“Edward, man, you have to get up,” Emmett whined. “You stank.”
“Fuck you, McCarty,” I snapped, rolling over on my bed. Okay, couch.
“Listen, douche. You have two options. Option one is to get your ass up off my couch, shower and come with me Dreamstyle Ink. You can stay with me if you come to Dreamstyle. Option two is to get your ass up off my couch and leave. Live in your damn car again,” Emmett said. “You’ve been out of rehab for two weeks now. You can’t stay here forever. Because I won’t’ let you.”
“Emmett, I appreciate you bailing me out. Again,” I grumbled. “But, I’m not ready.”
“Bullshit. You’re ready. You’ve been clean for six months. Staying at the rehab center did a world of good,” Emmett said as he lit a cigarette. He handed it to me. I eagerly accepted it. “But you can’t hole up in my apartment. And dude, really? You fucking smell. Shower. PLEASE! I’m begging you!”
I picked up my shirt and took a whiff. Okay, that’s just gross. Get off this couch and out of your own filth, Cullen. “Okay, I’ll get up and I’ll shower,” I said as I put the cigarette in my mouth. “But the why the hell am I going to Dreamstyle with you? I’m not a tattoo artist. I’m a fucking musician.”
“Who has a killer eye for ink, man,” Emmett said. “I’ve seen your doodles on your music man. It’s good. I mean really good. You have the potential to be a great black and gray tattoo artist. I’ve arranged for you apprentice with the best tattoo artist I have at Dreamstyle.”
“Let me shower and then we’ll discuss,” I said, shooting him an angry glare. I burrowed through my duffle bag and picked up a pair of jeans, boxer briefs and black t-shirt. I skulked to the bathroom and stepped into the hot spray. I hastily washed my body with the soap in the shower. I ran my fingers through my shaggy locks of fucked up bronze hair and scrubbed my scalp. I finished my shower and stepped out of the tub.
