4. Baja
4
BAJA
A heavy weight presses down on me, followed by a soft rhythmic vibration against my chest, waking me from sleep. “Mornin’, Ozzy.” I crack my eyes open and see the face of a content twenty-pound Maine Coon. I scrub his head, then scratch behind his ear, causing him to purr louder. After his successful wake-up call, Ozzy jumps to the floor, looks back at me, and meows. I toss my cover to the side and get out of bed. “I’m comin’.”
With Ozzy leading the way, I follow him to the kitchen. I put a mug and a coffee pod into the machine and push the button, then get Ozzy’s favorite breakfast from the cabinet, crack open the can, and fill his dish. Retrieving my mug of coffee, I pour a splash of creamer into it and head for the kitchen table, where I set his food dish on the floor and open the window. Taking a deep breath, the fresh air fills my lungs before I take my first sip of coffee. The sun is barely up over Salem, painting the early morning a muted gray matching the cobblestone streets around here.
My thoughts drift back to Alice and how she came undone so easily at my touch. That woman has me in a chokehold. I replay our encounter in my head, savoring our brief connection and tormented by the flash of regret and uncertainty in her eyes soon after. That alone should deter me from this overwhelming need for more of her, but what I’m feeling is far from running in the other direction. Like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn to Alice.
I sip my coffee, its warmth grounding me momentarily as thoughts of last night swirl in my mind. I can’t help but wonder if Alice is trapped in that exact moment and if it’s haunting her as much as it haunts me.
The chaos in my mind fades, yet the questions about Alice remain.
Living in the apartment above Ravens Ink Tattoo Shop has its advantages, including the short time it takes me to get to work.
As I flick the wall switch, there’s a soft hum of the overhead lights as they illuminate the space, revealing walls painted in a deep midnight blue. Framed vintage photographs of intricate tattoo designs hang in lavish gold frames decorate the room.
An hour after opening, the door swings open, and Grace, a young woman I met last week during her consultation, walks in. The expression on her face is a blend of apprehension and determination. I feel the weight of her story as she approaches. She’s seeking a tribute for her mother, who bravely fought cancer but lost her battle only months ago. When she leaves my chair, I want to ensure she carries a memory of love transformed into art, something she will cherish forever.
“Mornin’.” I shoot her one of my award-winning smiles, and she blushes, which generally would encourage me to continue flirting, but I don’t find myself interested. Instead, I think about Alice again.
“Where would you like me to be?” Grace asks, her gaze lingering on me a moment longer, a playful sparkle in her eyes.
Again.
I feel nothing at her spark of interest.
What is wrong with me?
I point to the table at my station. “Over there.” My voice is clipped, but my mood shifting has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the woman who ran out on me last night.
While the client settles onto the table, I print the tattoo stencil. She wants a floral piece, intricate and delicate, which isn’t my thing. I’m more about bold lines, heavy blacks, and a bit of grit in the ink. Nevertheless, I’m good at what I do, and she will leave satisfied.
My Uncle Jax, a lone wolf, if ever there was one, taught me everything I know about tattooing. He is the type who shows up unannounced, usually in the middle of the night, and leaves just as quickly. He never stays long enough to settle. But he gave me something more when he sat me down and handed me a tattoo machine when I was seventeen. He’s the one who also gave me my first bike and introduced me to the MC lifestyle, exposing me to a whole other world of living on the fringes of society. I’ve always been an outlier, diving headfirst into life, living for every moment, and not wasting every breath I take.
I live life boldly and with no regrets.
I pause, looking at myself in the mirror, and stare at the Batman symbol, partially obscured by my cut, stretched across my chest. I’m also living for my baby brother, who didn’t get the chance to grow up because cancer stole his life from him. Cancer fucking sucks.
Burying thoughts of the past, I set up the machine and examine the stencil before applying it to Grace’s outer thigh. “Ready?” I ask, gloved up and prepared to go.
“Nervous but excited.” She holds her phone up high and takes a selfie before the needle touches her skin. She winces as the needle bites in, a tiny bead of blood rising under the ink. Some people handle the pain of getting a tattoo better than others. And from my experience, women have a much higher pain threshold than men. The pain of getting a tattoo is easy to get addicted to—there’s a release and clarity that comes from pushing through.
“Been doing this long?” she asks, her eyes focused on her phone screen.
“Since I was seventeen.”
“How old are you now?” I feel her eyes on me, but I keep my attention on her thigh.
“Thirty.”
“Wow. A long time, huh?”
“Yeah.” I chuckle.
“You single?” Her tone sounds hopeful.
I remain silent.
Because all I can think about is Alice.
What’s happening to me? I have a gorgeous woman who sounds interested in me, and I’m not catching the bait.
My client softly laughs. “I get the sense that my question is complicated to answer.”
“You could say that.”
“I get it. I mean, hell, I’ve been in love with my best friend since I was twelve. I’m single because no matter how hard I try not to think this way, no one will ever be him.” She sighs, and I splash the needle into the rich, black ink. “I doubt he has a clue.” She chuckles, brushing off the thought, but I catch a hint of red creeping across her cheeks. “Honestly, I don’t know why I spilled that to you.”
I grin. “You’d be amazed at the secrets people share when they’re in the chair.” I continue to perfect the outlines of her tattoo, feeling the connection grow with each stroke and relaxing into my work. “Let’s talk about your mom.” I shift the focus back to the real reason for her visit. Her expression brightens, and she shares all her stories about her mom for the next hour.
I finish her linework and then start shading. As always, I keep my words few, letting the machine’s hum fill the spaces between casual conversation.
When the piece is finally done, I help her sit up. She stands in front of the mirror and looks at her leg. “It’s beautiful,” she says, her eyes growing misty.
Once I’ve applied the protective bandage to her thigh, I give her a small bag containing everything she’ll need to care for her tattoo, along with detailed instructions. “You can take off the protective film in three days. Be sure to follow the instructions I provided.” She digs in her purse and hands me a generous tip. “You can put that into the glass jar at the front desk.” She walks over and stuffs the cash inside the jar.
“Superheroes of Tomorrow Fund. Every tip goes directly to support childhood cancer research and hospitals, honoring my hero, Elliot Steele,” she reads, her voice warm with emotion as she glances at the jar’s picture. “Did you know this sweet little boy?”
“He’s my brother.” The words hang in the air like a heavy fog, wrapping around me and squeezing my chest as a surge of tumultuous emotions crashes over me. They say time heals all wounds, but that’s a comforting lie. The pain of loss doesn’t fade. It lingers like a shadow. You learn to carry the weight of that void, but the ache settling in your bones is a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. Sorrow isn’t something you shake off. It’s a part of you, entwined with every heartbeat. Yet, somehow, you push forward, each breath a testament to my brother’s legacy.
Reaching into her bag, she adds more cash to the donation jar. “Thanks again.” She smiles before exiting the shop.
As the door closes behind her, I resume cleaning and organizing my station, preparing for the remainder of the day.
More clients, more ink.
The sun sets as my last client of the day leaves, and the shop falls into a quiet stillness. I exhale, flip the sign to closed , and lock up. A few minutes later, I’m heading outside.
Salem transforms into a different entity at night. The atmosphere is thick with history—old brick buildings stand tall, streetlights stretch long shadows across cobblestone alleys, and the ocean’s whisper lingers nearby. This town clings to its secrets, which works in the club’s favor.
My fingers ache from hours of tattooing, but it’s the kind of ache I like.
Swinging my leg over my Harley, I twist the throttle, letting the engine purr—she’s a Super Glide, all chrome and steel—the rumble reverberates through my bones before I pull onto the street, feeling my tires grip the asphalt.
Salem’s allure is deeply rooted in its rich history. Narrow, winding roads snake through the town, their cobblestones worn smooth by time. Streetlights cast a soft, eerie glow over historic buildings, enhancing Gothic architecture. The atmosphere is thick with history.
I cruise through town, passing the old brick buildings and narrow shopfronts. The moon hangs heavy and low, casting a glow over the streets. Tourists linger, snapping pictures and huddling in groups as if they expect ghosts to walk out of the walls.
The engine’s hum clears my head as I ride, washing away the day. There’s a rhythm to the road as the lights flick past and the wind hits my face. The street stretches out in front of me, dark and endless as I head toward the edge of town. For a while, it’s me and the bike carving through the night until my mind is flooded with thoughts of Alice and the moment we shared.
How can I prove to her I’m trustworthy when she struggles to believe in herself?
I clutch the throttle with determination. As I accelerate, the wind whips against my face, and I feel the adrenaline surge through my veins. The road blurs beneath the tires as I race forward, desperately trying to outrun the thoughts swirling in my mind.
At last, I arrive at the edge of town and park outside the strip club, a large brick structure adorned with a sign reading “The Fallen.”
Kicking the stand down, I swing off the bike and head inside. The club’s new bouncer, Mack, nods as I walk by, a big guy with tattoos snaking up his neck and eyes as hard as granite. Inside, the music is loud, and the air is thick with the scent of whiskey, cigars, and perfume.
I weave through the crowd, the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses growing louder as I approach the stage where my brothers sit at our usual spot.
“Look who finally decided to join us!” Mystic shouts, his glass lifting high as he gestures toward me. As I drop into an empty chair, someone slides a whiskey over me. I down the shot, the burn hitting just right, cutting through the leftover tension in my shoulders.
Salem’s gaze locks onto mine, his brow furrowing. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up. “What’s eatin’ you?”
“Nothin’,” I mutter.
“Your sour mood got anything to do with a certain MILF?” Mystic smirks, and I cut my eyes at him.
“Hey, brother, we all saw you and Alice vanish the other night, and it was hard to miss when she hurried to exit a bit later,” Laredo says as he pours me another shot of whiskey.
I say nothing—no sense in denying what happened. I have nothing to hide. My brothers aren’t judging me, just spitting facts and holding nothing back. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
The subject of Alice is dropped.
Instead, we do what we do best and have a good time.
The night stretches, and the liquor flows. I sink back into my seat as the whiskey warms my insides, feeling myself loosening up, the last bits of tension slipping away. The warm amber liquid glides down my throat as I take another shot, a soothing sensation contrasting my current mood. I focus intently on the girls dancing on stage, their bodies twirling around the poles, each movement synced perfectly with the beat of the music.
Bebe, one of our new girls, moves in front of us, spinning slowly on the pole, her body twisting in time with the beat. She’s got tattoos snaking down her thighs—roses and skulls—and a black widow on her shoulder blade. I watch her, letting the movements and the music wash over me as I lose myself in the rhythm, hoping it will distract me from my worries.
Yet, Alice continues to haunt me.