“Meet me at the loading dock in twenty minutes.”
I set the burner phone down on my desk and check the security cameras once more, ensuring no one is around or near the building. Business is starting to get too heavy, so I had to come up with a different shipping strategy to keep attention away from my shop. Everything is about perception.
The key to being a successful criminal is a cover-up. Kaston’s is his P.I. firm and mine are my tattoo shops. At the rate I’m going, I’ll have at least one in all major cities throughout the U.S. soon. I invest some of the money from arms dealing back into growing my businesses to make it more believable. It’s about outsmarting those trained to catch the very criminal activity you’re making a living doing.
My shops serve two purposes: tattoos by day and shipping warehouses at night. With more trucks coming in and out I’ve had to add warehouses in sketchy places through the city to intercept some of my shipments. On top of that, I’m getting closer to launching a tattoo supply company I’ve had in the works in Spain for several years now. Kaston’s dad, Phillip, has been my investor to make it legit. Well, he was, but now that chip falls on Kaston’s shoulder.
Production on the first line started last year and will hit all of my shops within the next year. The goal is to eliminate as many outside vendors as possible so that my own trucks are coming and going from my shops, making it easier to mix shipments instead of wasting time disguising trucks. If I take on enough clients and become a global vendor for tattoo businesses, I could very easily have access to all major highways, water, and air within a short amount of time.
It all started small—just a kid on the street trying to make enough to survive on his own. Any kid in the system knows it’s a hell worth escaping, whether criminal activity or honest work is the way out. Being placed in home after home was my life, each one becoming worse than the last. Becoming an easy monthly paycheck for some worthless piece of shit was all I was valued for. It’s also the only thing I remember about my childhood aside from the occasional slice of a flashback I get.
Nightfall was the easiest time to get away, and the time least likely to get caught since representatives of the state didn’t pop in. Once the sun went down and she disappeared to her room, I was free. No one ever comes looking for you when they don’t want you there in the first place.
I realized quickly the dark was where I like to be. It’s where I belong, and in a short period of time I learned why. Recreational drug use was something I experienced at a young age. It’s the easiest way to forget shit you don’t want to remember. That was my gateway into a world I’ve been in for over half of my life span thus far.
A runner for a large operation drug ring is where it began. It gave me contacts, it gave me allies, and it opened a door for me to grow and become bigger.
Loyalty is the only thing that will guarantee success in an underworld, because everyone has the same common goals: to make money, to avoid the law, and to move up to a place where you hire out for the small-time jobs. Disloyalty in this life doesn’t get you fired, it gets you put in the ground. You have to watch your back. And I’ve had a plan since the beginning. Every man has a weakness except me, whether bad or good.
I stand and grab my keys, shutting everything off as I walk to the door. If I know Kaston, he’ll be early. Everything is locked up in minimal time and the alarm is set on the building before I walk to my truck. I check my surroundings, as I do every time I leave. No car is out of place and nothing looks abnormal.
Fifteen minutes of driving and I pull in, his truck already backed up to the old loading dock. When my headlights shine on the front, I shut them off and stop, waiting for him to get in. It doesn’t take him long. “This the shipment from New York?”
I nod and pull my truck around to the side door that sits in a narrow alley, killing it. “Fresh out of the shipping containers.”
“What’s in this one?”
“Your investment.”
“And . . .”
“Something you’ll want. Let’s go.”
We both get out at the same time and make our way to the door. I quickly unlock it and we walk inside, locking it back behind us, before making our way toward the bay. The large warehouse sits outside of town off several back roads. It used to be a warehouse for a huge feed and seed company that went bankrupt. It’s been abandoned for decades. Years with no activity keeps the cops away and paying the owner with no use for it cash that doesn’t have to be reported to the government makes for an easy and private sale. I wanted something far enough outside of town that it’s obvious when people are lurking.
I pull the small flashlight from the pocket of my jeans and turn it on as we walk farther into the dark, the large wooden crate becoming visible. When I remove the top, he looks inside. “Looks like a chair.”
The beam of light bounces throughout the room, showing every large crate. “I designed them. They’re going in the shop. More positions, a more comfortable experience, and better for the artist to work with. That’s not yours. Here. Give me a hand.” Together we remove the chair from the crate, setting it down out of the way. “Hold this.”
He takes the light from my hand and I grab the ax standing head down against the column not far from where we are. Grabbing it in one hand, I swing it up until both hands grip it like a baseball bat. He backs up when I take stance and begin swinging it, driving the blade into the bottom of the crate. Each new lick creates a cut.
Over and over I swing, wood pieces flying and already sweating, until the hole is big enough to see inside the lower half of the crate. “This is yours,” I say, out of breath as I replace the ax to its point of origin. Handkerchief now in hand, I grab the rifle lying on its side and carefully navigate it through the large opening, handing it to him. “You wanted a sniper rifle. Here is an Armalite AR-50 single-shot bolt-action rifle.”
He grabs it with latex-covered hands and inspects it carefully, like he always does. “This will work. For now, anyway.”
A thick envelope makes its way into my hand when he pulls it from his back pocket. “Where’s your next job?”
“I’m not taking any right now and I’m not sure Chevy is ready to fly solo yet. I don’t know what fucked-up shit lives in his head, but I can sense something isn’t right up there. This is actually a gift.”
I nod. “Going clean?”
“No, even though I’ve considered it; just enjoying a break for now. There are parts of that life I need. Right now, the cravings are silent, but it’s only a matter of time before they come calling. When you’re raised up in something it becomes normal.”
“How’s that whole relationship thing going for you?”
He shines the flashlight in my eyes. I don’t blink. “Why? Are you finally deciding to take what you’ve been wanting for months?”
“I have everything I want.”
“Bullshit. Lie to someone else, Kross. I’ve been there. You seem to keep forgetting we found them at the same time. I’ve also seen you two around each other and it’s awkward as fuck. Even Lux asks me about it. I guess she wants to know what’s up with the two of you and is sick of getting nothing out of Delta.”
“She’s just an artist with the potential to be of value to me. Nothing more.”
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
“What the fuck does that matter?”
“Just answer the question.”
“It’s none of your business.”
He props the barrel of the gun on his shoulder, the butt sitting in his hand. He’s still got the fucking bright light in my eyes. “If it’s nothing then answer the question. We’re two grown-ass men here. Secrets are kind of our thing. It’s why we trust each other.” An arrogant smirk follows. “Unless it’s something . . .”
“Four and a half months. I’m a busy man and I don’t trust many people. I don’t need it like you.”
He lowers the light and flips it around; handing it to me, handle first. I grab it. As soon as his hand is free he smacks the back of my shoulder, causing every muscle to tense. I growl. “Watch it.”
“It happens to the best of us. You’ll figure it out eventually. I’m out, bro. My uninterrupted time with Lux is pretty narrow lately. Holler at me when you head to the gym; otherwise, I’m going to get fucking fat from all the food.”
I shine the light at him this time, watching his retreating form. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“When you remember how long it’s been since you hired her, you’ll know. Better hurry your ass up, though, before you miss your chance. Later.”
He walks away, and shortly after I hear the door open and close. What’s he trying to say, I can’t go fuck someone else? That’s coincidence. My entire life is private. Trust is earned. Not many have it, and even the ones that do are limited on how much. I have too much to lose if my shit gets out, and twenty minutes of a wet dick isn’t worth it to me.
Has it already been four months?
“Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“I don’t revoke my decisions, Delta. Just do the damn tattoo. You’re wasting time.”
She scoots closer to me on the rolling stool and finds a comfortable position with her arms. She stares at the transfer on my skin as she holds the gun in her hand. Her lip ring starts scraping against her top teeth in a nervous way. “You can just outline it today. We’ll work on shading techniques later. I want to see how steady your hand is even when you’re uncomfortable. There will be times you’ll have to tattoo someone in a more personal area than this . . . males and females.”
She looks at me, her eyes focused on my lips, similar to the way she was watching me last night when I was tattooing her pelvis. Her eyes were on my face, not the tattoo. “I’ve even had to tattoo a female’s name on a dick before. Also, Prince Albert—just one among the masses of areas to pierce a dick—and clit piercings have gotten popular on top of nipple rings. This is a business. I need to know you can do anything asked of you without acting like a shy teenager. Professionalism is my one and only fucking rule here. Break it and you’re gone, no questions asked. Reputation takes years to build and can be destroyed instantly.”
Her breathing quickens and her eyes veer to mine. “Are you going to make me practice a Prince Albert on you too?”
I quickly glance at her now shaking hand. A smirk slowly appears when our eyes meet again. “I may let you practice a lot of things, even with my dick, but a needle going through it won’t be one of them.”
Her eyes widen just a hair, and then she clears her throat before the buzzing sound begins and the needle touches down on my skin. There is something about her that piques my interest, and maybe even reminds me of myself starting out, except for the buried shyness. Shy is something that’s never lived within me. The weird part is, in all of my years of tattooing, I’ve never been attracted to another artist, and I’ve worked alongside a few females prior to starting my own business.
I personally don’t hire females aside from the receptionists, because I don’t want fraternization in my studio. The cattiness that occurs between opposite sexes usually just pisses me off. I watch her as she slowly reloads the gun, ink slinging on the first try. She’s trying to get a feel for the gun. On the second attempt she gets it and starts again. If you were to ask me why I’m changing everything now . . . I have no fucking idea. But as I watch her, I already know I’m going to give her the job.
I walk to my truck and get in. Maybe I should go get some pussy just to prove a point. Several of the dealers I do work for always have girls on hand. That’s usually where I go. Girls already trained in crime know to shut their fucking mouth. They’re rewarded well for offering their body out to anyone that wants it. They’re also tolerant of all forms of sex. Rough and slightly abusive are nothing for them. I start the engine and the rock music immediately begins; still Godsmack that was playing on the way here. Instead of deciding on the topic at hand, my thoughts go back to that fucking tattoo I’ve yet to let her finish.
Fuck it.
I grab my phone and filter through the contacts, holding it up to my ear as it connects. Straight to voicemail. “Hey, it’s Delta. I probably won’t call you back.”
I hang it up when I hear the beep, glancing at my dash clock as I back out of the gravel. Why would her phone be off? We went over my expectations long ago, and one of them were that I need to be able to get in touch with her at all times. What the fuck could she possibly be doing? She has to be at work early in the morning to open.
Better hurry up, though, before you miss your chance.
“Motherfucker.”
My tires spin a little as I shift into drive and take off. Shit planted in my head is the last thing I need right now. It’s time to take my ass to the house.
