Page 6 of Baja
I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “Yep. Your favorite.”
“Is there enough for me to take some to Luca? Last time you made some, I had to fight him for one.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “Don’t worry, I made extra.” We walk toward the house. “Come on, I’ll wrap some to-go so you’re not late for work.”
“You’re the best, Mom,” she boasts.
“Well, I do try.”
4
BAJA
A heavy weight presses down on me, followed by a soft rhythmic vibration against my chest, waking me from sleep. “Mornin’, Ozzy.” I crack my eyes open and see the face of a content twenty-pound Maine Coon. I scrub his head, then scratch behind his ear, causing him to purr louder. After his successful wake-up call, Ozzy jumps to the floor, looks back at me, and meows. I toss my cover to the side and get out of bed. “I’m comin’.”
With Ozzy leading the way, I follow him to the kitchen. I put a mug and a coffee pod into the machine and push the button, then get Ozzy’s favorite breakfast from the cabinet, crack open the can, and fill his dish. Retrieving my mug of coffee, I pour a splash of creamer into it and head for the kitchen table, where I set his food dish on the floor and open the window. Taking a deep breath, the fresh air fills my lungs before I take my first sip of coffee. The sun is barely up over Salem, painting the early morning a muted gray matching the cobblestone streets around here.
My thoughts drift back to Alice and how she came undone so easily at my touch. That woman has me in a chokehold. I replay our encounter in my head, savoring our brief connection andtormented by the flash of regret and uncertainty in her eyes soon after. That alone should deter me from this overwhelming need for more of her, but what I’m feeling is far from running in the other direction. Like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn to Alice.
I sip my coffee, its warmth grounding me momentarily as thoughts of last night swirl in my mind. I can’t help but wonder if Alice is trapped in that exact moment and if it’s haunting her as much as it haunts me.
The chaos in my mind fades, yet the questions about Alice remain.
Living in the apartment above Ravens Ink Tattoo Shop has its advantages, including the short time it takes me to get to work.
As I flick the wall switch, there’s a soft hum of the overhead lights as they illuminate the space, revealing walls painted in a deep midnight blue. Framed vintage photographs of intricate tattoo designs hang in lavish gold frames decorate the room.
An hour after opening, the door swings open, and Grace, a young woman I met last week during her consultation, walks in. The expression on her face is a blend of apprehension and determination. I feel the weight of her story as she approaches. She’s seeking a tribute for her mother, who bravely fought cancer but lost her battle only months ago. When she leaves my chair, I want to ensure she carries a memory of love transformed into art, something she will cherish forever.
“Mornin’.” I shoot her one of my award-winning smiles, and she blushes, which generally would encourage me to continue flirting, but I don’t find myself interested. Instead, I think about Alice again.
“Where would you like me to be?” Grace asks, her gaze lingering on me a moment longer, a playful sparkle in her eyes.
Again.
I feel nothing at her spark of interest.
What is wrong with me?
I point to the table at my station. “Over there.” My voice is clipped, but my mood shifting has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the woman who ran out on me last night.
While the client settles onto the table, I print the tattoo stencil. She wants a floral piece, intricate and delicate, which isn’t my thing. I’m more about bold lines, heavy blacks, and a bit of grit in the ink. Nevertheless, I’m good at what I do, and she will leave satisfied.
My Uncle Jax, a lone wolf, if ever there was one, taught me everything I know about tattooing. He is the type who shows up unannounced, usually in the middle of the night, and leaves just as quickly. He never stays long enough to settle. But he gave me something more when he sat me down and handed me a tattoo machine when I was seventeen. He’s the one who also gave me my first bike and introduced me to the MC lifestyle, exposing me to a whole other world of living on the fringes of society. I’ve always been an outlier, diving headfirst into life, living for every moment, and not wasting every breath I take.
I live life boldly and with no regrets.
I pause, looking at myself in the mirror, and stare at the Batman symbol, partially obscured by my cut, stretched across my chest. I’m also living for my baby brother, who didn’t get the chance to grow up because cancer stole his life from him.Cancer fucking sucks.
Burying thoughts of the past, I set up the machine and examine the stencil before applying it to Grace’s outer thigh. “Ready?” I ask, gloved up and prepared to go.
“Nervous but excited.” She holds her phone up high and takes a selfie before the needle touches her skin. She winces as the needle bites in, a tiny bead of blood rising under the ink. Some people handle the pain of getting a tattoo better than others. And from my experience, women have a much higher pain threshold than men. The pain of getting a tattoo is easy to get addicted to—there’s a release and clarity that comes from pushing through.
“Been doing this long?” she asks, her eyes focused on her phone screen.
“Since I was seventeen.”
“How old are you now?” I feel her eyes on me, but I keep my attention on her thigh.
