“You done yet?” Lucky complains for the tenth time tonight. I have half a mind to fuck up my work just to piss him off. But I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in an awesome mood, actually. Nothing like the feel of a tattoo gun in my hand and the sound of the buzzing to keep me going all day.
Guy requested a big-ass piece on his calf. Not something you get done in five minutes. More like a few sessions for the weaklings. But Lucky ain’t weak, just impatient. It’s not the constant needle prick he can’t stand; it’s the sitting still. Learned that the first week I came in. Even during Church he’s bounced around a bit. I got him a swivel chair yesterday to at least keep him seated and not pacing the conference room the club uses.
“It’s done when it’s done,” Mickey tells him. He’s been keeping me and Lucky company since I started on this piece around four. Figured he’d get bored and step out at some point. He might have if the tattoo studio didn’t have multiple chairs set up beside one another. He’s been napping almost the entire time. I still think he’s half asleep with the way his eyes are closed and his lips barely moved to talk to Lucky.
I haven’t officially taken the open tattoo chair from the owner of the shop who offered it to me on day one. The club might rent the space, but I’m not about poaching someone’sterritory. Besides, I don’t have a lot of time to take regulars. For now, the owner and I are good with me just doing ones I want to when I want. I’ve got a key to the place and everything—not going to steal anything, considering it’s technically mine. He must have come to the same conclusion, because he offered the spare key and space before I asked about it. Said something like the president of the Hounds should have a way into Howlers. I’m not one to ask twice, and the name put a little poetry into the mix. I asked if he named the place because of us, and he just grinned and went on working. Whatever. Name is cool, place is cool. The rest doesn’t need an answer.
The shop keeps regular hours, but with it being New Year’s Eve, the guy said fuck it and closed at noon. I had nothing going on, and Lucky was willing anytime I was, so here we are, going wild and crazy. One guy’s sleeping, another’s bellyaching over sitting still, and I’m just doing my thing. I could go for a few more hours. The Zen of the job relaxes me more than anything these days, but the piece is done. And it’s badass if I do say so myself—and I do.
Lucky wanted an old-school pin-up girl, but on a bike that was an exact replica of the one his dad gave him—a fucking custom Harley-Davidson Softail Slim with blue and gunmetal accents. The details on it took forever, but it looks like it’s going to come off his skin with the effect I did on it. Sick as fuck.
I turn off the gun and roll back on my small swivel chair. Lucky takes it for the permission it is and stands quickly, going to the long mirror in the shop’s corner and looking at the back of his leg.
“Jesus, Domino. This shit’s good. You’re a fucking pro.”
Lucky’s words have Mickey sitting up enough to open an eye and peek out to see it.
“That there’s grand.” I raise an eyebrow at his word choice, but he just lies back and closes his eyes again. Must be Irish for “amazing, incredible, no one can do what you do.” I’m guessing, of course.
“Let me wrap it up and then let’s get the hell out of here.”
I gesture for Lucky to return to the chair, and he does, though a bit reluctantly. I get it. Coming back to something you sat in for six hours isn’t much fun, but I prep and wrap his leg in less than a few minutes. Another couple and I’ve cleaned my station enough for whoever will use it next. Howlers has a few rotating chairs to allow for artists who are in town. The place is regularly busy, and not just with us bikers. Having a rotating door of artists attracts a following across the state. Even across the country, if I hear it right.
That seems to be the magic words for Mickey, as he finally rises from his slumber. Guess he needs more beauty sleep than me. But hey, we can’t all be pretty like me. It’s one of my finer qualities, I’m told.
I ignore him as he stretches and walks out front, most likely to get a smoke in before we head back to the clubhouse. Man, I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’ve been doing good without, so I fight the urge.
Not that I saw a need to quit. I wasn’t a pack-a-day kind of guy, but a few here and there didn’t seem to bother anyone till Mama Bear came around. She wasn’t doing it because she despised smoking, more about her bringing her kids to the clubhouse and not wanting them to pick up bad habits. Crazy woman even went out and bought me an e-cigand a few other things to help. I figured I’d quit completely, but it’s harder than I thought, which is why I’m still trying. It’s been a few years since Mama Bear arrived, and I’m on my second longest streak of not smoking. Not even on the e-cig. It’s been the longest forty-six days of my life.
“Boss,” Mickey calls out to me as he pokes his head in for a second before going back out.
It took me a while to get used to everyone calling me that. Still not really used to it, honestly. This is just temporary. I know that. I’m not about to let all this “boss” talk go to my head. I’m not president material. I do well with blowing shit up and tracking our incomes. Leading a team isn’t hard, but a club is a whole other level. I’m doing fine now because I know it’s short term, and I’ve got a job to do. I’m not setting down roots and making rules to stay in place long term. Just here to get this club over a dark spot in what I hope is a long history of club life ahead for most of them.
Slapping my hand over the tattoo I just wrapped—I’m not a saint—I smirk as Lucky howls and walk out front.
“What?” I ask.
Mickey just points with his chin, looking more like a nod than anything else.
“Yeah, I see the limo. What about it?”
Granted, it seems odd to see a vehicle like that around here, but it is New Year’s Eve. I had a neighbor growing up who had her parents rent one every New Year’s Eve, and the family went out to wine and dine the night away. Didn’t matter if the kids were five or twenty-five, it was their thing. Maybe this one’s here for a similar situation, or hell, maybe it’s a famous person thinking they’ll get a tattoo or something. Howlers caters to every customer, and the ownermentioned a few times that they get some big names in. Too bad for them, the shop is closed.
But then the limo rocks back and forth, and I chuckle. Pulling off the road for a quick fuck makes more sense for the area.
Until the door flies open, and a guy falls out. Barely conscious, he sits on his ass, shaking his head to get the dazed look off his face. A second later, another person comes out, one covered in pink tulle. They look like a damn flower.
I’m so caught up in seeing the pink, especially on my neighbor, that I miss grabbing her before she falls on the guy and starts punching him over and over.
Lucky, who must have followed me, reacts faster than either of us and gets close enough to grab her arm. He’s not the biggest guy, but I’ve seen him lift. He has muscles and can use them if he wants. Either he thinks he’s immune to getting hit by a woman or he wasn’t expecting it, but the second he touches her arm, she swings her other one out and clocks him good enough for him to fall on his ass, knocking him out, just like she did the other one.
She looks up and notices me and Mickey. Not sure what she sees, but I feel my mouth gaping open, and I’m sure I’ve got a dumb-as-fuck expression on my face. No doubt Mickey is the same. But on her, all I see is beauty. Even the blood dripping from her mouth and the deep bruising on her face and swollen eye do nothing to deter from that.
And I realize I’m fucked. Completelyfucked.
Chapter 6—Viv
Iwobble on the ridiculous heels that Summer insisted I wear to match the outfit as I stand and back up a step. The guy on the ground groans—my date, not the other one—and I give him a kick. Okay, two kicks. Asshole deserves it.
