“You a biker?”
He was here when I arrived today and tipped his head in a curt greeting when my artist led me to the chair next to him. He looked friendly enough, but there was an air about him I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
My head turns to him as I take in his appearance.Clean-cut, he wears a black t-shirt with a black leather vest over it. An insignia patch catches my eye: a skull with a large blossoming rose and brass knuckles.
I’m unfamiliar with it, but I assume it is a local club.
“Sì,” I tell him, my voice void of emotion.
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my appearance. “Club?”
“Not a part of one.”
“New to town?”
His stream of questions put me on edge. Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Do you make it a habit of asking so many questions to a stranger?”
A boisterous laugh bellows from him, and he holds a hand up to his artist, prompting him to stop tattooing. Leaning over, he extends his hand. “I’m Nixon.”
My artist lifts the needle from my skin, allowing me to shake Nixon’s hand. “Sly. And sì. Recently relocated from New York.”
Both of our artists resume their projects.
“The Big Apple, huh? What brought you to this small ass town?”
For a moment, I focus on the tattoo my artist is embedding into my skin, contemplating how much I want to reveal to this man, but by nature, I find it difficult to be untruthful.
My gaze flicks back to him, watching me intently as he awaits my answer.
“Ready to start anew.”
“Woman troubles or somethin’ else?”
Cristo, this man is nosey. But something in his eyestells me I can trust him, although I’m not sure why. “The woman I love is engaged to another man, and I couldn’t bring myself to stay and watch it.”
Nodding, his eyes narrow. “Been there too, my man. It’s not a fun feeling. I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.”
That was not the response I expected. From the outside, Nixon looks rough around the edges—someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alleyway. But the way he speaks tells me he wasn’t always as hardened as his appearance makes him out to be.
Changing the subject, I ask him a question this time. “Have you lived here long?”
“Born and raised.” He smiles briefly, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Left for a while, but my aunt got into some trouble and my cousin, Preston, had to move in with my parents. Times were tough, so I came back to help them out with bills. Never left again.”
“You are kind to do that for your family.”
“Family is everything. Even the ones who aren’t blood.”
I’m not sure what to say to that last sentence, so I just bob my head, nodding along. It’s quiet for a while, only the sound of the tattoo guns drifting buzzing through the space around us.
“What do you ride?” Nixon asks me, cutting through the near silence.
Inwardly, I groan. I come here to relax and ink my skin, not engage in conversation and answer questions I have no interest in answering. Still, it’s been weeks since I’ve had a proper conversation with someonewho is not assisting me at a grocery store or restaurant.
“My first love is Ducati.” The image of my beloved blacked-out bike, sitting lonely in the garage of my apartment, pops into my head. “But when I arrived in California, I purchased a Harley. It is nice, but the ride is different. Took some getting used to.”
Nixon grows quiet again, and before long, my artist has finished the piece he’s been working on. Looking down, I admire the black and gray New York skylineand watch as he wipes it down with soap and water. He reminds me of the care procedures, and I pay him, adding more than necessary to cover a generous tip.
As I tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my pants, Nixon catches my eye as he tilts his chin up at me. “Hey, Sly. You like helping people?”
