Pictures And Some Memories

Twenty Nine: Rose Colored Boy

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I stared up at the tattoo parlor, admiring the neon sign welcoming ink fiends of all walks of life into his space. From high-profile celebrities to kids barely scraping together the change to get their first tattoo, Erik served a variety of characters every day. I'd only visited a handful of times, and I would be lying if I didn't get the itch to get another tattoo every time I dropped by.

"I wonder if we could conduct a business meeting while I get a tattoo?" I wondered softly, glancing briefly at my bare left forearm and weighing my odds. No, I thought to myself, another time.

I took a breath and entered the parlor, greeted instantly by a chorus of 'Hey, Red!' by all five of his rotating tattoo artists. Erik's receptionist, Josie, looked up from her lunch and waved a hand in his general direction as she chewed, and I smiled at her gratefully. He was finishing up with a client, wrapping their ankle to protect the fresh ink. "Meet me in the back office?" he asked as I approached.

"Did you order my usual?" I asked as I continued.

"Venti iced caramel machiatto and a chocolate chip cookie, because your tastes are identical to a child's?"

I chuckled. "You know me well."

I settled onto a stool at the bar in the back office and opened my MacBook, pulling up the leads on local artists to collaborate with on our gallery as I sipped my coffee. I ignored the pure fear that stirred in the pit of my stomach, as our previous meeting held much to be desired from core investors. So instead of worrying, I chewed my cookie and got caught up with my emails, hoping that both my newfound ideas and Erik's vast amount of knowledge and experience would come to our rescue.

"I've got news!" he announced as he bounded into the room, grinning. "Stop beating yourself up over the other day, because – and drumroll, please – we've got investors!"

"Shut up!" I shouted, unable to help myself. "What... How... When?"

"Well, we've got two now – Mr. Montgomery and Dr. Katrina. They both called last night and made an offer!"

"That's incredible! What changed their minds?"

He moved to lean on the counter in front of me, sipping on his Americano with a smirk. "They loved you," he replied with a shrug. "They were... uneasy, to say the least, about your touring background, but Dr. Katrina said she couldn't help but look you up online—"

"Oh, God," I immediately muttered, recoiling at the thought of whatever videos would inevitably pop up of me drunkenly dancing with Jack in Europe. For some reason, their fanbase really ate that shit up, despite the fact that it's just me dancing off-beat with Jack to a slow-song in French.

"Stop, they didn't find anything incriminating. They looked up your blog and portfolio listed and really liked your work. It helps that you were reviewed in the Times, too," he grinned. " 'She's a Times reviewed artist and didn't mention it? How modest of her!'" he quoted in a higher pitched voice, pressing his hand against his chest to emphasize his words. I rolled my eyes but couldn't help but laugh.

"So where does that leave us?" I asked, looking at him expectantly.

"We're halfway to the goal," he replied, grinning. "Just need to do some fundraising, and maybe we could kick in a little bit more of our own funds..."

I chewed my lip nervously. I'd already exhausted most of what I'd had invested in my last space, and my contract with Larkin wouldn't allow me to invest any more money without his consent—which, at this point, I knew that he'd be a spiteful asshole and would deny it just to hear me scream at him on the phone for it.