Page 12 of Flash

“Well, it sounds like that could have been a good opportunity for you to turn disappointment into sales, did you ever think of that?” One of the other artists with a dark beard and a series of rainbow-colored bracelets on one wrist says helpfully, rolling up his sleeves and leaning over the railing to flash a smile.

I narrow my eyes at him. Oh, so that’s how it is. The feral twink isn’t working alone. Everyone in the shop is in on the fun of hazing the new neighbor. All this over the volume of his music? Maybe they’re just a bunch of bullies and they figure the owner of a flower shop won’t stand up to them.

Fine. We’ll see who has the last laugh.

I hold up two middle fingers and then storm out of the shop without a backward glance.

Fuck Ink Slingers and everyone who works there.

ARROW

The same smile that’s been etched onto my lips since last night is still in place as I roll into the alley behind Ink Slingers late, still smelling like the bar and a little bit like Lewis. Gregory yips happily as I swing my leg over my bike and unstrap him from my chest. I take my helmet off and shake my hair out to unflatten it from the top of my head.

“Come on, Greg.” I whistle and open the back door. The little fluffball darts inside and I’m right behind him. As the door swings closed behind me, I hear the metallic creak of another door opening. Probably the flower shop owner next door who made Jag’s shit list.

I set my helmet down and shrug out of my jacket. There’s an excited buzz in the air as I step out of the back room into the main part of the shop. Jag is cackling, and there’s a low hum of conversation that seems to be coming from everyone at once.

“Did I miss something exciting?” I ask.

“Your alarm,” Piston teases, glancing up from the tattoo he’s working on to smirk at me.

“A shower?” Jag adds helpfully, looking me up and down with blatant judgment.

Their ribbing doesn’t land though, not with last night still fresh in my mind. Before I can fall into another fantasy about Lewis, the door swings open and all the guys stop what they’re doing to swivel towards it like they’re expecting some kind of ambush. Tex lets out a visible sigh when my client, Paul, walks in.

Weird vibes in here this morning.

I don’t have time to wonder what they’re all up to right now though. I greet Paul and wave him up so we can get started.

There’s nothing quite as relaxing as the buzz of a tattoo machine humming away steadily, the perfect undertone to the friendly chatter and occasional laughter that echoes through the shop. The smell of antiseptic and ink is as imprinted on my soul as motor oil and leather is. It’s meditative, bleeding all the tension from my body and washing it away. The two greatest loves of my life—tattooing and Harleys. If there’s anything more to the meaning of life, I’m not even interested in hearing about it.

Time slips away while I work on putting something lasting on Paul’s arm.

“What’s that tattoo about?” He nods at the lotus tattoo on my bicep while I work on shading the feathers on the owl I’m inking into his skin.

I pause the strokes of my needle and crane my neck to look down at the flower and the words tattooed underneath it.

“Violent delights have violent ends.” I read it off for him, even though I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of that himself. “It’s a quote from Romeo and Juliet. And lotus flowers are a symbol of inner peace.” I hunch back over and return to focusing on the finer details of my work.

“So, what, you’re a Buddhist or something?”

I grunt, and Tex covers a laugh with a cough from his spot a few feet away, his ever-present cowboy hat perched on his head. Piston got it for him as a gag gift a couple of years ago for our yearly Secret Santa exchange, and the big oaf has worn it every damn day since just so he can have the last laugh.

“Something like that,” I murmur.

Thankfully, he doesn’t pry any more. I’m not ashamed of who I am or who I’ve been in my life, but laying it all out for a stranger isn’t really my aesthetic, as Jag would say.

“Dude, you have to put on a different playlist before I lose my goddamn mind. I was singing that fucking ‘Choose Your Fighter’ song while I took my morning shit,” Hero calls over to Jaguar on the other side of the shop.

“Seconded,” Piston chimes in while he organizes his own workstation.

“Shop rules. Whoever gets here first picks the music for the day,” Jag singsongs, sticking out his tongue.

“I think we might need a new vote on that one,” Piston mutters.

I chuckle under my breath and lift the needle away from Paul’s skin again. I swivel halfway around in my chair so I can see the guys.

“All in favor of a rotating system to choose the music for the day,” I say, holding my hand up in the air.

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