“You call me Ms. DeMaio,” she barks back. I look up at the ceiling and suck in a breath for strength. This bitch is on my last nerve today.
“Ms. DeMaio, I’m going to cut you off right there and just ask you one question.”
She looks at me and stops talking. Finally.
“Did you know the motorcycle club that came into town brought in relatively enough return to more than six businesses that line Main Street when some of them were being tattooed in my studio?”
Oh, she better be ready for this. Her stink face is about to get real nasty.
“Thatelementyou are referring to are good people. They came all the way from California to get tattooed by me. The club’s owner had open heart surgery last year, and he decided he wanted to cover his scar with artwork. Reminding him that even the hard stuff can be beautiful. So, his entire squad got the same ink, out of camaraderie and respect.”
I look at her with a smirk.
“Imagine a community of people that cares about each other so much that they’ll share markings on their bodies out of respect, and a sense of belonging.”
She looks around, noticing that all eyes are on her now. “That’s nice, but it still congested every single spot downtown.”
Vinny speaks up, “You don’t drive, Ruth.”
Snickers from around the room ring out.
I’m not done yet, because there’s nothing that pisses me off more than someone judging people, or making assumptions based on appearance, or their choice for self-expression. Normally, I could give two enthusiastic middle fingers to people who like to look at my tattoos sideways, but not when it comes to those who are paying top dollar to wear my art.
Leo, who owns the boutique clothing store three doors down from my shop, chimes in, “I had my best sales day that day, Ruth. Nearly triple what I make this time of year.” He shoots me a wink.
“I sold out of my barbeque sauce and had to place new orders for those cute heart sunglasses when those boys stopped on through my shop,” Rhonda says. She runs the most trafficked store, Strutt’s Sentiments. It’s a catchall for tchotchkes and random original things you can only find when you come to Strutt’s.
Ruth pipes in, “That’s. Well, I don’t—” She’s left with little to say. “It wasn’t a nice look for our community,” she says, getting the last word in.
“Ruth, I think that’s enough now,” Henry bites out from the back of the room.
The entire family is regaled in Strutt’s, so when one of them shows up, everyone sits a little taller. She smiles at Henry and blushes. It’s what most women do when they see him. When any Riggs decides to grace the town with their presence, that happens. They’re practically royalty here. And for good reason. They bring in an insane amount of money from tourists seeking out their brand and the outdoor sporting adventures they offer. Not to mention, they’re all insanely hot. Hot goes a long way. Anyone who says otherwise hasn’t witnessed true, boob-sweat, stutter-inducing hotness. And Henry, Everly, Michael and Law are hot. Asher too; don’t get me started on that silver-fox. But more than that, they give a shit about everyone here. The meeting wraps up a few minutes later, and all of us who own a place on Main Street talk a bit longer about the approaching tourist season. Ideas around the Annual Riggs Tree Lighting Event in December, The Hot Toddy Stroll, and even the collective agreement on the times that all outdoor heaters will run so that we don’t have to salt the sidewalks as frequently.
It’s taken time, but I’m one of them now.
A townie.
When I first took over the tattoo shop, I wasn’t liked. I thought it was because I was an outsider who looked different and spoke her mind. But it was really about someone new coming in, making changes to a way that had been comfortable.
It took a while for anyone to really take time to talk with me. Get to know me. Asher helped, but it was on me to really build out the shop, to start making a name for myself so that people would seek me out. That I’d bring business in that would support the shops around me too. And not just from our county or state. I’ve been bringing in business from all over the Midwest and west coast. Hideaway Ink has become a tourist destination of sorts.
People see me from all over now. And while there is a level of danger to that, I mitigate it as much as possible. I take steps to make sure I won’t be surprised by a client coming in and recognizing me. I vet everyone before they ever have an appointment on my books. I’m rarely a stop in and get tattooed kind of shop anymore. Hell, even when I am inside, if there’s no daylight, then the doors are locked. Everyone needs an appointment, and I’m booked out at least three months in advance. It’s good business. And it’s safe-ish.
“Ruth, don’t forget to call Gracie before she heads back to London,” Lenny McKenna shouts from the open door.
“Go suck on a fire hose, Len. I don’t need the reminder.” We all turn and watch the resident grouch and the town gossip volley for words.
Lenny thumbs over her shoulder as she moves closer to our group. “My sister. Such a charming woman, isn’t she?” She smiles. The woman loves sticking it to her sister.
“Lenny, to what do we owe this visit?” Vinny asks. Looking at his watch, he says, “You’re about ten minutes too late if you had any plans to participate in the Q&A session.”
She swats at the air in front of her. “Ah no, Vin. I have zero interest in asking rhetorical questions in front of an audience. I’d much rather tell you to your face what I don’t like about your business.”
She shifts her attention to me.
“Giselle, I need to know three things about tonight,” she says with her hand slung on her hip.
I laugh. “Okay, Len.”