I definitely meant to take his picture. Twice.

I liked to find the pictures nobody would think to take. Yes, it was fun to set up a shoot. Find the right lighting, the right angle, the right clothing, the right accessories in the picture. But to me there was nothing more organic and beautiful than a picture you never thought you’d get.

That’s why the first picture I took upon arriving at St. Skin was of this huge man, muscular arms sticking out of his t-shirt, tattoos everywhere, slightly glancing at me as he flicked a cigarette into the air. The cigarette was turned, the burning end facing him, his hand open, lips parted, a hint of smoke leaving his mouth. Probably one of the coolest and most bad-ass pictures I could take. Capturing the whole tough guy, outlaw kind of persona that seemed to overflow from the tattoo shop.

I snapped the picture and then got the hell out of there.

I could have stayed and explained myself. But when that guy looked at me, I felt like he was cutting through me. Suddenly, I was the one exposed. The way he took a step and then froze. Seeing me. Really seeing me. As though I was standing there naked. As though he had the camera.

It was a really strange moment and that’s why I abandoned it.

But then I had to walk into the tattoo shop, alone, and face all these people. People whose lives I’d be invading. And I would waste no worry on that, either. It was my job to get involved and get pictures that would forever stand the test of time. It was the biggest job of my life, too. But it came with a strong warning from the guy who owned St. Skin: some of the guys didn’t want to be bothered and I would have to bother them.

So, when the guy from out back, Maddox, took his stand after I made my entrance, I knew what I had to do. The moment he stopped and looked back, I readied the camera. I planned on just getting a great shot of him looking really pissed off. I didn’t expect to get him throwing the middle finger at his boss.

It was perfect.

I glanced down at my screen and saw what I had captured. That chiseled jaw. The perfect features of his face. The scruff on his face, desperately in need of a shave or a trim.

Right then and there I was hooked.

And I was headed for trouble.

* * *

“So that’s Maddox,” Tate said with a smile.

“I think he’s mad at me because I took a picture of him out back.”

“He’ll get over it. He doesn’t like this part. Can’t blame him. He’ll hate me now but love me later. Come into my office for a minute.”

I turned and saw everyone looking at me. Tate gave me the full approval to bring in anyone else I wanted, too. I planned on setting up some actual shoots at some point, but this was about really getting into the world of St. Skin. By far better than capturing a cliche wedding, but it also had a hint of danger. I wasn’t sure whether I liked that or not.

I sat across from Tate.

He looked too big and awkward in a leather chair. I almost felt like I was in some movie, meeting the big-shot drug dealer. He put his hands on his desk and I looked at the ink on his wrists. He grabbed for a pen and then opened his drawer and took out a check.

“Just to you?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. As Tate started to write, I quickly lifted my camera and took a picture.

He stopped and raised an eyebrow at me.

I pressed a button and turned the camera around. I got a shot of him signing his name at the bottom of the check. It was good shit. This buff, tattooed guy writing on a professional-looking check. It blurred the lines of what people assumed businesspeople to look like.

“I like it,” he said. “This is going to be weird for me, too.”

“Can I ask why? I mean, this whole thing?”

Tate wrote the check out to me. A pretty good-sized check. One that would keep the lights on for me for a little longer.

He put his hand on the piece of paper. “The shop was built on a dream. It became lucrative. I worked my ass off to make sure of that, and while the money is important, it’s almost secondary to the art and the story and the purpose. I could sign a seven-figure deal right now with a television network and have this place plastered on millions of TVs, phones, whatever. But I don’t want to lose its essence. You’re going to capture that essence.”

“Then you’ll sell your soul for seven figures?” I asked.

“I’ll do what’s best for my business,” he said. He slid the check to me.

“Feel free to make this seven figures, though,” I said. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

Tate grinned. “I’m paying you, Hazel. If I signed the right deal, they’d pay me.”

I folded the check. “Thank you for this, Tate. You have no idea…”

“You came recommended. I expect you to make more enemies than friends here.”

“I hit it off with Maddox,” I said.

Tate laughed. “I don’t think Maddox has ever hit it off with anyone.”

I stood up and thanked Tate again.

It was time for me to get to work.

I opened the door to the office and watched the business. I heard the music. A different song came from each room. There were walls that were built almost to the ceiling. It was open, yet private. Open enough that the buzz of the needles and the music carried throughout the place. It definitely had its own vibe to it.

Two people sat on a leather couch. They had a large book open, flipping through pictures of tattoos. The book was mismatched, sloppy, almost like a glorified binder of baseball cards. I crouched down and took a picture from the side.

I wandered around the front, just taking it all in.

Next to me, there was a woman at the counter. She leaned forward, chomping annoyingly on a piece of gum. The gum was neon pink. She blew a big bubble, popped it, and then fought to get the stuff back into her mouth. I stepped to the side and waited for her to do it again.

I caught the picture.

She caught me.

“Don’t show Tate that,” she said. “He hates when I do that.”

“I’ll defend you,” I said. “Here, check it out.”

The picture was really neat.

Standing there, the backdrop being the neon sight of St. Skin, showing in reverse, obviously. The giant neon-pink bubble, the way her lips were pouty, her eyes almost rolling as though she was annoyed to be there.

I could see why Tate might get upset, but it was a picture. It was a really good one at that.

“Hey, can you kind of give me a quick tour?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “I’m Danielle.”

“I’m Hazel.”

Danielle led the way. She took me down a hall and pointed to each door. Some were open, some shut. I gathered the names the best I could. Cass. Axel. Max. River. Prick. Maddox.

Maddox’s door was shut.

I didn’t hear anything going on in there, though.

“Okay, thanks,” I said to Danielle. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

“Hey, if you’re looking for a story or something, you should talk to Cass. He was a famous rockstar once. He’s got guitars on the wall, and a beautiful daughter. I just love pictures of tattooed guys holding babies.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said.

I waited for Danielle to walk away.

Then I grabbed the doorknob to Maddox’s door.

I felt sneaky, maybe a little dirty, but I knew something…where there was a pissed-off set of eyes, there was a good story. I had been living my own for years. I had been immersed in secrets that would make some of these rough and tough men feel weak.

I slowly opened the door, expecting it to scream as if someone’d stepped on a cat’s tail. But it was silent. And I was able to see Maddox. Standing with his head down, hands gripped the edges of the counter where he kept all his supplies.

The silence was deafening.

I grabbed for my camera, but couldn’t get it positioned the right way. So I backed up a step and pulled the door almost shut. I readied the camera, knowing that if Maddox caught me, he’d probably get even more pissed at me.

I started to shake. That was just the instinct, though. That part of my secret I was able to manage. Which was good. With my camera, I felt protected and safe. I felt like I held the truth…or I held the story I wanted to tell, to cover up the truth.

I pushed the door open again, ready to capture another amazing picture of Maddox.

Instead, I snapped a picture of Maddox’s bare ass.