After a year of doing artwork for him, he got me into tattooing. Zeppelin saved my life in more ways than one, and for that, I was grateful to him. We might not have been friends in the usual sense of the word, but he was the closest person I had. And he was reliable. Family, if I believed in that word.
I dipped my chin in thanks, then finished the last line before cleaning up the client’s back. She sat up when I was done, gave me a tip, then headed to the counter to pay Miranda, Zeppelin’s blue-haired, tatted receptionist. She gave no fucks, and there was a serious lack of a filter between her brain and her mouth. Probably why she and Zeppelin got along so well.
“I’m fucking starving,” she complained once the customer was gone. She dramatically draped her body over the counter, her hands dangling over the other side. She lifted her head just enough to look at Zeppelin. “Feed me.”
He rolled his eyes as he dropped onto his stool. “Feed yourself.”
She opened her mouth to retort what would no doubt have been some smart-ass remark, but she was cut off by the bell above the door jingling. I turned to see who’d walked in and blinked at the man who was already looking at me, his nearly-black eyes intense as he stared. His lip was split, and he had a bruise on his cheekbone. A bruise in the shape of a handprint was wrapped around his throat. His hair, as dark as the night sky, was half pulled up into a small bun. The rest of his hair was left hanging to his shoulders.
He shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing tattooed, muscular arms, the veins prominent. He was hot as fuck, and if I hadn’t sworn off dating and sex to preserve what sanity I had left, I’d have asked him out in a heartbeat. The old me would have anyway, solely to get laid.
“You Shane?” he asked, making his way to me.
I nodded once, not bothering to actually speak. It was actually rare that I opened my mouth. Words held more weight the less I talked.
“You here for a tattoo?” Miranda asked. “You got paperwork to fill out, bud.”
He spared her a split-second glance before looking at me. He pressed his long index finger to my chair. “Do not let anyone else sit here,” he ordered before walking over to where Miranda was glaring at him. I frowned. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?
Zeppelin looked at me. “You know him?” I shook my head. I’d never seen him before in my life. I would’ve remembered someone like him if I had. His looks were memorable, but it was his larger-than-life presence that made him unforgettable. He’d literally walked through the door and filled the space, commanding attention and giving orders.
The bell above the door jingled again, and Jaxon, one of Zeppelin’s husbands, walked in. He was wearing a ball cap, hiding the streaks of gray in his hair. He was cleanly shaven, as usual, and in a pair of faded jeans and a plain black t-shirt, it was easy to see why Zeppelin and Eros, Zeppelin’s other husband, had fallen so hard and easy for him.
Jaxon was as still and calm as a lake. Always strong and capable. And he took Zeppelin’s mood swings and crude mouth in stride, barely batting an eye when Zeppelin was being argumentative or just downright troublesome.
“Jax baby,” Zeppelin greeted, a grin spreading across his face. When Jaxon was close enough, he gripped the front of his shirt and tugged him close, sealing their lips together in a kiss certainly not decent enough for public. Jaxon forced them to part after a moment. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Saw your schedule was empty for the next couple of hours, so I thought we could join Eros for lunch.”
Zeppelin nodded. “Yeah, that should be fine.” He looked at me. “You got this?” He cut a pointed look toward the counter, and when I followed his gaze, spotting the stranger already staring at me again, I nodded once. I’d faced off with people much worse than this guy. I was fine.
Jaxon frowned at the guy like he knew him from somewhere, then his eyes widened. “My son follows you on Instagram,” he said. “X, right?”
What kind of fucking name was X?
“He’s got good taste then,” the guy responded, his voice deep and a little raspy.
Jaxon just hummed, then led Zeppelin out of the shop and to his car. X looked at me, then stood and began pulling his shirt over his head. “Heard you’re the best free-hander in town, and I want ink. I don’t give a fuck what it is. You could put Hello Kitty on my fucking skin if you wanted.” He laid down on his back, leaving his abs and broad chest on display, along with all the bruises that littered his torso and chest. “Find a spot and have a go.”
I arched a brow at him. “Sure you want free hand?” I asked. My voice was low. Quiet. I didn’t talk much, not even to my regular clients. It was rare my voice got used anymore.
He turned his head to look at me. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Saw your work. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I hadn’t done my research.”
“You’re a bit of an asshole,” Miranda drawled, frowning at X. “Watch how you talk to him.”
X’s expression completely changed, like he took a fucking mask off. I straightened in my chair, all too familiar with sociopaths. I knew one when I saw one, and X was definitely on the spectrum—more than likely a high-functioning one, which made it a little easier for him to blend into society.
“You two got a thing going on?” he asked, his voice cold. Empty. There was no fucking life in it. Like he couldn’t be bothered to fake it any longer when something had him angry.
Miranda scoffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, dickface, but no. Shane isn’t my type.”
X relaxed, his mask slipping back on like nothing had happened. He nodded once. “Good.” Looking at me, he arched a brow. “You going to start sometime today?”
I cocked my head to the side the slightest bit, trying to get a read on him. He might be getting a tattoo, but he hadn’t come here just for that. Something told me he was actually here for an entirely different reason, especially since most of his tattoos, while good, seemed to be done by him. There was a distinct look most tattoos had if someone did them on themselves.
X wasn’t as slick as he liked to think he was.
I turned away from him to ready my ink. “Color? Placement?”