Path To Resolution (Fighter's Den, #5)

Chapter 1 - Lenny

I've just replaced the 13 mag in my tattoo gun's needle bar when my co-worker, Corbin, sticks his head inside the supply room.

"Hey, babe." He tips his head to the side. "Your four o'clock is here."

"Thanks." I hold the tattoo gun up in acknowledgement. "Tell them I'll be right out."

He knocks twice on the door before closing it again. I grab all the supplies I need for my set up—needles, grip, tubes and coils—before stepping out of the room. My Doc Martins thump against the hardwood floor, somehow still loud enough to hear over the blaring music. "BLOW" by Ed Sheeran blasts through the parlour and I bop my head along to the beat of the song. His music isn't typically my type but this song definitely speaks my language.

"Who's here for me?" I stand in the middle of the main room where the reception desk and waiting area is.

"Melanie Parks, right?" A girl in jean shorts and a hot pink tank stands up. She looks like straight up Barbie with her platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, and lithe frame. She also doesn't have a smudge of ink on her but I know better than to stereotype. I've inked all kinds of people.

"Lenny." I correct. I hate being called by my name. "Follow me."

I start for my office without checking to see if she's following me. The slap of her flip-flops is enough to tell me she is. I mindlessly chew the same piece of gum that I've been assaulting all day. My afternoon appointment took longer than I thought and I ended up missing my lunch break. Still, my client's piece turned out badass so I don't mind all that much. Seeing the face of a client when they're shocked and elated because of the ink I did for them? Hella rewarding.

"In here." I call over my shoulder and kick my door open. My boss, Titus, has told me a million times to stop doing that but I've yet to kick the habit. Besides, there's already a faint outline of my shoe on the door anyways so no point in stopping now.

I set my supplies down on the table, assembling the gun together and barely having to look at what I'm doing. I notice Barbie shuffling back and forth uncomfortably and I instantly know this is the first time she's getting tatted. I know I said I don't stereotype but sometimes the verdict is too fucking obvious. Take Barbie for example. My money is on a butterfly tat on either her hipbone or the back of her neck and she's doing it for her preppy boyfriend. I'm going to guess his name is Josh.

"Take a seat." I raise my brows at the reclining chair.

She sits down and immediately pulls out her phone, texting. No doubt telling her friends what a badass she is for doing this.

"So, what's it going to be?" I ask as I grip the tattoo gun, shut my office door, and take a seat beside her.

She sits up, hopping in her seat excitedly. "A butterfly tattoo. Just a small one. I'm thinking maybe on my hip? I'm surprising my boyfriend, Jake."

Damn. So close.

"You got it." I try to contain my smile. "Have a design in mind or do you want to flip through our catalogue?"

"No, that's okay. I found one on google images and printed it out."

She takes out a folded paper from her shorts and hands it to me.

"Colour or black and white?"

"Colour, duh. Baby blue and black."

Shocker.

I grab my sketch pad and pencils and immediately draw out a replica of the image. Barbie—who's name is Chloe I found out—kills time on her phone texting away. It doesn't take me long and in less than five minutes, I hold up the finished product for her.