mila
I absolutely hate it here.
I'm standing in the busy streets of New York, minutes away from my father's tattoo shop, ready to ball my eyes out. I've been in the country for two days! Two days! And I already want to go back home to England.
I exhale a deep breath and clutch my Chanel bag close to my chest as people manoeuvre around my still form with frustrated looks on their faces. My eyes drop down to my black Valentino platform heels and I grin in excitement. God, they're so pretty. I look over my shoulder and spot my reflection in the window of a shop. Black tights, a black mini skirt and a plain, cropped, white-t-shirt showcasing all of my tattoos on both my arms. I adjust my black shades and lean forward to check that my makeup is okay.
"Move." I'm suddenly pushed to the side by a random person in business attire, storming off like they're on a mission.
My lips purse and I exhale another shaky breath. "Pig," I mutter.
I'm beginning to think it was a bad idea to move to America just because I was trying to prove a point to my mother.
My mum, Dawn Zhou, was brought up with a Chinese mother and an English father. Her mother was very strict about her mannerisms, and her work ethic and for some reason, my mother wanted to pass that down to her own children. My older sister, Isla, is the replica of her. Always working, always serious, and hates tattoos and piercings. But she never judged me for being the opposite of what she and mum believed in. Our mum, on the other hand, despises what I've become and she blames my father who I love with all my heart.
My parents divorced when I was young because my mum was struggling to accept who my dad was as a person. She wasn't pleased when I started following in his footsteps with art and tattoos. She loved that I took an interest in fashion, but she wanted me to become a lawyer. The thought makes me want to throw up. Me? A lawyer? Do me a favour!
Back to the reason why I'm standing in a foreign country looking like I'm about to run back home, pack my bags and get the next flight back to England. My dad owns a tattoo shop. I used to work at one back home, but my boss was weird and creepy and kept asking me out on a date every ten minutes. I love tattooing and piercing people and it was a struggle after that to find a decent shop that wouldn't treat me like a piece of meat. Plus the pay was terrible.
Then my mum took satisfaction in the fact things weren't working out, not knowing I had a fashion blog to fall back on which paid quite well with sponsors and brand deals. She tried to push me into going to university to study and she wouldn't stop for months until we finally argued. I told my dad everything because I literally tell him everything, every day on FaceTime. He offered me a job at his shop and as much as I wanted to make it on my own, I caved.
My dad has been living in America for twenty years. His accent is a blend of New York and south London. It's quite fascinating. He's not close with Isla, because our mother managed to drill into her head a version of him that isn't true. But me and him get on very well. He did a lot for me, even if we didn't live near one another, like giving me a job that he knows I'll love.
But right now, I'm standing on a street, getting by numerous people. I'm regretting moving here and I haven't even entered the damn shop.
My best friends, Bonnie and Imogen, wouldn't happy with the thought of moving back. They moved here with me and they love it here already. No idea why.
I pull out a clear Chanel lipgloss and swipe it across my already glossy lips. It can never be enough.
"You've got this, Mila." I encourage myself in the reflection, spotting people behind me throwing cautious glares. I walk the last few minutes and stop in front of my dad's tattoo shop 'Cassidy', the name in big bold writing. It's a big shop. One of the best piercing and tattoo shops in the city', my dad told me and from the looks of the hustle and bustle inside, I believe him. It's not even mid-day and it's full of people.
I take off my sunglasses and push open the and step into the sound of tattoo guns, chatter and r&b music playing.
"Woah," I whisper in amazement just as an older lady around my dad's age steps up to me with a huge smile on her pretty face. I return the gesture and stare at her in amazement. Her long flowing, bright red hair cascades down her back and her all-black attire screams dominance. She's got a tight mini dress on that hugs her perfect figure and big chunky black boots. She screams dominance.
"Mila!" She beams, throwing her arms around me in a tight hug. "Oh, you are gorgeous! made a pretty girl, didn't he!" She holds me at shoulder length, her bright white teeth still on show.
"Hi," I whisper with wide eyes.
"I'm Pauline. I work alongside your father." She tells me, her pale face transforming into a shade of red almost the same colour as her hair. "And I'm basically the mother of this shop. Always looking after the boys and girlies here."
"Nice to meet you, Pauline." I smile. "I love your hair." I compliment and she pulls her hand back to run them through the long red lengths.
"Really?!" Her eyes widen and just when I thought her smile couldn't grow any bigger, it does. She stares down at her toes shyly and then her head shoots back up to mine. "Are those Valentino? I've been wanting a pair for ages! Your father always goes on about you being a little fashionista. Now that I look at you, you need to give me some tips and tricks, sweetheart." She winks and grabs my hand leading me through the shop.
"That's Slade." She points to one station where an older man is crouched tattooing a guy my age who looks ready to cry. I try to hide my smile. "He's your dad's best friend." Slade looks up for a second and sharply nods at us before carrying on with his work.
"Arabella. Slade's wife." Pauline points to a girl with bright pink hair and a very pregnant belly. She looks at least ten years younger than Slade as I watch her sketch something out and show it to a woman with a shy smile.
Looking around the place and at people's stations, I find them unique. At the previous places I used to work out, everything was all the same, bland. No character, just black and white. But here, everyone has assigned their stations to fit their personality. Slade's station is mostly black, the walls designed with skulls
and what looks to be his designs. Whereas his wife is a huge contrast. Different shades of pink and purple, with the walls covered in pretty flowers.
"And that's Sawyer. Little sweetheart, he is." Pauline beams looking over to a boy my age whose bright blue eyes widen and his mouth falls open when he glances at me. His station looks a bit like a drugs den with the number of cannabis leaves painted on the walls. I smile my face heating and give him a small wave. With his mouth still open like a fish, he lifts one arm and waves back up at me.
I giggle to myself and turn back to Pauline.
"No idea where Hendrix has gone. That boy is always disappearing somewhere." Pauline huffs, but she doesn't look annoyed. My brows furrow as I look at the empty station that I assume belongs to the missing Hendrix.
It's empty.
The walls are blank. There isn't one bit of character to show me what kind of person Hendrix is.
But then I look at the station right next to his. On the walls, there's a collage of different designers and fashion things on the wall, along with a photo of myself and my dad when I came to visit him one time for Christmas. The colours are mostly browns and beiges, with splashes of pink. My name is painted in cursive writing on the wall and my eyes water at the effort my father has put in.
He couldn't contain his excitement on the phone when I told him I would move here to work in his shop.
"Is that my girl?" I spin around to face the tall dark-skinned man who is my dad. His dreads are tied back, probably because he's just finished tattooing someone. With a bright smile, I rush over to him and wrap my arms around his buff frame. "It's good to have you here, Mila." He speaks out, planting a big kiss on the top of my head.
"This place is amazing. And my station is so cool!" I bounce in excitement and he chuckles, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. Gone is the thought of wanting to leave. After seeing this place, I don't want to go back home.
"What are those death traps on your feet?" I gasp and so does Pauline.
"Roman, those are not death traps! They are Valentino." Pauline scolds him, lightly hitting his tattooed arm with my face and name on it. He sends a smile my way, revealing a gold tooth that has me mirroring his smile. I've always been engrossed by his gold tooth every time he would smile through the camera when we FaceTimed. "Sorry, sweet thing." My father apologises to Pauline and her face turns that familiar shade of red before she scurries away.
I smirk to myself. I think Pauline has a crush.
The phone starts ringing at the reception desk, startling me because of how loud it is. But with the noise going on in the place, it probably has to be.
"Make yourself at home, honey. I gotta go and get that." With one more kiss to the top of my head, he rushes off to pick the phone up before it stops.
I turn back to my station and smile gently. I place my bag down on the tattoo chair and take a closer look at the wall, to see everyone's written little greeting messages to me. But one message catches my eye.
It's not really a message. It's a drawing of a princess tiara, signed off with the letter 'H'.
I trace it with my baby pink acrylic nail and frown slightly.
Shuffling around at the station on my left has me side-eyeing whoever it is. A guy. A very tall, lean guy. He's adorned in a black hoodie and jeans, with a pair of converse on his feet. Oh, Jesus. He's setting up his station with a frown on his face, his sharp jawline, covered in light stubble, clenched tight.
His brown hair is shaved short, almost a buzz cut.
But when he turns his head to fully face me, a not-so-subtle gasp escapes my mouth. His piercing, dark brown - almost black eyes pierce through me like sharp knife. But that's not what has me gasping. It's the big jagged scar that starts from the left corner of his full lips, going right up across his cheek to his ear. It doesn't hinder how gorgeous he is.
This must be Hendrix.
His eyes are intense as he stares me down. I give him a gentle smile and to my surprise, his face softens and his eyes widen only slightly his long dark lashes making me kind of jealous.
"I'm Mila." I introduce myself.
His eyes roam up and down my body leaving a light trail of fire everywhere he looks. Ι should be grimacing in disgust as I did with the artists back home, but when this guy does it... my thighs that touch, rub together. He looks back into my eyes with a curious stare. I've got one light green and one dark brown eye. It's something I got bullied for in school.
All my classmates would say how unnatural it is.
Well F them!
"Hendrix." He grumbles and then goes back to shuffling around, checking his tattoo gun and ink.
Something that wasn't there before catches my eye. An old tatted looking book. A diary maybe?
maybe?
I stand by his station awkwardly, fiddling with my Van Cleef bracelet.
"I like your tattoos." And your body. But I figure it's best to stick with the one compliment.
Hendrix doesn't look at me, but I can see he's smirking to himself. It's hot. He's hot. He tilts his head and I just spot the huge butterfly on the side of his neck and the helix piercing in his ear and the nose ring. I think I'm going to faint.
"Mila, you've got an appointment at twelve-thirty. Woman wants a touch-up on one of her tattoos she got done in some other shitty shop." My dad interrupts my internal battle on whether to jump Hendrix or not. "I see you've met, Hendrix. One of my best artists here." My dad smirks, and Hendrix rolls his eyes but smiles at my dad anyway.
Hendrix glances at me as soon as my dad has walked off.
"You should stay clear of me, princess." He rasps, stepping closer to me so that I have to crane my neck to look up at him. I'm five-six, but my heels make me at least six feet tall. And I'm still having to glance up at, Hendrix.
"Why?" I tilt my head and pout.
His gaze falls to my lips and his own curve
upward creasing the scar on his face.
"Wouldn't want you falling for me. Especially with those heels on your little feet." He smirks, his American accent a huge contrast to my British one and my face falls. "I'm looking into those pretty colourful eyes of yours and I can see you're ready to get on your knees for me. I wouldn't mind that, princess. But you seem a bit too innocent for that. I don't wanna taint such a pretty girl like you."
I can't stop the gasp from escaping my lips. I was not expecting to hear that from him. If my dad heard him say that, he would be out of a job right now. "Bit full of yourself, aren't you?" I cross my arms over my chest and his deep brown eyes fall to my chest. "I wouldn't dare get on my knees for you."
