Page 7 of Baja
“Thirty.”
“Wow. A long time, huh?”
“Yeah.” I chuckle.
“You single?” Her tone sounds hopeful.
I remain silent.
Because all I can think about is Alice.
What’s happening to me?I have a gorgeous woman who sounds interested in me, and I’m not catching the bait.
My client softly laughs. “I get the sense that my question is complicated to answer.”
“You could say that.”
“I get it. I mean, hell, I’ve been in love with my best friend since I was twelve. I’m single because no matter how hard I try not to think this way, no one will ever be him.” She sighs, and I splash the needle into the rich, black ink. “I doubt he has a clue.” She chuckles, brushing off the thought, but I catch a hint of red creeping across her cheeks. “Honestly, I don’t know why I spilled that to you.”
I grin. “You’d be amazed at the secrets people share when they’re in the chair.” I continue to perfect the outlines of hertattoo, feeling the connection grow with each stroke and relaxing into my work. “Let’s talk about your mom.” I shift the focus back to the real reason for her visit. Her expression brightens, and she shares all her stories about her mom for the next hour.
I finish her linework and then start shading. As always, I keep my words few, letting the machine’s hum fill the spaces between casual conversation.
When the piece is finally done, I help her sit up. She stands in front of the mirror and looks at her leg. “It’s beautiful,” she says, her eyes growing misty.
Once I’ve applied the protective bandage to her thigh, I give her a small bag containing everything she’ll need to care for her tattoo, along with detailed instructions. “You can take off the protective film in three days. Be sure to follow the instructions I provided.” She digs in her purse and hands me a generous tip. “You can put that into the glass jar at the front desk.” She walks over and stuffs the cash inside the jar.
“Superheroes of Tomorrow Fund. Every tip goes directly to support childhood cancer research and hospitals, honoring my hero, Elliot Steele,” she reads, her voice warm with emotion as she glances at the jar’s picture. “Did you know this sweet little boy?”
“He’s my brother.” The words hang in the air like a heavy fog, wrapping around me and squeezing my chest as a surge of tumultuous emotions crashes over me. They say time heals all wounds, but that’s a comforting lie. The pain of loss doesn’t fade. It lingers like a shadow. You learn to carry the weight of that void, but the ache settling in your bones is a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. Sorrow isn’t something you shake off. It’s a part of you, entwined with every heartbeat. Yet, somehow, you push forward, each breath a testament to my brother’s legacy.
Reaching into her bag, she adds more cash to the donation jar. “Thanks again.” She smiles before exiting the shop.
As the door closes behind her, I resume cleaning and organizing my station, preparing for the remainder of the day.
More clients, more ink.
The sun sets as my last client of the day leaves, and the shop falls into a quiet stillness. I exhale, flip the sign toclosed, and lock up. A few minutes later, I’m heading outside.
Salem transforms into a different entity at night. The atmosphere is thick with history—old brick buildings stand tall, streetlights stretch long shadows across cobblestone alleys, and the ocean’s whisper lingers nearby. This town clings to its secrets, which works in the club’s favor.
My fingers ache from hours of tattooing, but it’s the kind of ache I like.
Swinging my leg over my Harley, I twist the throttle, letting the engine purr—she’s a Super Glide, all chrome and steel—the rumble reverberates through my bones before I pull onto the street, feeling my tires grip the asphalt.
Salem’s allure is deeply rooted in its rich history. Narrow, winding roads snake through the town, their cobblestones worn smooth by time. Streetlights cast a soft, eerie glow over historic buildings, enhancing Gothic architecture. The atmosphere is thick with history.
I cruise through town, passing the old brick buildings and narrow shopfronts. The moon hangs heavy and low, casting a glow over the streets. Tourists linger, snapping pictures and huddling in groups as if they expect ghosts to walk out of the walls.
The engine’s hum clears my head as I ride, washing away the day. There’s a rhythm to the road as the lights flick past andthe wind hits my face. The street stretches out in front of me, dark and endless as I head toward the edge of town. For a while, it’s me and the bike carving through the night until my mind is flooded with thoughts of Alice and the moment we shared.
How can I prove to her I’m trustworthy when she struggles to believe in herself?
I clutch the throttle with determination. As I accelerate, the wind whips against my face, and I feel the adrenaline surge through my veins. The road blurs beneath the tires as I race forward, desperately trying to outrun the thoughts swirling in my mind.
At last, I arrive at the edge of town and park outside the strip club, a large brick structure adorned with a sign reading “The Fallen.”
Kicking the stand down, I swing off the bike and head inside. The club’s new bouncer, Mack, nods as I walk by, a big guy with tattoos snaking up his neck and eyes as hard as granite. Inside, the music is loud, and the air is thick with the scent of whiskey, cigars, and perfume.
