Page 2 of Viking Ink

SIMON

Six months later

The shutter came down with a metallic clang, and I turned to wave my last client of the day off. Five hours bent over Ren’s back, working on the complex biomechanical design, had knotted the muscles in my back and shoulders like a snarled garden hose. I couldn’t wait to sink into a bath and let my muscles relax. I shouldn’t complain—clients like Ren could make or break a tattoo store. The right photo in one of his Instagram posts was like a free advertisement. Ren was a good bloke. We’d met through a mutual acquaintance—Nial, a bratty sub who liked tattooed daddies. He introduced me to Ren, and a shared passion for vintage motorbikes and tattoos had us hitting it off. Ren had a large following on Instagram and in the kink community we were both part of, so word of mouth about his newest ink was a gold mine for us.

Reaching up, I tried to bundle my unruly hair into a hair tie. The strong breeze coming off the harbour wasn’t helping matters. Sometimes I envied my younger brother’s straight, dark hair. Mitch had taken after our da in looks, with dark hair and dark eyes, but had my mum’s whimsical, sweet nature. I’d ended up with her red curly hair and my da’s more fiery, protective nature. Looking at us, you wouldn’t credit us for brothers—that was, until we smiled, or so my da reckoned. Mitch used to smile a lot more than me. He was a sweet kid, though he’d punch me in the ribs for calling him a kid. He was twenty-eight now, no longer that annoying, shortarse punk getting underfoot at the shop. Then again, he was still short and still annoying when the mood hit.

My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket. I didn’t bother looking. I knew it would be from Callum, making sure I was heading to the Lion and not leaving him to deal with my brother’s broken heart. Mitch had shite taste in men, and his latest boyfriend had been a dick, in my honest opinion, but if he’d made Mitch happy, I would have let it be. But it seemed things had finally come to a head, and so it was time to do what we always did—we gathered the troops, and helped him through it.

My battered BSA motorbike sat out front of the shop, but it wasn’t far enough to the pub to warrant fighting with its stubborn starter. Zipping my jacket up and bracing against the cold breeze, I started walking towards the Lion. It was an easy walk—up the hill, across the square, and then up the lane a bit. The exercise felt good after sitting all day.

I leaned against the metal gate that opened onto the square, catching my breath. Okay, maybe I was a little out of shape. I’d tried exercising once—worst fifteen minutes of my life, and the damn bicycle I bought had nearly killed me the first time I rode it. I’d decided I could live with a little bit of extra padding around my belly, and boxing once a week was about my limit for exercise these days.

Looking across the quiet square, I could hear music, and I smiled immediately. The young busker who’d set up a spot by the wrought iron and stone fountain was still there, playing a sweet, upbeat song on his beat-up guitar. It was getting late for him to still be out playing. The passing foot traffic would be slowing down now, with most of the main street shops starting to shut down for the night. I crossed the square and closed the space between us. I couldn’t make out much of him, hidden under his floppy winter hat and coat, but I knew from previous encounters that he was young, perhaps twenty give or take, with blue eyes and wind-chapped cheeks. I dropped a fiver into the case. His eyes silently thanked me as he kept singing and strumming his guitar.

“Get inside soon. It’s going to be cold tonight.” As if to emphasise my point, a strong gust of wind whipped across the near deserted square.

The lad flashed me a smile and nodded. I had an urge to stay and talk to him, get to know him a little more than the casual nod and hello we’d shared over the last month—maybe even invite him for coffee or a pint. He was a beautiful lad, and, I couldn’t lie—he was just my type, with an air of innocent sweetness. Those eyes were captivating.

But I wouldn’t. I didn’t do relationships, or hookups outside of the club. It made life less complicated. Besides, I didn’t even know the guy’s name. Suddenly asking him on what amounted to a date felt a bit creepy—I had to be years older than him. No, better to keep him as the sweet fantasy in my head.

The lad gave me another smile and spoke in a soft, almost melodic voice. “Thank you for the fiver. I’ll get in soon.” He started strumming his guitar again, this time something livelier, his voice floating above the rising wind as he sang.

I’d heard rumours he was sleeping rough when he didn’t get a bed at the parish shelter, and that, for reasons I’d rather not dwell on, bothered me. I was always an overprotective sod, even to those I didn’t know. I’d always been like it— it was part of what made me enjoy being a Daddy Dom so much. Not like I’d had much chance to indulge in that part of my life in the last few years, between the shop and keeping an eye on Mitch, which sometimes felt like a full-time job in itself.

I looked back over my shoulder at the young busker. He was lit up by the weak autumn sunset, and the strands of curly blonde hair poking out from his floppy hat caught the light and surrounded him in a soft halo. I shrugged, trying to shake the irrational worry I had for a stranger’s wellbeing.

The Lion was crowded and noisy—not that I expected anything different on a Thursday night. I contemplated heading back out, but Callum caught sight of me before I could bolt. He elbowed Mitch, who was already well in his cups by the look of his rosy cheeks. My little brother always was a lightweight when it came to the drink, and didn’t have me or our dad’s cast-iron liver. He was looking decidedly down in the dumps, and there was no sign of Ziggy, his boyfriend. Did it make me a bad brother if I was glad they’d split— and hoped this time it was for good?

I pointed towards the bar. Callum nodded and turned his head back towards Mitch. The last thing I’d planned on was staying up all night drinking and commiserating with my little brother, but it was what we did. We looked after each other.

Rue’s dark eyes caught me over the top of the bar, their eyes darting to where Mitch sat. “He broke up with Ziggy?” Rue asked in that sage voice of bar managers all over the world.

I nodded, sliding a couple of pound notes across the bar. “I think so. Another pitcher for the table, and a ginger beer for me, please.” Best I keep my wits about me, if Mitch was hitting the booze this hard.

“Go over to your table and I’ll bring these over in a tick. Those lads from the game have come in and are running our poor Saffy off her feet.” I looked down the end of the bar and saw the group of men Rue was talking about. They were all wearing their club’s colours and they looked half cut already. They were loud and that side of drunk that could soon become a problem. I didn’t envy Rue and Saffy one bit. I asked Rue with a look if they needed help, but they gave a head shake. I left Rue to it and moved to our table.

Dropping down on a seat alongside my brother, I gave him a gentle shove. “How are you holding up, Mouse?”

Mitch blinked up from under his shaggy bangs. “Feel like shite. My heart hurts, Sy. Why did he have to be such a cheating arsehole?”

Slinging an arm over Mitch’s narrow shoulder, I hugged him to me. “I don’t know, Mouse. Would it make you feel better if Rez and I went and beat him up for you?”

I really wouldn’t have an issue slapping some sense into Ziggy. I’d had concerns for a while about their relationship, and his cheating was only the tip of the iceberg. Mitch kept things close, and seldom spoke about what was going on in his life. He’d closed off after our mum died, and I often wondered if he carried guilt from being the only one to survive the crash.

Mitch let out a wet laugh, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Da said no thumping people just because they’re arseholes.”

“Da actually said, ‘if you punch every arsehole you meet, you’d end up with bloody knuckles and be on a first name basis with the local coppers’,” I responded, laughing softly at the irony. Da had spent most of his youth in and out of trouble because of his propensity to use his fists when dealing with arseholes—that was, until he’d met our Mum. She got Da to channel his energy into the boxing gym, and helping out kids in strife.

“Has the arsewipe moved out yet?” Rez, our other tattooist and friend, sat down at our table with a pitcher of beer and my ginger beer held in his hands. At my enquiring glance he looked back at the bar. “Rue and Saffy have their hands full with that lot, so I told them I’d bring the drinks over.”

I nodded, and a look passed between the two of us. We’d be keeping an eye on that crowd tonight.

Mitch shrugged at Rez’s question. “Both our names are on the lease, and he says he doesn’t have to move. It’s making things difficult.”

Rez shook his head, making his grey dreadlocks dance about. “That’s not how this goes, little brother. You caught the bloke hooking up with half the men in the county while you were supporting his skanky arse. He doesn’t get to play the victim here.”

Mitch looked up from his pint and sighed. “But I knew what he was like when we got together. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have gotten jealous. Just let things be.”

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