by Rhys Ford
“Well, not a lot of kids in San Francisco named August,” Gus cut in. “And I’m probably the only one you tried to toss into jail because you couldn’t find a foster home for me.”
“Seriously?” Ivo leaned on the counter, his fingers tapping out an erratic beat. “What a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah, I already called him that before you came out. Look, Bulcher, it’s nearly eight at night. Jules and I are going through the custody proceedings without involving social services,” Gus cut in. “Social Services doesn’t send out people like you to the field. You’re the kind of guy who sits behind his desk and bitches when he has to answer the phone. Lynn seems like a nice woman. She’s fine with who I am and what I’m doing with my life. The only question right now is what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you’d made something more of yourself than I’d expected. She needs to know what type of person her grandson is going to be around. They’re a nice family, despite their daughter’s bad life choices. The girl is going back to school to make something of herself.” Bulcher’s eyes narrowed at Ivo’s snort. “She is better than this… type of work. Her mother and I might not be close, but I’ve watched Juliana mature into a vibrant, lovely woman, and I will do my damnedest to ensure her child does not get influenced by the likes of you.”
There was more. A lot of noise and Ivo grumbled back, a simmering baritone slapping back at Bulcher. His day had been good—great even—and it always seemed like the universe wasn’t happy about things going his way. Bear told him that morning he needed to take more control over his life. He’d wanted to argue, but staring at Bulcher, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth, his face going red as Ivo stabbed him with a pointed look and sharp word, Gus realized his older brother was not only right but probably also sick to death of dealing with Gus’s shit. Life should have been pretty simple. He’d come out of his childhood a little wrinkled and broken but alive. Bulcher’s arrival on 415 Ink’s doorstep wasn’t his problem.
Bulcher couldn’t touch him. He had no say in Gus’s life. Not now. Maybe back when the world was wound too tight around him and he was drowning in grief and fear, but standing in the front of a tattoo shop he’d helped found, Bulcher’s agitation and aggression was only noise.
The relief he felt made him gasp, and Gus rubbed at his stomach, easing away the last remnants of the knot he’d carried there for years. It was freeing, exhaling the heat burning through him, and his next breath—as salty and pungent as the San Francisco piers—was the freshest he’d ever taken.
“Heh. You have no power over me,” he snorted, rocking back on his heels. “Shit, that finally makes some fucking sense.”
The monster in Gus’s mind shrunk, collapsing down into a skinny older man who even now fought to tear apart children he’d let down years ago. A wheedling bitterness haunted Bulcher’s words, curdling even the simplest sounds into an acidic attack. Ivo stood his ground, defending himself, Gus, and the world at large against a man he’d never met before but who’d walked into their life with the singular intent to destroy Gus’s world.
“Ivo, stop. Might as well argue with a pudding cup.” He kept his voice down, low and steady. It was odd how transparent the world became without anger or fear coloring it. There were shards of glass in his belly, fleeting reminders of arguments battled on top of him while he sat motionless, powerless, and silent, unable to do anything but listen to people decide his life. “Mister Bulcher, you don’t have any business here, either in the shop or with me. So you’re either going to walk out or we’ll ask SFPD to help you find your way out.”
“Maybe you’re not hearing me. I’m taking this on by myself. If the courts had followed my recommendation, you’d have been a more useful member of society. Instead of owning up to the state’s responsibility to rehabilitate you, they handed you over to your faggot cousin because it was easier. Now you’re just like him.” Bulcher leaned over the counter and stabbed Gus in the chest with his finger. “You are filth. I knew you were filth the moment I laid eyes on you, and if that damned judge hadn’t—you are not fit to be near a child, much less the Wagner boy.”
Gus put his hand on Ivo’s arm, squeezing tightly to keep his younger brother from going across the counter. Ivo trembled in his grasp, anger vibrating through him, but Gus felt… nothing. Instead he was mostly tired, worn around the edges from a long day and exhausted from working two big pieces but exhilarated at how they came out. Bulcher was simply… a distraction.
“First off, I didn’t need rehabilitating. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was a ward of the state because my mother was a drug addict and well, tried to kill me. Not because I was a shitty person but because I came from a shitty person.” He let go of Ivo, smiling when his brother shifted a step back to give him some room. “Secondly, you ever call Bear or anyone I love—hell, anyone I hate—a faggot again while I’m around, I’m going to shove your teeth so far back into your throat they’re going to use you to circumcise guys by giving them blow jobs.
“How did you think this conversation was going to go?” Gus tempered his tone, watching Bulcher carefully. “In your head as you drove down here or however you got here, did you play it through what you were going to say? Did you believe you’d storm in here like some righteous avenging angel, condemn me to hell, and I’d just fold up and step out of my kid’s life? I’m not going to do that. Just like I’m not going to let you scream me down in my own shop—yeah, my own shop.”
“Well, ours,” Ivo interjected. “Technically.”
“Ours.” Gus smirked at his brother. He tapped at the five-pointed star on his wrist. “See that? That’s my family mark right there. The shop’s logo. All five of us own a piece of 415 Ink. We’ve all worked here. Some of us still work here, but it’s all of ours. This is a part of a legacy I’m going to be able to give to my son. A part of a legacy. He gets not just me but my brothers and my work. I’m damned fucking good at what I do. Sure, Ivo’s better—”
“Going to argue about that,” his brother snorted under his breath.
“Yeah fine, you do that.” Gus shrugged. “Ivo’s crap aside, I’m good at what I do. People come to me for their ink. They fly to this city or ask their shop to bring me in as a guest because I am fucking good at this. Whatever shit you’ve got going on in your head about who I am or what I do really doesn’t affect me. I’m still going to be the best damned artist I can be and work on some kickass things people want to carry around on their skin for the rest of their lives.”
“Look at yourself. Look at how your brother turned out.” Bulcher pulled himself up, staring at Gus with a fevered gaze. “I can’t allow you to affect the Wagner family. They deserve so much more than—”
“I agree. They’re awesome people. And so is my brother here. What I’m not going to do is let some asshole like you come into my life so he can try to make me smaller. You tried that when I was a kid, and it didn’t work. You think I’m going to let you do that to me now?” He took a breath, both to steady himself and to give Bulcher a moment to hear everything he was saying. “I’m done carrying around the shit my mother pulled. I’m not going to hand it off to my kid, but you know what? That’s none of your fucking business.
“You’re nothing to me, and you’re going to be nothing to my kid. So if anyone’s going to make sure he’s got the proper influence in his life, it’ll be me and the rest of his family,” he continued, nodding when Bulcher’s nostrils flared and sniffed. “So I’m going to tell you—not ask you—to turn around and take the shit you came in with back out with you. The big question is, are you going or are you going to need help finding the door?”
Sixteen
“SO LET me get this straight,” Rey said as patted at Gus’s bruised lip with a balled-up washcloth. “You got into a fight with a German oompah band?”
“They were Bavarian. I think. Wait, Bavaria’s a part of Germany. I’m shit at geography and culture. It’s why I always lose that part of the trivia game.
Look, this one guy kept saying over and over they were a Bavarian oompah band. I was too busy dodging their fists to really give a shit what kind of music they played. I just wanted that asshole out of the shop.” Gus tilted his head back, but Rey expected that, cupping his hand behind Gus’s neck.
Rey had pulled his car into a rare empty space on the street a few feet away from the shop’s front door. It’d taken his SFFD identification card, a bit of fast talking, and knowing the name of the young Irish detective talking to one of the witnesses for him to get through the crowd blocking the sidewalk. Bear spotted him and pulled Rey past the crowd, shouting for Gus over a babble of German coming from a pack of large men with ruddy cheeks and flirtatious smiles.
Seeing the swell on Gus’s lip brought out a rage in him Rey didn’t know he had, and when he turned back to the crowd, Bear clamped his hand on his shoulder and shoved him behind the counter, ordering him to take Gus to the lounge and clean him up. A low muttered Go from Bear was not enough to get Rey moving, but Gus tugging at his hand was.
“It was okay until they thought I was beating up Bulcher—that guy from CPS. When that redheaded guy jumped me, Ivo came after them,” Gus explained. “Then the cops came, and well, it kind of got crazy.”
“I think it started with crazy as soon as that Bulcher guy walked through the door.” He paused, feeling Gus out. There was something tender there, something they hadn’t spoken about before. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nah, nothing really to talk about. Well, about him.” The shrug Gus gave was a small one but significant, as if he were throwing something heavier off. “He works with Jules’s mom now, but he used to be a caseworker. Asshole spent a hell of a lot of time trying to get me into a rehab program or juvie because it would open up a slot in the foster homes. It pissed him off when the judge handed me over to Bear.”
Rey stopped rinsing the cloth in the bowl of soapy water he’d made to wash off Gus’s face. “Why? You’d be out of the system. It’s what he wanted.”
“He argued Bear’d kick me out in a couple of weeks and I’d be right back where I started.” Hissing, Gus sniffed but held steady when Rey dabbed harder. “Some of that’s probably red ink. I rubbed my arm on some before Bulcher came in and hadn’t cleaned it off. Could have smeared it on my face.”
“Then I’ll get that off too.” The water was foamy, smelling of alcohol and lavender, and Rey wrinkled his nose. “Is this the soap you guys use on the tattoos?”
“Yeah, what else am I going to use on a cut? Not like we stock a pharmacy back here.” Gus winced when Rey blew on his lip. “Dude, that’s worse than using spit to clean it. Stop that.”
“How about this, then?” He went in gentle, hyperaware of the cut along the plump of Gus’s mouth. “Seeing as I’m already throwing caution to the wind.”
They were in the back of the shop, hidden behind a set of half walls, a short jog to the right and a noren with three dancing cats painted on it, but the sounds coming from the front of the shop made Rey feel like they were in the middle of the street. There was something magically forbidden about kissing Gus in 415 Ink’s lounge, especially since any one of his brothers could walk into the space and catch them.
Before they’d broken up, they’d both been so careful, so reluctant to share what they had between themselves with the others, but now Rey wanted to throw caution to the wind and taste what he’d been thinking about doing since he’d woken up in the firehouse and all through the rest of his shift.
Gus—grumpy, complicated, gorgeous, and stubborn—dominated nearly every single one of Rey’s waking moments, to the point where he found himself standing in the middle of the firehouse with a stupid grin plastered over his face while the rest of the crew pelted him with anything they could get their hands on to move him out of the way of an incoming truck.
They’d come a full circle from the young men who’d first shared a kiss on the pier. The air was salty, as was the language going on past the walls, but all of that faded when Rey touched his mouth to Gus’s. It was all he could do not to pull Gus toward him, wrap himself around Gus’s long, hard body, and feast on every inch of skin he could reach.
He kept the pressure on Gus’s lips light, skimming over their softness, then dipped his tongue in, pushing past the part in Gus’s mouth. Tightening his fingers around the back of Gus’s head, Rey led Gus in, sliding his legs in between Gus’s, the corners of their wooden chairs bumping with a soft snick. The heat of Gus’s mouth tickled and played on his nerves, licking at promises his body remembered. More beguiling memories flared, banked in time but now fully stoked by the press of Gus’s hand on his thigh and then the skimming of his graceful fingers along his ribs.
His cock recalled in vivid detail the moist velvet of Gus’s mouth, the cradle of his tongue fitting around Rey’s head and tracing its ridge. Between his spread thighs, his balls rolled and ached, begging to be slapped against Gus’s curve, a steady, hard pounding rhythm set by their hungering need.
Teasingly, Gus’s tongue flirted with his, daubing at the edge of his lips, then skimming over the sensitive ribbing right behind Rey’s front teeth. Gripping Gus’s neck, Rey went deeper, plunging the kiss into darker, more seductive waters. Angling his mouth, Rey dipped and coaxed, pulling a soft growl from Gus’s throat.
The table behind them looked promising, broad and heavy enough to take their weight, but Rey refused to give in to the sturdy flat surface’s temptation. Still the image of Gus stretched out under him haunted his thoughts, inked golden skin glistening with sweat and pinked where Rey’d suckled and bit.
“Shit, I’ve got to breathe,” Gus gasped, pulling away to break their kiss. He stayed close, his knees braced between Rey’s legs. “Didn’t I just say no to you a week ago?”
“Little bit longer than that.” Rey kissed Gus’s chin. “Admit it, it wasn’t really no so much as it was a… not now. Lot’s happened between now and then.”
“Yeah, not then. I needed… it’s been a shit show. A lot of good things happened, but also some crappy ones.” Gus leaned back, letting a bit of cold air between them. “What the hell are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be sleeping off a shift?”
“No, I came by to see if you want to grab something to eat. Maybe take you out on a late-night date.” He smiled, used to Gus’s suspicious glare. “And maybe your brother’s out of the apartment for the next twelve hours, but that’s not… I just want to spend some time with you. Whatever happens or doesn’t happen, I want to share some food with you and maybe a bad movie. You work tomorrow?”
“No, but I’ve got Chris coming to the house. Jules is bringing him over so he can have lunch with all of us.” Shifting in his seat, Gus tussled with something, his emotions playing over his amiable face. “You want to join us? It’s a grill-hotdogs kind of thing with the brothers. I… shit, I don’t know how to do this. You and I are… no matter what happens between us, you’re going to be around, but I don’t want you to think you’ve got to—”
“He’s a part of your life,” Rey murmured, stroking his fingers over Gus’s thighs. “We’re not… anything official, and you’re stuck with wanting me there but not sure if I should be.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but I can’t have him get used to you being with me if you’re going to walk.” Gus’s hand closed over his fingers, stilling Rey’s slow circles. “And it’s a shitty thing to say. I know that.”
“It’s valid. Stings a bit but it’s valid.” There was a sharp pain in his chest, and Rey wished it away. Unfortunately, much like everything else Gus did to him, the anguish wasn’t so easily dismissed. He wasn’t surprised when Gus reached up and rubbed at his chest, soothing the tightness above Rey’s heart. “If you want me there, I’m there. If it gets weird, you tell me and I leave. I’m not going to shove at you again. We’re going to do this right this time. Deal?”
“Yeah, deal.” Gus’s smile curved his lips, altering the slant of their kiss, and Rey laughed, delighted in the ec
ho he heard in Gus’s mouth.
“Hey, get a room.” Bear’s deep boom hit them hard, and Rey twisted around, shocked to find Gus’s older brother at his shoulder. “Seriously, out. Cops are gone. The German guys said they were sorry, and Ivo’s going to go hang out with them on their pub crawl, but he wants to know if he can leave you with Rey since he drove in. I’m shutting the shop down for the night. Place is cleaned up, and you two losers are holding the door open.”
“What’s it going to be?” Rey cocked his head at Gus, waggling his eyebrows, then grinning when he got the burst of laughter he’d hoped for. “My place or… somewhere else?”
“Definitely somewhere else.” Gus carefully undid their tangle of legs and stood up. “Because as good as you cook chili, that’s all you can do, and knowing the two of you, there’s nothing but ramen and canned ravioli in your house. Feed me, Montenegro. Then we can figure out what we’re going to do with the rest of our lives.”
CHINATOWN NEVER slept. Not really. And for a fireman and tattoo artist who worked odd shifts, it was nice to be near a neighborhood willing to keep its doors open past an hour most people would call sane. Still, Gus snorted when Rey pulled up in front of an old Chinese food hot spot and a teenaged busboy came dashing out with a couple of white plastic bags, fighting his way through the line by the door to get to Rey’s car.
“Here. Roll down the window and give him this.” Rey passed over a handful of cash to Gus, jerking his chin toward the kid working to extract himself from a woman’s purse. Gus gave him a look but took the money. “Hey, so he doesn’t have to go into the street. Just do it. I’m in a yellow zone. Someone’s going to come by and bitch us out soon.”
“Thought we were going to sit down and eat someplace.” Gus handed the harried kid the cash and took the food. Shoving the bills into his pocket, the busboy was gone before he could say thank you, and Gus sniffed at the aromas rising up from the bags. “What’d you get?”