Page 81 of Inked Daddies

Trick’s grin, though weak, surfaces. “I’m not the one squirming.”

“Alright, Trick,” I say softly, “I’m going to have to go deeper. You want to exhale when it gets bad.”

He grunts, resting his head against the wall behind the table. “Distract me,” he says, voice tight with pain. “Talk about something.Anything.Maybe something from the good old days.”

Sam exhales a soft laugh. “The old days weren’t exactlygood, Trick.”

Trick snorts, letting out a strained chuckle. “Better than this bullet in my leg. Come on, Sam, make something up if you have to.”

A hush falls, broken only by the faint scraping of metal on bone as I maneuver the tweezers. The hiss Trick releases is pure agony. I clench my jaw, trying not to let my insides tie themselves in knots.

“You can tell her.” Preacher doesn’t elaborate, but there’s a weight behind his words.

I raise a brow his way, surprised by his words. Sam too.

“Tell me what?” Marie asks, the picture of innocence.

The room goes still. Sam’s mouth opens, closes. He glances at Preacher as if uncertain. Preacher meets his gaze with that old authority we used to know so well. “She should know,” he repeats, quieter, nodding at Marie. “We’re past the point of secrets.”

Marie’s eyes dart between Sam, Preacher, and me. Confusion edges her expression. “Know what?”

I speak before Sam can, if only to keep Trick from writhing while I operate. “We weren’t always doing…tattoos, or any of our day jobs. Trick, Sam, me, your father…we have a deeper history we do not discuss among mixed company.”

“A deeper history?”

“We used to run special ops for a government agency you have never heard of.”

Her brows shoot up, mouth parting slightly. “Wait—like…paramilitary stuff? Or…?”

“Military, intelligence…somewhere in that murky realm,” Sam clarifies gently. “We were never quite under normal regulations.”

“Oranyregulations,” Trick grunts.

My tweezers grip something hard—a piece of bullet, maybe. Trick lets out a yelp, sweat pouring off him. I grunt, “Almost got it.” Then I glance at Marie, who’s staring, wide-eyed. I continue, “We can’t say much. Not because we don’t trust you, but because it’s…well, classified. Or was.”

“Still classified, technically,” Preacher says dryly, though an undercurrent of acceptance resonates in his tone. “But go ahead.”

“With all due respect,” Sam begins, “your word does not declassify our ops, boss.”

Preacher huffs a laugh. “You gonna try and tell me my business here? Now?”

“No, just pointing that out.”

Trick hisses, forcing a smirk. “We like to break rules now and then. Especially for you, Marie.”

The bullet finally comes free with a wet, sucking noise, and I drop it into a shallow cereal bowl on the table. The clack resonates through the kitchen. Trick sags, letting out a long breath of relief. A trickle of blood follows, so I press a cloth to the wound, ignoring the pang of sympathy I feel. “You’re not out of the woods yet. I still have to sew you up.”

He nods, exhaling shakily. “I’d say I love you, but I might vomit.”

I snort softly. “As would I.” Then I look at Marie, wishing we could spare her this. The tension in her posture suggests she’s shaken, but there are no visible wounds. Only mental scars. “And yes,” I add, turning back to her, “all of us. Preacher included, back in the day. That’s how we originally met. Missions that no one else was assigned to, or wanted, or even knew existed.”

“Dad?” she asks quietly. “You were in on that?”

“A long time ago, yeah.”

“Why are you telling me now? I should have known…I should have been told something?—”

Sam clears his throat, offering a subdued shrug. “It wasn’t exactly dinner conversation. We had to keep it secret for a reason—still do. That’s why we never said anything.”

---