Page 1 of Saint
1
Forbidden Ink
A knock sounded at the door, and I killed the gun. Snake cursed under his breath. “Motherfucker, how much longer?”
“You want it done right, Snake?” He responded with a mumble. “Fucking asshole.”
We’d been at this shit since this morning, and Snake was a grumpy, impatient motherfucker. He loved getting tattooed but hated sitting for them. I was used to his complaining ass. He sponsored me when I prospected for the club against the wishes of both of my brothers. And he’d been an asshole for as long as I’d known him.
“Yeah!” I called out to Angel through the closed door.
It was Sunday. Angel and I were the only ones at the shop tonight. The crew chose whether they wanted to take Sundays off or work. If they did come in, it was for the morning clients or appointments. Rarely did walk-ins show up.
Angel was our receptionist. He was an ex-con and the half-brother of a friend. He hated when we called him our receptionist. The term wasn’t manly enough for his sexist ass. He liked to call himself the fucking gatekeeper. Every time he said that shit, I couldn’t do anything but laugh.
Angel pushed the door open and leaned against the frame of the door like he was posing for a magazine cover. All the women loved him despite his criminal past. He was great at attracting new female customers. He looked like some actor from one of those biker shows on television that didn’t know shit about being a one-percenter. And he loved the attention. Despite his high opinion of himself, he was perfect for the position.
“You got a walk-in.” He popped a piece of mint candy in his mouth. He didn’t go anywhere without’ em.
“Son of a bitch,” I groaned causing a smirk to cross his face. “I was fucking hoping I could make it out of here before anyone showed up.”
Everybody knew I hated walk-ins. It was usually a drunk college kid who wanted to get his girlfriend’s name tattooed across his ass to show his undying love. Or a drunk girl whining about how her boyfriend cheated on her and she wanted to get a tattoo to mark the occasion of when she dumped him. Not how I liked to spend my time or waste my talent. Of course, I hated to lose money, but we were one of the few shops that didn’t tattoo drunk people.
I also tattooed by appointment only, unless it was one of the brothers, or on one of these days when no one else was in the shop like tonight. My waitlist was one to two months long and I worked seven days a week. For me, it was hard to squeeze in walk-ins, so when I didn’t have an appointment, my free time was reserved for the brothers. However, money was money and today I didn’t have a choice. I was the only one here.
“Give me ten minutes,” I grumbled.
“You got it, boss,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
“Almost done, brother,” I said to calm Snake’s ornery ass.
“Thank fuck!” he groaned as he laid back in the tattoo chair, getting comfortable.
It took almost the entire day to finish the sleeve on his forearm. We’d been working on it since ten this morning, with minimal breaks and no lunch. Once we got started on his pieces, he hatedto take breaks. And now, both of us were ready for the shit to be done.
“Shit hurts like a motherfucker,” he growled, pulling on his long gray beard with his free hand. “And my ass is numb.”
“You’re the motherfucker who didn’t want to take a break, Snake. So, stop fucking complaining now.”
“Fuck you, Saint,” he grumbled.
He knew I was right. I chuckled and restarted the tattoo gun. The constant buzzing of the machine always brought me peace. I relaxed and slipped back into the zone. As I finished the shading on the dripping fangs of the cobra coiling around Snake’s huge ass forearm, the tension of the long day ebbed away, but tiredness set in. While I loved creating art and wouldn’t want to do anything else, I was fucking tired. After long days at the shop and other days spent on runs for Sin City, I was burned out. All I wanted was to go home, smoke a joint, and pass the fuck out for a few days.
I shaded the last drip of venom and breathed a sigh of relief when it was done, then I shut the gun off.
“All done.” I sprayed the area on his arm and wiped away the excess ink from his skin. “Tell me what you think.”
Snake slid off the leather chair and stood in front of the large mirror hanging on the wall. Ink covered him from head to toe. Even crosses were tattooed on his eyelids. He wasn’t opposed to getting ink anywhere. And he knew good art when he saw it. What Snake thought of my work mattered to me, like all my brothers. Although I wouldn’t tell them or Snake that shit because I’d never hear the end of it. He was one of the older members of Sin City and had paid his dues to the club. He also had been tattooed by some of the greats in the field, including my mentor.
“That shit looks real good kid.” He twisted his muscular arm from side to side, inspecting the detailed black and white tattoo. “Real fucking good. I like it.”
We’d been working on it for almost two weeks. Some of my best work, if I’d say so myself.
“Thanks, man.” I wrapped his forearm in a sterile bandage. “Make sure you clean it and keep it bandaged.”
“Kid, I was getting tattoos while you were still swimming around in your daddy’s ball sack,” he grumbled. “I think I know what to do.”
“Fuck you, man.” I chuckled, pulled off the latex gloves and tossed them in the trash bin, then started the cleanup of the room.
