“So you kissed her and she didn’t do anything?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that. But what she did or didn’t do is none of your business,” I responded.
“Since fucking when do you keep things from me, Dude? I fucking swear. So what happened? You kissed and that’s it? What are you, twelve?” he asked.
“Fuck you,” I responded.
“No, fuck you. She yanked your rod, didn’t she?”
I shook my head, tore off the last section of plastic wrap, and pressed it into the leather.
“Nope,” I said as I tossed the carton of wrap in the drawer of my box.
“She sucked that motherfucker, I know she did. She’s got those DSLs. I bet that bitch can suck a marble through a straw,” he said.
I stood, turned to face him, and raised my index finger in the air. “That’s enough.”
“She sucked that dick. I knew it,” he said.
I continued to glare.
“Did she swallow?” he asked.
I bit my bottom lip and attempted to keep my temper at bay. After a moment, he continued.
“Fuck, yes. Gotta love a bitch that swallows,” he said.
“She didn’t swallow,” I said through my teeth.
“Oh? A spitter, huh? Where’d she spit it? Did she run to the bathroom, or take her time and sit with it in her mouth for a while before she dipped out on ya?”
“She just touched it,” I said.
“She played with the cum? Fuck, Dude, that’s hot. Like with the tip of her finger, or her tongue?”
“She touched my junk. Through my jeans,” I said.
“Wait? What? She touched it? Like a through the jeans rub and tug?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
“Oh hell no. Not since eighth grade. That’s unacceptable. Wait till I see this bitch. I’m going to give her a proper instruction manual on what to do and not to do with a grown man’s cock. I knew that little bitch was a youngster, but holy fuckballs. That’s unacceptable,” he said.
“You’re not going to say a word to her,” I said.
“Don’t bet on it,” he said over his shoulder as he frantically pulled open the drawers to his box.
“Here we go, pen and paper ready. I’m going to draw stick figures to keep it from being too graphic. What should I name it? You know, the title?” he asked.
“Name what?” I asked as I began to walk in his direction.
“Her instruction manual.” he responded.
“If you say one word to her about this…”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Free country.”
I stepped behind him, craned my neck over his shoulder, and glanced down at his note pad. A standing stick figure with an erect stick dick stood over a stick woman on her knees with her head impaled on his cock. The cock was all the way to her stick throat, depicted on the paper as a dashed line once it entered her “O” shaped mouth.
“Give me that,” I said as I reached for the pad.
He yanked the pad to the side, jumped from his stool, and ran to the front of the shop.
“No way, Dude. She needs to learn the proper way to handle a man’s junk. A through the pants rub and tug is reserved for middle school. You’ll thank me later,” he said.
The thought of Tyler doing anything to jeopardize my relationship with Riley was unacceptable. Riley was good for me, and I suspected I could also be good for her. Together, we would be nothing but goodness. I looked so forward to the next time I was able to see her, and I would be damned if Tyler’s insensitive sense of humor was going to come into play in our next meeting.
Enough was enough.
“Give it to me,” I demanded.
He shook his head.
“You’re fired,” I said.
“Fired? You can’t fire me, you need me,” he screeched.
“You’re…”
“Fired…”
“Dude…” he whined.
“Seriously, I’m tired of the bullshit. Get your shit and get out now,” I said as I pointed toward the door.
“Here, take it,” he said as he extended his arm.
The pad dangled loosely from his fingers.
“Get out,” I bellowed.
With wide eyes and a shaking lower lip, he stood and stared. I turned toward his work station, opened the drawers to his box, and shoved everything that belonged to him in the box. I grabbed the handle on the end of the box and drug it across the concrete floor and to the front door.
“Last chance to part as friends,” I said as I pointed to his box.
“Dude, don’t…”
I pushed the door open, shoved his box onto the side walk, and released the door. As the door swung closed, he stood with his mouth agape and stared at his box.
“You’re serious,” he said under his breath.
“Dead serious,” I responded.
He lowered his shoulders and began to walk toward the rear of the shop.
“I’ll give you about sixty seconds to turn around and get out of here, or I’m calling the cops,” I said.
“The fucking cops? It’s like that?” he asked.
“It is now,” I responded.
“I can’t believe you let a chick get between us,” he said.
“Out,” I said as I pointed toward the door.
And, without incident, he turned and walked out the door.
Although I realized there would be times when I missed Tyler, for me to make progress with Riley and have our relationship be healthy, safe, and without the constant pressures associated with sex, Tyler needed to go.
I turned away and walked toward my work station, feeling emptier than I expected. I glanced over my shoulder, and although his box remained on the sidewalk in front of the shop, he was nowhere to be seen.
As I gazed down at the cellophane wrapped chair, I realized I didn’t have an appointment booked for the morning, and had wrapped the chair out of nothing more than habit. While I considered unwrapping it, The Weeks began to play over the sound system. One of my favorite tracks, Hold It Kid, was a difficult one for me to listen to, but enjoyable nonetheless. As I became immersed in the song and slowly began to slip into a somber mood, the buzzer from the front door startled me.
A guy wearing a leather MC vest came through the door, glanced around, and gazed down at the sign I had added earlier.
“Nice sign,” he said.
“Appreciate it,” I said as I walked toward the partition. “What can I help you with?”
“Tool box out on the side walk in front of the door, you leave that there? Someone’ll steal it for sure as soon as the sun goes down,” he said as he tossed his head toward the door.
“No, fired a guy a bit ago. It’s his. He’ll be back to get it at some point, I’m sure,” I said.
“Alright. Well, I need a piece touched up, and want a couple small pieces. One of the fellas came in here the other day, maybe a week or so ago, and had you do some work on his prison tats. You covered a few of them up for him. He recommended you, said you didn’t have a shop minimum. Most of the other shops along here won’t do a small piece,” he said.
“Big guy, covered in prison tats, did a five year state bit on a gun charge. He went by…” I paused and thought of his name, which was quite unique.
“He went by Corn Dog. Good dude,” I said with a nod.
“What do you need touched up?” I asked.
He pulled up his shirt sleeve and pointed to a tattoo on his bicep. Cursive script spelled the phrase The Devil Looks After His Own, but a few of the letters had worn over the years and were showing their age.
“I can touch that up and make it look new. No changes?” I asked.
“No changes,” he said flatly.
“What’s the new work?” I asked.
“Want a couple of knuckle tats,” he said.
“I’ll be honest with you. Knuckle tats are a bitch. I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee it won’t blow out. Anyone who gives you a guarantee is
a fucking liar. I’ll guarantee anything else, and I’ll do my best with them, but there’s a risk,” I said.
“Alright. I want a skull on this finger,” he said as he extended the middle finger of his right hand.
He lowered his hand and turned the middle finger of his left hand up. “And an “A” on this one in Old English script.”
“Sounds easy enough. How’s seventy five for everything sound?” I asked.
“Sounds like you’re a reasonable man,” he said.
“When do you want to do it?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “When do you have time?”
“Now? It’ll take forty-five minutes on the arm, and fifteen on the knuckles.”
“Sounds good. Name’s Slice,” he said as he extended his right hand.
“Blake,” I said.
I reached over the counter and shook his hand. He was a rough looking man with a strong jawline, a few days growth of beard, and a powerful chest. He looked like the man the director would choose to portray a biker in a Hollywood movie about a biker because he looked the part and did so very well. I pulled a waiver from the drawer, grabbed a pen, and placed them on the countertop in front of me.
“Formality,” I said as I pushed the piece of paper across the counter.
“Understood,” he said as he reached for the pen.
After a moment he slid the sheet and pen over the counter and crossed his arms.
“You alright with taking your shirt off? We could roll it up, but I’d hate to have it come down on piece we’re reworking. Maybe just go without it, but you could wear the vest for the rest of the day,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Long as a few scars don’t bother you.”
“Never have, don’t know why they would now,” I responded.
“Where do you want me?” he asked.
“Follow me,” I said.
As he walked beside me, he removed his vest, pulled off his tee shirt, and tossed it on the end of the chair. As he began to slip his arms through the arm holes in the vest, I turned to face him. His entire back was covered in scars, some of which were a foot long. He looked like he’d been cut intentionally by someone who wasn’t too fond of him.
As with all bikers I had met, he’d come by his club name honestly. As I turned the other direction, he snapped the buttons on his vest and turned around.
“Just have a seat and we’ll get started,” I said as I sat on my stool.
He folded his tee shirt neatly, set it aside, and sat down facing me. As I slid my stool to the side and reached for the ink cabinet, I spoke over my shoulder.
“Black on everything?” I asked.
“Yep,” he responded.
I grabbed a tube of ink, squirted out enough for the three tattoos, and pulled a fresh needle from the drawer and remove the wrapper. As I inserted the needle in the machine and adjusted it, the door buzzer went off again.
I’d gone from deserted to Grand Central Station in fifteen minutes.
I glanced toward the door and was pleasantly surprised to see Riley.
“You alright with a little company for a few minutes?” I asked.
“I’m a lot of things, but modest isn’t one of ‘em. Okay by me,” he said.
“Come on back,” I said as I waved my arm.
Riley walked up behind him, stopped a few feet short, and grinned as her gaze met mine. Dressed in worn jeans, her Chuck’s, and a snug fitting short-sleeved button down shirt, she looked fantastic.
“Uhhm, there’s a tool box on the sidewalk,” she said as she walked toward the rear of the shop.
“I fired Tyler,” I responded.
“Oh, holy shit,” she gasped.
I shrugged my shoulders. “It was inevitable, no big deal. Your hair looks great.”
“Just got it done. All one color,” she said.
“Well, it looks fucking awesome.”
Slice turned his head slightly, paused, and twisted his upper body to face Riley.
“Riley Campbell?” he asked.
She shifted her eyes toward him.
“Oh shit. Uhhm. Wow. Uhhm. Axton, right?” she asked.
“Good memory. How the hell are you? I haven’t seen you in years,” he said as he stood and opened his arms wide.
“Good. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m great,” she said as she hugged him.
“Your mother?” he asked.
“She’s good, as always. Actually, I just left there,” she said.
“I saw her a few weeks back, but just waved as we rode past. Hell, I bet I haven’t seen you since you were in high school. You still pissing off your mom and seeing that attorney?” he asked.
“No, he’s long gone,” she said.
“Probably best for you and your mother both,” he said.
“Yeah, probably so. I met this guy when I was about fourteen,” Riley said.
She walked around the end of the chair, turned to face him, and shook her head. “One of the members of his club lives down the street from my mother, and one day we were standing in the driveway trying to figure out how to change a flat. So, they were riding by, what, about ten of you?”
“Or more,” he responded.
“Well, so we were in the driveway with the jack and all the stuff, and neither of us knew what we were doing, and they turned around, pulled in front of the house, and stopped. Mom and I were scared to death. So they’re all neatly parked in front of the house, and this guy got off his motorcycle, walked up the driveway, and just started changing the flat tire. He didn’t even say anything until he was done. And ever since, he’d just stop by to make sure we were doing okay. The entire time I was in high school he stopped by once a month or so and just asked if we needed anything. Don’t let his size or looks fool you, Blake. He’s one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet. I can’t believe I just bumped into you.”
I grinned and glanced at them both. “That’s a good story.”
“Guess what else?” Riley chuckled as she studied him.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“They come by at Christmas and hang mom’s Christmas lights. Then they come take them down.” She paused and turned to face Axton. “You guys still do that?”
“Every year. Tough for a woman living without a husband,” he said with a nod.
“You still a woman hater?” she asked.
“Got me an Ol’ Lady now, not much older than you,” he said.
“Oh shit, are you serious?” she asked as she sat in the stool beside his chair.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded his head. “Avery. Gonna get the letter “A” tattooed on my knuckle right now, kill two birds with one stone.”
“I like it,” she said.
“Same here,” he responded as he sat down.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Ready as I’m going to get,” he responded.
After wiping his arm down with soap, I shaved his bicep and began the re-work of his existing tattoo. Riley sat quietly and exchanged glances between the Axton and me as I worked. It was nice having her there watching, and being in her presence made me feel like there was a little more between us than I suspected she believed there was.
After thirty minutes, I was done with his bicep, and immediately moved to his knuckles. Ten minutes later, I was done.
“Knuckles look good,” he said as he nodded his head.
“Just be careful with them. They’re slow to heal with all the flexing of the skin,” I said.
He gazed down at his hands, turned his head to the side and inspected his bicep, and stood from his seat.
“Good work,” he said as he adjusted his vest.
I removed my gloves and tossed them in the trash. “Appreciate it.”
Riley stood from her stool, walked around the end of his chair, and stopped at my side. Axton alternated glances between us for a moment.
“Oh shit, are you two…” He paused and studied Riley.
She glanced
at me and shrugged her shoulder slightly.
“What, you don’t know?” he asked.
I glanced toward her and grinned. “Yeah, we are.”
“Yeah we are,” she giggled.
“Better than your last choice, that’s for sure,” he said flatly.
“Yep, he hit me for the last time,” she said.
Axton’s cocked an eyebrow. “He what?”
“The last time he hit me, I left. Haven’t seen him since,” she said.
He fixed his eyes on me, held his gaze for a moment, and eventually shifted his eyes toward Riley. His mood seemed to quickly change from rather cheerful to angry almost immediately. He inhaled a deep breath, folded his arms in front of his chest, and glared.
“What was his name? Get in a wreck, call Peck? That’s what his billboards say, right? Wasn’t that it? Stephen Peck?” he asked.
She nodded her head.
He nodded his head once as he reached for his wallet.
“Here you go,” he said as he handed me two one hundred dollar bills.
“Let me get you some change,” I said.
“Keep it. Take her out for dinner or something. I appreciate you getting me in,” he said.
“Appreciate it,” I said as I shoved the bills into my pocket.
He reached down, grabbed his tee shirt, and held his right arm extended to the side. After hugging Riley and shaking my hand, he walked to his bike, started it, and left.
I turned to face Riley. “I’m guessing he didn’t like that Stephen guy.”
“I’m guessing not,” she responded.
“Fuck, he got mad,” I said.
“Uhhm, yeah. He sure seemed to.”
“What are your thoughts about sleeves?” she asked.
I raised my arms in the air and twisted my wrists around slowly. “Do you really need to ask?”
“On me…” she said.
The thought of her having a sleeve excited me. Women with well thought out sleeves were almost as attractive as women with bold black-framed glasses.
Almost.
“I like the thought of it,” I responded.
“Got time?” she asked.
I glanced beyond her and toward Tyler’s empty work station.
“I’ve got a lifetime,” I responded.
RILEY
I felt I had gone from being single forever to being mentally committed to Blake in a matter of two weeks. Whatever it was that drew me to him was sufficient enough for me to let my guard down, accept him as being a minimal threat, and welcome him into my life. I did realize we weren’t committed in a relationship sense, but for me, it was important I viewed it as otherwise. My belief that we were much more involved than we really were allowed me to look at him in an much different light than if we were simply hanging out as friends.
Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel) Page 9
