They Fell for My Lies

I was tattooing an eagle on a girl in her twenties, the design stretching from her shoulder blade all the way down her back. It was a complex piece that would take at least four hours to complete.

"Hold still," I said softly, the tattoo machine buzzing in my hand. "This part's gonna be sensitive."

She gritted her teeth and nodded. I could feel the tension in her muscles, but she was being cooperative. These were my favorite kind of clients—they knew what they wanted and could handle the necessary pain.

The tattoo machine moved in my hand like a paintbrush. Every line, every shadow, I controlled with precision. This was my art, and my livelihood. Sure, this rundown studio was a million miles from those fancy galleries downtown, but here, I was the artist.

Four and a half hours later, I finally set down the machine and stepped back to admire my work. The eagle looked majestic, as if it might soar off her skin at any moment.

"Perfect." I nodded with satisfaction.

The girl got up and walked to the mirror. When she saw herself, her eyes lit up. "Oh my god! This is beautiful!"

She paid and left a decent tip. But before leaving, she said something that rubbed me the wrong way: "With skills like yours, why don't you work somewhere legit? Real artists are in galleries, not places like this."

I forced a smile. "The body is my canvas. It's more real than those pretentious galleries."

After she left, I stood alone in the empty studio. 'Another person who doesn't get it...' I thought. 'But money's still money.'

This was my reality. Raven Blackwood, twenty-nine, independent tattoo artist. Skilled, client-approved, but forever looked down upon by mainstream society. My bank account reminded me that artistic ideals couldn't pay the bills, and rent wouldn't get cheaper just because my work was beautiful.

Just as I was cleaning up my equipment and getting ready to close, the back door suddenly burst open.

"Raven!"

It was Sophia, my childhood friend and one of the few people I could call close. But today she looked terrible—red, swollen eyes, clearly she'd been crying.

"Jesus, Sophia, what's wrong?" I put down the disinfectant.

She rushed in and threw her arms around me, tears flowing again. "Raven, I'm out of options. The family's going to cut off Zane's inheritance. You have to help me."

Zane, her cousin. I'd met him a few times—typical rich boy, good-looking but total party animal. Sophia's family was old money in Portland, but Zane's recent spending sprees had pushed the elders to their limit.

"How can I help?" I patted her back. "I'm not a therapist."

Sophia pulled away and wiped her tears. She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye.

"Fifty thousand dollars, just to get him away from parties and back on track."

I froze. Fifty grand? That would cover months of rent and let me upgrade the studio equipment.

"Get specific."

We sat on the small couch in the corner of my studio, and Sophia began explaining her plan. Turns out Zane had recently developed a thing for so-called "artsy girls," constantly following art school students on social media. Sophia figured if the right girl could guide him toward the straight and narrow, the family crisis could be solved.

"He likes those... innocent artsy types. Long dresses, gentle, cultured." Sophia's eyes swept over me as she spoke.

I looked down at myself: tight black t-shirt, ripped jeans, leather jacket casually draped over the chair. The tattoos on my arms were clearly visible—rose vines, geometric patterns, covering nearly my entire arm.

"You're joking, right?" I laughed bitterly.

"I know it's hard, but you're the only person I know who understands art and... needs the money."

She was right. I did need the money, and my understanding of art was definitely deeper than any of the other girls she knew. But what did this mean? I'd have to pretend to be someone completely different?

"What if I get caught?" I asked.

"You won't. Zane never comes to places like this." Sophia glanced around my studio.

"How would this work exactly?"

Sophia's eyes brightened. "You'd need to completely change your look. Cover the tattoos, wear conservative clothes, learn to speak softly. Then..."

"Then?"

"Then you'd 'accidentally' run into him at the right moment. Coffee shops, galleries, bookstores... places he hangs out now."

I imagined myself in a long dress, speaking softly, pretending to be interested in art but not too deeply. It was like asking me to play a completely different person.

"I need time to think about it."

"Raven, please." Sophia grabbed my hand. "You're the only person I trust. And you really do need this money, don't you?"

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. My bank balance was pathetically low, and I had no idea how I'd make next month's rent. This fifty thousand could make my life so much easier.

I said, "I want additional terms."

"What terms?"

"Another twenty when it's done. Seventy total."

Sophia didn't hesitate. "Deal."

We shook hands, sealing the agreement. But after Sophia left, I stood alone in front of the mirror, contemplating the challenge ahead.

I pulled up my sleeve, revealing the intricate tattoos on my arm. Every design had a story, every line represented my experiences. Now I had to hide all of this, pretend to be a "good girl."

'First time in twenty-nine years I'll have to pretend to be someone else...' I thought. 'Hope it's worth it.'

I opened my phone and noticed an Instagram notification. Zane was live-streaming from some rooftop party, surrounded by young, beautiful girls. He was laughing, genuinely charming-looking.

"Shit," I whispered. This was going to be much harder than I'd imagined.

But since I'd agreed, I had to do it right. I started planning in my head: first, I needed a completely different wardrobe, then I'd have to learn how to cover the tattoos, and most importantly, I needed to research Zane's preferences and daily routine.

I picked up some makeup and started experimenting with concealer on my arm. It was tedious, but it could definitely hide most of the tattoos. Over the next few days, I'd have to completely reinvent myself.

From punk rock girl to gentle lady—this was definitely the most challenging job I'd ever taken. But seventy thousand dollars made it all worthwhile.