Empty Gold - {ryden}

2. Apprentice

2. ap-pren-tice (noun) a person who is learning a trade from a skilled employer, having agreed to work for a fixed period at low wages.

Ryan followed nervously behind Brendon back into the parlor he had just exited. He allowed Brendon to proceed ahead of him, causing him to enter the parlor by himself once again. Upon his re-entrance, he was met with a stone-cold glare from the girl who chastised him earlier.

"Didn't I tell you to get lost?" Her voice sounded completely fed up, and, as she started to get up, Brendon called to her.

"So it was you who was rude to our guest," he said calmly, but with a dangerous edge to his voice.

The girl seemed unfazed as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Come on, B," she retorted, voice tired. "He doesn't belong in here! He wasn't even a customer, he was asking about an apprenticeship."

Ryan's face reddened as she called him out to the owner, his grip tightening on his bag strap. Brendon matched her look and crossed his own arms over his chest. "And that gives you the right to be rude to him?"

The girl threw her hands to gesture towards Ryan for emphasis. "Try and process the thought of him working here, for a second! This nobody--"

"You were a 'nobody' once, too, Sarah," he said sternly. "Sit. Down."

The girl - Sarah - went red in the face before huffing once and plopping back in a chair. Ryan felt a small sense of pride rush through him from Brendon - a stranger - standing up for him, until Brendon turned his gaze on him.

"Ryan," he said softly, "come with me to my office." He then turned around and passed through a black metal door, leaving Ryan to follow behind him nervously. He started walking slowly, doing his best to ignore the curious glances from the group and the icy glare from Sarah. He went through the door Brendon had passed through and looked around the office he was stood in, There were beautiful art pieces covering the walls, the styles ranging the same as they did in the showroom. However, unlike the showroom, there were multiple trash-polka style pieces which took all of Ryan's attention.

"Like the art, Ryan?" Brendon's voice was soft as he sat in a black leather chair behind his desk, motioning for Ryan to sit in front of him.

Ryan nodded gently as he took the seat, placing his bag on the ground beside his feet. "Very wonderful pieces," he stated, his eyes still roaming the room. "Are they yours?"

Brendon waved his hand dismissively. "Some of them are," he said. "Most of them are done by my artists, though."

Ryan nodded. "The trash-polka pieces are my favorites."

Brendon beamed. "Now, all of those are mine."

Ryan blushed softly, nodding once more. "Good to know," he said softly. "They're very well done."

Brendon smiled brightly once again, nodding gently. He clasped his hands in the desk in front of him and looked at Ryan intently. "What are you doing here?" His question seemed to catch even him off guard and he quickly backtracked. "In Los Angeles, I mean. What brought you here?"

Ryan fiddled with his fingertips as he kept eye contact with Brendon. "I've always wanted to do tattoos," he starts off, voice small like a nervous child. "I spent all my free time that I wasn't working to save money or budgeting and planning to do research on where the highest traffic for tattoos resided, and it happened to be here. I don't even want to be, like, a famous tattoo artist or anything. I just want someone to appreciate what I can do enough to have me put my art on their skin."

Brendon nodded briefly, leaning back in his chair. "Now," he continued, "what are you doing here? Specifically at my shop."

Ryan gulped. "I-I honestly didn't even know this place existed," he replied. "The first parlor that I stopped at was a place called Hustlers. The owner told me not to bother coming here because I wouldn't be taken in as an apprentice and that you were this semi-mythical creature that I should be afraid to meet."

Brendon bit his lip to contain his laughter. "This, um," he put his hands up and made air quotes, "this 'owner' that you spoke to, what did she look like?"

Ryan furrowed his brows gently. "She had hair to about the middle of her back, brown and blonde ombré, with a gold hoop in her nose."

Brendon laughed gently, shaking his head. "That wasn't the owner," he said softly. "That was Debby, she's the receptionist. And an artist. She's Josh's wife; he's the one out there with his hat on backwards and the cross leggings. Jenna is the owner of Hustlers, she's Tyler's wife; he's the one practically glued to Josh's side."

Ryan felt his cheeks flush as he nodded gently. "Why'd she tell me to stay away from here?"

Brendon shrugged. "Not too sure," he answered honestly. "This place has a pretty high clientele, and it's definitely not off the map at all. We get regular traffic through here, at least 15-20 people a day. I'm not trying to gloat, I hate feeling I am, but I just don't see how you'd never heard of the shop before."

Ryan nodded again, picking at a loose string on his jeans. He was about to apologize for wasting Brendon's time when the man himself spoke again.

"Do you have a portfolio?"

Ryan nodded hastily, reaching into his gear bag and handing Brendon a thin binder completely stuffed with drawings and sketches and ideas Ryan had come up with. After what seemed like forever, but could've only been 9 minutes at the latest, Brendon looked at Ryan. "You've got some incredible talent, here."

Ryan blushes as he smiled softly at Brendon. "Thank you," he says quietly.

Brendon closed the binder and pushed it back toward Ryan. "What makes you want to apprentice here?"

Ryan gulped once again, feeling no need to be anything other than honest with this man. "Since I didn't know this place existed," he started cautiously, "it was kind of my last resort. But, upon seeing all this art and how versatile the penmanship is between all of them, I feel like this would be my best choice."

Brendon nodded and leaned forward again. "Have you ever tattooed a person?"

Ryan shook his head. "I was always afraid that I'd mess something up."

Brendon waited a few moments before nodding to himself, rising from the chair he was seated in. "Come with me," he says again.

Ryan gets up quickly, grabbing his gear bag and walking to the showroom floor. "What are you having me do?"

"Well," Brendon starts as he walks over to a station, "you've never tattooed a person, correct?"

Ryan nods slowly, hands wringing together tightly.

Brendon nods softly, reaching down to roll back the sleeve on his right arm up all the to the middle of his bicep. He then laid his arm on one of the mounts, looking up to Ryan with a bright smile. "Give me a tattoo."

Ryan couldn't help but look stunned, looking at the artists around in as they all gave him dark, curious glances. "What now?"

Brendon laughed gently. "Think of this as your apprenticeship quiz," he says softly. "Give me a tattoo, and I'll decide whether or not you can work in this shop. "