Ink: A Los Diablos MC Novella (Los Diablos Motorcycle Club)

Chapter One

Xiomara

I curved my nails into the battered leather of my piece of shit steering wheel, sitting inside my piece of shit car, with Molotov on full blast as I tried to muster the courage to get out and go inside.

The sign outside of the building was nondescript, simple, and mocking. Devil’s Ink. Appropriately named, I supposed, with the horned skull spray painted on the outer wall by a talented hand, not to mention the fact that this tattoo parlor belonged to Los Diablos MC.

They were a local, one-percenter motorcycle club, and that’s really all I knew about them.

I probably should’ve worked harder to find out more. But crime always ran rampant in Mexico, and it was too hard to keep track of all the shady shit that went down. Prostitution, drugs, guns… It was all the same at that point. No one in our little state of Tlaxcala was free from a life of debauchery. Not me. Especially not the MC.

Still, a part of me wondered if I should have been smarter about this. Some organizations were very machista in their beliefs, and women were rarely safe from the wrath of misogynistic men. If they weren’t careful, they’d find themselves turning tricks on the side of highways late into the night for cartels, only to crawl back to their jailors out of pure fear or addiction, if not both.

Los Diablos wasn’t a cartel, but I was sure they could be just as brutal.

And I had to be careful, considering I was going to be working for them starting today.

You know, if I ever found the courage to actually go in and start.

Disengaging my trembling fingers from the wheel, I yanked my headphones out, the string snagging against the length of my shiny black hair. After struggling with the wire, I tossed it onto the passenger seat and grabbed my phone. My thumbs flew across the screen as I logged into one of my favorite online communities.

I told myself I just needed a little encouragement as I typed up a message and pressed send, biting on my plump bottom lip as I waited.

An influx of responses came in almost immediately. An array of ‘Good luck!’ ‘Tú puedes!’ ‘You got this!’

Simple messages from an online support group for Latine people, but they filled me with exactly what I needed to finally pocket my phone into my belted black pants and hop out of the car.

Up close, the details of the painted diablo logo were clearer. It’d obviously been there for a while, the edges chipping, cement cracking and missing in patches.

I wanted to shudder at the thought of what the inside looked like, but I held myself back. I was in no way prissy and had dealt with my hand of shitty jobs before. This should have been no different.

Only… I was fired from my last job at the gas station when I kneed my manager in the nuts for copping a feel behind the cash register. I did more to him than just kick him in his precious balls, but I didn’t like to think about that. If I did, all I’d see was the disappointment in my mamá’s eyes as I told her I lost yet another job. The memory was a punch to the gut.

I was lucky enough a distant cousin hooked me up at this place. Said she knew the owners or some shit.

I couldn’t afford to fuck up this time. My family was counting on me to bring money in for gas and food.

That meant I couldn’t be fucking late.

Taking a breath, I steeled my spine and pushed through the front doors of Devil’s Ink. Immediately, I was hit with the scent of tinta. It perfumed through the air; cloying, heady, familiar. Buzzing echoed across the art-clad walls, the vibration pressing down to my bones, comforting and soothing.

If the outside looked shabby, the inside was a work of art. A collage of tattoos on bodies, of instruments and leather. Done up in dark tones of black, burgundy, and warm gray, the waiting area gave off a chill vibe, which was great for anyone nervous about coming in to get tatted up.

I did a slow twirl, taking in the space. So far, I liked what I saw. In the front, there was a long desk with a computer and several stacks of papers. Behind the desk there was a woman with long, dyed purple hair, gauges, and several facial piercings. Behind her, there was the wall that separated the inking area, lit beyond by bright lights and echoing with the steady sound of a tattoo gun.

“Can I help you?” the chick asked, taking me in.

I tensed, knowing what she’d see and wondering if she’d judge me for it the way so many others did. For the pants and baggy clothes. For the silver hoops that snagged against curly hair, the penciled in lips, dark brows, and painted mouth.

I knew I looked good, but having her stare at me made me want to fidget where I stood.

I hated being stared at. It made me uncomfortable before it pissed me off, and when my rage-o-meter flew past the limit, I became a different person.

One I wanted to forget.

One that had caused me to lose too many jobs already.

I walked over to the desk, squaring my shoulders. I refused to cow down to her judgmental bullshit, so I met her glare for glare, raising a dark, penciled brow.

“I’m Xiomara. I start work here today.”

“Ah. The new secretary.” She gave a firm nod and a small hint of a smile broke out on her lips. It changed her fearsome, pierced expression and almost made her pretty. “Good thing you’re here. I’m tired of doing this bullshit. It’s below my pay grade.”

“You tattoo?”

“I do.” She beamed with pride then lifted her arms onto the surface of the desk, showing off the array of tattoos that decorated her skin. Everything from roses, to skulls, to naked women.

“Nice,” I complimented.

She nodded at the tattoo visible on my arm. Nowhere near as extensive as hers, but the Virgen De Guadalupe on my skin was the only one I allowed myself because of my mamá and her aversion.

When I’d gone home with this one, all brave and bold against my body, she’d slapped the freshly painted art in anger and had gone to pray over my soul.

The experience had left me scared to get a new one. That had been a few years ago, and if I was honest, the urge had never really diminished. Maybe she’d feel differently now than she had then.

Or maybe she’d take a belt to me this time.

Anyway, tattoos were expensive as fuck in this economy, so getting one was out of the question right now considering I was a broke bitch.

“That all you got?”

“For now.”

Her hands slapped on the desk. “Stick around; we’ll get you filled up in no time.”

I could only hope.

“Fer, stop being chismosa with the clients and get your ass to work!” a voice called out from the back area. The deep, husky sound curled through my stomach and dragged my attention up.

A man appeared then, a glare on his face aimed in the woman’s–Fer’s–direction, right before he snapped it my way.

My breath caught at the piercing, gray gaze that held me captive. A strong, angry expression settled over startling features. The man wasn’t attractive. Not really. Not by societal standards, anyway. His nose was just a bit too big and crooked, his stubbled jaw just a bit too squared, lips too full. If the angry, stern face didn’t make him attractive in the eyes of society, then the tattoos certainly didn’t either.

They covered him up to his neck, sliding and twining over every inch of visible skin. On his arms, his collarbone, disappearing into the material of his tight t-shirt and leather cut.

There was something about his overall vibe, though, that did it for me.

Dangerous had always been my type.

Buenos para nada, my mamá called them.

And fuck, if he wasn’t just the type of bad, no-good that could make a good girl worship the horned devil that lived on the front of his leather vest.

Los Diablos MC.

Ink.

“I don’t take walk-ins,” he said, snapping me out of my stupor. His glare was piercing, cutting, and a total turn-on.

“Not a walk-in, Ink,” Fer said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “This is our new secretary.”

He assessed me all over again, the slow perusal of his gaze over my body nearly making me shiver. When his rare, gray eyes finally flicked back up to me, he wore an expression of disinterest.

“Hm,” he grunted. “Beatriz’s cousin?”

“Xiomara,” I supplied.

He ignored me and turned to Fer. “Show her the ropes. I want her to be trained by the end of the day.” Then he turned back to me. “You get one chance. I was told you fuck up every job you have, so I’m only taking you on as a favor to your cousin. Fuck up here and you’re out on your fucking ass, got that?” He whipped around and stalked back towards the tattooing area.

Once he was gone, Fer turned to me. “That went well.”

That went well? Was she fucking joking?

The man obviously hated me with a single glance. I didn’t do well with judgment. It made my heart beat and my palms sweat. It made the rage inside me swell to the surface.

I fought to tamp it down. Lock it up behind a wall of steel.

“Let’s get you trained up so the boss man doesn’t have a heart attack, yeah? Everything around here is pretty simple. You welcome clients, turn away walk-ins, make appointments on the computer. Know how to work calendars and excel sheets?”

And just like that, she showed me how to manage shit around Devil’s Ink.

As far as first days went, this had been one of my best. Things were pretty slow, though, so that could have been why.

I’d been left alone at the front desk while Fer and Ink stayed behind the wall, the steady stream of the tattoo gun buzzing as clients came and went.

When lunch time came, only Fer emerged from the back, a strappy black purse thrown over her shoulder.

“Let’s go eat,” she ordered. “Ink will man the store. He doesn’t have any clients until later.”

I agreed, casting a wary glance to the back before I followed her out.

We didn’t go very far to eat. Among the bustling fray of the dilapidated street and surrounding locales– stores –we flagged down a man on a bike selling tacos de canasta. Attached to the back was a big woven basket lined with blue plastic and cloth. On either side large mayo jars of green and red salsa.

The tacos were tiny, and I got two mixed orders filled with potatoes, tinga, and chicharrón. We ordered a soda from a nearby store and walked over to a bench by the park to eat.

We enjoyed our lunch in silence for a few minutes before Fer leaned back, eyeing me curiously.

“So, what’s your deal?” she asked.

I swallowed a sip of soda. “What do you mean?”

She waved in my general direction. “You show up out of the blue and Ink hires you on the spot because of your cousin. Word on the street is you’re a fuck up. That true?”

She asked in a curious type of way, and maybe my initial thoughts of her being judgmental were untrue, because she only sounded intrigued and not mean in her inquiry. Still, the question didn’t stop me from picking my napkin to little pieces in anxiety.

I didn’t do well under scrutiny.

“I mean… kinda?”

“There’s a story in there somewhere, mija.”

I snort-laughed and put my plate down on the side of the bench.

“There is,” I agreed. “But none of them are pleasant. I just can’t seem to hold down a job. If that makes me a fuck up, then I guess I am.”

“Hmm, that’s a nonanswer, but I’ll allow it. A bit of advice, though? From a friend?”

A friend? The concept was almost as foreign to me as a stable job. The only friends I knew were those from my online community. People far away and aloof, who could listen to me vent, who only knew me as my username, and who were mysterious and far enough away to not require any commitment.

The concept of someone who I could lean on now was pleasant.

“Yeah?”

“This is a good job. Ink is a huge asshole, and he doesn’t give second chances. So don’t fuck this one up, okay?”

I sighed and reached for my drink. “Okay.”

Except in life there were never any guarantees.

And I’d said I wouldn’t fuck mine up any longer.

Yet somehow, I always managed to do it.

Every single time.