Stitch, p.1
Stitch, page 1
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Cover art by Inked Imprints
Copyright © 2019 M. Piper
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Chapter 1
Stitch
My day started out pretty normal. Wake up after hitting snooze a dozen or so times, shower, guzzle an entire pot of coffee and finish it off with a cigarette before hopping on my bike to open the shop at noon. Pretty typical. Nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Definitely nothing that would have predicted how my day would end.
Now, seven hours into my twelve hour shift, I’m sitting on my stool, praying I don’t fuck this up over all the goddamned wrinkled skin I’m having to work around.
“I’m dizzy,” the little old woman’s voice squeaks over the sound of my machine buzzing away and I bite back my comment.
No fuck she’s dizzy. She’s probably a year or two short of being on this god-forsaken planet for a century and she’s getting inked on her ribs like she doesn’t know pain.
“You need a break?” I stop my machine and roll back in my chair. She needs a break. She’s white as a ghost.
“I’m fine, sweetie.” Her wrinkled hand pats my cheek and my nostrils flare.
Fucking gross.
“I need a smoke anyway.” I stand, stretch, and watch her eye my stomach when my shirt rides up. Quickly pulling the hem down, I step away and try not to punch the wall on the way out.
This is a joke. I’m all for self-expression and I’ll help anyone I can express themselves however they want. But this is even a little much for me. Inking a ninety-year-old woman because she likes hummingbirds is a little ridiculous if you ask me.
“You leaving?” Tank, fittingly nicknamed, grunts as I bust through the back doors of the shop.
“No.” I pull out a cigarette and light it, taking a long drag.
“You parked like a dickhead again, Stitch.” Tank laughs, tossing his butt to the sidewalk then using the toe of his shitkicker to ground it into the rock. I look out at my bike and grin. I always park sideways in two spots. People take bikes in normal spots for granted. My baby needs to be cherished and stared at. You can’t do that when you’re looking at the ass of a bike next to a minivan.
No. Display it. With enough room to walk around without touching it.
Plus, no one else ever parks back here so why the hell would it matter?
“Who the fuck cares? This is practically my building.” I exhale a long, slow breath and try to let the nicotine calm my nerves. Betty White in there looks like she’s going to pass out on me so I need to give us both time to cool the fuck off.
“Trig’s never moving back here, huh?” Tank knows the answer to that question but he still had to ask it.
“Nope.”
Trigger left almost a year ago and when he did, the shop essentially became mine. He offered me a share I couldn't refuse and now I get to run it however I want.
Which, luckily enough, isn’t too different than the way he ran it when he lived here.
Now that he lives on the other side of the country with his wife and kid, I don’t ever see him moving back here.
And I’m real fucking fine with that. I’ve never had something like this to call my own, and while his money, name, and popularity still drive people to the doors, it’s the talent in these booths that keep them coming back.
Talent I hired after we were left with me and an idiot for a kid when Trig left.
The place is mine.
The job is mine.
The power is mine.
Just how I like it.
“You’re doin’ a good job.” Tank coughs, pats my back, and heads back inside where the music is blaring.
Fuck, should we turn it down for the old lady? Nah. She can turn her hearing aids down.
I check my phone, flick through junk emails, then pull open Instagram and grin when Trig’s little girl Cora is the first picture I see. Sitting in her daddy’s tattoo chair at his new shop on the beach, holding a popsicle and grinning from ear to ear. Her and her mom are exactly what he needed in his life. We all knew it. It just took him ten years too long to figure it out for himself.
Me?
Nah.
I’ve never been in love. Never plan on being in love. My free lifestyle is nice. I’m not tied down to one pussy and there’s no one begging me for child support. Plus, I can travel the world without having to pay for anyone else. How much better can it get?
With one final long drag, I toss the remaining cigarette to the ground, stomp it out, then take a walk around the building to head back in through the front doors.
“Jesus,” I mutter, rounding the corner to see the packed parking lot. It’s a Friday night so it’s bound to get busy here, but never this busy! I can’t stop from grinning that there’s fresh meat inside. Meat that I pray to God isn’t as wrinkly as the stuff I’m about to finish.
Just two colors left and she’ll be done.
“Alright, you ready to go?” I slide the curtain shut and laugh when I look at the old coot. “Clara,” I say loudly after checking her paperwork for her name. “Wake up!”
She’s. Not. Budging.
“Hey,” I say and poke her arm but nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
“Fuck.” With a heavy sigh, I grab her shoulders to shake her, then almost piss myself when her entire body rolls off my chair into a slump on the floor. “Holy shit!” My heart’s in my stomach and my ears are ringing. “Tank!” I blurt, bolting out of my room so fast I think I may have kicked her. “Tank. Tank! Fuck, Tank!”
“What?” He growls from the front counter where he was obviously about to land a number from a girl.
“Now. Back here. Now.” I. I can’t. “Now,” I blurt.
I stomp back to my room, make sure no one else is around, then yank open the curtain when Tank stops at my side.
“What the?” He looks at me and I’m speechless. “Is she dead?”
“I don’t fucking know!” My hands are shaking and I might be the next person passed out on the floor if she really is dead.
“Check her, asshole!” Tank shoves me at her and I almost trip over her bright white tennis shoe. I grimace, slowly walking closer with my hand out to try and find a pulse.
“Oh fuck, she’s cold. She’s real cold.” Holy shit. “I think she’s dead.”
I stand and stare at Tank who is trying his hardest not to laugh, but doing a real fucking shitty job.
“Stop laughing.” I step over the body, trying not to vomit, and pull my phone out. “Do you call 911 for this? Or the morgue?” With my eyebrows furrowed, I watch Tank try to contain the laughter. “Are you done?”
“No.” He laughs again, swipes tears from under his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Yes.” He lets out a snicker and coughs. “You killed her,” he squeezes out and breathes through another laughing fit while I walk away and dial 911.
They don’t speed to us since she’s already dead, which is fine. It gives us time to clear the place out without everyone pulling their phones out to film the dead old woman. I should feel bad that she’s dead, but I hate not being in control and this is really pulling the rug out from under us. An entire Friday night with no clients is going to kill the books this weekend. A few manage to set appointments for the weekend but we probably lost at least a grand in services tonight.
Fucking old people.
By the time the police arrive we’re finishing up with the last customer and I have to show them to the room. I can’t look inside or I may vomit. Thank fuck there’s no smell or I might have to burn the whole building.
Once they have all our statements, watch the surveillance footage, and take everything they need from us it’s midnight and I’m done. Tank, however, is not.
“Don’t.” I blurt, walking around the shop with Tank and flipping the lights off.
“You were the last one to see her alive.”
“Yeah. And she looked like death. Trust me, I know.” I’m beating myself up over it, too. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have told her no because she couldn’t handle it.
But age has never been an issue like that before.
“You need your room sanitized.”
“I need to throw out everything in there, bleach it, and start over again.” I’m pissed at the expense but I’m hoping insurance will cover it. I would hope dead bodily fluids would be a good enough reason to burn all the shit she touched.
But fuck no, I can’t tattoo people in there! There was a dead woman on the floor! In the chair! Holy shit, would she have died when I was tattooing her had I not taken the break? Was it the pain from the tattoo that caused her to die?
No. That shit doesn’t happen. She was old. Probably an increased heart rate from the pain, but she signed all the waivers. She knew.
And apparently she didn’t care.
“Come on,” he mutters, pats my back and forces me out of the doorway. “Time to go home.”
“I need a drink.” I yank out my bike keys and let out a heavy sigh when we lock the back doors. “What a fucking night.”
“Wh at do you think Trig’s gonna say about it?” He snickers and I roll my eyes at him.
“Don’t really care right now.” I look out towards my bike and growl. My fucking bike’s on the ground in one of the parking spots it was double parked in! “What the fuck, who knocked my bike over?” I stomp towards it and scrawled out in fancy handwriting is a note that makes me seethe with anger.
Learn to park, dickhead! A bike shouldn’t take up two spots! -Bryce
-
Oh. Fuck. No.
Fuck. That.
I throw the note at Tank, growl, and shove my hands through my hair as I start to pace.
“He touched your bike? Who touches another guy’s bike?”
“He fucking moved my bike! He didn’t just touch it! He moved it! And didn’t use the kickstand and my paint…” I crouch down to inspect the bright red paint job I just paid more than my rent to get done. There are definitely marks. “I may kill him.”
“Maybe you should lay off the whole dead people thing tonight. The cops might find it weird if you show up with another dead body.” He laughs and stomps out his cigarette, then hands one over to me before lighting it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, holding it with my lips. The fresh inhale helps calm me, but it’s a fraction of the amount I need to calm down. I can’t fucking believe this. Who the hell… “Wait, Tank. Didn’t we get some clients to make appointments this weekend?”
He looks at me and his mouth slowly turns up into a grin.
“We sure did, partner.” He nods and pulls out his phone then opens the scheduling app all of us have. “Bill, Tessa…oh she’s mine. Nipple piercing.” He smirks at me. “Her tits looked fake, too.”
“Jesus, give me that,” I blurt and snatch the phone from his hands. Fucking nipple piercings. It used to be a fight between who got to do it since there are a handful of us certified to, but I’ve stopped fighting Tank for them.
I get my kicks outside of work, so I’ll let him think he’s winning here.
Bill. Tessa. Crave?
“Who the fuck names their kid Crave?”
“White Castle lovers?” Tank shrugs and I keep going.
Andrew. Joe. Bryce.
Bingo.
Bryce Stewart.
“Got him.” I look up at him smirk. “Time for a lesson in manners.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t kick his ass. You don’t have a good track record with the cops, man.”
He’s wrong. I have a great track record with them. About a mile long, to be exact, of shit that wasn’t under my control. It’s idiots like this that need to be taught a lesson on how to be a proper human that gave me the rap sheet.
Not me.
Okay fine, maybe it’s a little me. But they’re never innocent either.
“What’d the guy look like?” I mutter, reading through the registration paperwork online that was left half empty. “How the hell did he get away with not filling this out? Half the mandatory fields are left empty!”
“Dude, there was a dead woman in the room next to me while I was trying to get these scheduled. Please excuse the sloppiness.” He scoffs. “Look,” he says, pointing to the screen. “A signature, address, and phone number. That’s all we need to schedule anyway.” He takes the phone back and scrolls through his online registration that he filled out while waiting. Here for a body piercing… hmm.
“What’s he getting pierced, I wonder?”
“Hopefully his dick.” I smirk. “What time’s his appointment? I’d like to shove a steel rod straight through this asshole’s dick and watch him pass out.”
“Bryce doesn’t sound like a dick piercing type of guy. Nipples maybe, and that’s a hard maybe. Probably something lame. Like his ear. Pussy.” Tank laughs. “Either way, I don’t think you’re the right man for the job. Being pissed at someone is the wrong time to be messing with their body.”
He’s wrong. Being pissed at someone is the perfect time to be messing with their body.
I nod because I don’t want him knowing what I’m thinking. Maybe a slip of the gun, piercing the wrong spot. Maybe doing it a little too rough. Talking the kid into something more exotic and watching him squirm in pain would be fantastic. Tank’s wrong about him. A guy that’s willing to touch another man’s bike is man enough for a dick piercing. Or at least thinks he is. And that’s all I’ll need to watch him pass out right after I inform him he fucked with the wrong person.
Most piercings we get here are nose, ears, or belly button. Not that any of those aren’t exciting, but there’s some type of rush I get when piercing something a little more private. The trust one has to give someone for that.
The pure power you have over a very important part of someone’s body.
It’s exhilarating.
I take a screenshot of his information and shoot it over to myself in a text.
“Thanks,” I blurt then toss his phone back to him.
“What are you doing with that?” He looks at me like he’s genuinely worried about my sanity right now. He probably should be.
“Nothing.” I smirk. “Have a good night, Tank.”
“Stitch,” he blurts as I hop on my bike. “Dude, you’re not going to his house are you? What if he’s got a gun?! Don’t be an idiot!”
I start my bike and as it revs to life I grin at Tank.
“Have a good night, Tank,” I repeat again and pull out of the parking lot without waiting for him to respond.
He’s got a right to be worried. I’m definitely checking this address out and will bring the fear of god to anyone who messes with my shit.
But not right now.
As much as I want to head straight for the address, I’m way too fucking mad for that. So I head to the one place I know will take my mind off this asshole who thinks he can tell me what to do.
I drive across town and park in my spot at the back of the club. I’ve been a member here for ten years but most of my closest friends don’t know this side of me.
I live for control.
And tonight, I lost that control. So I’m here to find it again. To level myself.
“You look like you’re contemplating murder, son.” Noz is the club owner and the closest thing to a father figure I’ve got. My old man kicked it about ten years ago and ever since Noz has been the only person here for me. Not that I need one, but he won’t let me get away.
“I am.” I spin my beer bottle and smirk at him when he scoffs at me.
“Gonna find yourself in jail one of these times, kid.”
“I’m not killing anyone. Don’t worry that pretty old face of yours,” I say. It’s not a lie. I wouldn’t kill anyone.
Fuck with them? Yes.
Kill them? No.
There’s a fine line between revenge and being a psycho.
“You talk to your sister at all?” He’s wiping down the counter and refusing to make eye contact. He knows. He knows I haven’t talked to her. And yet he still pushes the topic.
“Nope.” It’s the only response he’s going to get from me. My sister and I grew up close. Then she went off and got knocked up by a guy I still don’t trust and moved an hour way from us. She changed. I’ve got enough shit in my life to worry about her, and yet I do it every fucking day.
Noz knows better than to bring her up when I come here and yet he still does it. I don’t need anyone telling me what the hell I should or shouldn’t be doing in my life. I tried. I’ve tried plenty of times in the past. Either she honestly doesn’t want me in their lives or he’s got his claws so far into her that she’s terrified of telling me what she needs.
“That little boy of hers looks like he’s a handful.” He watches me but I don’t react.
I need to get away from him. I need to find what I came here for and get on my way. I have more important shit I need to do tonight.
I down the rest of my bottle and slam it down on the wood bar letting him know he’s pissed me off, then look around the room, watching the scenes play out on the three stages. It’s erotic as fuck, but it’s not getting me hard. Unless I’m up there, they barely do anymore.
I’m pissed enough tonight to get my rocks off, but only because fucking is better than murder.
And I want to murder this Bryce guy.
“Have a good one, Noz.” I stand, toss a twenty on the bar, and head for a sub across the room, kneeling and waiting.
