Black ink markedthe pale arm of the man in my seat, the blue eyes of wolves staring back at me ferociously as I placed the clear Saniderm wrap over the tattoo to protect it. I smiled, proud of what I’d done—some of my best work yet.
“What do you think?” I asked Jester, my boss’s biker brother and friend.
Jester was a wide man, with big shoulders and a body that completely filled the black leather seat. His arms were already covered with a variety of tattoos, some I’d done, and others that were PD’s handiwork. This new addition was a sketch we’d worked on for two months, an artistic masterpiece that had completely covered the bare skin he had left on his right forearm.
Jester grunted, and I took that as a sign he liked it. He wasn’t much of a talker, and the only time I’d heard him use actual words instead of sounds was to tell me what he wanted. The guy spoke perfect English, though, not slurred by booze like I’d expected when I’d met him for the first time, years ago.
Sitting in the guest chair opposite me, PD’s apprentice, Dawson, didn’t blink his wide eyes—the exact shade of the ones I’d just put on the wolves—as he took in everything I did. If I wasn’t used to that unwavering admiration and attention by now, I might have found it a bit unnerving. He was a young guy, only nineteen, but he took up nearly all the spare space in my section of the shop with his muscled bulk. The metal beads in his long red braided beard jangled as he sat up straight, and he had his equally lengthy ginger hair in a braid, which he swept behind his back.
From my left, PD, with his bowler hat lopsided, strode around the half wall from his tattooing space. He stroked the line of the anchor goatee that ran down his chin with two fingers and pouted his pink lips. After a second of critically inspecting the ink art, he grinned, slapping me on my back between the shoulders, and it stung because the ass had more muscle than he realized. “Fucking glorious work, Jake.”
“Thanks, man.” I winked at my boss and stepped back so Jester could rise.
“Dawson, go clean something,” he said offhandedly.
“Yes, sir.” The kid nodded and shot to his feet, though he waited awkwardly, shoulders slumped and his hands in his pockets. He was too big to crowd past us. The hoops he wore through the snakebite piercings on either side of his bottom lip glinted in the overhead light as he shifted nervously, and I thought for the hundredth time maybe I should consider learning to pierce—but nah, I didn’t want to see random balls and snatch.
Jester slipped a wad of cash into my hand as a tip. I wasn’t crass enough to count it, simply shoved it into my pocket while my face flushed. He didn’t have to do that, but he did anyway. PD expected only the best, and I’d been giving him that since I first started the job eight years ago. I had a list of loyal clients to prove my worth.
Jester inclined his head to me, then made his way around the half wall to the cash register, where PD met him. They spoke quietly to each other. I kept myself busy by sanitizing my workstation because I’d quickly learned that if they lowered their voices, they didn’t want me to hear, and I didn’t want to know about any business they had to discuss. Apparently Dawson hadn’t figured that out yet because PD glared at him when he came out of the supply room with a broom and started to sweep the waiting lounge directly behind him.
Jester and PD were part of the Kings of Men MC. I’d heard the rumors that they sold illegal guns around the city, and from what I understood, that was only the tip of the iceberg of what they did. As far as I was concerned, it was none of my fucking business. PD paid me well and on time, and that’s all I gave a shit about.
Jester left, and I sent him a wave on his way out. In a rush to make sure I was ready whenever I had another client, I returned the cleaning supplies to the closet-like room where we kept them, along with a massive autoclave. It also contained a bin of presoak solution, where I ditched the equipment I’d used. Beside it was the medical-grade sharps container, and I carefully dropped the used needles in there. PD ran a tight ship when it came to sanitation, and I didn’t blame him at all. I’d always been the same way. There were too many diseases out there to take risks with the customers or ourselves. It didn’t help that one of PD’s bastard biker brothers had started a fight with him over a stupid rumor the parlor was dirty. PD had ended up in the hospital after the fight, and I’d handled some of his clients for two days afterward.
Unfortunately, PD had taken the accusations to heart, and after that, he’d also lost his goddamn mind about cleaning. Anyone could have eaten off the floor day or night for months. He’d even had me wipe down the leather couches in the waiting lounge twice a day. He’d finally stopped that when the leather began to crack and he had to replace them.
When I was done, I came to the front and asked, “How’s Will?”
Dawson swept away from us and around the end of the counter, out toward the entrance way, keeping his eyes on the floor. We all knew Will was a rough topic, but I wanted to know. Dawson’s beard beads jangled pleasantly as he worked, but that light music didn’t match the sour look that crept across PD’s face.
He leaned his hip against the counter next to the cash register and crossed his arms, head dipping forward until his black bowler hid his eyes. He’d never been a fan of talking about Will, especially since the motorcycle accident and recovery, which were both difficult. My dad was a doctor, so I’d asked him about it, and he’d said brain injuries could be tricky, and while Will’s issues were mostly mild, frontal lobe damage meant he could have a lot of problems.
“Struggling.”
I walked over to him, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans. The most I got out of him about Will were one-word sentences, but I’d promised to be there for him if he wanted to talk.
“Not easy, huh?” I asked and steeled myself for the answer.
He grunted and shifted his hat on his head, a habit when he didn’t want to talk about something, but I persisted—because fuck him, that’s why. We all had to talk about what was bothering us at some point. It had taken forever to get my husband, Dec, to open up to me about what bothered him on the days he was particularly irritable; now he freely told me without any serious nudging. It might have been eight years since I’d started working for PD, with little progress, but I’d get him there eventually.
“What’s happening?” I moved around him and stole the stool in front of the cash register, leaning my elbows on the counter. Grabbing a pen there, I tapped it in a way I knew annoyed him, and sure enough, he glared at it, then me.
“Please don’t.”
I chuckled and dropped the pen again. “Come on, man. Tell me what’s going on.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t talking about this with you.”
I jutted my bottom lip at him and made sniffling noises. “Why not? Aren’t I your bestest friend?”
“Get back to work, loser.” He slapped me over the back of the head, and I laughed. Okay, maybe today wasn’t going to be the day PD opened up to me about his feelings, but I’d wear him down eventually. I went back to my inking station, between PD’s setup and Marcus’s, and checked around to make sure I had all my supplies stocked. I didn’t have another customer appointment, so I’d probably be taking the walk-ins all afternoon until Faye got here to steal my chair for the evening shift.
By the time I was done checking everything, the door to the shop opened, this time on a person I hadn’t expected to see today. My heart raced, slamming hard against my ribs at the sight of Dec in all his handsomeness. The man could never look anything except perfect, but I blamed that on his baby-blue eyes and roguish face, with freckles dotted sparsely across his forehead and right cheek. His dark blond hair was combed back and damp as if he’d stopped in at a bathroom and washed his face and hair, like he did sometimes when he arrived at the destination airport after he’d been traveling.
I moved impulsively, running and damn near jumping into his arms. In one smooth-as-fuck motion, he dropped his duffel bag and caught me, hands palming my ass as I circled his waist with my legs and kissed him. His mouth molded against mine and he held on tightly, fucking past my lips with his tongue. He shifted, took a few steps, and then slammed my ass on top of the counter. The jingling sounds from the jewelry display case below us let me know that maybe we were being too rough, but it was difficult to care. Something dug into my asscheek, but my focus was solely on Dec and the way he shoved his half-hard cock against mine, clothing be damned.
“Hey, watch it!” PD’s voice cut through the air, and whatever was digging into my ass was yanked out from under me. On a quick glance I saw PD’s artwork portfolio for customers.
