Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
I grabbed my wallet from my purse and tugged out my identification. Sliding it across the counter, I murmured, “Here you go.”
He scanned my license into their system before handing it back to me. “Now you’re all set for when Onyx is ready to take you back. Should be any minute now.”
“Great.”
Faster was definitely better, as far as I was concerned. Although I’d been looking forward to this day for so long, I didn’t trust myself not to chicken out before my appointment even got started.
As he answered the ringing phone, I wandered over to the waiting area. When I searched online for a tattoo shop, Hellbound Studio had been rated the best in Georgia, not just in my little town of Riverstone. It was on Main Street, across from The Fuel & Flame Diner, but I had never been to either business since the local motorcycle club owned them. The fit my uncle would pitch if he ever learned I came here would rival Rachel’s mom’s if she’d been with me.
Hellbound Studio wasn’t anything like I’d pictured in my head. The cinder block walls were painted white, and the floor was decorative concrete with a dark and light gray pattern. The wood beams in the ceiling were exposed, and so was the ductwork, giving the place an industrial feel. But the lighting was bright, and there wasn’t a speck of dust that I could see.
Instead of sitting down, I studied the framed pictures on the wall. They were sketches of what I assumed were tattoos that the Hellbound artists had done, and they were all impressive. “Annika?”
Turning, I smile at the man standing in front of the reception counter. “That’s me. You’re Onyx?”
“Yup,” he confirmed with a lift of his chin. “From the note when you booked your appointment, it sounded like you know exactly what you want. Did you bring any photos or drawings that I can use as a reference?”
Crossing to him, I pulled my phone from my purse to show him what I found online, pointing out the flowers first. “I was hoping you could do a heritage rose like this one.”
“I can draw that.”
Then I swiped to a photo of a heart-shaped pocket watch with Roman numerals on the face. “And I want the hands to point to eight and eleven.”
“Today’s date? It has special meaning for you?” he asked as he scrolled through the images I saved in a folder on my phone.
I swallowed the lump in my throat that was always there when I talked about my mom and dad. “It’s when my parents got married. I thought it would be a good way to honor them and how much they loved each other.”
“Loved?”
“Yeah, I lost them two years ago.”
I didn’t give him any additional details because I'd never make it through this appointment if I did. Talking about their deaths was too hard for me, even after this much time had passed.
“I get it.” Onyx lifted his shirt and twisted to the side to show me the black ink on his back. “Had this done to honor my mom. Lost her when I was a teenager. It’s what got me interested in becoming a tattoo artist.”
I hadn’t expected the tall, muscular, tattooed biker to open up to me like that, but I felt much more at ease with his confession. “I hate that you had to go through a loss like that, but I’m glad you understand why I want this particular tattoo. It makes me feel a little more comfortable with you being the one to draw it.”
He dropped his shirt back into place and leaned his hip against the reception counter. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m the best in the business.”
“Most of Ink’s clients would disagree,” the guy behind the counter murmured.
“Ignore Jay. He’s a prospect who just started answering the phones for us last week. He has no fucking clue what he’s talking about.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Onyx smiled at me. “For the clock face, you want the short hand on eight and the long one on eleven?”
“That’s exactly what I want.”
2
INK
Icarefully placed a bandage over the fresh tattoo I’d just inked onto my cousin’s rib cage.
“You know how to take care of it, fratello?” I asked, not really paying attention and pretty much on autopilot.
Marcello rolled his eyes as he curled his abs up into a sitting position. “No, after thirteen tattoos, I forgot. You wanna enlighten me?”
I tossed him a dirty look and grunted, “Cazzo zito, stronzo.”
He grinned and hopped off the table I used when the piece's location required my client to lie down.
Shoving my rolling chair toward a small station that held my cleaning supplies, my mind was already on my next appointment.
I loved my job, and at the core, my art was a connection to my father. Although he had many responsibilities for The Family, he always found time for me and his art. He’d taught me everything he knew.