Chapter 1
He eased his heavy work boot from the foot pedal. At the same time, Dev “Devilman” Fox lifted the tip of the tattoo machine off his client’s arm and wiped a towel over the newly inked skin. The sound system changed songs and Dev mentally sang the words to “Renegade” as he pushed back in his seat, stretching the tense muscles of his shoulders and neck.
“Crank it,” Dev yelled at Millie who was working somewhere in his carved-out piece of office space inside his father’s motorcycle shop. The beat by Styx was a personal favorite that he’d spent his entire life listening to.
His old man, his father, better known as Fox, the president and co-founder of the Disciples of Havoc motorcycle club, had made sure his only son got an almost spiritual knowledge of every rage-against-the-establishment song ever recorded. It didn’t matter if the sounds came from angry metal or hardcore rap music, if it spoke against the corrupt government and law enforcement systems, Dev could sing every word by heart.
Many prophetic lines from those songs adorned his own inked body.
They were the anthem of his heart. The meaning of his life. Another way to give the institution his double middle fingers. No one governed him and the fuckers should stop trying.
Instant fury shot like an erupting volcano across every fiber of his being at the thought of what that fucking bitch Dallas District Attorney had done to his brothers and their motorcycle club.
Ray-Ray, a full patch member of the Disciples, needed to be voted out of the club, stripped of his colors. He should be forced to give up his cut for exposing the club to the scrutiny and grief of that goddamn cunt. She was the current source of all their bullshit problems. How had not one of the club’s old timers remembered that Ray-Ray had tapped that snatch over twenty years ago? He was so damned tired of all the leaks and breaches of trust within the club’s members. Fuck ’em all for the constant state of chaos they were having to live in.
And that fucking DA… Her days were numbered.
He’d make sure of that.
Dev shook his head hard, trying to lose the sudden vengeance. If he let his mind have the pleasure of traveling down such a dark road of retribution, he’d lose sight of the client in his chair.
Concentration was key in his line of work and a damn hard thing to find these days.
Between the club problems and the hours’ long tattoo he’d started and wasn’t connecting with on any level, the tension in his neck had solidified into a solid ache. With a forceful stretch to the left then the right, he tried to ease away the tightness gripping his muscles.
When the song’s whistle blew and the tune’s beat kicked up a notch, Dev started a controlled head banging motion. His mind wandered as he closed his eyes. The music’s cadence soothed the rough edges of his growing irritation with the stench sitting across from him at his workstation.
Stench might not be a bold enough word to describe the guy’s aroma. No one achieved that scent by missing a bath or two. That disgusting odor had been nurtured and built upon. Did the guy actually live inside a fucking dumpster? One of those giant steel cans of rotting filth. Filled with days’ old decaying food and dirty diapers. The kind of trash that sat outside in the sun all day long during the hottest part of an oppressive Texas summer.
Dev cast a disgusted look at his client’s mouth. Fucker’s gums hadn’t stopped flapping since he’d started the tattoo hours ago. He saw remnants of food still stuck between Stink’s teeth.
His fucking breath was God awful offensive just like the rest of the man.
Over the years, Dev had developed the ability to block out the nervous chatter from the clients in his chair. A true gift because people could get a hell of a lot of anxiety while being inked. But this dude brought a whole new level to oversharing. He never shut up.
Dev had even switched from his preferred tattoo pen back to his coil in order to increase the buzz of the machine.
A great idea that, again, worked in every other situation except this one.
Dev’s refusal to reply to any comment didn’t deter the man.
Beautiful visions of reaching out and popping this guy in the mouth kept filling Dev’s mind. As clear an image as if it had actually happened. He imagined his balled fist darting out. A quick, forceful hit, right between those thin cracked lips, knocking Stink’s teeth out in one expert jab.
To be fair, Dev had perfected the unexpected yet very effective punch to the face. His go-to move in most situations. No one ever saw it coming. It said more than any of his words ever could.
Dev grinned at the mental image of clocking Stink. How the skin might split open. That briefest flash of confusion as the man absorbed the blow.
Except in his mind, he’d then leap over his stupidly expensive client’s chair, directly into the guy’s lap, and pummel his lights out. He moved cartoonishly fast in beating up Stink, giving one right after another in a volley of fists.
Lost to the mental imagery, Dev nonchalantly lifted his shoulder in an accepting shrug. It wasn’t too late to make that shit happen. Then again… He’d hired Millie full-time months ago to clean and sterilize his instruments as well as the entire parlor. She was good with blood. Surely, she wouldn’t mind some teeth and flesh thrown in. She had a dark gothic vibe about her.
Maybe that was one of those employee benefits she kept prattling on about. At the very least, it might help break up the monotony of her day.
This time he gave a mental shrug at the direction he’d taken to help justify kicking this guy’s ass. He’d do it for Millie if nothing else.
“Lookin’ good. You were worth the wait,” Stink yelled over the music. He lifted his arm to better see the freshly inked skin.
Such a bullshit amateur design.
