who was smiling with bright eyes at the camera. She had to be around thirty-five in the shot. Her hair was styled into a tight bob and she had a baby, who I assumed was Bridges, on her hip.
As I studied the picture, I felt Ama fidgeting at my side. Handing it to her to study, I told Bridges, “I’ll need some time to come up with something. Want to do her justice, you know?”
“I get that. I expected as much.” He cleared his throat. “Would a week be enough?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you when I have something ready and give you dates for when I can fit you in.” I studied him, thought about all the space he had left on his body and stated, “You can only really have it on your calf.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Left one. The right is fucked up with those scars I got. I want the whole image. Not just her face. Me in there too.”
“Okay, so without a doubt, I’ll be doing the ink.” When he scowled, I raised a hand and said, “Wait. Ama just got accepted into the Rhode Island School of Design. She’s a fucking phenomenal artist. I’ll design something, of course, but would you mind if she did too? Then you can pick which one you like.”
“But you’d do the ink?” he repeated, needing the confirmation, and I understood that. No one wanted a noob massacring a tattoo that held a lot of meaning.
“I swear. I just… I’d like to do your momma justice, and in all honesty, I think Ama will do that. You should see her stuff, man.” I cut Ama a look and said, “Grab your notebook from the desk.”
She scurried away and returned with the pad in less than twenty seconds—her excitement was evident, and I was hard-pressed not to smile.
There was a shyness about her as she handed over the notebook to Bridges, and I got that—it was always nerve-racking showing someone your art. When Bridges flickered through the notepad, I saw his eyes widen and knew he was impressed.
There was something about Ama’s style that was raw but somehow clever too. It was like she photoshopped the bits people didn’t like with her hand, while intensifying the parts people loved. But, underlying it all was a depth of realism that was envious.
I had to admit, I’d like to try to ink one of her pieces, see how it worked out with a different medium.
“Yeah, okay. Give it a go. Thanks.” He dipped his chin at Ama, but didn’t really look at her as he began to edge out of seat. “I’ll wait on your call.”
With that, he headed out and I understood. He’d cast a final glance at his photo and tears had moistened his eyes—Bridges was too much of a dick to be happy about anyone seeing him crying.
When the door closed, I told Ama, “Turn the sign to ‘open,’ would you?”
She nodded, did as I requested, then returned to the booth. “Thank you for doing that.”
I shrugged. “It’s your strength. Probably how you’ll make your name if you can translate what you do with pen and ink to this kind of medium.”
“You think?” she asked, excitement making her bounce in the seat she’d taken opposite me.
“I do.” I tore off a sheet and passed it to her. “Don’t forget, this has to be an outline. It’s going to go on his calf. We create an image that we can trace onto his leg. Most of the details are there, but any flair, that comes after, okay?”
She nodded her understanding, then propped the picture against the booth. It was interesting watching her work. I knew for a fact her process wouldn’t be fast. Hell, it was bound to be slow. I’d watched her drawing Saint and Keys, had heard them moaning about how long she took, and I knew that they only let her get away with it because they either wanted in her panties or because they loved her.
For her sake, I hoped it was the latter over the former.
As I got to work sketching, well aware that a new customer could come in now, she stared at the picture for so long, I wasn’t even sure what she was looking at.
Then, after twenty minutes—I swear to God, twenty fucking minutes—she picked up the pencil and began to scratch the first few lines onto the paper. My own pencil slowed as I switched my attention onto her and her work, and fuck,