What people told you and what you truly believed were often very different things. But what I did believe was that Ivy needed me, and I couldn’t abandon her, no matter how scary and wrong her choice seemed to me.
On my phone, I checked my bank balance. We had a few thousand dollars in savings that I'd hoped to use to buy a car so Ivy and I wouldn't have to share. There was also a bit of money I'd set aside from the sale of the house that Ivy didn't know about. It was the emergency fund. I suppose if there was ever an emergency, this would be it.
But medical bills, another mouth to feed, a better place to live…those would all eat through our savings like Pac Man on steroids. Suddenly the inking job looked incredibly appealing.
"I'm going down to Atra," I called, but there was no response.
"Tucker here?" I asked Gig when I walked in. Of course he was here. Tucker lived in his tattoo shop.
"He's in the back." Gig jerked his head toward the rear of the shop.
Tucker was in our small break room that contained a card table, four chairs, and a microwave. And boxes. Lots of boxes full of ink, body jewelry, tattoo gun modification pieces, and who knew what else. There were shelves in boxes too.
"When are you going to put those up?"
He ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I'm a tattoo artist, not a fucking carpenter."
My thoughts flicked to Finn and his capable hands and his sawdust-covered boots. He'd have those shelves up in no time.
"How much would it cost me to apprentice?" I asked, sitting in one of the uncomfortable folding chairs.
He perked up at this. "Usually it costs a couple grand, but I'm willing to teach you for free if you agree to work for me for two years after you're done apprenticing. And this would include exclusivity over your designs so you couldn't take your art and talent somewhere else the minute you learned how to ink."
"Two years? I think indentured servants had to pledge themselves for less time."
"It was seven years for indentured servants, and most died before their servitude was over. We can go seven years if you like."
The worst thing about Tucker was that he had that stupid law degree under his belt. It sucked to argue with him. There was no winning. And he liked to argue. I could see his engines firing up. I, on the other hand, did not like confrontation. As he leaned forward, I scooted back.
"Would I have to pay for supplies? You make Gig pay for his ink and pig skins." Gig was learning to tattoo on pigskin procured from a local butcher, which I thought was tremendously gross, but the alternative was really expensive. Plastic skin cost twenty times as much as a pigskin.
"You'd need to pay for the disposables. Ink, needles, grips, skins. I'll make your gun for you, which you can rent. When you're done apprenticing, you'll need to buy your own gun."
"What if I can't do it?" I was worried I was too squeamish to permanently scar someone with ink. It was one thing to watch it done and a whole other level to do it.
Tucker just smiled, a long slow curve of his lips. "You love to draw. This is a human canvas. There isn’t anything better, Winter."
"I guess I won't know until I try it. If I start apprenticing, we might need another receptionist—"
"No way." Tucker stood abruptly. "I'm not hiring your sister."
"Why not? She went in for drug use not stealing." I didn't mention all the times she'd taken money from me or my parents. That wasn't relevant now that she was clean.
"I'm not, and that's the end of it. You and Gig can share those duties. You're going to have to start coming in before noon and practicing. I'm not paying you for those hours either."
"Gee, you make this sound so appealing."
"You need a job that pays more money, right? Well, this is it. You could have a real career at this. You're an amazing artist, and after you start inking, I bet your designs flourish even more. Concentrate on that and forget about your sister."
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and then went out.
I stared after his retreating back. I appreciated his confidence in my abilities, but the criticism of Ivy bothered me. If Tucker, a guy who owned a tattoo parlor for crying out loud, wouldn't even hire her to answer phones, what kind of job could she get? And if she didn't have a job, if she had to constantly worry about feeding herself and her baby, would she crumple under the stress and look to drink away that frustration?
None of these scenarios looked good to me. I leaned an arm on the table and let out a long sigh. I loved Ivy. I really did, but sometimes the weight of being responsible for both of us was too much for me. Adding a baby to that mix was insane, but what could I do? The Donovans adopted me when I was a baby. They saved me from a life in an orphanage or worse. The very least I could do was help the newest Donovan.