5. Wolf
I was at the bar when Serena called, well on my way to getting fucked up to forget the shitshow of a night at the shop. Like zombies on The Walking Dead, idiots kept coming in, asking for artwork that was either a blatant rip-off of someone else’s work or the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen.
When a young kid came in asking for a gang sign tattooed on his neck, I nearly lost my shit. I don’t care what other shops do in the name of “business,” but I don’t fuck with drugs, gangs, or shady deals in the back alley.
Never have, never will. So, when the punk came in asking for a goddamn beetle on his neck to show that he was part of the Bógar crew, the newest gang to form in Forest Valley, I kicked his scrawny ass out of my shop and warned him that if he or his brothers ever came back, I’d beat their asses.
Threats typically work when you’re a six-foot-six Scotsman with a temper and red hair. My MMA background probably helps, too.
My phone went off just as I received my third IPA, the unknown number on my screen not phasing me in the least. I was used to promoters, sponsors, and tattoo referrals calling me on my cell and didn’t hesitate to pick up. What a fucking mistake that was. As soon as I hit accept and brought the phone to my ear, my cock got hard from the breathing on the other end of the line. The delicate clearing of a throat had me thinking about shoving my cock down someone’s fucking throat.
It could be a seven-foot hockey defenseman named Igor on the other end of this line, but fuck if my dick got that memo. My body started to relax as soon as I heard the soft, melodic voice burst through my speaker.
“Uhm, hi. This is Serena, my last name is Castillo. My name—” She paused and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Right, this is Serena Castillo. I called because I need some help and I was hoping that maybe we could meet at the shop? I’m sorry, I got your number out of Celeste’s phone. Is that an issue? I’m not sure—”
“Calm down, Serena. Yeah, I remember you. What do you need, princess?” The endearment slips out of my mouth, and I cringe, pretty fucking sure that I sound like a creep.
“Oh. You remember me? Great. I was hoping to book an appointment to see you. For a tattoo. An appointment for a tattoo. A consultation. Yes.” She pauses and releases a long breath. “I want to schedule a tattoo appointment.”
“That was a lot of words for a simple sentence. I’m free on Friday. The shop is closed right now but call tomorrow when we open; Aubrey will schedule you an appointment.” I hang up on her before she has a chance to respond and drain my beer.
At twenty-five, I’ve fucked more women than I can remember and have a trail of bad relationships. It’s not a brag—it’s a recognition of my lifestyle and the choices I’ve made. I’ve slowed down the last few months; I’m too tired to beat the shit out of people in the ring, tattoo art for my clients, and then fuck for longer than twenty minutes.
Sitting here, with my empty beer glass and half-hard cock, I reason that the stress of two careers and a depressing social life is the reason why the awkward ramblings of an eighteen-year-old did more for my cock than my ex-girlfriend, Kelly, ever did. Running a hand over my face, I scowl at the excitement and anticipation pounding in my veins over seeing her again.
Fucking hell.
—
“Do you think she’s trying to be inconspicuous?” Aubrey whispers beside me as we watch Serena from the windows of the storefront. At four in the afternoon on a Friday, the shop is packed, the buzzing of tattoo guns and the steady beat of rock music the anthem of the afternoon. I don’t know why I told her that I was free today or why I instructed Aubrey to book her an appointment in between my clients.
But I fucking did.
“I don’t know what she’s doing.” And it’s true, I have no clue what she’s doing or why she’s dressed like a celebrity undercover. In an oversized beige trench coat, baseball cap, large sunglasses, and holding an umbrella, she looks insane.
It’s thirty degrees and sunny; she should be wearing a winter coat, and there’s no need for an umbrella.
“Should I go get her?”
I shake my head, too curious to see what she’s going to do once she crosses the parking lot and enters the shop. Tugging her jacket lapels, she walks quickly across the lot, head downcast and not looking at her surroundings. I shake my head again, confusion taking over every other thought.
I mean, really, what the fuck is she doing?
I don’t realize how tense her shoulders are until she walks through the shop’s door and lets out an audible sigh, releasing the tension that kept her shoulders by her ears. The moment she catches Aubrey and me looking at her, she squeaks, sounding like a scared little mouse, before recovering her composure.
“Oh, uh, hi.”
I just stare at her, taking in her features swallowed by the ball cap and oversized trench. She looks like an extra in a bank heist movie.
“Are you okay?” Aubrey asks, diverting Serena’s gaze from mine. “You looked frazzled out there. Do you need water or to make a phone call or anything?”
Serena clears her throat, shaking her head. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I must look crazy right now. I sometimes take a pottery-making class on Fridays at the community center in West Helm, and I don’t like to wear any of my good clothes, and I couldn’t find my old winter coat. I didn’t want to be late, so I threw this on.” She pauses, taking a breath. Lifting one small hand, she touches the bill of the baseball cap and smiles wryly. “And I’m a dyed blonde, so getting clay in my hair would be a disaster. Hence, the cap. And the umbrella, well, it might rain later.”
Aubrey and I just stare at her, the rambling seemingly on par with what I know about Serena. When I first met her, I was struck by how beautiful she was and then puzzled by her switch from silence to wordiness.
“You make pottery? That’s cool,” Aubrey offers, breaking the awkward silence that descended. Like a match, Serena lights up, her features morphing from self-conscious to excited.
“I love it. I started when I was eight with my great-grandmother, and I started doing it again a few weeks ago. My mom’s family is from Mexico, and I became enamored with Cholula designs and the scenes depicted on the pottery. She humored me, and we started to make clay pots and vases,” she finishes her explanation and looks down, the excitement draining and embarrassment taking over. “I’m not very good at it, but it’s fun,” she adds, shrugging.
Aubrey must sense the change in her, too, because she approaches Serena and lays a hand on her arm, squeezing it and offering a wide smile. “That’s great, Serena. I understand embracing heritage and your culture; my family is from Nigeria, so I tattooed the national flower on my arm.” Aubrey rolls up her sleeve, showcasing the yellow trumpet flowers decorating her skin. I feel my lips twitch at the memory of Aubrey sitting for hours in my chair, cursing my name as I inked from her wrist to her elbow. For having so many tattoos, she’s a baby when it comes to pain.
“Aubrey, tell Serena how well you sat for that piece.”
Instead of answering me, she just holds up her middle finger. I laugh and walk to the reception desk. Bringing the computer out of idling, I pull up our calendar booking software and mark Serena as “here” before closing the application.
“You ready to head to my station?” I ask, nodding toward the back of the shop.
“Yes. Yep. I’m ready,” she responds, her voice squeaking. Again, I bite down on my tongue, holding in the laugh that’s threatening to spill out. She’s so fucking nervous, it’s palpable.
I don’t wait for her to start walking; instead, I lead the way to my private room. Pride washes over me the moment I step over the threshold; it’s a blessing that I own a successful business and have a long list of clients begging for my ink. I never excelled in school; I preferred fights, sex, and feeding my artistic soul over math and science. As soon as I turned eighteen, I started as an apprentice under my dad’s tattoo artist, Skull, and took over a year ago when he decided to sell the shop.
MMA pays well when you win the fights, and I’m grateful for the years I spent in the cage. I’m even more grateful that I’ll be retired from that world by twenty-six and have a career that won’t break my body down by thirty.
I sense Serena as soon as she steps into my space, the light vanilla fragrance wrapping around us.
“Should I sit in the tattoo chair or over in one of the green chairs, or…?” Serena’s voice breaks through my thoughts, jolting me back to where we are and what we’re here for.
Clearing my throat, I shake my head and point to the wingback chairs I use for consultations. “Have a seat in one of the chairs. I don’t typically take walk-ins, so we’ll talk about what you’re looking for before we go any further.” I watch as she walks to the chair and sits delicately, as though she’s afraid the sturdy furniture will break under her slight frame. Her back is rigid, and she looks like she’s ready to bolt.
If I wasn’t so confused as to why she’s here, I’d be laughing my ass off at the proper display she’s projecting.
In a fucking tattoo shop.
Settling myself in the chair across from her, I let out a breath. “Alright, Serena, why are you here?”
Her eyes shoot to mine, wide and glowing with unease. Her eyes are like no color I’ve ever seen before; a traditionalist would call them brown, but they’re more golden, a mixture of brown and yellow hues that make the most surreal color. My hand flexes, wishing I had paint or markers or anything nearby to capture their likeness.
“Well, I want a tattoo,” she begins, a self-deprecating smile falling from her lips. “A few tattoos, actually.” I raise my brow, waiting for her to continue. “On my back. A back piece, I think it’s called?”
“I’m familiar with the term,” I muse, sarcasm dripping from my tone. “What is your vision?”
“Butterflies. I’d like for them to start at the base of my spine and fly up toward my shoulder. I want them to look like they’re in motion, about to jump from my skin.”
My eyebrows raise, absorbing the enormity of the piece she’s detailing. “You want a butterfly kaleidoscope over your entire back?”
Her brow furrows, and she licks her lips. “Kaleidoscope?”
“A group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope,” I respond, shaking my head. “What you’re asking for is going to take multiple sessions, a lot of pain, and time to heal. Are you sure you want to dive into your second tattoo with a piece that big?” Her eyes widen, uncertainty morphing her features.
“I—” she begins, pausing to swallow her reply. “I’ve thought about this. I’d like this tattoo, I think.” She mutters the last part of the sentence, and that’s all it takes for me to make up my mind.
I fold my arms across my chest and lean back against my chair, shaking my head as I survey her face. “Listen, the fact that you just said the last part of that sentence tells me that you’re not ready for this tattoo, maybe not ready for any more tattoos.” I work to keep my voice light and judgment-free.
I’m not berating her, but tattoos are permanent, and she should be certain before applying something to her skin.
“But—”
I shake my head, cutting her off. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t give you a tattoo when you’re not sure. Ethically, I’d be the biggest asshole, and I won’t let a client regret a piece they receive from me or my shop. Take time to think about it and give us a call when you figure it out.” I stand and move toward the door, indicating the end of the conversation.
Serena unfolds her body and hangs her head, dejection evident from her posture and defeated expression. Guilt unfurls in my stomach; I’m not changing my mind about the tattoo, but I do feel bad that she’s upset. Clearing my throat, I mumble, “For what it’s worth, it was a cool idea. Maybe in a couple of years, when you’re a little more sure, you can get it.”
Her head snaps up, heat blazing from her golden irises. If I thought my words would ease some of her disappointment and turn it into acceptance, I was wrong. Instead, annoyance seems to have settled. Twisting her lips in a scowl, she shoots out, “Thanks,” though her expression reads she’s not the least bit thankful for my comment.
Continuing to walk toward the door, Serena stops when she’s right in front of me, and my focus settles on her. She doesn’t meet my eyes as I stare down at her; her gaze is trained on the scabs on my left hand.
“What happened?” She reaches out as though she’s about to touch my skin before dropping her arm back down to her side.
“Had a fight last weekend.” One of the final ones of my career, thank fuck. “Listen, I think you should—” My words are cut off by the sudden pressure of her mouth against mine. I’m too shocked to do anything but stand there for long seconds before I step back, leaning my body against the door frame.
She’s over a foot shorter than me, so she either jumped up and levitated to capture my lips, or I was leaning down closer to her than I realized.
Fucking hell.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” Serena rushes out, stepping back until she’s pressed against the wall opposite me. I take in her face: mortification, shame, and panic are stamped all over her features, and instead of laying into her for kissing a man she barely knows in his fucking business, in an open doorway where any of my clients could see, I just shrug.
Like it’s no big fucking deal.
“It’s fine. But you need to leave. Now.” My tone is harsher than I intended, but the mixture of shock and arousal pisses me off.
“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” she murmurs, pushing off the wall and walking out of my station. I follow her retreating form, telling myself that it’s to make sure she leaves the building, and slam into her when she stops short. Whirling around, she pleads, “Please do not tell Celeste about this. She doesn’t even know I’m here, and I don’t want her to question me. Please?”
I nod sharply. The last thing I want is for my nosy-ass cousin to interrogate me, so there’s no way in hell I’m opening my mouth. “I won’t say anything.”
She releases a breath, her shoulders dropping in relief. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, again.” Waving her off, I stay rooted in place as she scurries across the shop like a scared squirrel, shaking my head until her trench coat-clad form is bundled in her beat-up car and driving away.
“What was that about?” Aubrey asks, walking up to me and handing me a mug of tea with lemon. Unlike my cousin, whose body is made up of sixty percent sugary coffee, I can’t stand the stuff and drink English Breakfast tea for my caffeine fix.
Shaking my head, I sip the hot liquid before muttering, “You don’t want to fucking know.”