Their Saint: Hell’s Rebel’s MC Part II

by Akeroyd, Serena

  Long John… not so much.

  Not that I held a grudge or anything. Why would he give a fuck about a snot-nosed kid? But I just remembered he hung around a lot back then, and…

  My frown turned into a glower.

  Five years ago, my sister would have just been turning nineteen. Jailbait, sure, but fuck, when had that stopped anyone in an MC before? We didn’t allow sick shit to go down, at least not in the Rebels, but nineteen? Nah. That wouldn’t stop Long John, and it would explain why Kenzie was acting like top bitch again… as well as why Long John and Crocker were sitting with us when I’d expected to walk in and eat with just Saint and her.

  Neither man defended Kenzie, and Saint just tipped his chin, telling me silently he backed every word I said— I appreciated that he hadn’t waded in. I didn’t need anyone to fight my battles for me.

  It was just like Kenzie to do this. Back in the day, she’d called herself a feminist, but she was the one who’d run off to be with a biker, and who was now acting like a grade-A bitch just because she had another biker at her back.

  The silence was heavy as we waited on the server to deliver our meals, and I didn’t let it drop. No one could talk smack about Ama around me or Saint, and that was the way of it.

  If Kenzie was back for good, then she’d better get the jump on that real quick. I loved her, wanted the best for her, and didn’t want her to be hurt by the creep she’d picked as a partner, but Ama was the love of my fucking life. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know that yet, didn’t matter that she might not reciprocate my feelings and that she may have a thing for Saint, I’d defend her and protect her with everything I had.

  Just as I’d been doing since I was a kid.

  ❖

  Ink

  “This is the autoclave,” I informed Ama, showing her the unit that sterilized all sharp materials. “Remember when we broke down the gun? Which parts need sterilizing?”

  She peered around the room. “Why’s it so tiny?”

  I snorted. “Because the law states this room has to be separate from the rest of the parlor, but they didn’t state how big it has to be. Now, which parts?”

  Ama waved a hand. “The grip, tube tip, and needles. They’re the only parts of the tattoo machine that come into contact with skin.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “How much reading did you do last night?”

  She beamed at me. “I read that whole pdf document you made me download.”

  “Didn’t you sleep?”

  “Some. I woke up at four.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, but it was a huge deal. Ama didn’t have a damn thing wrong with her ‘sleep.’ It was just the memories that fucked with her subconscious and woke her up. “I got reading and I’m glad I did. I didn’t expect things to get technical so soon.”

  My lips twitched. “Babe, I know how good you are at art. That isn’t what you have to learn, although you’ll have to adapt your design to what the client wants. You can’t just go ahead with your own checklist, it’s what they want or nothing.”

  “Of course.”

  Huh. She said that so easily that I squinted at her—I’d kind of expected an argument on that front.

  “Also, there are certain parts of the body that you have to be careful with.” This was off topic, but hell, I wanted to touch her, so I raised her arm, and smoothed my fingers along the line of her bicep and around to the ball of her shoulder. Then, I turned her arm gently, and trailed my fingers down to her elbow. “There are contours here, contours you have to study and see how they line up with your design. There’s a lot to learn but you have the talent.”

  “That feels really good,” she admitted, her nose crinkling as she stared into my eyes.

  My lips twitched. “It was supposed to.” Throat thick with all the emotion I was holding back, I dipped my head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before trailing my mouth down to hers. I kissed the corner, and on a murmur, asked, “What are the five ‘Ps’ of tattooing?”

  She shivered as my breath whispered over her skin, and if this room’s purpose didn’t revolve entirely around hygiene, I’d have pushed her against the wall and claimed a real kiss. As it was, this room existed for sterilization purposes, plus, she was sore. I knew that because when she sat down, she squinted a little, then wriggled around on her seat.

  Thinking about why she was doing that had had me sporting a hard-on all fucking day, and I was way too old for that shit.

  Licking her lips, she stated, “Proper needle depth, proper angle, proper assembly, proper strokes, and proper training.” She huffed out a laugh as she pressed her hand to my chest. “Not sure this constitutes as proper training.”

  “I think it does.” I grinned, even as I winked at her, realizing then just how fucking happy I was. Seriously, I hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

  If I were being honest, I realized how shit my life had been for a while because this level of contentment had evaded me for far too long.

  But I didn’t want to think about that, not when there was such promise standing here beside me.

  We were in a small cocoon at that moment. Breathing each other’s air, turned toward one another so that our bodies were touching, my heat sinking into her, her curves pressed to my hardness—and I wasn’t talking about an erection, because this wasn’t just about sex.

  This was about so much fucking more than that and it should have terrified me, but it didn’t. If anything, it inspired me, rejuvenated me. I felt younger, brighter, and this was only after fourteen goddamn hours of thinking there was a chance for more with her.

  “Liam?”

  I hummed out a, “Yeah?”

  “What time is your first client?”

  “Don’t worry. My alarm will sound. I’ll have to open up.” We kept odd hours here, but even though we were in the backwoods, we had a good clientele. Not only because of the brothers, but because of the townsfolk. We also had people who’d travel to Jonsson all the way from Corpus Christi just because they wanted ink from me.

  We opened from three in the afternoon and ran until eight. The day was short because I had shit to do in my position as Secretary on the MC’s council. When Ama became proficient, we might be able to extend the schedule, but I wasn’t holding much hope for that.

  Today hadn’t been too bad. Getting her into Jonsson had been okay, more ‘okay’ than anticipated, but I knew some days were better than others. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to handle much, wasn’t sure what she’d be capable of, but we’d find out.

  Ama had a way of surprising me, and I was hoping in this, she would too. It would be beyond awesome if she could manage this place, extend the hours, and hold the fort on her own… But, yeah, I was getting ahead of myself like a dumbass.

  When my alarm went off a few moments later, I grunted and, sucking down a breath, backed off. It was the last thing I wanted, and I didn’t give a fuck if it made me a pussy. Gave no shits because this feeling inside, this feeling of fucking worth, made everything okay.

  “Bridges is a temperamental bastard, okay? Just shadow me, yeah?” I warned, and when she nodded, I reached up to grab her chin and stare into her eyes. “He’s decent people, but he’s—”

  She snorted. “You do know I grew up in an MC, right? I mean, you were there for most of it.”

  My lips curved. “Yeah, well, I just—”

  “Just ‘nothing.’ Don’t worry about me. I can hold my own.” She shoved at my arm and said, “Go on. Get ready for what you need to do.”

  The last thing I did at night before closing was set the autoclave, so everything I needed, all my equipment, was clean and ready to roll.

  I’d already set up my gun and had shown Ama those five ‘Ps’ in the flesh. How to assemble it, how to angle the needle, and how to adjust for needle depth, which would help with shading and outlining. Then, there’d been a quick lesson on moving the gun to maintain a constant flow of ink.

  Next, I was going to show her how to create a sten
cil.

  For her first ‘lesson,’ she was picking up on most things, but she wouldn’t be doing shit for a long ass while, not until she could teach me what to do just as I’d had to do with my mentor.

  Still, I was curious about her designs, and it was why I was throwing her in at the deep end with Bridges. I would be handling the work, but I wanted her to shadow me to see how she’d respond to his requirements.

  Being good with the gun was one thing—it was a tool, one that required practice and repetition. But like with anything, flair and creativity added a depth, soul, and heart to a piece of work that couldn’t be replicated. Tattoos were, after all, walking art. But all that meant nothing if you didn’t give a client what they wanted. To me, that mattered more than anything.

  Ama could be surprisingly stubborn, and where her art was concerned, she was used to pretty much doing what she wanted, so, yeah, I was curious as to how this would go down.

  We left the sterilization room and headed into the parlor where I set up my area, explaining as I went the hows and whys of following health and safety protocol. It was boring stuff but important. If an inspector came in and saw that we weren’t anal with this shit, we’d get closed down—deservedly so. This was one law I didn’t want to fuck with. Passing around blood-borne diseases was not on my to-do list.

  By the time Bridges arrived, I could tell Ama was relieved and her wide smile, wider than usual considering Bridges was a stranger and scowling at her when he’d expected only me, was evidence of how much information I’d thrown at her in ninety minutes.

  She’d get used to it. She’d have to. I wasn’t about to be sloppy with this shit.

  The parlor was only a single building. It was pretty narrow, around fifteen feet wide but over forty feet long. The front reception was set up with a comfortable booth seating area where I worked on designs with the client. Opposite it was a desk that Ama would be manning. There was a drawing of a hog on the front, one that was being ridden by a skeleton—Hell’s Rebels’ emblem. On the back wall, there were pictures of designs I’d done, and basic patterns that people could select if they didn’t want anything custom.

  Nothing separated the reception area from where I worked—what was the point? I mostly manned this place alone unless a brother was hanging out, so I needed to be able to speak to people while I worked. It wasn’t all that professional, I guessed, but people hadn’t been complaining in all the years I’d been here. They hadn’t complained when Roper had run this place, either.

  As the reception bled into the parlor, however, the walls were overtaken with a tribal pattern that I’d designed and had painted myself. The motherfucker was easier to paint onto a body than it was onto the walls, but it was worth it. Whenever I looked around the black and white walls, I got a sense of satisfaction that I’d created it and that everyone who walked in received a taste of my work.

  Bridges ignored Ama for the most part, ignored me too as he headed straight for the booth and slouched back, with one arm on the back and one leg kicked up on the seat. When his eyes caught mine, I murmured, “Bridges, this is my apprentice Ama.”

  Bridges’ glower deepened. “You never had an apprentice before.”

  “She’s new. Started today.”

  “Just my luck,” he mumbled, making my lips twitch and Ama scowl.

  “Don’t worry, she’s just shadowing me. Now, you miserable bastard, what do you want this time?” I winked at Ama as I settled into the booth. There was a hidden drawer in the wall where I stored all the pads and pencils I needed to design, and I grabbed them the second I took a seat.

  It was only now when I was showing Ama my routine, my world, that I realized how particular I was. Everything had a proper place and stayed in that place until I was ready for it. I guess it could be said I was anal-retentive but fuck, time in the army did that to a man.

  When I settled back in the booth that had a vintage vibe thanks to the shell-like cutouts of the cushion, I motioned at Ama who scuttled in beside me.

  Because this wasn’t Bridges’ first time with me, he’d waited until I’d grabbed my stuff from the drawer to say, “Need a picture of my momma.”

  “A portrait? That’s unlike you.” He was into Japanese ink. His back was a masterpiece we’d crafted together of a Samurai warrior. The headpiece started at his nape before flowing down all the way to his upper ass cheeks.

  Bridges frowned down at the table, but he rubbed his thumb against a ring that he wore suspended on a chain. “She died two weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ama whispered the same time I did.

  I cut her a look, well aware that this was probably her specialty. Nobody could draw faces like she did.

  “Do you have a picture?” I asked, holding out my hand. He passed it to me, showing me a woman in a simple dress who was smiling with bright eyes at the camera. She had to be around thirty-five in the shot. Her hair was styled into a tight bob and she had a baby, who I assumed was Bridges, on her hip.

  As I studied the picture, I felt Ama fidgeting at my side. Handing it to her to study, I told Bridges, “I’ll need some time to come up with something. Want to do her justice, you know?”

  “I get that. I expected as much.” He cleared his throat. “Would a week be enough?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call you when I have something ready and give you dates for when I can fit you in.” I studied him, thought about all the space he had left on his body and stated, “You can only really have it on your calf.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Left one. The right is fucked up with those scars I got. I want the whole image. Not just her face. Me in there too.”

  “Okay, so without a doubt, I’ll be doing the ink.” When he scowled, I raised a hand and said, “Wait. Ama just got accepted into the Rhode Island School of Design. She’s a fucking phenomenal artist. I’ll design something, of course, but would you mind if she did too? Then you can pick which one you like.”

  “But you’d do the ink?” he repeated, needing the confirmation, and I understood that. No one wanted a noob massacring a tattoo that held a lot of meaning.

  “I swear. I just… I’d like to do your momma justice, and in all honesty, I think Ama will do that. You should see her stuff, man.” I cut Ama a look and said, “Grab your notebook from the desk.”

  She scurried away and returned with the pad in less than twenty seconds—her excitement was evident, and I was hard-pressed not to smile.

  There was a shyness about her as she handed over the notebook to Bridges, and I got that—it was always nerve-racking showing someone your art. When Bridges flickered through the notepad, I saw his eyes widen and knew he was impressed.

  There was something about Ama’s style that was raw but somehow clever too. It was like she photoshopped the bits people didn’t like with her hand, while intensifying the parts people loved. But, underlying it all was a depth of realism that was envious.

  I had to admit, I’d like to try to ink one of her pieces, see how it worked out with a different medium.

  “Yeah, okay. Give it a go. Thanks.” He dipped his chin at Ama, but didn’t really look at her as he began to edge out of seat. “I’ll wait on your call.”

  With that, he headed out and I understood. He’d cast a final glance at his photo and tears had moistened his eyes—Bridges was too much of a dick to be happy about anyone seeing him crying.

  When the door closed, I told Ama, “Turn the sign to ‘open,’ would you?”

  She nodded, did as I requested, then returned to the booth. “Thank you for doing that.”

  I shrugged. “It’s your strength. Probably how you’ll make your name if you can translate what you do with pen and ink to this kind of medium.”

  “You think?” she asked, excitement making her bounce in the seat she’d taken opposite me.

  “I do.” I tore off a sheet and passed it to her. “Don’t forget, this has to be an outline. It’s going to go on his calf. We create an im
age that we can trace onto his leg. Most of the details are there, but any flair, that comes after, okay?”

  She nodded her understanding, then propped the picture against the booth. It was interesting watching her work. I knew for a fact her process wouldn’t be fast. Hell, it was bound to be slow. I’d watched her drawing Saint and Keys, had heard them moaning about how long she took, and I knew that they only let her get away with it because they either wanted in her panties or because they loved her.

  For her sake, I hoped it was the latter over the former.

  As I got to work sketching, well aware that a new customer could come in now, she stared at the picture for so long, I wasn’t even sure what she was looking at.

  Then, after twenty minutes—I swear to God, twenty fucking minutes—she picked up the pencil and began to scratch the first few lines onto the paper. My own pencil slowed as I switched my attention onto her and her work, and fuck, it was like watching magic happen.

  A few lines in, and somehow, she’d perfected the neat-as-a-pin bob that looked as though it had required a ruler to cut it. And Bridges’ mom’s smile? With that slightly goofy edge to the right side of her mouth? She perfected that with barely any work at all.

  I knew her style, had seen it before. I’d even seen the portfolio she’d put together for her exams, and had watched her gather the pieces required for the entrance requirements to the colleges she’d applied to, but watching her do this with a tattoo in mind?

  All of a sudden, it was like she was talking my language and I just got where she was coming from.

  After five minutes, I knew there was no way Bridges was going to take on my portrait. I’d stopped working on mine, but I’d finish it, just so he’d have a choice. But no one would take mine over hers. No one.

  I could see exactly where I’d use shadow and grayscale to create the shading she was being cautious with adding. From her style, I knew she’d prefer watercolor, but Bridges was a black and grey lover who preferred realism to anything vaguely feminine.