Page 1 of Ink
Chapter One
Xiomara
Icurvedmynailsinto the battered leather of my piece of shit steering wheel, sitting inside my piece of shit car, withMolotovon full blast as I tried to muster the courage to get out and go inside.
The sign outside of the building was nondescript, simple, and mocking.Devil’s Ink.Appropriately named, I supposed, with the horned skull spray painted on the outer wall by a talented hand, not to mention the fact that this tattoo parlor belonged to Los Diablos MC.
They were a local, one-percenter motorcycle club, and that’s really all I knew about them.
I probably should’ve worked harder to find out more. But crime always ran rampant in Mexico, and it was too hard to keep track of all the shady shit that went down. Prostitution, drugs, guns… It was all the same at that point. No one in our little state of Tlaxcala was free from a life of debauchery. Not me. Especially not the MC.
Still, a part of me wondered if I should have been smarter about this. Some organizations were very machista in their beliefs, and women were rarely safe from the wrath of misogynistic men. If they weren’t careful, they’d find themselves turning tricks on the side of highways late into the night for cartels, only to crawl back to their jailors out of pure fear or addiction, if not both.
Los Diablos wasn’t a cartel, but I was sure they could be just as brutal.
And I had to be careful, considering I was going to be working for them starting today.
You know, if I ever found the courage to actuallygo inand start.
Disengaging my trembling fingers from the wheel, I yanked my headphones out, the string snagging against the length of my shiny black hair. After struggling with the wire, I tossed it onto the passenger seat and grabbed my phone. My thumbs flew across the screen as I logged into one of my favorite online communities.
I told myself I just needed a little encouragement as I typed up a message and pressed send, biting on my plump bottom lip as I waited.
An influx of responses came in almost immediately. An array of ‘Good luck!’ ‘Tú puedes!’ ‘You got this!’
Simple messages from an online support group for Latine people, but they filled me with exactly what I needed to finally pocket my phone into my belted black pants and hop out of the car.
Up close, the details of the painted diablo logo were clearer. It’d obviously been there for a while, the edges chipping, cement cracking and missing in patches.
I wanted to shudder at the thought of what the inside looked like, but I held myself back. I was in no way prissy and had dealt with my hand of shitty jobs before. This should have been no different.
Only… I was fired from my last job at the gas station when I kneed my manager in the nuts for copping a feel behind the cash register. I did more to him than just kick him in his precious balls, but I didn’t like to think about that. If I did, all I’d see was the disappointment in my mamá’s eyes as I told her I lost yet another job. The memory was a punch to the gut.
I was lucky enough a distant cousin hooked me up at this place. Said she knew the owners or some shit.
I couldn’t afford to fuck up this time. My family was counting on me to bring money in for gas and food.
That meant I couldn’t be fucking late.
Taking a breath, I steeled my spine and pushed through the front doors of Devil’s Ink. Immediately, I was hit with the scent of tinta. It perfumed through the air; cloying, heady, familiar. Buzzing echoed across the art-clad walls, the vibration pressing down to my bones, comforting and soothing.
If the outside looked shabby, the inside was a work of art. A collage of tattoos on bodies, of instruments and leather. Done up in dark tones of black, burgundy, and warm gray, the waiting area gave off a chill vibe, which was great for anyone nervous about coming in to get tatted up.
I did a slow twirl, taking in the space. So far, I liked what I saw. In the front, there was a long desk with a computer and several stacks of papers. Behind the desk there was a woman with long, dyed purple hair, gauges, and several facial piercings. Behind her, there was the wall that separated the inking area, lit beyond by bright lights and echoing with the steady sound of a tattoo gun.
“Can I help you?” the chick asked, taking me in.
I tensed, knowing what she’d see and wondering if she’d judge me for it the way so many others did. For the pants and baggy clothes. For the silver hoops that snagged against curly hair, the penciled in lips, dark brows, and painted mouth.
I knew I looked good, but having her stare at me made me want to fidget where I stood.
I hated being stared at. It made me uncomfortable before it pissed me off, and when my rage-o-meter flew past the limit, I became a different person.
One I wanted to forget.
One that had caused me to lose too many jobs already.
I walked over to the desk, squaring my shoulders. I refused to cow down to her judgmental bullshit, so I met her glare for glare, raising a dark, penciled brow.
