KASH: GRAFFITI STREET TATTOO 1
By Brynn Hale
New series in the Graffiti Street Bad Boys world!
Jolie
Moving half way across the United States with a dog, two cats, and a baby isn't what I thought I'd be doing this week, but here I am.
I pull in front of the building in Kildare, Nevada--Graffiti Street Tattoo.
It's been six years since I've seen my brother, Cray. He doesn't know about the baby, dog, and two cats. He actually doesn’t know much about me, anymore.
But it’s not him I’m really here to see.
I’m going to tell Kash something and change his life forever.
He’s tall, tatted to the hilt, slightly brooding, and he says and does all the right things.
I want to trust him, but my past tells me men can change. Will he always be like this and will he turn out to be the one?
Kash
I could tell she was special and from the moment I met her eleven months ago, and I wanted to make her mine. But she asked me to go without any contact.
When the curious kitten with a body so hot it could melt metal takes a little time away from the baby, she asks me to lay down a design on her pristine skin.
But the session gets away from both of us and I can't take back what I do or say.
Her brother finds us and it’s never good when Cray’s involved.
She can trust me. But maybe I can’t trust myself around her.
An instalove, curvy women, spin-off series of the Graffiti Street Bad Boys, a collection of dozens of books in five different interconnected series.
And now adding Graffiti Street Tattoo! Come get inked today!
1
Kash
There are three repetitive sounds in a tattoo shop. First, laughter. The Graffiti Street Tattoo Shop is known for being the place in Kildare, Nevada, to come get that next beautiful piece of artwork on skin, but we do it with a smile and occasionally, a joke or two. Like this one that I use frequently. I always look for a woman who has a tattoo. Because then I know she’s capable of making decisions she might regret in the future.
Second, the sounds of first-timers—newbies—new skin. When you don’t know what’s coming it’s hard to understand that first tat and the pain that comes along with it. I’ve had people who faint, who scream, who moan, who moan a lot, and then I’ve had the criers. And sometimes it’s not because they’re in pain…it’s because they’re getting out of pain. They’re letting it out with the tattoo.
And lastly, that ceaseless hum of the tattoo machine—tattoo gun to some, but we prefer not to use that term here. We’re artists here. We’re not damaging skin, we’re decorating it. But no matter what, that buzzing is ever present. And as much as I want to say that it calms me, lately, it’s just put me on edge.
The last year of my life’s been a little much to handle. Lost my brother Jessie to cancer a year ago. He was my rock. And now my rock has crumbled. Found out a long-term girlfriend had side action going on. After it ended in September, I went to Texas with a coworker, Payne, and met a woman, thought we might have a chance, but she lived there—I live here. You know the story.
Then I took a tumble on my motorcycle in January—damn frost happens just a few times year, slicker than snot, and it got the best of me. Even six months later, I’ve still got a limp and two pins in my ankle as my initiation into some jacked-up, been-there-done-that society of bike riders.
And lastly, my mom called last week to tell me our family dog passed away, old age—like…I’m thinking…I’m thirty-three, we got him when I was fourteen—so nineteen years old. “Bentley was a wise little piece of Shit-zu” as my father said. I know he’s up there with Duff, on a long ride into the sunset.
Let’s just say the year’s been one for the books, and I’m ready to close that damn tome.
“Kash, your tips for the week.” Kylie, the front desk manager and soon to be newest tattoo artist in the shop, hands me an envelope that seems rather thick.
I open it and thumb through. “What the hell?”
“That guy, the one with the shoulder piece of the eagle and sunset that wrapped around?” I nod as she motions to her shoulder. “He gave you a rather large tip today.” Her eyes widen.
I pull it out and count the big bills. Six hundred…seven hundred…eight, nine…a thousand? Holy shit.
She raises and lowers her shoulders. “I guess he was really happy with it.”
Standard is 15-20%, sometimes 25, if the person is truly jazzed and feeling uber generous, but this dude went the full 100%. And that’s a lot of dough.
And here’s the deal.
I feel weird taking it.
It’s not like I put more effort or more creativity into the tattoo than I do all the others. It’s just my job—and I love my job. Like knew it was exactly what I was supposed to do from the moment I stepped onto the floor and that first tat. I still remember it—a butterfly. I fuckin’ butterfly. But I did that butterfly like it was a masterpiece. And it was.
But this feels like charity, My past growing up poor hates that feeling of being given too much or more than my fair share.
“You deserve it, Kash,” Kylie breaks in like she can see my hesitation. “There are plenty of times where people walk out of here and leave nothing. Which I’m not saying is right or wrong, it’s a choice,” she hurries to cover what we both know is irritating to tattoo artist. Tips aren’t expected, but since the house takes 50% of what we charge, some days it helps to get a little bonus for a job well done. But this feels like a dump truck of money and out of proportion to what I did to deserve it. “So maybe consider this the universe evening things out?”
“The universe does owe me.” I think back to that list of the shitshow year and slip the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans.
A pair of arms wrap around her from behind. “I think the universe paid me back for a lot of shit, when this one came into my life.” Payne, my coworker and Kylie’s new boyfriend, snuggles into her.
It’s only the three of us this late, but if the boss man—Cray—were here, it’s no PDA-Central. Cray’s come a long way from being the grump he was six months ago, but his girlfriend had a lot to do with that. Naomi took the cranky right out of Cray.
I actually envy him. Naomi’s strong and bold, yet she’s got a soft side that really melted Cray’s hard heart. He’s not a bad guy, and he’s probably the best boss I’ve ever had, but until Naomi, I thought he and I were going to have what my mom calls a “comin’ to Jesus moment”. The man needed to take his cranky down a few thousand notches. My guess—Naomi, de-cranked him, in lots of ways.
I laugh to myself and then realize I’m by myself. Those two have snuck off, no doubt to have a little private time in the storage room. I don’t care. It’s the end of the night and I can cover the front for Kylie. It’s too late to start a tattoo, so it’ll only be bookings.
The front doorbell chimes. I grab a sketchbook for a custom piece that I have coming up in two weeks, and walk around the corner.
And then a part of me gets cranked up.
Damn…