The guy frowns. “Shit. Well, I’m really sorry about that.” He pushes a hand through his shaggy brown hair, and the sincerity in his gaze dampens my anger. “Well, if you ever need a tattoo or anything.” He grabs a card from his wallet, then hands it to me. “Just call. I’ll give you a good price.”
My cock responds with a twitch, which I try my best to ignore as I look at the card.
Stone Bakas, Blade Tattoo.
“Stone,” I say, the name disorienting on my lips. “Thanks, I guess. I’m Matty.”
“No problem, Matty,” he answers, then walks away, leaving me stunned under the old maple tree, complicated emotions swirling through my brain and tingling my nerves.
“You okay there, buddy?” Ayla asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, shaking the dizzying feeling away. “Come on. Let’s get away from all this noise before it gives me a headache.”
CHAPTERTWO
STONE
Another fuckingday at the tattoo shop with Jeremiah.
I’m so sick of this guy. He’s as cocky as he is mean, just another insecure prick who beats up on other people to make himself feel good. And instead of telling him off, I have to sit there and eat shit every day if I want to keep my apprenticeship at Blade.
I walk through the front door of the little brick tattoo shop. Like always, I’m the first one there, so I blast an old Sepultura album to clear my head as I stare at the wall and drink coffee.
An apprenticeship at Blade is a dream come true. I can’t let Jeremiah ruin that for me.
He’s the nephew of the owner, Caesar. And now that his uncle is half-retired, that means he essentially runs the place.
Caesar is a legendary tattoo artist, and he still comes by once every couple of weeks, usually to work on a longstanding client. Each time, I try to hover close, obsessed with the liquid-like movement of his needle across skin and with his steady focus, so intense I can feel it from across the shop.
The place goes quiet out of respect, but the second he leaves, Jeremiah starts running his big mouth again.
The door in the back slams open. “Stone-cold killer,” Billie calls out. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I answer and turn the music down.
Her hair tied back and sunglasses on, Billie tosses her bag on the couch and heads straight for the coffee. “Did you hear?” she asks sarcastically. “Jeremiah got a new motorcycle.”
I snort a laugh. “He won’t give you his barbecue recipe, don’t even ask,” I deadpan.
Billie pretends to retch into the trashcan. “That barbecue,” she groans. “Never again.”
Billie’s the artist that took me in for the apprenticeship. She’s got big bicep muscles and vivid flower tattoos covering one arm. When I was new in town, I saw her work and blew the little bit of money I had saved up to get a piece.
While I was sitting in her chair, we got to talking, and she asked to see my art. For once in my life, I got an actual break, and she offered me a chance to learn the trade right then and there.
Billie really is out of her damn mind, giving some random fuckup like me an apprenticeship at a shop like this.
“What’s on the schedule today?” she asks.
I flip open the calendar. “It’s a full shop. Caesar’s coming by later, too.”
She nods toward the back. “Then what are you sitting around for? You’ve got some setup to do, pebbles.”
I roll my eyes but head to work. When I took the job, I knew that being an apprentice meant a lot of time preparing stations and cleaning up. That’s the tradeoff to get the skills.
But there’s nothing like scrubbing out the toilet for minimal pay to drive the point home.
I go through the checklist, refilling soap and checking needle supplies and sanitizing stations. As I work, a couple of the artists filter in, and the bell above the door rings with a walk-in client. The shop smells like ink and cleaners, and a killer playlist pumps over the speakers.
