Hell's Ink

by Nicole Reed

  Every weekend people filled the area out back, behind her dad’s business. There’d be noisy cookouts with screaming kids and the laughter of the adults supervising. She didn’t realize until she was older how abnormal her life really was. Hearing her father call her mother his old lady, she knew it was an endearing term. He always said it with a smile and gentle kiss. Her mother kept the house immaculate, dinner on the table, and if he didn’t come home it was okay, because he provided for them, she always said.

  To this day, riding on the back of a hog, the motor’s vibrations making her teeth buzz, brought back only happy memories. Her father would drive her around, perched on the back of his motorcycle, every Sunday afternoon, carefully constructing his legacy in her mind. She often looked back and questioned whether or not he foresaw the dangers the club would eventually bring to his door, his and his old lady’s life cut short by the violence he inadvertently caused with his choice of lifestyle.

  Shyla wasn’t even a teenager when masked men broke into their home late one night, extracting club retribution over a business deal gone bad. They shot them all in their beds, leaving Shyla to bleed out all over the brand-new flannel bed sheets, the ones covered in a colorful Laffy Taffy candy wrappers design her mother had picked out the week before. She was the sole survivor, a miracle in the midst of a senseless tragedy, the papers had all written.

  The days following the incident brought questions from police, exposing her life for what it was… and what it wasn’t: neither perfect nor innocent. Shyla grew up overnight. She moved in with her widowed grandmother who’d retired and moved to Monterey. Her only other living family member was her father’s sister, an aunt, who’d moved out of state the year before with a biker from another MC chapter.

  She never again saw her many “uncles” and “cousins” who she now knew were not blood relation but members of her father’s motorcycle club. Shyla finished high school and then went to the local community college, studying art for a couple of years. She knew she was gifted, but her art always brought back brutal images, revealing the truth she tried to block from her thoughts. She couldn’t put them to paper, much less canvas.

  So she up and quit. She found a waitressing job in a small hole-in-the-wall bar before the owner taught her the basics to bartend. The tips and hours were much better: more jingle in her pocket and less heat on the feet.

  “So no one else back home? Like maybe a boyfriend?” Mikey piped up, interrupting her trip down memory lane.

  Shyla swung her head to the side, giving him the stink eye. Her annoyance at his questioning dissolved when she saw his genuine interest. How long had it been since anyone cared to really listen to her? She’d been lonely for so long. Shyla knew firsthand how you could be with someone and still be the loneliest person in the world.

  “Yeah, I did—unfortunately. He… You really don’t want to hear about it,” she said, watching him turn to give her a wide grin.

  “Why not? Then I can call first dibs on the new girl in town,” he answered, his gaze shifting between her and the road.

  “Whatever,” Shyla said, exaggerating an eye roll.

  “No, really. I want to know,” Mikey said, grinning at her. “Lay it on me.”

  At first she wasn’t sure if he was being serious, but his look encouraged her to continue. “Okay,” she said, staring at his side profile. “Josh was the drummer for a small band who played regularly at the bar I tended. He and I dated on and off for about two years before I accepted the fact that he had a mistress he loved more than me.”

  “Shit, girl. Another woman? That’s pretty damn cold,” he said apologetically.

  She snorted through her nose trying to hold back a sarcastic laugh. “Ain’t it the truth? No… a woman I could’ve at least hated, maybe even fought, but when it’s a drug that can’t love him back, then I’m out.”

  Initially attracted to Josh’s carefree smile, Shyla didn’t recognize it for what it really was, a drug-induced careless attitude. She chased him subtly for months until he finally noticed. They’d rented a small banged-up apartment near the bar. Shyla thought she could change him, help him, but she only found herself smoking smack to make him happy. Josh constantly nagged that everything was better when they both were high. Especially the sex. And of course it was. She had no inhibitions and they’d fuck themselves into stupors.

  “I was lucky though. For some blessed reason, I never became addicted,” Shyla said, noting he seemed genuinely interested. “Never felt the need to ride the dragon the way Josh lived for it. One morning I woke up to the realization he’d never love anyone more than he loved heroin.”

  Mikey sighed before saying, “One thing I’ve learned. Someone’s either goin’ to love you enough to accept your shit, regardless of what it does to them, or get the hell out. I used to believe that accepting it was the only answer, but now I think I’d rather someone stay because they couldn’t live without me, instead of knowing they stayed—settling—because life expected it of ‘em. You left, knowing it wasn’t for you, instead of stayin’ because it’s all you knew.” He stared intently out of the windshield at the seemingly never-ending flat road ahead of them.

  Shyla was once again astonished by Mikey. His in-depth understanding of her situation honestly blew her mind. Who would have thought the oversized hunk sitting next to her would in any way relate to her life?

  “That’s how I felt. With my family all dead except for Diamond, I had no one, especially when my grandmother died. Josh was it,” she quietly added, glancing down to fiddle with the threads of her cutoffs.

  Diamond flew in for the funeral, but in the highly climactic situation really had no time for Shyla. Not that she didn’t try to talk to Shyla, but something was going on back home in her aunt’s life. She was very vague about it, dodging direct questions when Shyla asked. Her answer was she had to get home to the shitstorm waiting for her.

  Shyla was an orphan. Technically she’d been one for the past thirteen years, since she was eleven. But never had she felt more like one than when her grandmother passed and her aunt left. The entire United States continent separated her from her only blood relative. And she felt justifiably unwanted, except for Josh. So she stayed until she couldn’t stay any longer.

  The air in the cab of the truck thickened with their depressing conversation. Shyla needed to change the subject. “What about you? A girlfriend… or boyfriend?” she dared to ask.

  He cut his eyes downward at her. “Lots of girls I call friends, but still haven’t found a dick I like more than my own.”

  Mikey’s crude answer had her bursting out laughing, changing the mood drastically. She nodded, liking when a man could verbally give as much as he received.

  One glance out the window was the only warning that she’d arrived: a wooden sign announcing the town of Harmony stood old and faded. Several aged, worn-down red and brown brick buildings stood stoically, side by side. Concrete sidewalks lined the road. The sky had darkened with night and ornate black metal lampposts dimly lit every corner. Shyla found it hauntingly beautiful—a town with secrets. Her heart flipped in her chest at the romantic thought.

  She knew from researching on the Internet that Harmony was a small declining coastal town, located on the Gulf of Mexico. When they turned onto Main Street, Shyla saw a brightly lit sign announcing the Harmony Police Department. Mikey’s truck slowly passed several more storefronts. Shyla quickly read them all, including Edna’s Flowers, Sarah’s Seaside Treasures, Beanie’s Pawn Shop, Big Papa’s Subs, and finally Hard Ink.

  After parking his Ford F-250 out front, taking up two parking spaces, Mikey cut the engine. Shyla inhaled a deep breath as she glanced at the tattoo shop. She could see people through the large glass windows illuminating the interior. Men and women seemed to fill every empty chair, talking and laughing, as the artists worked on their clients. She immediately noticed her Aunt Diamond’s short, spikey bleached-blonde head bent over someone she tattooed.

  “It’s always
been more of a place to hang out than a tattoo parlor. C’mon, let’s go surprise her,” Mikey said, reaching for the door handle, and opened it before sliding out.

  Shyla silently nodded and did the same. Her heart beat at a rapid pace inside of her ribcage. What if her aunt didn’t want her here? Where would she go?

  She followed Mikey’s long gait into Hard Ink. Several people greeted him when he walked through the door, a chorus that included her aunt’s voice. No one could initially see her behind his massive frame, but before she could catch her next breath, he stepped to the side.

  Shyla stood exposed to the room full of hard-looking bikers and their matching babes. She’d seen pictures of Badger, whose massive frame now stood up when he noticed her standing there. Her smile faltered for a second when his voice boomed across the room.

  “D, I think you’ve a visitor,” Badger said, placing his tattoo machine down on the table beside him.

  A surprised squeak sounded from somewhere to her left, which caused Shyla to turn in that direction. Diamond made a beeline for her, grasping her neck in a solid hug, alleviating the fears weighing on Shyla’s heart. Tears seeped down her cheek with the much-needed heartfelt welcome.

  “And the fuckers still don’t have the header pipe I ordered last month for the Harley Glide Custom job I’ve been workin’ on. If they don’t have it in by next week, someone is goin’ to be bailin’ my ass out of jail,” Mikey said, complaining about the same auto part for the last half hour.

  Hold watched Mike take another long drag on the joint he smoked, sitting at Hold’s kitchen table.

  “Order it from somewhere else, dipshit,” Hold replied, grasping the cold beer bottle in his hand. He stretched his legs out in front of him. The two other men at the table, Badger and Hound, chuckled at Hold’s sarcastic reply.

  “Fuck, man, I’m not an idiot. They’re the only place local that can get it for me.” Mikey wet two fingertips, touching the end of the blunt, extinguishing the burn.

  Hold watched him tuck it in the corner chest pocket of his cut, glad that their friendship seemed to strengthen with each passing day. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the bastard during their rift. But Hold still held some reservations on what he said about Ward or his plans in front of Mikey.

  “You hookin’ up with Carrie’s smokin’ hot ass at the clubhouse later?” Mikey asked, turning to look at Hold.

  “Only if she’s lucky,” Hold answered, shaking his head. He hadn’t really given it much thought. It’s not like he sat around and thought about Carrie. She was just always there. If he saw her and she wanted a ride, he’d be willing.

  “Hey Badger, speakin’ of smokin’ hot, how’s that niece of yours workin’ out at Hard Ink? I haven’t seen her much this past month since she’s been in town,” Mikey said, shifting in his chair.

  “Good. She’s gettin’ settled into the apartment over the shop. Doin’ office shit for D during the week,” Badger answered, picking up his mug.

  Where Mikey sat to the left of Hold, Badger sat stoically on his right. The big three-hundred-plus-pound man sipped his black coffee. Across from him, rounding out the table, lounged Hound in silence. Both Badger and Hound were part of the original seven members of the Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club that included Ward and Sandman. The other three were long deceased.

  Hound was the HHMC treasurer, and owned and operated Beanie’s Pawn Shop three doors down from Hard Ink. He was tall and lanky, with thinning brown hair on top. Hold always chapped Hound’s ass by saying he looked like that weasel from the movie Armageddon who shared his nickname. But Hold had mad respect for both of these two men sitting in his kitchen, more so than anyone else. Their words carried the weight of wisdom. And he listened.

  “Have you met her yet, Hold?” Mikey asked, not even disguising his interest.

  “Yeah, and fucked her good and hard on the back of my bike twice,” Hold said, watching Mikey’s face turn several different shades of red—it was too easy to pull his chain. “She’s one sweet piece of Grade-A ass.”

  “What?” Mikey asked, his voice squeaking at the end.

  “Oh yeah. She came to the clubhouse last week lookin’ for you. Gawd, she was hot and horny, so I took care of her for ya.” Hold loved messing with Mike. He was the worst at keeping his emotions from being clearly written on his face and right now Mikey wanted to throttle Hold with both hands.

  “You goin’ to sit here and let him talk about your niece that way?” Mikey asked, angrily staring at Badger while pointing at Hold. “’Cause I can kick his ass for ya.”

  “If I’da known you felt that way ‘bout her, Mike, I’da only fucked her once.” Hold winked at Badger, inciting the older man into a full-blown huff of laughter.

  Mikey turned his head between Hold and Badger. He obviously caught onto their little joke when all the other men burst into hysterics around the table.

  “You little bitch,” Mikey said, playfully punching Hold’s shoulder. “That wasn’t funny.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Hold said in between laughing so hard his chest hurt. “Dude, you’ve got a massive hard-on for this chick or what?”

  Mikey’s cheeks were so pink it made Hold almost feel sorry for him. He couldn’t remember his brother ever feeling this way about a girl.

  “I like her, goddamn it! Okay?” Mikey said, staring at Hold. “So… ’ve you met her or not?”

  “No. Ward’s been keepin’ me busy at the garage lately. But now you better bet your ass I’ll get around to it—I have to find out for myself what this chick has that gets you goin’,” Hold said, letting Mike see that he was still teasing him.

  “What’s the latest with you and our prez?” Hound asked, rapping his knuckles against the table while balancing his chair on the rear two spindles. His question completely changed the atmosphere of the small group.

  Badger and Hound respected Ward’s position, but questioned his judgment regarding club decisions over the last decade. They both were businessmen who didn’t like the outlaw aspect Ward greedily pushed the club toward. Hold knew there was no love lost between Ward and Hound, something going back twenty years ago that Hound refused to discuss. Hound had said he believed in the brotherhood, and time would correct all the fucking injustice.

  These two men had stood in anger over what happened to Hold and Mikey—not so much that they’d been punished, because they both said their asses needed a good kicking, but Ward had ordered it without discussing it among the club’s patched members. It caused an internal dissension that’d already existed to deepen further.

  Hold had privately discussed with Hound and Badger how he believed legitimate businesses were the future for the MC, not cooking meth or running guns for the Russians to the fucking Cubans. The club had been taking too many chances, increasing its members’ risk of spending a lifetime with a view through steel bars. Hold had done time in prison, and he knew he couldn’t survive going back again.

  Hold seriously looked at each one of his brothers, his gaze hardening on Mikey’s a second longer than the rest. “That’s why I called y’all here. Ward is havin’ some trouble in Barrow County with some redneck white trash crunchin’ their own crystal. Evidently this shit’s good. Real good. He called me last night, wanting Mikey and me to go ferret them out sometime in the next couple of weeks.”

  He watched Badger glance over at Hound. Their eyes met and conveyed exactly what Hold feared.

  “You think it’s legit?” Badger asked, clearing his voice before turning to look at Hold.

  “What do you mean, legit?” Mikey asked, his eyes volleying between all of them.

  “He means,” Hound answered, “are you two bein’ set up for a concrete nap?”

  Hold turned his body in his chair to face him. Mikey’s eyes rounded larger than saucers and Hold saw the undeniable truth dawn on Mikey.

  “That’s some horseshit!” he yelled, slapping both of his hands flat on the table. It quivered beneath the force. “Your dad’s pissed
, Hold, but he wouldn’t have you killed. What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?”

  “Mikey, Ward isn’t goin’ to sit back much longer with the club broken. Somethin’ has to give or he’s goin’ to lose the MC he built. He blames me for the club dividin’. And you’re right, he wouldn’t order a kill on me, but if it accidentally happened…” Hold let the end of his sentence hang.

  Mikey sprang from his chair, his height looming over them all. He paced from one wall of the off-white kitchen to the other, softly kicking his size-fourteen foot at the fridge, but thankfully missing it.

  “You’re wrong, Hold,” Mikey quietly said, running a hand down his short beard. “You’re all wrong.”

  “Listen, Mikey, he’s my father. Trust me when I say that I don’t admit this easily,” Hold said, standing to grasp Mikey’s shoulder. “Look at me, brother. It fuckin’ kills me on the inside. But…” His words shook with the sickening emotion bubbling up in him.

  “God! It’s happened before, hasn’t it?” Mikey whispered, staring at the knowing look in Hold’s eyes.

  Hold nodded, unable to voice the answer out loud. He couldn’t talk about it, but twice this last year he’d dodged small, unexplainable deadly incidents leading indirectly back to Ward or one of his cronies. Hold kept them secret except for Hound and Badger. This was the first time he shared his fears with Mikey.

  For long seconds no one spoke into the silence, letting the irrevocable admission settle where it would.

  “Fuck! Alright. What do we do now?” Mikey asked, coming to stand by Hold.

  Hold glanced up at his brother.

  Shyla’s world had turned on its axis and she reveled in its aftermath. Her Aunt Diamond had taken one look at her niece and welcomed her with open arms. Diamond was ecstatic she’d come to visit. For the moment, Shyla didn’t clear up that technically it was permanent.