Saint (Sin City MC Oakland)

1. CHAPTER ONE

Forbidden Ink

A knock sounded at the door, and I killed the gun. Snake cursed under his breath. “Motherfucker, how much longer?”

“You want it done right, Snake?” He responded with a mumble. “Fucking asshole.”

We’d been at this shit since this morning, and Snake was a grumpy, impatient motherfucker.

He loved getting tattooed but hated sitting for them.

I was used to his complaining ass. He sponsored me when I prospected for the club against the wishes of both of my brothers.

And he’d been an asshole for as long as I’d known him.

“Yeah!” I called out to Angel through the closed door.

It was Sunday. Angel and I were the only ones at the shop tonight. The crew chose whether they wanted to take Sundays off or work. If they did come in, it was for the morning clients or appointments. Rarely did walk-ins show up.

Angel was our receptionist. He was an ex-con and the half-brother of a friend. He hated when we called him our receptionist. The term wasn’t manly enough for his sexist ass. He liked to call himself the fucking gatekeeper. Every time he said that shit, I couldn’t do anything but laugh.

Angel pushed the door open and leaned against the frame of the door like he was posing for a magazine cover.

All the women loved him despite his criminal past. He was great at attracting new female customers.

He looked like some actor from one of those biker shows on television that didn’t know shit about being a one-percenter.

And he loved the attention. Despite his high opinion of himself, he was perfect for the position.

“You got a walk-in.” He popped a piece of mint candy in his mouth. He didn’t go anywhere without’ em.

“Son of a bitch,” I groaned causing a smirk to cross his face. “I was fucking hoping I could make it out of here before anyone showed up.”

Everybody knew I hated walk-ins. It was usually a drunk college kid who wanted to get his girlfriend’s name tattooed across his ass to show his undying love.

Or a drunk girl whining about how her boyfriend cheated on her and she wanted to get a tattoo to mark the occasion of when she dumped him.

Not how I liked to spend my time or waste my talent.

Of course, I hated to lose money, but we were one of the few shops that didn’t tattoo drunk people.

I also tattooed by appointment only, unless it was one of the brothers, or on one of these days when no one else was in the shop like tonight.

My waitlist was one to two months long and I worked seven days a week.

For me, it was hard to squeeze in walk-ins, so when I didn’t have an appointment, my free time was reserved for the brothers.

However, money was money and today I didn’t have a choice. I was the only one here.

“Give me ten minutes,” I grumbled.

“You got it, boss,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

“Almost done, brother,” I said to calm Snake’s ornery ass.

“Thank fuck!” he groaned as he laid back in the tattoo chair, getting comfortable.

It took almost the entire day to finish the sleeve on his forearm. We’d been working on it since ten this morning, with minimal breaks and no lunch. Once we got started on his pieces, he hated to take breaks. And now, both of us were ready for the shit to be done.

“Shit hurts like a motherfucker,” he growled, pulling on his long gray beard with his free hand. “And my ass is numb.”

“You’re the motherfucker who didn’t want to take a break, Snake. So, stop fucking complaining now.”

“Fuck you, Saint,” he grumbled.

He knew I was right. I chuckled and restarted the tattoo gun.

The constant buzzing of the machine always brought me peace.

I relaxed and slipped back into the zone.

As I finished the shading on the dripping fangs of the cobra coiling around Snake’s huge ass forearm, the tension of the long day ebbed away, but tiredness set in.

While I loved creating art and wouldn’t want to do anything else, I was fucking tired.

After long days at the shop and other days spent on runs for Sin City, I was burned out.

All I wanted was to go home, smoke a joint, and pass the fuck out for a few days.

I shaded the last drip of venom and breathed a sigh of relief when it was done, then I shut the gun off.

“All done.” I sprayed the area on his arm and wiped away the excess ink from his skin. “Tell me what you think.”

Snake slid off the leather chair and stood in front of the large mirror hanging on the wall.

Ink covered him from head to toe. Even crosses were tattooed on his eyelids.

He wasn’t opposed to getting ink anywhere.

And he knew good art when he saw it. What Snake thought of my work mattered to me, like all my brothers.

Although I wouldn’t tell them or Snake that shit because I’d never hear the end of it.

He was one of the older members of Sin City and had paid his dues to the club.

He also had been tattooed by some of the greats in the field, including my mentor.

“That shit looks real good kid.” He twisted his muscular arm from side to side, inspecting the detailed black and white tattoo. “Real fucking good. I like it.”

We’d been working on it for almost two weeks. Some of my best work, if I’d say so myself.

“Thanks, man.” I wrapped his forearm in a sterile bandage. “Make sure you clean it and keep it bandaged.”

“Kid, I was getting tattoos while you were still swimming around in your daddy’s ball sack,” he grumbled. “I think I know what to do.”

“Fuck you, man.” I chuckled, pulled off the latex gloves and tossed them in the trash bin, then started the cleanup of the room.

“I’ll see you bright and early at Church.”

“Shit!” I threw the wet paper towels in the trash bin and discarded the used ink. “I forgot about that shit.”

According to Reaper, we were having guests courteous of the Mother Chapter, but that was all he would say. I wasn’t sure what happened. It was rare King was on guard like he was, and it was even rarer that my brother allowed anyone at the clubhouse, outside of old ladies and club whores.

“Don’t be late,” Snake warned, pointing at me. “You know how pissed King will be. And I don’t want to hear that shit. I’m getting too old for it,” he called out over his shoulder as he walked out of the door.

“You don’t have to remind me,” I mumbled to the empty room. “I’ve known him my whole fucking life.”

King was not only my older brother, he was also the President of Sin City MC’s, Oakland chapter.

My president. There were three of us. King the oldest, Reaper, the middle son, and me, the youngest–the family screw up.

King acted more like my father than my brother.

I hated that shit. He was fifteen years older than me, and we had absolutely nothing in common except for the club.

For him, it was enough. So, I guess it had to be for me too.

Snake shut the door behind him, and I finished cleaning my workstation.

I tattooed away from everyone. I wasn’t anti-social, but I couldn’t work with the constant chatter of clients and the other artists.

I had high-profile clients, too. Sometimes they requested an empty shop, or I ushered them in and out the back door.

I kept them separated from our regular clients because crazy fans interrupting daily operations to stalk their favorite celebrity wasn’t good for business.

I wiped my hands with paper towels, then tossed them in the bin as I walked out the door towards the waiting area in the front of the shop.

Before I made it to the archway separating the main room where the other tattooists worked from the waiting area, the most exquisite, husky, slightly rasped, voice grabbed my attention.

When I reached the waiting area, my heart leaped in my chest when my eyes landed on the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen in my life.

Dark brown locs with golden tips hung at her waist. A long, flower print, off-the-shoulder dress reached the floor, highlighting a curvy figure, and large breasts.

Large gold hoop earrings hung from her ears, and gold bangles clanked on her arms as she animatedly talked with another woman and Angel at the receptionist's desk while flipping through a portfolio of my work.

“There he is,” Angel called out dramatically, causing me to roll my eyes.

When she faced me, it was like time stopped.

Angel and the other woman faded from focus, and all my senses zeroed in on the woman.

After gawking for longer than I should have, I shook myself out of my lust-filled stupor.

I didn’t know who she was, but with every step I took toward her, I knew I was walking toward the woman of my dreams.

“Welcome to Forbidden Ink.” I grasped her outstretched hand as I peered down into mesmerizing brown eyes.

She was tall despite wearing sandals with no heels but standing at six feet four inches I still had to look down at her.

Her grip was firm, her skin as smooth as velvet.

“I’m Saint, tattoo artist and owner of Forbidden Ink. ”

“Hi, I’m Oya. Nice to meet you, Saint.”

She released my hand and I wanted so much to grab it again, just to have that tiny connection, feel her skin against mine.

Mint and whiskey floated into my nostrils, mixing with the sweet smell of honeysuckle perfume.

If sexiness had a smell, it would be hers.

A smell that would be imprinted on my soul.

“This is my friend, Raquel.”

“Nice to meet you, Oya. Raquel,” I said, not removing my eyes from the magnificent woman standing in front of me. “How can I help you, ladies?”

“She wants to get a celebration tattoo,” Raquel slurred from behind Oya.

Oya rolled her eyes. “I would like to get a tattoo.”

“So, what are we celebrating?” I asked not that it was any of my business.

“Freedom,” her friend responded before Oya had the chance to answer.