Why Stink had waited months for this appointment was beyond Dev. Any beginner tattoo artist could have inked some skank’s fake titties on the guy’s forearm. The design only highlighted her chest. They were oversized for the body holding them up. The super-defined tits were hard and round. Full of silicone with two fat nipples perfectly centered and appearing to protrude out from his forearm. Stink had requested the 3D effect. He’d come up with some idea to twist his arm to make the breasts bounce. Fucking loser.
Not that Dev was above a titties tattoo, but over the last few years, he’d developed a pretty decent business with his own custom designs. People paid thousands of dollars for one of his original drawings that took months for him to complete. He couldn’t remember a time he’d worked from a cell phone image of a real-life stripper’s bared breasts.
As Stink moved his arm, testing the bouncing theory, the scent of stale cigarette smoke and something that reminded him of fermented vomit wafted to Dev. His stomach twisted hard.
“I found you on that ink show. You know the one…”
Dev tuned him out again but held back his groan. He regretted ever being a guest judge onInk Life. His schedule had packed up tight for months and months after the show aired. Hell, he might be scheduled out a year by now. It had forced him to follow a fucking routine. He hated the monotony of a damn schedule. It wreaked chaos on his creative side. Nothing ruined a good vibe like a fucking time clock.
Now this douche client had made it to his chair because of that dumbass show.
And just like that, his racing thoughts switched gears again as the connection Dev had tried to make all morning finally materialized. Sudden heated anger again lit a fire inside his soul, causing his gaze to narrow.
Fucker. He knew who this loser smelled like. Smoke Dixon—his best friend’s dying loser father and full patch member of the Disciples of Havoc.
The man might be on his deathbed and Dev couldn’t think of a more deserving person to be there. Dev hated that sorry motherfucker to his core and wished him a long, painful trip to hell where he belonged.
Vengeance toward his client replaced loathing in rapid-fire succession, making his head crazy and his fists curl. In most things, Dev responded with unbridled emotion. He never claimed to be level-headed. He didn’t need things like facts to deal out his own brand of justice if he thought it was warranted. His gut was rarely wrong.
This loser may not be Smoke, but he’d pay for that man’s sins.
Besides, Dev didn’t need to consult his Magic 8 Ball to know this client had left a trail of victims in his wake. The guy absolutely reminded Dev of Smoke, a bully, picking on the young and underprivileged just because he could. Karma was in payback mode today.
First, he’d make these cheap titties into a big fat scrotum. He barely held back his grin. Ten minutes and he’d be done.
Since he had such a gift with the iron, he’d be able to hide the redirection of the tattoo. He’d give it a couple of days, maybe weeks, before anyone recognized the ball sac inked into this guy’s titty design.
He leaned in, preparing to make this next ten minutes hurt the most.
Unfortunately, Stink bent over to watch him work. All that bad breath built around them as Stink rattled on about the hardships of waiting months for this appointment.
Yeah, Dev was done. Pissed off threshold reached.
Dev reared back. His small chair rolled several inches away to add to the dramatic flair as he said, “Dude, back the fuck off. You fuckin’ stink. Ever heard of a goddamn bath?”
This might have been the first time Dev actually looked his client in the eyes.
Initial assessment wrong.
He’d dubbed this guy a poser. Now he recognized the demon stirring behind those soulless eyes.
Not the first time he’d seen pure evil in human form. Hell, he had lived his entire life on the other side of the law, but this guy had sinister intent beneath all those foul smells and dirty, oversized clothes. If auras were a thing, Stink’s was dark and dangerous. Void of rehabilitation.
Stink and Smoke merged into one person.
Yeah. Fuck that.
How had he missed so much while tattooing this fucker?
Dev felt more off than ever before. He blamed Tena, his ex-wife. She was making his life and their daughters’ lives a living hell. He barely had time to wipe his ass under all her constant emotional bullshit.
That was a thin argument for what he’d missed but one he let hold because the only other person to blame was himself, and he didn’t like that one bit.
“Renegade” ended. Dev’s fucking mind raced. Nothing new. But it still amazed him how his thoughts could travel so many directions during the mere four minutes of that song.
“Turn it down, Millie,” Dev called out.
What he needed was a bump to make his shit right.
