ultimate canvas. Sean tucked into his sketchbook and let his vision carry him away. When the door chimed, it seemed hours later. He glanced up and saw a group of exceptionally tight girls walk in. They chattered and laughed in that clique-ish way he hated, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Oh, God, I don’t know. Something feminine, for sure,” the blonde said. “Harper? What do you think?” she asked as she pointed to one of the cheapest tattoos on the wall.

“A butterfly? Seriously?” The redhead replied. “Isn’t that, like, the epitome of a tramp stamp?”

“Only if it’s on your lower back,” the blonde said, as though she’d just dropped some serious wisdom.

“Ladies!” Josh said. He rubbed his hands together as he approached. “How can we help you?”

“We’re all getting tattoos!” the blonde said.

“Matching?” Josh asked.

“God, no! We’ll all choose our own—”

“Small,” the redhead emphasized.

“Whatever,” the blonde rolled her eyes.

“Take a look at these books, here,” Josh said. “And—Daniel! Right on time. Our two artists here, Sean and Daniel, will take good care of you ladies.”

“I don’t know how you ladies could get any finer,” Daniel said with that practiced smile and swagger he had. “But when I get my hands on you, I’ll definitely give it my best shot.”

The group giggled and flocked towards him. All except the redhead, who examined the book of drawings like her life depended on it.

“Look at this one!” the one with the long black braid squealed. “Wouldn’t this look so hot at the party Saturday? You know, if I wear that little white crochete top I just got, the one that looks like Kylie Jenners’—”

“A party, huh?” Daniel asked. “And you didn’t even invite me?”

“Oh, my God, you should totally come,” said the Kylie Jenner wannabe.

“Jesus,” said the redhead lowly. Sean caught her eye and she bit her lip as she smiled at him. He’d been the only one who heard.

Damn, she was one hell of a knockout. Built like an hourglass with porcelain skin. Her thick, wavy red hair fell over one eye, but she didn’t push it back. And she didn’t break his gaze. “I’m ready if you are,” she said to him.

“What you got?” he asked as she strutted towards him. Little black ankle boots gave her an added twitch that made it almost impossible to not ogle her openly.

“This,” she said, and dropped the open book on his chair.

“A snake,” he said. “You don’t strike me as the snake type.”

“I like snakes,” she said with a shrug. “And you don’t know me.”

“Where do you want it?”

“Here,” she said, and turned her back to him to trace a long finger with blood-red nails across the small of her back.

“Good choice,” he said.

“It’s not a tramp stamp?” she asked with a grin as she perched on the chair.

He tried to stay professional as he tucked a paper towel into her jeans and caught a look at her turquoise thong. “That whole tramp stamp thing is bullshit,” he said. “The best tats follow the natural lines of the body, and the lower back is an organic canvas for it.”

“I like how you talk,” she said. With her faced away from him, he couldn’t tell if she was giving him shit.

“So, you don’t seem as hyped about the party as your friends,” he said. He let her check the imprint on her skin before he readied the needle. She nodded, wordless, at the coiled cobra on her back.

“Not really my thing,” she said. She jumped slightly as he started to work.

“Oh? Not the typical SoCal party girl,” he said. Normally he didn’t like shooting the shit with customers. But normally, customers weren’t this hot.

She laughed. “Hardly. But my friends party hard. Normally I’d just fake sick, but since it’s at my place …”

“I can go with you,” he said. The words were out before he could stop himself. What the hell?

“Really?” she asked, though she didn’t sound surprised.

“Sure,” he said. “I can keep you company. I, uh … I’m sober. So, you know.”

It was the first time he’d said it to a total stranger. Something about her, or maybe it was that he could only see half her face in the mirror, just let it slip out.

He saw her bite her lip in the mirror. “I mean, I’m happy to have you there, if you don’t mind being around a bunch of drunk idiots.”

“I can handle it,” he said.

After he’d finished up the little serpent, he handed her the mirror so she could inspect it. “I love it,” she said with a grin.

“I gotta wrap it up,” he said. “Turn around.”

“Okay. Here,” she said, and twisted around. “Put your number in my phone and I’ll text you later about the party.”

“Hey!” the girl with the black braid said. “I didn’t get to see it!”

“You’ll see it Saturday,” the bombshell said.

He finished with the gauze and put his number in her phone. “Sean Cavanaugh,” she said as she put her phone away. “I’m Harper Brex.”

“Yeah, and you better Brexit outta here so I can get mine,” her friend said. “A dragonfly,” she told Sean as she took Harper’s place. “That’s not too slutty, right?”

“Didn’t know there was such a thing,” Sean said.

He busied himself with the girl’s tattoo, but stole glances at Harper when he could. He couldn’t get over that body. Nobody was built like that, but he could tell it was all natural.

As the group left, Harper gave him a wave. Sean smiled halfway. He couldn’t help himself. He felt lighter. And he hadn’t wanted a drink the whole afternoon.

“Hey, that might be the first time I’ve seen you smile!” Josh called. “Not that I can blame you. You see the asses on those girls?”