Page 2 of Saint
“I’ll see you bright and early at Church.”
“Shit!” I threw the wet paper towels in the trash bin and discarded the used ink. “I forgot about that shit.”
According to Reaper, we were having guests courteous of the Mother Chapter, but that was all he would say. I wasn’t sure what happened. It was rare King was on guard like he was, and it was even rarer that my brother allowed anyone at the clubhouse, outside of old ladies and club whores.
“Don’t be late,” Snake warned, pointing at me. “You know how pissed King will be. And I don’t want to hear that shit. I’m getting too old for it,” he called out over his shoulder as he walked out of the door.
“You don’t have to remind me,” I mumbled to the empty room. “I’ve known him my whole fucking life.”
King was not only my older brother, he was also the President of Sin City MC’s, Oakland chapter. My president. There were three of us. King the oldest, Reaper, the middle son, and me, the youngest–the family screw up. King acted more like my father than my brother. I hated that shit. He was fifteen years older than me, and we had absolutely nothing in common except for the club. For him, it was enough. So, I guess it had to be for me too.
Snake shut the door behind him, and I finished cleaning my workstation. I tattooed away from everyone. I wasn’t anti-social, but I couldn’t work with the constant chatter of clients and the other artists. I had high-profile clients, too. Sometimes they requested an empty shop, or I ushered them in and out the back door. I kept them separated from our regular clients because crazy fans interrupting daily operations to stalk their favorite celebrity wasn’t good for business.
I wiped my hands with paper towels, then tossed them in the bin as I walked out the door towards the waiting area in the front of the shop. Before I made it to the archway separating the main room where the other tattooists worked from the waiting area, the most exquisite, husky, slightly rasped, voice grabbed my attention.
When I reached the waiting area, my heart leaped in my chest when my eyes landed on the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen in my life. Dark brown locs with golden tips hung at her waist. A long, flower print, off-the-shoulder dress reached the floor, highlighting a curvy figure, and large breasts. Large gold hoop earrings hung from her ears, and gold bangles clanked on her arms as she animatedly talked with another woman and Angel at the receptionist's desk while flipping through a portfolio of my work.
“There he is,” Angel called out dramatically, causing me to roll my eyes.
When she faced me, it was like time stopped. Angel and the other woman faded from focus, and all my senses zeroed in on the woman. After gawking for longer than I should have, I shook myself out of my lust-filled stupor. I didn’t know who she was, but with every step I took toward her, I knew I was walking toward the woman of my dreams.
“Welcome to Forbidden Ink.” I grasped her outstretched hand as I peered down into mesmerizing brown eyes. She was tall despite wearing sandals with no heels but standing at six feet four inches I still had to look down at her. Her grip was firm, her skin as smooth as velvet. “I’m Saint, tattoo artist and owner of Forbidden Ink.”
“Hi, I’m Oya. Nice to meet you, Saint.”
She released my hand and I wanted so much to grab it again, just to have that tiny connection, feel her skin against mine. Mint and whiskey floated into my nostrils, mixing with the sweet smell of honeysuckle perfume. If sexiness had a smell, it would be hers. A smell that would be imprinted on my soul.
“This is my friend, Raquel.”
“Nice to meet you, Oya. Raquel,” I said, not removing my eyes from the magnificent woman standing in front of me. “How can I help you, ladies?”
“She wants to get a celebration tattoo,” Raquel slurred from behind Oya.
Oya rolled her eyes. “I would like to get a tattoo.”
“So, what are we celebrating?” I asked not that it was any of my business.
“Freedom,” her friend responded before Oya had the chance to answer.
They both had been drinking. Raquel a little more than Oya.
“Angel, here says you’re the best,” Oya said.
Her voice was warm and smooth, like honey. I could listen to her all day long. I smiled at the compliment. I was the best, well at least in Oakland. I didn’t like to brag. However, I loved when others did it.
“That’s what I hear from time to time.” She smiled and it was just as captivating as she was. “I’d love to tattoo you, but I’m sorry I can’t tattoo you tonight.”
Her face fell.
“May I ask why not?” She looked over her shoulder to the neon sign hanging on the window of the shop, blaring open in neon red letters. “The open sign is still on?”
“Yes, we’re still open, however, it’s the shop’s policy not to tattoo anyone who’s been drinking.”
I motioned to the shop policy sign posted on the wall behind Angel. In large black lettering, it says we will not tattoo anyone if impaired. Although it was posted, Angel should have told her when they entered. But by the smirk on his face, he knew goddamn well what he was doing. They were two stunning women. He wanted to talk to them and keep them in the shop for as long as he could, wasting their time and mine. I had that policy for a reason and wouldn’t bend on it. Not even for the woman standing in front of me.
I held my hand up before she could protest. “I take my art and my shop’s reputation seriously, Oya. I would never want anyone to regret one of my pieces because they had been drinking.”
“That’s understandable,” she sighed.
