Oliver’s nose scrunched. “Ew. Why?”
“I could smell his sweaty balls,” Wylie said.
Oliver dropped his chopsticks. “And that’s me done.”
“Get used to it, buttercup.” Flint waggled his eyebrows. “You want to be one of us, we see everything. We’re like docs, but instead of saving lives, we ink people. I’ve seen pussy, cock, and asshole. So many different kinds. You get used to it.”
“Was he hairy?” I asked, more to get a reaction from my feisty kitten.
“Smoother than a Barbie doll.” Wylie made an amused sound as he shoved veggies into his mouth.
“Which is fine, but underwear while getting a tattoo couldn’t hurt.” Oliver shook his head and went to the sink. He threw away his trash in the can. “I’m going to get started.”
He leaned down to give me a kiss, and I grabbed his face, flicking my tongue against his lips, which earned me a slap to the shoulder. He ruffled my hair, messing it up, before huffing and stalking out of the break room.
Wylie watched him go, then spun around to look at me seriously. “Boss, we need to talk.”
I frowned. That wasn’t ominous at all. . . . “What’s up?”
Wylie glanced at Flint, who sighed rather dramatically.
“Okay, listen, we’re gonna say something and we don’t want you to kick our asses, all right?” Flint scratched his jaw. “You know we like Oli.”
“What is it?” My gaze shot between them, jaw tightening. “Spit it out.”
“We don’t think Oli has what it takes to be a tattoo artist,” Flint said, because apparently Wylie was too busy worrying his bottom lip, as though he was afraid to open his mouth despite starting the conversation. It made sense. Flint was always the one who told me things bluntly. He didn’t like leaving things lingering between us. “He hasn’t improved. In the time he’s been here, he should’ve gotten better. A lot fucking better. He hasn’t. He’s a good artist, but that doesn’t always translate to skin. You know that.”
Of course I did. I’d thought about giving Oliver more time. He’d been going through hell lately, but I knew that had nothing to do with inking. As a tattoo artist, you had to beonat all times, even when you were dealing with personal shit. What you inked on someone’s body was permanent.
“Some people have what it takes, others don’t. He’s practicing on fake skin, the kind that doesn’t move, and he’s still not getting it. What would he be like on a real person?” Flint shrugged, mouth twisted in displeasure. He never enjoyed telling me how it is about these sorts of things, but he did it best.
I exhaled. “I know. Fuck.” I tipped my head back and rubbed my palms over my face.
“This job isn’t for everyone,” Wylie finally muttered. “That’s what you tell every apprentice who comes through your doors.”
I did. Some succeeded, others didn’t. Inking was a whole new experience. I’d been holding off on the conversation with Oliver because he wanted this skill so bad, but they were right. He wasn’t improving the way he should be.
“All right. You got any clients this afternoon?”
They both shook their heads.
“I did have one, but he canceled because of the weather,” Flint said.
“Most of mine canceled yesterday or got in earlier to avoid the snow.” Wylie ran a hand through his hair.
“Head home before it gets worse. I’ll talk to Oliver, and then we’ll lock up and go home. I’ll keep an eye on the news, figure out when’s the best time to reopen. We’ll need to keep our clients updated.”
“Yes, Boss,” they both said.
They cleaned up their stations and said their goodbyes to Oliver before heading out. I watched them go, then my gaze slid to Oliver still practicing on his fake skin. He always looked so determined, mouth set in a firm line. He hated giving up, and I loved that about him. He was the type of person who would do anything to succeed and prove people wrong, so approaching him about this was going to be difficult. So very difficult, especially when this was personal between us.
I grabbed a rolling stool and dragged it behind him. I took a seat and wrapped my arms around him, hooking my chin over his shoulder.
“Mm. What are you doing?” he whispered.
The tattoo gun in his hand buzzed, the comforting sound working its way into my bones. His lines were jagged, the skin cut in a way that was alarming. He cursed, muttering under his breath.
“You’re too heavy on your hand,” I murmured. “You’re tense and it’s showing through your work.”