She shivered as my breath whispered over her skin, and if this room’s purpose didn’t revolve entirely around hygiene, I’d have pushed her against the wall and claimed a real kiss. As it was, this room existed for sterilization purposes, plus, she was sore. I knew that because when she sat down, she squinted a little, then wriggled around on her seat.
Thinking about why she was doing that had had me sporting a hard-on all fucking day, and I was way too old for that shit.
Licking her lips, she stated, “Proper needle depth, proper angle, proper assembly, proper strokes, and proper training.” She huffed out a laugh as she pressed her hand to my chest. “Not sure this constitutes as proper training.”
“I think it does.” I grinned, even as I winked at her, realizing then just how fucking happy I was. Seriously, I hadn’t felt this way in a long time.
If I were being honest, I realized how shit my life had been for a while because this level of contentment had evaded me for far too long.
But I didn’t want to think about that, not when there was such promise standing here beside me.
We were in a small cocoon at that moment. Breathing each other’s air, turned toward one another so that our bodies were touching, my heat sinking into her, her curves pressed to my hardness—and I wasn’t talking about an erection, because this wasn’t just about sex.
This was about so much fucking more than that and it should have terrified me, but it didn’t. If anything, it inspired me, rejuvenated me. I felt younger, brighter, and this was only after fourteen goddamn hours of thinking there was a chance for more with her.
“Liam?”
I hummed out a, “Yeah?”
“What time is your first client?”
“Don’t worry. My alarm will sound. I’ll have to open up.” We kept odd hours here, but even though we were in the backwoods, we had a good clientele. Not only because of the brothers, but because of the townsfolk. We also had people who’d travel to Jonsson all the way from Corpus Christi just because they wanted ink from me.
We opened from three in the afternoon and ran until eight. The day was short because I had shit to do in my position as Secretary on the MC’s council. When Ama became proficient, we might be able to extend the schedule, but I wasn’t holding much hope for that.
Today hadn’t been too bad. Getting her into Jonsson had been okay, more ‘okay’ than anticipated, but I knew some days were better than others. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to handle much, wasn’t sure what she’d be capable of, but we’d find out.
Ama had a way of surprising me, and I was hoping in this, she would too. It would be beyond awesome if she could manage this place, extend the hours, and hold the fort on her own… But, yeah, I was getting ahead of myself like a dumbass.
When my alarm went off a few moments later, I grunted and, sucking down a breath, backed off. It was the last thing I wanted, and I didn’t give a fuck if it made me a pussy. Gave no shits because this feeling inside, this feeling of fucking worth, made everything okay.
“Bridges is a temperamental bastard, okay? Just shadow me, yeah?” I warned, and when she nodded, I reached up to grab her chin and stare into her eyes. “He’s decent people, but he’s—”
She snorted. “You do know I grew up in an MC, right? I mean, you were there for most of it.”
My lips curved. “Yeah, well, I just—”
“Just ‘nothing.’ Don’t worry about me. I can hold my own.” She shoved at my arm and said, “Go on. Get ready for what you need to do.”
The last thing I did at night before closing was set the autoclave, so everything I needed, all my equipment, was clean and ready to roll.
I’d already set up my gun and had shown Ama those five ‘Ps’ in the flesh. How to assemble it, how to angle the needle, and how to adjust for needle depth, which would help with shading and outlining. Then, there’d been a quick lesson on moving the gun to maintain a constant flow of ink.
Next, I was going to show her how to create a stencil.
For her first ‘lesson,’ she was picking up on most things, but she wouldn’t be doing shit for a long ass while, not until she could teach me what to do just as I’d had to do with my mentor.
Still, I was curious about her designs, and it was why I was throwing her in at the deep end with Bridges. I would be handling the work, but I wanted her to shadow me to see how she’d respond to his requirements.
Being good with the gun was one thing—it was a tool, one that required practice and repetition. But like with anything, flair and creativity added a depth, soul, and heart to a piece of work that couldn’t be replicated. Tattoos were, after all, walking art. But all that meant nothing if you didn’t give a client what they wanted. To me, that mattered more than anything.
Ama could be surprisingly stubborn, and where her art was concerned, she was used to pretty much doing what she wanted, so, yeah, I was curious as to how this would go down.
We left the sterilization room and headed into the parlor where I set up my area, explaining as I went the hows and whys of following health and safety protocol. It was boring stuff but important. If an inspector came in and saw that we weren’t anal with this shit, we’d get closed down—deservedly so. This was one law I didn’t want to fuck with. Passing around blood-borne diseases was not on my to-do list.
By the time Bridges arrived, I could tell Ama was relieved and her wide smile, wider than usual considering Bridges was a stranger and scowling at her when he’d expected only me, was evidence of how much information I’d thrown at her in ninety minutes.
She’d get used to it. She’d have to. I wasn’t about to be sloppy with this shit.
The parlor was only a single building. It was pretty narrow, around fifteen feet wide but over forty feet long. The front reception was set up with a comfortable booth seating area where I worked on designs with the client. Opposite it was a desk that Ama would be manning. There was a drawing of a hog on the front, one that was being ridden by a skeleton—Hell’s Rebels’ emblem. On the back wall, there were pictures of designs I’d done, and basic patterns that people could select if they didn’t want anything custom.
Nothing separated the reception area from where I worked—what was the point? I mostly manned this place alone unless a brother was hanging out, so I needed to be able to speak to people while I worked. It wasn’t all that professional, I guessed, but people hadn’t been complaining in all the years I’d been here. They hadn’t complained when Roper had run this place, either.
As the reception bled into the parlor, however, the walls were overtaken with a tribal pattern that I’d designed and had painted myself. The motherfucker was easier to paint onto a body than it was onto the walls, but it was worth it. Whenever I looked around the black and white walls, I got a sense of satisfaction that I’d created it and that everyone who walked in received a taste of my work.
Bridges ignored Ama for the most part, ignored me too as he headed straight for the booth and slouched back, with one arm on the back and one leg kicked up on the seat. When his eyes caught mine, I murmured, “Bridges, this is my apprentice Ama.”
Bridges’ glower deepened. “You never had an apprentice before.”