Page 1 of Fox
PROLOGUE
In every person’s life, I would assume there’s that one moment when you feel like you’ve finally made it. All the sacrifices you’ve made, all the tears, sweat, and broken hearts, can be justified. That despite all the unfortunate circumstances while climbing, it’s worth it now that I’ve finally reached the top.
I’m one of the best at what I do. People travel from all over to sit in my chair and let me permanently mark their bodies. I love what I do; the high I feel from every tattoo I complete is indescribable. But more than the appreciation I have for my craft is the love I have for the people I get to do work with—my family. The men I work with are all serious, well-known artists who could easily go off and open their own very successful shops. But we don’t; we stay at the famous Hel’s Ink for one man—Tony Pierce.
Tony, the owner and founder of Hel’s Ink decades ago, was my close friend and mentor.
Was? Is? I’m unsure which is correct now. Tony died four days ago, and nothing feels certain anymore.
Just over sixty years old, the man was active, a non-smoker, and didn’t drink—a lot of good it did him. He was all up our assesat the shop about our eating habits, our drinking energy drinks, and look at him now.Fucking bullshit.
“Fuck, I think I’m going to hurl again.” Atlas, one of the other Hel’s Ink artists and my annoying best friend, groans while doubling over, and, oh my fucking god, if this hungover fuck vomits right here on my shoes, in front of everyone, I will be forced to kill him. I shake my head, both disappointed in and embarrassed by this asshole.
“Atlas,” I hiss out through my clenched teeth. “We are at Tony’s fucking funeral. Get your shit together.” I smack him upside the head, and he lets out a small whimper in protest. Ash and Derek come to stand beside us; they are the other two artists that make up our “foursome,” as Atlas likes to call us, no matter how many times I’ve threatened physical violence to get him to stop.
Ash is our newest addition to the shop. He started working at Hel’s Ink a couple of years back and is a master in Traditional Japanese work. Then there’s Derek. He’s worked at the shop for nearly as long as I have. Hailing from Virginia, he’s not-so-fondly referred to as our “mysterious, broody grump” by Atlas, who seems to have a name for all of us. Dumbass that he is. Derek doesn’t have repeat clients; he’s a one-and-done kind of guy, which has gotten him into multiple arguments with Tony, other artists, and clients when he would flat-out refuse to do another tattoo.
“Every shop has at least one prima donna.”Tony would always say before rolling his eyes at Derek and moving on.
A flash of bleached blonde causes me to look from my group toward the chapel’s entry. I groan audibly at the woman walking in. Tony’s girlfriend, Liza, and her two wannabe tattoo artist sons flank either side of her, keeping her steady. I’ll never understand why Tony allowed those two idiots to work in the shop. He was a nice, generous man, but notthatnice. Still,Dipshit One and Two wereverytemporarily hired on as shop hands, meaning they were supposed to take care of scheduling if we were busy, restock inventory, and whatnot. To absolutely no one’s surprise, they couldn’t show up on time or sober, so it didn’t last, and we went back to doing everything ourselves shortly before Tony passed. That whole bunch is nothing but toxic drama, and I hope to never see them again after today.
Shaking my head, I look back to why we are all here. The matte black casket. Cocking my head to one side, I furrow my brows, looking at it.
Why is the casket closed?
I would’ve thought for sure it would be an open casket. Tony was very much into the afterlife traditions of taking things with you when you go. Several people in this rapidly growing crowd, including myself, will want to add something for his safe travels.
Liza leans in and wraps her arms around my waist, and I have to fight every urge I have inside my body not to shove this gold-digging shrew off me. Liza and Tony started dating less than a year ago. Though I never understood why, she’s one of the most well-known ink bunnies on the West Coast. “Ink Bunnies” latch on to the more prominent artists in our industry, and Liza is an old-school bunny from back in my apprenticing days in Washington. So it definitely took all of us by surprise when Tony walked into the shop with her on his arm.
Tony had never been one to do relationships. He was very much a “love ’em and leave ’em” type. So, when Liza showed up trying to get purses, vacations, and jobs for her sons out of Tony, we thought he would throw her out. Shockingly, he kept her around and paid for the purses and vacations, but he made one thing very clear to her.
Tony only had two loves in his life. One was Hel’s Ink, and the other was—
“Fox,” Atlas’ elbow digs into my ribs, making me wince. “Is that Janie?”
My gaze follows his and lands on the petite redhead walking into the chapel, Janie Pierce. Twenty-five years old, slim, with pale,usuallyfreckled skin—god only knows how many layers of makeup she’s applied to cover them up and give herself that bare look. Her dark blue eyes are large and exaggerated by her long lashes. And she’s crowned by hair that is a rich red color, a long mess of untamed and wild curls. I smirk, noticing her rather high black pumps. Janie is short; most people are around my six-foot-four frame, but Janie’s tiny stature might hit my chest barefoot, maybe.
Jesus Christ, there she goes with her phone again.It’s her dad’s fucking funeral, and as usual, Janie has her phone out to chirp or what the fuck ever it is that an influencer does. What a crock of shit. The girl sits there and cons people into believing they will look like her if they use whatever she holds in front of her camera. It’s one of themanyreasons we don’t mesh well despite our close relationship with Tony. That and the fact that she is a mouthy fucking brat that loves nothing more than to annoy the piss out of me at every fucking turn.
“Yeah, that’s her,” I mutter as I fix the sleeves on my suit. I hate wearing suits. It’s not that I don’t have the money for nicer clothes, but I am more of a jeans and T-shirt guy. Comfort over fashion. This suit was expensive when I bought it three years ago. But I was a little trimmer back then, and I didn’t get around to going suit shopping before the funeral, thanks to the depression-fueled bender I’ve been on since the day I found out Tony had passed. Which is probably another reason the suit isn’t fitting as well.
I turn toward Atlas, realizing I completely missed his question. “What did you say, At?”
“I said. I didn’t realize how long it’d been since I saw her last. When did she get so fucking hot?” I roll my neck while trying to ignore the uncomfortable urge I suddenly have to break my best friend’s nose. My feeling of protectiveness over Janie has to nothing more than her losing her dad, right?
I stare at him in disgust and shake my head. “Fuck off, man. Don’t be disrespectful to Tony like that.”
Janie makes it within ten feet of the casket before her body goes ramrod straight, and she quickly turns, running back out of the chapel.
“I’ll be back,” I mutter to At before following after her. I’m annoyed at the compulsion I feel, needing to see if she’s alright, but I’m chalking it up to the funeral and because Tony would’ve wanted me to. I don’t give two shits about what others think about me or what they expect from me. Except Tony, that man took me in and treated me like a son, so for that reason and that reason alone, I will check on his asshole of a daughter. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.
Walking down the empty hallway, I find Janie leaning against a wall, looking at her shoes.
“Hey, Torch, long time no see,” I say casually while stuffing my hands in my pockets and leaning against the wall opposite her. I allow myself to scan the redhead’s appearance. While I dislike the girl, I’m not oblivious to Janie’s looks. She’s a very attractive woman and looks stunning in her black belted button-up dress. Although, I am not sure that the lace fringe falling just below her ass constitutes proper funeral attire. What do I know, though? Maybe this is the new trend for funeral attire.
“It’s Janie, you dick.” She all but spits in my direction, “And it hasn’t been nearly long enough.” I can’t help but laugh. I have never been a fan of hers, but Janie’s hatred for me would leave outsiders thinking I ran over her dog.
I put my hands up in defense as a smirk pulls at my lips. “I apologize. I thought I would check on you; you ran off awfully quickly.”
