“You’re here early.”

“Cooper was adopted out today,” she said, her eyes shiny with emotion. “I just . . . needed to get my mind off of it.”

Emmy also volunteered with animals in a no-kill shelter and had created her own dog-walking business. She was hardworking and extremely compassionate and I could see this bit of news had gutted her. Problem was, she always became too attached to the animals.

I’d never seen her with a boyfriend, even though she checked plenty of guys out. She lived with her grandmother, and like me, she couldn’t always afford to take a full load of classes toward her veterinary degree.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder.

“It’ll be a good home for him,” she mumbled and then got busy by pulling out the Windex and moving over to the large front window. I could’ve told her that I’d already cleaned the glass but I think she was just looking for something to keep her hands occupied.

Besides me and Emmy, there was also another receptionist named Holly who had worked at Raw Ink from the beginning. But she just had a baby and only took one or two shifts a week now. The shop used to be a tanning salon before Oliver bought it, so it contained several private rooms and a couple of open cubicles up front for smaller jobs. The thing was, most costumers chose privacy when the option was afforded them, so the rooms in back allowed for that and were always booked solid.

While I took a phone call, Emmy reached for the disinfectant and began wiping down the seats and armrests up front. Even though this task was done daily, it was something that bore repeating so I just watched her go, like she was our own little Energizer Bunny. Much of the equipment in the shop was single use for sanitation purposes, such as the needles, but other more static items required hospital grade cleaning. We even placed certain equipment through our spore-test machine on a monthly basis.

Yeah, this shop was clean, no doubt about it. So clean that my skin took the brunt of it. I was forever putting lotion on my hands to keep them soft.

I focused on the customer’s question on the phone about how to decide on the best kind of tattoo. By this time, I’d heard it all. I directed the woman to our website, because if there was one thing I encouraged patrons to do, it was to have a good idea of what you wanted when you stepped inside the shop. If you still couldn’t decide, setting up a consult with an artist was best because they were on a tight schedule.

“Newbie?” Emmy said, when I hung up.

“Yeah,” I said. “Wanted to memorialize someone. I figure she could see Cory or Bennett.”

“Good choices,” Emmy said.

Bennett was hands down the most compassionate artist in this shop. After doing this for so long, these guys didn’t really care why you were getting your ink. Some customers felt they needed to explain and sure, these guys were decent and would lend their ear. We were all pretty good listeners. After bartenders, tattoo artists were probably second in line for hearing people’s sob stories.

But what most of the virgin inkers didn’t understand was that some people got a tattoo simply because they liked the look of it, not because it was symbolic. Sure, some were meaningful, like the replica I had of my father’s camera. But I’d also gotten other things inked, like my feminine Día de Muertos mask, purely because it looked cool.

The door swung open and in stepped two tall university kids with kappa something or another emblazoned across their shirts. Emmy gave me a look without rolling her eyes that said exactly what I thinking. She strode to the counter to replace the spray bottle that was in her hand.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

The tall guy with the blond surfer hair eyed Emmy up and down and then said, “You an artist here or just the person who answers the phone?”

Emmy raised her eyebrow and I worked to keep the scowl off my face. If there was one thing you didn’t want to do, it was insult the front desk staff. We were the gatekeepers, the eyes and ears of the shop, and so much more.

Instead of answering him directly, I said, “What do you need?”

“Some tattoos,” the other dude said, stepping up. “Do you take walk-ins?”

“Depends,” I said. “What do you want done?”

As soon as I asked, a group of girls yanked open the door and rushed inside, squealing and surrounding these two clowns like they were celebrities. Great, they had brought their own entourage. Hell no. There was nothing so nerve-wracking as when customers brought friends or family members who were there for the sole purpose of shooting pictures, taking videos, and running their mouths throughout the whole process.

They got in the way, created a disturbance, and didn’t appreciate that the artist had a job to do. These guys were highly skilled, had high-pressure tasks, and were in the business of modifying a person’s appearance for the rest of their life. I got that customers required moral support, but they needed to respect the workspace.

After greeting the girls, the tall guy said, “We want our Greek letters tattooed.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“Got it,” I said. “Well, our letter specialist has back-to-backs today, but I could set you up for another appointment this week. Unless you want to come back later today with another artist.”

“That’s cool,” the blond dude said, almost looking relieved. “We’ll come back another day.”

The girls immediately began pouting. They apparently were raring to go, given the tipsy state of one of them.