Never go to a tattoo artist if bad luck is following you

𝟬𝟱 | 𝗖𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗮𝗹.

Today is my second day of work, a job I've been looking forward to.

After last night's "incident" with the heels, Carly and I ended up heading home because of the storm that rolled in. Nothing new, just my bad luck reminding me who runs my life. Convincing her to postpone our night of drinking until we mistook street lamps for celebrities, taking selfies with them, and posting them all over our social media with the caption "OMG, I finally met a star, so excited!"—only to be mocked for eternity—was a challenge.

Basically, it was going to be a fantastic evening.

We spent the rest of the night watching Pretty Little Liars and gaining at least ten pounds from all the junk food we devoured together.

I grab one of my completed sketchbooks and put it in my bag. I don't have a preferred subject or style; my sketchbooks contain drawings of animals, landscapes, portraits of people, abstract subjects, plants. Watercolors, charcoal, and pencils alternate. Everything that inspires me ends up in one of my sketchbooks.

On one hand, I'm excited to show my "lovely" boss some of my drawings because I'm proud of what I've put into each of my sketchbooks. On the other hand, I'm terrified of putting myself out there, of being judged. Art isn't for everyone.

I started drawing mainly out of boredom. I was in that fangirl phase obsessed with Harry Potter, convinced that soon a owl would fly through my window to deliver my Hogwarts letter. I didn't know how to pass the time, so I decided to try drawing Hedwig, and that's when I discovered I was incredibly good at it.

I put the sketchbook into a backpack and head to work.

⸻ ❝ ❞ ⸻

As soon as I open the door, I hear the sound of something hitting the floor—the phone of the girl I haven't met yet.

Paul looks at me, bewildered. "So, it really is a curse."

I ignore what he said and look at the girl. I plead with her. "Tell me it's not broken and I don't have to replace it, even though technically it wouldn't be my fault. Like the painting," I emphasize, looking at my boss.

He doesn't keep me waiting long before he replies. "If it wasn't your fault, you wouldn't be here."

I raise an eyebrow. "It's not my fault. That painting could have fallen at any time and with anyone." Even though it happened to me. The Lesters aren't known for their luck.

Paul sighs. "Did you bring any drawings?"

I nod slightly. I pull out my sketchbook and hand it to him with trembling hands.

And here comes my sarcasm on a coffee break, and in comes anxiety, that little bastard.

As he looks carefully at each drawing and its details, I can almost hear the annoying ticking of a clock.

Every time he turns a page, I hold my breath, almost afraid he'll exclaim, "This drawing is awful" and give me the task of cleaning. And, for heaven's sake, I have nothing against those who do this job, but if my mom doesn't trust me with a vacuum cleaner because the last time I managed to burn out an electrical circuit and doesn't even let me wash the floors because the last time, while cleaning the stairs, I dumped the bucket of water directly onto the steps, and Dad slipped because they were still wet after an hour, then if my mom doesn't trust me to clean the house, how can Paul trust me to clean the shop?

Simple, he can't.

When he finishes flipping through the sketchbook, he closes it and hands it back to me, and I put it back in my bag.

Paul still hasn't said a word, and I don't know whether I should worry or be scared.

Then he does something unexpected. He smiles.

I mean, does he know how to smile?

And then he does something even more unexpected. He gives me a compliment. "Brianna, let me tell you, you have talent in this, at least."

I blink, surprised and disconcerted. "He can smile," I say, incredulous. "And he knows what compliments are. And he just gave me one. Incredible."

He suddenly turns serious again. "Don't get used to it; it won't happen again. And now, everyone get to work," and he disappears into his office.

The girl from before approaches me and extends her hand. "Hi, I'm Skyler, but call me Sky."

I shake her hand. "Brianna."

A customer walks into the store.

After a quarter of an hour of the lady going off on an absurd tangent just to tell me I needed to draw two stylized children, a boy and a girl, with their initials under them, I've already decided that I'll throw myself under a car on the way out. I'm not cut out for working with the public.

⸻ ❝ ❞ ⸻

Several customers later, I can say that I no longer feel the pulse in my right hand. Paul and Skyler have gone on their lunch break, leaving just James and me. The words exchanged have been about my supposed insanity and my curse. To get back at him, I even opened the front door while his back was turned, so he tripped over the chair and fell to the ground. When I burst out laughing, he turned to look at me, noticing me near the door. I hope this place has cameras and I can get a snapshot of his face.

As we tidy up the last things before James can close the store, he approaches, sighing. "Listen, Brianna, I'm sorry for how I acted yesterday. It was a 'bad day' and I took it out on you. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have and didn't want to. Can we start over?" he offers.

I look at him, confused. "Are you trying to trick me into not being a victim of my curse anymore?" I ask. "Because asking me for a truce without offering any food isn't the right way."

James smiles at me. "Do you have plans now?" he asks.

I look at him, confused. "No, why?"

"Let's go, I'll treat you to ice cream."

I try to suppress a smile. "I'm coming only because I'm hungry, just so you know."

If you enjoyed the story, you can find the rest of the chapters on GoodNovel on the profile of -hunter-of-stories-!