Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
Shelly (Present time)
“I don’t know why you didn’t just let me take over the shop,” I grumble at my uncle as he watches me pack my bags.
“Because I’m not going to let you chain yourself to that chair and all the bullshit that comes with running a business, honey,” he says. “Besides, I think we both need a change of scenery, don’t you?”
“But why go to the town where the Kings of Anarchy MC are located?” I ask.
“That’s where the money will be. They have a club-owned tattoo parlor and you’re one of the best artists in the business,” he replies. “Shelly, neither of us can stay in Frisco any longer. Too many memories for both of us, and it’s only gonna drag us down.”
I sigh because he’s right. With Marcella dying unexpectedly because of a heart attack, I was already skating on thin ice with my mental health.
I had been seeing my therapist twice a month, more or less as a check-in than anything else, and after we lost Marcella, I was back to once a week.
While she and Uncle Mack never got married, they had been together since before I was born, and he was grieving her loss hard, as was I.
She was the mother I didn’t have growing up because when Uncle Mack brought me into his home to raise me, she was there taking on that role.
She never complained about having to deal with a grieving toddler or having to adjust her whole life to add a child.
As I grew up, she became a close confidant, and I felt the loss down to the depths of my soul.
I’d found out the hard way that everybody leaves me, and while my therapist was working with me on that aspect of my life, it’s how I’d felt ever since I lost James and Amberlea.
“Now, get your ass in gear. You’ve got an interview with the owner the day after tomorrow,” he says, probing me to get the lead out of my feet and stop stalling.
“You have the keys to our new place, and I already had some furniture delivered, but the rest will be there this weekend when I arrive with the moving truck. You’ve got a reservation at the local hotel until I arrive. Behave!”
I snicker as I close my suitcase and zip it shut.
My laptop bag is already packed, I just had to wait for the rest of my clothes to finish drying.
The rest of my room is in boxes, clearly labeled, and Uncle Mack has friends coming to help him load the truck.
I feel bad that he’s doing this part on his own, but he was insistent about me going to our new place ahead of him.
“You’re just trying to pawn me off on someone else,” I tease, popping the lever so I can roll my suitcase out of my room, my laptop bag strap now slung over my shoulder to make it easier to carry.
“Nonsense. I know you still have to stop and gas up, get ‘road trip snacks’, and then grab one of those frou-frou drinks you love so much. It’ll be another hour before you get on the road, minimum, and I don’t want you driving past dark if possible.”
Leaning up, I kiss his weathered cheek and say, “I love you, Uncle Mack. I promise I’ll be careful.”
“Got your gun?” he asks, grabbing my suitcase.
“What do you think?” I retort. “Milly goes where I go.”
He rolls his eyes at me as we make our way out of the house and to my Jeep. Despite the fact it’s not a Wrangler, the dashboard is lined with tiny ducks from being ducked by other Jeep drivers. Once he has my suitcase stored in the back, he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, Shelly.”
I nod because I’m the only one he’s got left out of our family. “I’m always careful, Uncle Mack.”
“Call me when you get there,” he instructs.
“You’re turning into a worrywart,” I chide. “I’ll call, but just saying, you can always check Life360 if you wanna know where I’m at,” I remind him.
“Just do it and stop pulling my chain,” he orders, tugging me in for a hug. “It’s gonna be a good change for us, sweetheart, I promise.”
I nod, unable to vocalize anything beyond the lump that’s now in my throat.
The trip itself wasn’t too bad, although the construction around Waco was never ending which added about an hour to the drive itself.
Still, Maleficent, my Jeep, was a beast on the interstate so I only had to stop once to top her off.
The other four stops were because of my bladder, which was only because I had a cooler full of water and soft drinks.
Shrugging, I glance around the area where our new place is, impressed that Uncle Mack did so well on his own.
It’s a large, rambling log cabin, with a deep front porch and I grin when I see there are two relatively new rocking chairs from Cracker Barrel already waiting.
“Glad to see some things never change,” I say out loud.
It was Marcella’s favorite place to eat, and she badgered him incessantly for rockers every time we stopped.
I guess he decided to bring a piece of her with us and I was thrilled.
We’d always have our memories, God knows mine were overflowing most of the time, but seeing something so simplistic was a reminder of happier times for us both. I wipe the tears from my face as I shut down Maleficent and get out, admiring the view.
“Time to check out the new digs. Then I’ll go to the hotel he reserved for me,” I murmur as I walk up the pathway to the steps.
I know he was expecting me to go right to the hotel, but he should know me by now.
All I saw of our new house were pictures; he was the one who handled selling his shop and inventory, plus our old house, as well as purchasing our new place.
Because it’s almost dusk, I don’t take long to walk through it, admiring the hardwood floors, the stone fireplace, and the modern kitchen. It’s very country chic and as I make my way back out to my Jeep, I’m already mentally decorating so I can make it into a home.
The trip to the hotel is almost anti-climactic.
There’s not a lot in this town, but I see a laundromat, a diner, a bank, and a few other small-town businesses that I’m eager to explore after my interview.
Once I see the tattoo parlor and realize how close it is to the hotel, I smile.
If I want, I’ll be able to walk around after I’m done so I can get the lay of the land.
I may be a bit more introverted than I used to be, but as my therapist constantly tells me, I still need people.
“I’m Shelly Adcock, I’m looking for Abyss,” I say, staring at the tall man standing in front of me.
“That’s me,” he replies, holding out his hand.
The electrical zap I get when I take his large hand in mine has me momentarily stepping back.
While it’s been years since James died, I’ve been so focused on getting healthy again that men have been on the backburner.
Still, there’s something in his eyes that tells me he sees more than the average person and I vow to myself to be wary.
“Let’s go back to my office and talk. I’m familiar with yours and your uncle’s work. Any reason y’all decided to relocate?”
“Honestly? We needed a change of scenery,” I admit as I follow behind him to a small office in the back of the shop. “Too many memories,” I whisper.
Once we sit down, I open up the portfolio I brought and set it on his desk. “I know you said you’re familiar with our work, but I brought these to show you,” I say.
“What made y’all decide to do sobriety tattoos?” he asks, looking through the pictures of some of my work.
“They’re not just sobriety tattoos,” I reply.
“We started them when a woman came in to get a tattoo for her daughter. It said ‘485’ and was the number of days her daughter fought to stay in recovery. For the mom, it signified the fact that she had her girl back and that she tried her best to stick with her program. She believed those days mattered and wanted it memorialized. Uncle Mack, who lost several friends when he was younger due to addiction, liked the idea, so he started offering them for free to those who were on that path, and it blew up beyond what he anticipated.”
“They’re recovering out loud,” Abyss states. “Using their right of expression with tattoos to show that they’re climbing out of their personal hell.”
“That’s a good way to put it,” I reply.
I notice him glance at my own tattoo but he doesn’t ask, so I don’t offer an explanation.
At some point, I might tell him what it signifies to me, but that won’t happen today.
My left forearm is now a tribute to James and Amberlea, with the butterfly tat on the inside near my wrist. Between my drawing skills and Uncle Mack’s abilities with his gun, it’s a work of art and one I’m proud of since it helps remind me that I’m still here.
Is life still painful? Absolutely. There’s not a morning that doesn’t come where for a brief minute when I wake up, I wonder where we’d be now if they had survived.
Would Amberlea’s hair have been curly like mine is?
Or straight like James’ was? Would she take after him personality wise, or be hell on wheels like I was when I was a kid?
It doesn’t take long for reality to crash in once again and force me to take one breath after another as the pain courses through me.
But I’m still here, as painful as it can be sometimes, so as long as I’ve got air in my lungs, I’ll keep pushing through.
“I like the idea and think we’ll incorporate it here,” he says, bringing me out of my reverie. “You got a problem inking bikers?” he asks.
Confused by his question, I reply, “No, why?”
“Because you’re in Kings of Anarchy territory, Shelly, and my brothers pop in frequently to get new ink.”
“We worked in the DFW area, and I’ve inked people from all walks of life. It’s not my place to judge them or their lives,” I reply. “As long as they don’t get handsy, I’ve got no issues tattooing anyone, Abyss.”
“Good, then let me show you which station you’ll be at,” he replies.
“Plus, if there’s anything you need me to order, let me know that as well after you have a chance to go through our stock.
During the downtimes, until you build up your clientele, I’ll need you to work the front counter.
Still trying to get someone on a permanent basis, but the system we use is pretty easy so you shouldn’t have any problems.”
“Show me what you got,” I say, then feel my face heat up when it dawns on me how what I said sounded.
Thankfully, he doesn’t say a word, just smirks, as he gives me the tour of the shop, including the inventory closet, which is a disaster in the making, the employee restroom and break room, and then the front reception desk.
Once he goes through the easy point of sale system and shows me how to schedule appointments, he asks, “What do you think?”
Since I’m an honest person, I state the obvious. “I think your inventory is a hot mess, is there a reason for that?”
“Fucking prospects don’t know what they’re doing,” he grumbles.
That word is somewhat familiar to me, but still, I ask, “Prospects?”
“They’re trying to become members of the club, so we have them doing a variety of things while they’re earning their patch.
It’s a hazing of sorts just not on the level of a fraternity.
They have to prove themselves, but we don’t degrade them in the process like those college fuckers do.
The only one who’s got half a brain right now is Mongrel, but he hasn’t been able to come in and help. ”
Mongrel? What kind of name is Mongrel? “I can get it sorted out because I suspect you’ve got more of some inks, and need others,” I offer.
“Uncle Mack isn’t coming into town for a few more days so I’m at loose ends needing something to occupy my time, and staring at the walls in my hotel doesn’t interest me in the least.”
One of the things I’ve found works best for me is to keep both my mind and hands busy.
Everything I do is purposeful, but boredom leads me down a path that’s best left untaken.
One of my priorities is to find a new therapist, but I’m waiting on my old one to get me some recommendations.
In the meantime, I’m using my coping skills she taught me to get through.
Plus, doing the inventory would allow me to see how things work in this shop since Uncle Mack stressed to me that everyone is different.
“Have at it, I’ve got an appointment,” he says. “I’ll get you a set of keys and the alarm code before you head out. Oh, and Shelly?” At my look, he says, “Keep in mind that nobody fucks with the Kings.”
“Understood.”
It takes several hours before I’m satisfied with the organization of the inventory closet.
In fact, I got on the computer at the front desk and created a list that shows what we already have in stock, as well as what we need to order.
The supply list is now on the wall inside the inventory room, with a pen attached so that whatever’s removed can be marked off and documented.
I have an order form started as well, since he doesn’t have the size gloves I wear.
While I have some from our old shop, they won’t last long, so he needs to order them relatively soon.
Thankfully, I have both of my guns, as well as plenty of needles and tips, since Uncle Mack kept those items, only selling off the shop, chairs, and ink inventory.
Standing, I stretch, then walk toward his cubby where he’s been steadily working all day. Seeing that he’s currently without a client, I ask, “Abyss, do you have a few minutes? I wanted to show you what I managed to get done.”
“It’s bound to be an improvement over what we had,” he murmurs as he stands and follows me to the inventory room.
“Damn, this looks fucking fantastic,” he says, looking around.
“That’s a good idea,” he states when he sees the inventory sheet.
“Especially since the person who was here before would just order whatever without taking any counts.”
“Explains why there are fifty bottles of black. I mean, I know it’s the most used due to outlining, but still, the disparity is somewhat glaring, don’t you think?” I ask. “Plus, I do a lot of watercolor tats, and you have almost none of that ink on the shelves.”
“It is, let me show you how to place an order then you can get out of here and explore,” he says, grabbing the list from the wall.
It doesn’t take long to input an order, including my gloves, and before I know it, I’m leaving with a set of keys, the alarm code, and instructions to come in on Monday at nine. Guess I got the job.