I’m not great at admitting when I’m wrong. My mom routinely calls me pig-headed and stubborn with a capital “S.” Call it making up for not being book smart or for having to really fight for what I want in life, but I just don’t like it when other people prove me wrong. And now that I’m a few weeks into managing and owning Crazy 9’s, my own tattoo parlor, I’ve got some pretty thick crow to eat.
Just as Mack promised, the transition from working at Ian’s shop to owning my own was a snap. Ian, of course, didn’t take it well that I was more eager to get into business with a guy I had just met. But when we had his friend Jimmy tell him about how he found me giving a Knight’s mark tattoo to a new member, he understood. The guy has always been like a second father to me. The only thing he wants in this world is to make sure that I’m safe and making the best decision for my future.
He even fronted me some equipment and ink while we waited for supplies to come in. In exchange for all his kindness and generosity, I named the tattoo shop Crazy 9’s. It worked out well since he decided to keep the shop open for another few years. “Retirement can wait,” he grumbled to me when I protested. “This is my passion, and I’m not about to let no snot-nosed little girl run my business better than me!”
The truth of it is that business is booming! The first few days, it was just the guys from the club coming in for the twenty percent discount Mack and Zeke agreed was fair. Those on my mom’s house protection squad got them for free. But their word of mouth spread like wildfire and I was fielding reservations for months in advance.
Like Mack predicted, I could walk away today if I wanted to—hire all new staff, find a pro bookkeeper, and enjoy some tropical vacation somewhere it’s safe for me to go. All I’d have to do is collect my check. But I’m not like that. I don’t run from hard work or chaos. I was learning that from Mack who seemed to manage his business and personnel almost seamlessly. Every day, he was there, putting in the effort, making sure everyone, including me, was where we should be.
On top of his regular duties as president of his club, he, for whatever reason, decided to personally take over my security. The first few days with him were awkward and crazy. That night I spent with him in his apartment was just icing on the cake. Waking up next to a fully dressed man staring me down with wide, gazing eyes was doable. Having to deal with him always in my space, always questioning my decisions—including paint colors and upholstery on the tattoo chairs—and forcing me to eat with him was becoming a little too much to bear.
I know I should be grateful. My mom reminds me of that every day. I don’t tell her the real story though. With Ian’s permission, I lied and said that Crazy 9’s belongs to Ian’s long, lost brother, and that Ian wanted me to run it so he could focus on slowly phasing out the original Crazy 8’s. It made sense. She knew about me being in line to run his shop anyways. This was just a different way of doing it.
I thought I had blown our cover when she first stopped in the shop. She had managed to make it through security with Zeke, who had used the codes to get in. Slipping through the front door, she found her way to the office where I was bickering with Mack about couch options for the waiting room. She may have heard me say to him that he wasn’t the owner of my tattoo shop whether he owned the building or not. If she had, she certainly didn’t question it. She took his hand and took my hasty introduction of him as a potential investor without any question.
Still, later that night, as we dined at Kimmy’s restaurant, she brought up Mack suddenly and suspiciously. “So, that Mack guy. He seems to be around a lot for an investor. I saw him at the house the other day, dropping you off. Is there anything I need to know about him?” Her eyes stayed focused on the clam chowder soup in the bowl front of her, as if she was worried I would leap out at her for that question.
“Mom. Please. He’s just a business partner. We hang out a lot, I guess, because he owns the warehouse behind us. It’s hard for him to… uh… not be around. But that’s it. Nothing else.” I angrily rip off a piece of french bread and chomp hard. The rest of dinner has this strange tone around it where I actually feel like I am hiding something from her, but I’m not. There’s nothing to hide. My relationship with Mack is purely business and nothing more.
I know that Mack’s been facing the same kind of questions though. I hear them occasionally when I head upstairs to his apartment to talk about my day’s plans. They whistle and jeer while I shoot them the bird. “So mature!” I yell back down, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hear it when we pass on by together. Mack’s Old Lady, The Tattoo Bitch, First Lady... ugh. I can only imagine what they say to him when I’m not around.
That’s rare though. There are so many nights when we spend every second together. He helps me close up shop by helping sanitize everything and counting the cash in the safe. He locks up behind me, walking me to my car. In his motorcycle, he follows me back to my new apartment, about a mile away from the shop, and spends the night watching TV and eating whatever I come up with for dinner.
I will admit that having him around has helped make this old, dingy place feel like an actual home. Believe it not, I loved living with my mom. There was always the sound of someone else’s feet on the floor above me or her music playing over the speakers. We cooked together and talked about our weeks when our schedules finally lined up on Sunday nights. This place isn’t the same without someone else there to call it their place.
It’s an old safe house where they kept guys on the run. At the middle of the block, it has tons of eyes on it, making it hard to attack without someone in the neighborhood watch group catching it. The gate attendant is an added bonus, but Mack doesn’t trust the guy running it. Instead, he puts his own guys there and lets them handle who is coming in and out of the richie community. My mom and Roxy are the only other ones who know exactly where I’m living and have the codes to get in.
Mack’s let me decorate, which is nice of him. I’m sure he wasn’t a huge fan of painting walls of a safe house periwinkle blue, but I don’t care. If I’m going to be living here indefinitely with him sneaking in and out till midnight each night, it’s going to be my style. With the profits from the tattoo parlor, I’ve been loading it with furniture and rugs—something that Riley would have never done with me, but Mack seems to enjoy just as much as I do. It makes dealing with his need for total control almost livable when he’s doing it to please me and make me feel more like a real human.
Having him around hasn’t made me forget about Riley. He’s in the back of my mind night and day from the moment Mack leaves my side until we see each other again. Some days I get updates on their progress of learning more about the new leader of the Knights and why they may be targeting me. Zeke is the closest to understanding the truth of Riley’s real connection to me. Just last night at our dinner with some of the club’s executive committee, he mentioned how there haven’t been any more tattoo killings. Only me.
It’s not that I haven’t been tempted not to tell Mack or Zeke the truth—that they were going through all this trouble to protect me from a man I knew so well. But I just can’t bear to make them think that this is my fault. As much as I would kill to be back to where I was before I met Mack and his club, there’s something about this new life that I am falling in love with.
Tonight is one of those nights where I can’t deny how happy I am to be here. After working all day at the shop, I am just aching to get home. I see the silhouette of Mack outside my door, and I remember how seeing a man like him stalking the front of my workplace used to send me into a tailspin. But now, I actually feel a bit lighter seeing him around. The weight of the world is finally off of me, even though I know that Riley could be here at any second with an army of men for me.
Mack walks in quietly, setting down his jacket on the leather sofa out front. He peeks his head in through the first and second booth to make sure we’re alone before calling out my name. I step out of the office to see him waiting for me, already putting away the supplies from the day. “How was your day?” I ask, nonchalantly as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to ask the man who is practically your bodyguard.
He turns to look me over, dressing me down with those green emeralds of his. By the way he licks his lips, I can tell he approves. Every day he does this, but it never makes me feel less of a woman. This is attention I would normally slap away, but when Mack does it, it’s like an honor. When he’s done, he smiles slight with a twinge of his full, pink lips and says, “Business as usual. No word on yours.”
Every day is “no word.” When there is something, it doesn’t amount to much. It takes all of me not to scream, “I know who Riley is! Here’s where you can find him at!” But I hold back. The day is going to come when I’m going to have to tell him, but it shouldn’t be tonight. What good would it do to be tonight?
“How about you?” He walks towards me, his long legs making quick work of the small studio. He strides like a man who just rode a horse in a shootout. His hands stand at attention along his waistband where I know he stores his handgun. I pop my jaw shut and focus in on his question, but he reaches out and pushes a piece of hair away from the top of my forehead and back behind my ear with such gentleness, you would swear the worlds were reversed. “How was your business today, Anna?”
I answer him in a rush as I struggle just to catch my breath. “$980 and about $140 in tips. Finished off a big piece for Donnovan. I can’t complain.” I hand him the brown deposit bag of receipts and cash, everything but my tips. He places the bag into his back pocket and reaches for my shoulder. The touch of his rough skin on mine is like fire to ice. I shouldn’t like it, but there’s something in me that yearns for the roughness.
“Should we hit the bank before it closes?” He doesn’t seem affected by me at all. Every time we’re together, he has this stone facade on him that makes him completely unreadable. At least I know that I’m attracted physically to Mack, and I’m sure my body language gives it away to him. But besides the occasional touch and the few glances at my ass when I bend over, I can’t tell if he’s feeling it as well.
I nod to his question before grabbing my coat. As I’m putting it on, he adds quickly, “I forgot. I, uh, made you this today. Had a guy who knows design do it himself. He used one of your tattoos as the image.” He rubs his neck awkwardly as I stare down at the cut out newspaper, completely frozen in my place. “I mean, I know that business is good and all, but a little marketing wouldn’t hurt you. And it would be good for my sister’s place too. She’s trying to attract that hipster Portland scene that would come out to the warehouse district on their lunch break for fish tacos…”
I drift off as he explains his reasoning for the paper I’m looking at. In the center is a ‘9’ I drew for a client a week or so ago. It was part of a larger tattoo filled with numbers and images from a children’s book he brought in. Around the ‘9’ is the shop’s logo with my name right underneath. Owned and operated by Anna Fox. Make an appointment today or see her at the West Coast Tattoo Convention and Show.
“Tattoo Convention…” I say out loud, completely dumbfounded.
“Yeah. I heard about it through a buddy of mine. Says it’s the best in the entire West Coast.”
“Yeah, I know what it is. I’ve always wanted to go, but Ian’s never had enough money to send us down there. But how? I mean—”
“There weren’t any open booths, if that’s what you’re asking. Apparently, those sell out years in advance. I had to pull in some favors with clients of mine to get you in. It’s not the size booth you should have but, it’ll do. I was figuring that since you’re just starting out, this may be the best way to get your name and brand out there. Plus, you could scout some talent to help you out at the shop. It wouldn’t kill you to get an intern.”
This is the nicest thing anyone, outside my mom and Roxy, has ever done for me. Riley always hated that I was tattooing. He thought I should be working a normal job like the girls in his office when he was still doing the nine to five thing. “They made bank,” he said as he counted my tips every night. But I couldn’t care less about the money. What I wanted to do was the art, and I just wanted someone to support me in that and tell me that I was worth the expensive equipment, the internships, the practice materials.
Now Mack is here, giving me that validation. He gets nothing in return for placing this ad. I’m not paying him rent or giving him a cut of my income. There’s nothing worth it for him besides… besides me. My heart feels as if it’s about to burst at the veins. I try to hide a smile that’s quickly turning lopsided from the emotion threatening to spill out from me. He stopped talking seconds ago, but I can’t bear to look up at him. All I can do is whisper, “Thank you, Mack. This is amazing.”
“Really?” His dark, bushy eyebrows raise towards his forehead as he crinkles his tan nose. “I wasn’t sure if you would be into that. I thought most tattoo artists like being all underground and secret, but even my businesses does bank with a little advertising here and there through backchannels and online.”
He places his hand on the small of my back and leads me out through the door. Outside, the sun is just beginning to go down. A few motorcycles pass us by, each slowing down to acknowledge their captain. For the first time since the day of the tattoo, I don’t look over my shoulder when we go out. I don’t notice how many armed guards are standing by my door at attention. I don’t even count how many days or hours it has been since I’ve heard from Riley. All I can think about is the man who handed me this newspaper clipping.
We get to the parking space where my beater car sits. He hands me my keys—part of my way of keeping the promise not to go out without him or one of his men in tow—and I pause, unsure of what I am about to say. Still, with as much confidence I can muster, I push back all the fear and anxiety from before and ask him quietly, “Why don’t we just take your motorcycle tonight?”
“How are you going to get back to work tomorrow?” That eyebrow again—it just can’t stay in place when I say anything out of the ordinary. I can feel the blood in my cheeks pound against the skin.
“You can stay the night in the second bedroom or we can go back to your place. I feel like celebrating tonight.” Nothing could be more true. My stomach is doing butterflies. My feet can barely contain themselves as I march myself over to the jet black Harley parked right beside my car. He follows behind me slowly, as if he’s weighing his options. But I’m not going to give him any choice in this matter.
I slip on the red helmet and lift myself onto the back without any help. Patting the leather seat with the palm of my hand, I call out to him, “Are you coming? I’ve got dinner to make, and we’ve got business to talk. Plus, the bank closes in ten minutes.” It sounds so perfectly normal to say it like that, as if this is our real life—one that belongs to two people who are not a motorcycle club president and a fugitive business partner.
For the first time, I see his face fully change. The man with the darkened features, the constant scowl, the wrinkles lining his forehead. He transforms into someone much lighter, much younger than his appearance gives him. I lose my breath as he comes nearer, climbing onto the front of the cycle and spinning the engine to start. We lurch forward into the night without another word.