Page 4 of Mark & Don't Tell

Two

VIC

Metal music blares from the speakers of my tattoo shop, and the steady buzz of machines fills the air, along with the gritty bass and drums. The tattoo pen is steady in my hands as I follow the curve of the skull’s outline. My client shouts, and I pause, pulling the tattoo pen away from his forearm and glancing up at him. His face is scrunched in agony, and his eyes are pinched so tight, I worry he’s about to break a blood vessel.

“Ready for a break?”

“Yeah,” he groans.

Controlling my face, I nod and set the machine aside and throw out my gloves. I pat his shoulder as I push out of my stool. “I’ll be back in fifteen.” The way this sitting is going, it’ll take him another session to get through the relatively small piece.

Honestly, he’s being a baby about it.

Not everyone handles pain the same way, I know that, but I’ve barely made it through the first quarter of the line work, and he’s already had two breaks. Fucking waste of my time, but he’s paying by the hour, so it’s his problem, not mine.

Dawg’s client looks up as I pass by his station. “Oh my god, hi,” she says in a rush. “I saw you at the Tattoo Expo last month, and can I just say, you’re fucking amazing.”

Dawg rolls his eyes.

Ever since I was named the top tattoo artist on the East Coast, he’s been salty. It probably doesn’t help that his client is practically salivating over me while he tattoos her. Dawg is really fucking good, too, and I understand why he’s annoyed. If my client was practically worshiping another tattoo artist while my needles pierced their skin, it would hurt.

“Thanks,” I tell her with a polite smile. “I’m taking fifteen,” I tell Dawg.

“Again?” he asks, eyes focused on the needles running over his client’s skin. He might be annoyed by my newfound fame, but he’s focused on what matters.

“Low pain tolerance,” I explain.

Dawg leans back and refreshes the ink. “She’s sitting like a dream.”

His client bats her eyelashes at me, and I clench my teeth and walk away. One thing I hate worse than the ass kissing is the flirting. I might be single, but I’m not on the fucking market. Not now, probably not ever. Tell that to the groupies, though, and they’ll take it as a challenge.

Unwanted attention aside, I’m proud to be a Mexican American tattoo artist with national recognition. It’s a big achievement. Dawg can be annoyed by his client fawning over me, but even he knows the recognition I received has brought everyone in our studio more business. Unfortunately for me, today my client is weak and probably shouldn’t be getting a tat if he can’t sit through more than 10 minutes of work at a time.

I stop at the front desk, nodding at Alex, who is busy helping a client pay, and grab my phone before slipping into the back room. The break room is an instant relief. Low wattage lighting, chill lo-fi music, dark blue walls, and most important of all, no clients.

Even before winning the number one spot, being on the floor was like being on stage. Clients are always watching, like we’re magicians about to put on a show. It comes with the job, but sometimes it’s overwhelming, especially for someone who generally doesn’t like people.

A steady stream of lavender-scented mist shoots from the diffuser I got from a shop that specializes in making perfumes for packs or omegas missing their mate. I breathe in the floral-scented air and try not to scowl at the thought of my old pack and mate.

I guess, technically, Felicia never considered me her mate. I was a nuisance. She only wanted alphas, and me being a beta was an inconvenience she suffered through to have Kai and Lincoln. Even though I tried to make it work, to play nice and get on her good side, she made my life hell until she eventually left and broke our pack in the process.

“What is the point of a beta in a pack?” she asked on a day when she was feeling particularly aggressive.

“Felicia,” Kai warned.

“No, seriously, why is he even here?”

“Because we’re a pack, Fe, you know this.” Linc glanced at me. “We’re family.”

At least, we had been. That was years ago, though, and while I still show up for our son’s birthday, family is the furthest thing from what we are now. My gut churns and my chest aches.

What the fuck am I doing? Torturing myself with memories?

Shaking my head, I shove that all to the back of my mind, where the pain is far out of reach, and scroll through my missed messages. A few from clients. A reminder from Alex...and a message from Kai.

Grinding my jaw, I tap into that conversation, bracing myself against the grief that accompanies our interactions.

Kai

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