Deadly North (Royal Bastards MC: Minneapolis, MN #2)
1. Gigi
1
GIGI
“ U h, I’m sorry, but um…” I peer at the rough sketch in front of me, trying desperately to remain professional. “Is this a drawing of Mickey and Minnie…”
He grins. “Banging it out, doggie style. Yeah.”
The man, who’s wearing a leather vest over a dingy used-to-be-white muscle tank, grabs the strap of his shirt and pulls it down, revealing a blank area of skin on his massive right pectoral. “I want it to go right there,” he says, nodding toward the spot. “Can you do it?”
Can I do it? Sure, of course I can. And I’m not even really sure why this particular tattoo idea is fazing me at all. God knows I’ve seen pretty much every kind of tattoo in my time as a mobile tattoo artist. I’ve taken The Body Bus — the mobile studio that I run out of a converted Ford C2 Transit bus — to dozens of biker rallies like this one over the past few years. I’ve seen some of the craziest ink you could ever imagine. At this point in the game, it’s pretty damn hard to surprise me.
But I have to admit, I’ve never been asked to tattoo anything quite like this pornographic image of Mickey and Minnie. The former of whom is… ahem… massively well-endowed.
It’s a little intimidating, to be honest.
“Minnie seems to be enjoying herself,” I murmur, stalling for time.
“She sure did.”
“ She , um, did ?” I blurt. Is he saying he has actually had sex with Minnie Mouse? Do I have a certified nutcase on my hands?
The man snickers. He’s impressively muscular for an older guy. He has to be at least in his mid-sixties. His long hair and beard are completely gray, as is the tuft of hair poking out from under his shirt. “Yeah. My Minnie, that is.” He points to the female mouse in the picture. “My wife. My name’s Mick, and hers was Mary. So, somewhere along the line, she got nicknamed Minnie, ‘cause of Mickey and Minnie, and the name just stuck.” He points to the ink on his left bicep, which I hadn’t noticed sports a name in cursive. Minnie . “See?”
“That’s romantic,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “So, uh, your wife approved this tat, then?”
The man’s grin fades. “Nah. She died last year. Cancer.”
Ugh. Open mouth, insert foot. “Oh, wow. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. She was a feisty one. We fought like cats and dogs sometimes, but we could always resolve things by bangin’ it out. She was my wing-babe.” He lifts a hand and waves it around. “She came to these biker rallies with me for over twenty-five years. I been to Sturgis with her twelve times. Miss her.” Mick’s voice grows a little hoarse. He clears his throat, and points at the sketch again. “She’d laugh her ass off about this,” he says with a chuckle, but the tinge of grief in his tone is unmistakable. “So you can do it?”
Wow. Now that I hear his whole story, I have to push away my doubts. That actually is really romantic. And sad. “Sure, of course I can. I’d be happy to,” I say kindly. “Have a seat, and I’ll go inside and make the stencil. Sit tight.”
Mick sits down in the adjustable chair under the awning extending from my bus. I use this set-up outside specifically for festivals and rallies, so people can see me work. It’s good advertising. I get a lot of follow-up business from people who stop to chat and leave with one of my cards. Inside, the bus, I sit down at my table to draw. I can hear Mick shouting hello to people and shooting the shit with passers-by as I work.
When I’m satisfied with the stencil, I feed it into the thermal imager, then go back outside to show it to him. I prep him and transfer the image onto his skin. When everything’s ready, I hit the volume on my stereo system, and Shinedown’s “State of My Head” starts blasting into the speakers. Then I sink into the work.
There’s a lot I love about being a tattoo artist, especially one with my own independent shop. I love the freedom and independence. I love the creativity. I don’t even mind the chit-chat with customers who want to talk the whole time. But maybe my favorite thing is when it’s just me and the canvas of someone’s blank skin. When I can get into the zone — aided by my favorite music — it’s almost spiritual to me. I love creating the most beautiful image possible — a work of art that will live on and be appreciated for the rest of the wearer’s life.
Even when that work of art is Mickey giving Minnie the business from behind.
Mick, unsurprisingly, is the chatty type of customer. As I work, he tells me more stories about Minnie. I find out they were never able to have kids, though they both wanted them. She had a huge craft room in their house, which is still there more or less untouched because he hasn’t had the heart to get rid of anything in it. Her favorite food was fried chicken. And she loved Disneyland, which I guess is appropriate. I get a sudden image of Mick walking around The Happiest Place On Earth with his new pornographic tattoo, and it makes me suppress a snort-laugh.
Mick is rough around the edges, for sure, but this guy really loved his wife. It’s a real shame she died, but at least she had something good with this man while she was alive.
“What about you, Red?” he asks me, gesturing at my flame-red, spiky dye job. He smirks like he’s the first one to ever think up that nickname for me. “What’s the story with you? You partnered up with a guy?” He pauses, catching himself. “Or a gal?”
I suppress another snort. “Nah, I’m too independent for relationships,” I say, taking a moment to stretch my muscles. “I don’t need a guy weighing me down.”
“You play the field, eh?”
“Something like that.” I don’t add that in my case, the field has been pretty much a barren desert for quite a while now. “I’m just not really interested in being what most guys want in a woman long-term. I’m not traditional enough, and I don’t know when to shut up. I’m messy, and I don’t know how to cook. I’m not exactly the Suzy Homemaker type.”
“Hell, neither was Minnie. She couldn’t cook worth a goddamn, and her idea of foldin’ a fitted sheet was balling it up and tossing it in the linen closet. That’s not what I was lookin’ for in a woman, though.”
“Well, then you’re a rare one, Mick. She was lucky to have you.”
Mick blows a raspberry. “Shit, the right man’s out there for you, Red. Don’t give up on love just ‘cause you’re not everyone’s cuppa tea. The best women aren’t for everyone, anyway.”
I take a break from my tattoo gun and peer up at him. Am I really getting relationship advice from a biker? “Thanks,” I say noncommittally, and change the subject. “Okay, we’re almost done here. Do you want the aftercare spiel?” I indicate his other ink. “Looks to me like you’ve done this before.”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” Mick waits patiently as I finish up the last lines of the tattoo. I give him a hand mirror and tell him to take a look.
Mick gazes at his new ink for a few seconds and then lets out a low whistle. “That’s some good work.” He nods soberly. “Just how I wanted it to turn out.”
I clean up the tattoo and take a picture of it for my portfolio, then apply protective ointment. Mick gives me a massive tip with his payment, then asks me for my card. “I’m gonna talk you up to my buddies. You should get some good business out of this.”
I give him my best smile. “I really appreciate it, Mick, thanks.”
He gives me a thumbs up, then turns and disappears into the crowd. I let out a happy sigh for a job well done, then crack my sore neck and stand. One of the bad occupational hazards of my job is the stiff neck and back muscles I’m always battling, from hunching over so much. Thankfully, I don’t have any other walk-ins waiting, so I go back inside the bus and take out my secret weapon against muscle aches: the Hitachi Magic Wand. I may be the only person alive who actually uses that thing for its intended purpose of massaging sore muscles instead of as a sex toy.
Ten minutes later, my muscle pain has eased up. I decide to take a little break. Flipping my sign to say I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, I lock up the bus and close up shop to wander around the rally for a bit. Biker rallies are always pretty good fun. I’ve been around them for years, even before I opened the Body Bus. My brother, Connor Mattson — road name Fury — is in the Minneapolis chapter of the Royal Bastards MC. He’s their Sergeant at Arms. I know from my sister-in-law, Kat, that a bunch of the Royal Bastards are here today at the rally, though in the crush of humanity I haven’t seen any of them yet.
The July day started out overcast and cooler than normal, but the sun has come out and with it, the heat and humidity. Most people think of Minnesota as the land of perpetual winter, but that’s not true. Yes, we definitely have a longer cold season than most other states (what I call “real” spring doesn’t start here until May), but the summers get just as hot as they do anywhere else, except for insane places like Arizona. As I wander around the rally, I start to sweat in my white cami, tight-fitting camo-patterned Bermuda shorts, and distressed cowboy boots. I wander toward the sound of live music, toward one of two stages where a well-known local hard rock band is playing. Weaving through the crowd, I stop as a group of bikers and biker chicks offers me a plastic cup of beer in passing. The beer is ice cold, and I drain half of it at once, sighing deeply. That hits the spot.
“Gigi!” a female voice calls over the sound of the crowd. I turn toward it.
Well, speak of the Devil. It’s Kat herself, in the flesh.