Misrule

by Kelly, Kathryn C.

“It’s like this,” Val continued. “We don’t give a fuck if you tatted or not. As long as you respect us, accept us, you fine in our book. If you want a tattoo just to get in good with us, we can leave right now.”

  “It isn’t for any of you. It’s for Roxanne.”

  Val’s eyes widened. “She asked you to get inked?”

  “No, of course not!” Knox huffed out. “But…but…”

  Knox feared he’d really lost her because, for the past two days, since the morning he’d found her preparing for breakfast, Ophelia had come to the club for cooking duties. Roxanne was determined to shut Knox out.

  Change for him didn’t come easy. He’d been so quick to blame Callie for the end of their marriage, accusing her of tearing down his self-esteem, when he’d been as much to blame, if not more. It took his nastiness to Roxanne to realize his transgressions. Since his divorce, he’d still been living under the delusion that he’d changed. That he’d been the injured party.

  That life was black and white. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “Ever wonder who yanked a potato up from the earth and decided that might be a good thing to fucking eat?”

  At Val’s stupid question, Knox blinked. He was waging one of the most important battles of his life—regaining Roxanne’s heart, her trust—and… “Excuse me?” he asked, Gabe’s snicker annoying him a little more.

  Val shrugged. “Or who saw mushrooms and grabbed a few to munch on? How many motherfuckers pushed up their dicks after croaking from eating poisonous mushrooms before the non-lethal motherfuckers were found? I mean, who the fuck looked at that shit sprouting from the ground and decided it was a good-ass idea to pick them up to fucking chomp? Mushrooms sure don’t look tasty, even after they cooked.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Knox asked in outrage.

  Amusement lit Val’s face. “Am I, Knox? You think I got fucking time to really think about that shit? It might cross my mind sometimes.” He cocked his head to the side. “Why you think Mort called and asked me to bring you to Gabe? He could’ve given you directions or let you choose your own shop.”

  “As if,” Knox said tiredly.

  First, Mortician had called him and told him to meet Val at the club in and hour. Five minutes after that call ended, Val texted Knox to see if he was on the way. They acted as if he didn’t have a fucking job. Because Mortician was willing to help him, however, Knox had made an exception and left the office for the day. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn why he asked you to accompany me, Val. I’m just ready to be put under so I can get the tattoo.”

  “Put under what?” Gabe asked in confusion.

  “You’re the tattoo man—”

  “Artist,” Gabe corrected.

  “Okay,” Knox barked. “Whatever.”

  Gabe’s jaw clenched.

  Knox sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “This is all new to me. I…at least give me points for trying.”

  “Trying don’t cut it,” Val told him, his voice torn between disgust and sympathy. “This not a preschool where you get ‘A’ for effort. This is real life. Brotherhood. Loyalty. Accepting us for who we are, like we accept you.”

  Knox opened his mouth to dispute that, but Val raised his hand to halt his words.

  “I know what you about to say. That we never accepted you. There’s a reason for that. You infiltrated the club with the intention to bring us down. Even after you got with Roxanne, you decided we didn’t make the cut. We not respecting a motherfucker who don’t respect us.”

  Val’s gruff words chastened Knox.

  “Fair enough.” Drawing in a deep breath, he looked at Gabe. “I would like the same general anesthesia that’s used on people who get full body tattoos. Cam has a couple on his arms. I was with him for one, so I know the job was too small for him to be put under, so—”

  “Uh, Knox, there’s no anesthesia to get a tattoo.” Gabe stared at Knox with uncertainty. “You know that, huh, man? You’re just bullshitting me.”

  Knox prided himself on knowing a lot about most things and a little about everything. Growing up, he’d had a very comprehensive education, so he was loathe to admit he was lost when it came to tattoos. “Of course I’m not joking. A big tattoo must be quite painful. There are needles involved. A lot of them.”

  Val lifted a brow. “You scared of needles?”

  “Of course not!” Knox lied. In truth, he was fucking terrified of them.

  “Come on, motherfucker.” Val turned on his heel and headed for the hallway that ran alongside the receptionist’s station. “Follow me.”

  Knox looked at Gabe.

  “I’ll be there in a bit,” Gabe promised. “I need to lock the shop up.”

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Knox said. “You can’t close for business.”

  “Knox! Motherfucker,” Val said in exasperation. “Gabe know what he doing. Stay the fuck out of it.”

  Without another word, Knox followed Val to the end of the hallway. They’d passed two rooms, doors opened, interior darkened. Val walked into the last room and flicked on the light as Knox stepped in. Wooden floors, painted black, gleamed like polished ebony underneath the glare of the bright light. The white paint would’ve given the room a sterile feel if not for the tattoo designs lining the upper perimeters of the four walls. A specialized chair, similar to the one at the station in the front, sat in the center of the room, a rolling stool next to it. Built-in drawers and cabinets framed a sink, while a red leather loveseat stood beneath three wall hooks.

  Val nodded to the chair. “Sit,” he instructed as he went to one of the cabinets and opened it.

  As Knox sat, Val pulled out a fifth of rum, then he dug into the inside pocket of his cut and pulled out a lighter and a joint. Once he opened the alcohol and took a swig from it, he held the bottle out.

  Knox eyed it with suspicion. “What do you want me to do with that?”

  “Drink,” Val said with patience.

  He’d seen the guys do this countless times. He’d shared bottles with Cam before—other friends whom he trusted.

  The thought crossed his mind and he winced. He didn’t have to be told that he didn’t trust any of the Death Dwellers. In turn, they didn’t trust him. But Roxanne trusted them. She trusted him…Well, she had trusted him.

  Instead of overthinking, he grabbed the bottle from Val and drank long and deep from it. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he coughed and sputtered, then handed the bottle back to Val. The rum burned as it slid down Knox’s throat. Certainly not the smooth stuff he was accustomed to. It warmed him, sent the room twirling for a second.

  After taking another pull, Val sat the bottle down, then began flicking the lighter in an effort to light the weed.

  Successful, Val inhaled, held, and released, several times. “Take a hit,” he told Knox, holding the joint out.

  Alcohol was one thing; marijuana another. One was legal; the other was…complicated.

  “This Outlaw own special herb. Cfc. Case Fuckin’ Closed. An Indica strain. Mort came up with Big Roscoe—Br. The name, anyway. Outlaw was the one who grew the plants. Br a sativa.”

  “Outlaw came up with his own marijuana?” Knox asked with skepticism. “Never heard anyone mention that. Neither about Mort’s.”

  “See a reason they got to say anything? That’s not something you advertise. Besides, Outlaw been doing this for so long, he able to sell clones of his original plants. He even grow from clones. It’s not a big deal to him.”

  Knox eyed the weed. “Everything he does is a big deal.”

  “According to you.” Val took another hit from the joint, grabbed the rum, then dropped onto the loveseat. “Outlaw do what he have to, to be the best fucking prez around.”

  The strong scent of the “herb” swirled through Knox’s head. Leaning his head against the chair, he closed his eyes. “Of course you’re not biased at all.”

  “Not a fucking bit.”

  Folding his arms, Knox opened one eye. “Bullsh
it. He’s indoctrinated all of you into believing he’s the best thing since toasted bread.”

  The tip of the special cigarette sent a little spiral of smoke up, so Knox closed his eye. “You know what I wish a motherfucker came up with?”

  Knox adjusted his position. “Do I have to know?”

  Val sniggered. “Sure the fuck do.”

  “Then what?”

  “Selling a loaf of toast.”

  Knox’s eyes flew open. “That’s called bread, asshole. Buy the bread and make the toast.”

  “Sometimes, a man hungry. After his wife suck his cock for a half hour and that motherfucker raw and red and all out of cum, a motherfucker need to eat. Usually, I’m too tired for much. A piece of toast or two. It’s just so much fucking effort to get the raw bread out—”

  “My God, man! Bread is not raw when you buy it. It’s already baked.”

  “It’s raw until you toast it, Knox,” Val insisted.

  “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  “Don’t give a fuck. It’s what the fuck I want to talk about.”

  Knox growled. “Fine. Talk about bread that’s raw until it’s toasted. Not dough that turns into bread once it’s baked. Talk away. I’m all ears.”

  Grinning, Val took a couple more leisurely hits, before pinching the end of the joint to extinguish it. “You already learning.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t need to learn anything.”

  “That’s not true. Nobody know everything. There’s always room to learn.”

  “Point for you. Yet I’m missing exactly what I need to learn in this situation.”

  “How to stop being such a superior motherfucker. How to respect another motherfucker right to say whatever the fuck he want to, however the fuck he want to. It don’t make you better and me less. It just make us different.” Val swigged from the rum. “Mortician could’ve waited ‘til he was back in town for this, so he could come with you. He sent me with you, though, because he didn’t want your newfound awareness of his wealth to affect how you interacted with him. Now that you know he got money, you wouldn’t have been looking down on him. Mort wouldn’t have liked that, Knox. Around here, we all equal. From me to Mort to Cash…to you.”

  Knox scowled, affronted as a thought occurred to him. “He sent you to teach me what he thinks I need to know?”

  Val eyed him with disapproval. “There you go, acting like a stupid motherfucker again. Our hands tied because of Roxanne. Outlaw want to fuck you up because you…you know…you. Mort not happy with you because of his momma-in-law. Digger might fucking ground you because Mort his big brother. Me? I don’t give a good fuck.”

  “Yet you were going to help them kill me?”

  “Need to stay in practice. We haven’t killed nobody in months.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Knox breathed. “You’re a barbarian, too.”

  Val smirked at him. “You got to have a little barbarianism in you if you joining the fold.” He indicated him with a sweep of his hand. “Getting inked.”

  Knox simply said, “I love her.”

  “Funny what bitches make motherfuckers do. I had to pull a few low-motherfucker moves to get Zoann. I kept fucking up, and she got sick of my ass.”

  Before Val expanded on the statement, Gabe walked in, a joint of his own hanging between his fingers.

  “It’s illegal to smoke in public,” Knox complained.

  “It’s illegal to smoke around the general public,” Gabe corrected, using Val’s lighter on his weed. “This is a public place, currently closed.” He took a few hits, then passed it to Val, who happily indulged again.

  “What are you thinking of getting?” Gabe went to the sink and washed his hands as thoroughly as a surgeon might. “How big and where?”

  Knox had thought long and hard about this. “I want a heart with an arrow through it. Roxanne’s name on one end and my name on the other end. About yea big.” He used his fingers to measure about one or two inches.

  Gabe nodded, gathering prep supplies. “Where? Your ring finger, maybe?”

  “Ring finger?” Knox asked, incredulous. “No, nothing where there’s so much bone. I was thinking my buttocks.”

  “Your ass?” Val said in surprise. “You want a fucking tattoo the size of a mosquito bite on your ass?”

  “It’s my money,” Knox argued. “I can get it where I want to it.”

  “He’s right,” Gabe agreed. He looked at Knox. “You’re right.”

  Knox gave Val an authoritative nod. In response, Val shook his head and took another swig from the rum. “Make sure you buy Roxanne a magnifying glass, motherfucker,” he said into the silence as Gabe opened another cabinet door and pulled out a shelf that held a laptop and small printer.

  Knox glared at Val, who only grinned.

  “You have a state-of-the-art establishment.”

  “Yeah, Knox,” Gabe said in an off-handed manner, his attention focused on the screen. “It wasn’t always like this. Not until the club invested in it. Digger put up his own money to have it rebuilt from the ground up. I have fifty percent ownership, Bunny has thirty percent, and the club has the rest.”

  “Why does the club have any interest?” Knox asked, his tone peevish. Did Outlaw have to muscle his way into everything?

  “Originally, they invested in my shop,” Gabe answered as the printer spit out a piece of paper. He grabbed it. “Since it was club property, everything needed to be voted on. Outlaw knew Digger wanted Bunny to have a cut and that I wanted renovations. Again, club property so club decision.” He squinted at the paper. The light reflecting on it revealed a very small object had been printed on the other side, too tiny to make out. “Outlaw had Brooks draw up papers that set up percentages that we all owned. He had me draw up plans and run reports on profit and losses. I even had to submit a proposal.” He tapped a couple of keys on the laptop. “The day of the meeting arrived, and I was so nervous. I couldn’t attend because I’m not a member. Digger said there was some wrangling, especially on the renovations. That was the big sticking point. Digger finally decided he’d pay for it himself. After that, it was smooth sailing. The members voted to sell me back half the interest in the shop.”

  “And all of this was Outlaw’s plan?”

  Gabe grabbed another sheet of paper from the printer. “Not the design of this building.”

  “No, I meant how you, Bunny, and the club shared interest.”

  Gabe nodded.

  “Motherfucker brilliant at business,” Val inserted. “I always thought if he would’ve been CEO of the club’s labs, we would have more than just a couple locations.”

  “Then you might be stuck with Johnnie as prez,” Gabe said with a cheeky smile.

  “Fuck off,” Val ordered. “John Boy just fine. Have you heard different?”

  “No,” Gabe said quickly, losing his grin. “Of course not, Val. I didn’t mean any harm.” He handed the paper to Knox. “A design of your tattoo.”

  Knox stared at the heart with the arrow, then squinted. Drew the image closer and still found it hard to read his and Roxanne’s names. Val stood from his seat to peek over Knox’s shoulder.

  “Don’t get none, Knox,” Val said. “Put that on your ass and it’ll just be a fucking blob.”

  Sighing, Knox handed the paper back to Gabe. “I have to,” he insisted. “Roxanne’s family is my family. I’ve disparaged tattoos and motorcycles and everything for so long. I want to show her what’s important to her is important to me.”

  “You don’t have to change to be part of our family,” Val told him. “We not asking for that. Roxanne not asking for that. We just want you to be fucking fair. Give us the chance we always try to give you. You asked me if Mort sent me to teach you. No, he sent me to give you a chance to get to know me. Maybe, if you spend time with each of us, you can see we just motherfuckers like you. He doing this even though he want to slice you in little pieces again because, every time he call to check on shit, he hear
how sad Roxanne is and that’s making Bailey sad.”

  A knot dropping into the pit of Knox’s stomach. “Roxanne is sad?”

  “She love you. Mort said the whole time he was on the phone with Bailey last night, she was crying because Roxanne…” Val shrugged.

  “Roxanne what?”

  “I’m not talking for her,” Val said with infuriating vagueness. “If you doubt she love you, seeing that ugly ass ring on her finger should convince you.”

  Knox stiffened. “That is a family heirloom.”

  “Don’t give a fuck,” Val retorted. “The shit ugly. Made for a late nineteenth century or early twentieth century bitch. Not a bitch on wheels like Roxanne. She deserve bling befitting her.”

  Alarm raced through Knox. Every time he thought of something that would put more distance between him and Roxanne, he panicked. “Has she complained about the ring?”

  “Roxanne don’t do shit like that,” Val chastised.

  Knox had seen the way she looked at the ring when he’d slid it on her fingers. She’d even expressed misgivings. Yet, he’d expected her to do just what she had—accept it without complaint because it was a Harrington heirloom.

  No wonder she didn’t want anything to do with him. Desperation crept into him. “I’m getting a tattoo,” he said with determination. “Maybe, I can have the club’s insignia on my back like most of you do, Val.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Knox. That shit’ll get you killed,” Val said calmly. “You don’t wear club nothing unless you in the fucking club.”

  “Of course,” Knox said.

  “I love dragon art,” Gabe said. “The dragon is symbolic for determination, bravery, and physical prowess.” He removed his T-shirt and turned, presenting his back that had a tattoo of a huge red dragon, shooting black fire. It extended the width of his shoulders and the length of his spinal column, although his neck was clean.

  Knox worked with Val and Gabe to come up with a variation of the dragon tattoo. Instead of his back, Knox decided to have it on his chest. Somehow, Val convinced him to also get a tattoo on his arm. Knox filled out and signed a consent to tattoo and waiver and release to all claims. The single form had all types of questions. Though Gabe knew him, he demanded a copy of Knox’s driver’s license. It was both impressive and legitimate.