Chapter 7

Zeke lead the way to a back entrance, and the smell of A&D ointment and smoke wafted out to me the moment he opened the door. We followed the sound of Ozzy Osborne's War Pigs down the hall to a larger room. Concrete floors painted black, graffitied walls, and artwork. Tons of artwork. Frames of every shape and size scattered the walls and as I scanned each one, I noticed a few pictures of either clients or artists.

Massage tables lined the whole right side, separated by small tables full of equipment and inks.

Zeke hurried forward. "Charlene." His serious tone drew my attention back to him.

A wooden counter wrapped the wall that faced the front door, more pictures of artwork and photos covering its surface. The woman behind pushed her copper curls from her face and offered a forced smile at Zeke's approach. "Good." She heaved a sigh. "Maybe you can help with this." Her eyes pleaded as she tilted her head to the man stood across from her.

Zeke's whole persona shifted. The jolly seemed to fall away as his shoulders squared, muscles tightened. Within an instant, he'd positioned himself between the two, blocking the view of the woman entirely.

The man took a step back. "I don't see what the problem is?" he said. "They're just ashes. Just mix a little in the ink. You don't even have to touch it."

He held an urn in his hands, and I realized why she looked that way. A shudder of revulsion pulled at my gut.

This guy wants a dead body in his tattoo.

Charlene touched a hand to Zeke's back and peeked around him. "I already told you. Our artists can't do that."

I heaved a sigh. Thank god. If they'd asked me to, could I? I didn't want to answer that question, not with my financial situation. I was grateful I wouldn't be asked.

Zeke visibly relaxed and clasped the man's shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss, but we can't do that. I could lose my license." He motioned to another station where a girl sat.

Her bright blue hair was chopped to the scalp, and combined with her thin frame and tiny features, she looked like a Hell fairy.

"I'll tell you what, though, you go talk to Scarlet over there. I bet she can come up with just the tattoo to help honor your friend."

"My brother," the man said, voice rough. "He was my brother."

Zeke's expression softened as his hand fell away from the man, and he pulled up his arm. "I got this bear when I lost my brother."

The man looked at the tattoo, eyes red with unshed tears. When his gaze met Zeke's again, a quiet understanding seemed to drift between the two of them.

His brother. The bear. I'd known it was something like that when I saw the date scrawled beneath it.

Zeke convinced the man to agree to talk to Scarlet, then turned a look over his shoulder at me.

"Jessie, this is Charlene. Charlene, this is Jessie. I'm interviewing her."

Her eyes ran over me, from my tattered hoodie to my dirty hair, but not an ounce of judgement crossed her expression. Her nose didn't wrinkle, lip didn't curl. "We're happy to have you, hon." She met my gaze and smiled softly before turning to Zeke and pulling him down for a kiss. "You bring her back to me before you let her out of here."

Zeke rumbled a laugh. "Yes, ma'am." He caressed her cheek, then winked at me. "You ready?" He motioned to an empty station, then stepped over and pulled himself up on the table. "There's some paper there for you to draw something up."

I shook my head and lifted the gun. The weight felt like a long, lost friend and I smiled. "Don't need to."

His eyebrows lifted. "You're going to freehand?"

I lifted a brow in return. "Are you afraid?"

He laughed. "Go ahead."

"You're asking for a lot of faith," a new voice said.

I turned to find the artist behind me, a massive man with similarly long black hair and a shorter trimmed beard.

He rolled his chair around, leaned forward against his legs and grinned up at me. "I'm Boe."

I knew the look. I should have known this place couldn't possibly be without any flaws. "That's nice." I turned away.

Zeke rumbled a laugh just as a finger tapped my shoulder.

I turned back again.

Boe's smile had stretched, and while I couldn't deny he was attractive, it wasn't in anyway that appealed to me. It was too dark. Too bad boy dangerous. Leather jacket, worn jeans, black boots. He looked like he belonged in the club. I'd had my taste of that, and I wasn't looking for more.

"You got a name?" he asked, smile never leaving his face.

I knew I needed to just be nice and say it. I'd just hopefully landed a dream job, and this man was a coworker. I should have been welcoming. But everything about him sent red flags through my brain. I didn't want to give him my name. Regardless, I forced a smile. "Jessie."

His smile turned into a grin. "That's a nice name."

"Your station looks a little rough, Boe," Zeke said.

Boe kicked himself backwards and rolled back into his station. "I was just trying to make her feel welcome."

Zeke fought back a smile, then lifted his brows in a motion prompting me to continue.

I scanned his exposed skin, each and every spot covered in some way. "Do you even have a spot for this?"

"Check his ass, Jessie."

I ground my teeth, looked over to the table, pulled the black ink closer, then grabbed a pair of gloves and slid them on. Just ignore him.

Zeke chuckled as he pulled the shirt over his head and lifted his arm. A small spot about five inches in diameter stood out pasty pale against the colorful ink surrounding it.

I scanned his other artwork again, trying to get an idea of what he would want, but it was all so random. Each piece seemed to be fit for a new personality, and I wondered how many times he'd done this type of interview.

The hell with it. I'd just let my art take me where it wanted to go. I flipped on the machine and sighed. Despite what came from the insane decision to stick around this place, I couldn't regret it. This rare moment to escape into my art was worth whatever happened.

I worked with precision. The vibration of the gun, the way the ink sunk into the skin, it was therapy. My therapy. I lost myself, all the shit, all the fear, all the anger. Every part of me went into the piece.

Zeke didn't exist, the sounds of the shop didn't exist, it was just lines and shadows and ink and release.

When I was done, I took a step back to observe my work. An hourglass. To anyone else it would look simple, but to a true artist, it was a masterpiece.

I kept the lines clean, sharp, precise. You could see each grain of sand as it filtered down. This was how I felt. This was what I was, what I'd become.

A dwindling hourglass.

How much time do I have before the last grain falls and death finds me?

"All set?" Zeke asked. He hopped down from the table without waiting for a reply and turned to the mirror. For a moment, he simply stared. His eyes scanned over every detail. "Holy shit, girl," he said after what felt like an eternity, voice low. "That is impressive." He lowered his arm and turned to me. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

I shrugged. "Just practice, I guess."

"Just practice." Boe rolled over and pushed Zeke's arm up, and the moment his eyes ran over the piece, his whole expression changed. This time, when he looked back at me, the teasing had fell away from him. "That's not practice. That's talent."

Zeke pulled away from Boe, then scratched his beard as he stared at me. "I need you on my team, girl."

"Yes, you do." Boe rolled back to his spot.

A new reluctance hit me, only this wasn't fear for myself.

I believed this man.

He wasn't affiliated with the club. His story, the people here, his family...

If Drake did find me, he'd destroy it all.

"You come back tomorrow," he said. "And I'll give you some work to do until we can get you licensed."

"A license?" My heart stuttered. Legit. A legal trade. It was just the step I needed to take if I wanted to have a life. It was what normal members of society had. Guilt for a tragedy that had yet to occur gnawed my gut, but it wasn't enough. I was too selfish. I couldn't pass it up. "I'll be here tomorrow."

Zeke smiled. "Good. Now, Charlene has been staring at us this whole time just dying to mother the hell out of you." His smile widened as he chuckled. "You look like a lost kitten."

For a brief second, my lips curved. A smile. An actual smile. How long had it been since my lips had curved on their own?

The stranger. With everything that had happened, thoughts of him had gone away. Now that they returned, however, that brilliant flash of white behind that scruffy face and worn appearance dominated my mind's eye.

"Jessie?"

I snapped back to focus. "Alright. Thank you. I'll... yeah, I'll be back."

He gave me a strange look as I walked away. I didn't stop to see Charlene the way they'd asked. I had no desire to be mothered. I didn't want a mother. I wanted a drink.

I kept my head low as I met up with the old man outside and tracked my way back to the bridge. The lights of main street seemed to call louder than they usually did.

I stopped walking. "I'll catch up, old man."

"It's late," he said. "Where do you think–"

"I took the job like you wanted. I'm going to celebrate. You go ahead before the warm spots disappear."

His mouth thinned as he watched me turn, but he thankfully didn't follow.

My stomach fluttered in anticipation, but I insisted to myself it was for a drink. I needed to commemorate this moment, and the only way I had to do that was a dark and mysterious stranger with a hard-on for giving out free booze.