Page 185 of Misrule
“Artist,” Gabe corrected.
“Okay,” Knox barked. “Whatever.”
Gabe’s jaw clenched.
Knox sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “This is all new to me. I…at least give me points for trying.”
“Trying don’t cut it,” Val told him, his voice torn between disgust and sympathy. “This not a preschool where you get ‘A’ for effort. This is real life. Brotherhood. Loyalty. Accepting us for who we are, like we accept you.”
Knox opened his mouth to dispute that, but Val raised his hand to halt his words.
“I know what you about to say. That we never accepted you. There’s a reason for that. You infiltrated the club with the intention to bring us down. Even after you got with Roxanne, you decided we didn’t make the cut. We not respecting a motherfucker who don’t respect us.”
Val’s gruff words chastened Knox.
“Fair enough.” Drawing in a deep breath, he looked at Gabe. “I would like the same general anesthesia that’s used on people who get full body tattoos. Cam has a couple on his arms. I was with him for one, so I know the job was too small for him to be put under, so—”
“Uh, Knox, there’s no anesthesia to get a tattoo.” Gabe stared at Knox with uncertainty. “You know that, huh, man? You’re just bullshitting me.”
Knox prided himself on knowing a lot about most things and a little about everything. Growing up, he’d had a very comprehensive education, so he was loathe to admit he was lost when it came to tattoos. “Of course I’m not joking. A big tattoo must be quite painful. There are needles involved. A lot of them.”
Val lifted a brow. “You scared of needles?”
“Of course not!” Knox lied. In truth, he was fuckingterrifiedof them.
“Come on, motherfucker.” Val turned on his heel and headed for the hallway that ran alongside the receptionist’s station. “Follow me.”
Knox looked at Gabe.
“I’ll be there in a bit,” Gabe promised. “I need to lock the shop up.”
“It’s the middle of the day,” Knox said. “You can’t close for business.”
“Knox! Motherfucker,” Val said in exasperation. “Gabe know what he doing. Stay the fuck out of it.”
Without another word, Knox followed Val to the end of the hallway. They’d passed two rooms, doors opened, interior darkened. Val walked into the last room and flicked on the light as Knox stepped in. Wooden floors, painted black, gleamed like polished ebony underneath the glare of the bright light. The white paint would’ve given the room a sterile feel if not for the tattoo designs lining the upper perimeters of the four walls. A specialized chair, similar to the one at the station in the front, sat in the center of the room, a rolling stool next to it. Built-in drawers and cabinets framed a sink, while a red leather loveseat stood beneath three wall hooks.
Val nodded to the chair. “Sit,” he instructed as he went to one of the cabinets and opened it.
As Knox sat, Val pulled out a fifth of rum, then he dug into the inside pocket of his cut and pulled out a lighter and a joint. Once he opened the alcohol and took a swig from it, he held the bottle out.
Knox eyed it with suspicion. “What do you want me to do with that?”
“Drink,” Val said with patience.
He’d seen the guys do this countless times. He’d shared bottles with Cam before—other friends whom he trusted.
The thought crossed his mind and he winced. He didn’t have to be told that he didn’t trust any of the Death Dwellers. In turn, they didn’t trust him. But Roxanne trusted them. She trusted him…Well, shehadtrusted him.
Instead of overthinking, he grabbed the bottle from Val and drank long and deep from it. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he coughed and sputtered, then handed the bottle back to Val. The rum burned as it slid down Knox’s throat. Certainly not the smooth stuff he was accustomed to. It warmed him, sent the room twirling for a second.
After taking another pull, Val sat the bottle down, then began flicking the lighter in an effort to light the weed.
Successful, Val inhaled, held, and released, several times. “Take a hit,” he told Knox, holding the joint out.
Alcohol was one thing; marijuana another. One was legal; the other was…complicated.
“This Outlaw own special herb. Cfc. Case Fuckin’ Closed. An Indica strain. Mort came up with Big Roscoe—Br. The name, anyway. Outlaw was the one who grew the plants. Br a sativa.”
