“They’re not just sobriety tattoos,” I reply. “We started them when a woman came in to get a tattoo for her daughter. It said ‘485’ and was the number of days her daughter fought to stay in recovery. For the mom, it signified the fact that she had her girl back and that she tried her best to stick with her program. She believed those days mattered and wanted it memorialized. Uncle Mack, who lost several friends when he was younger due to addiction, liked the idea, so he started offering them for free to those who were on that path, and it blew up beyond what he anticipated.”
“They’re recovering out loud,” Abyss states. “Using their right of expression with tattoos to show that they’re climbing out of their personal hell.”
“That’s a good way to put it,” I reply.
I notice him glance at my own tattoo but he doesn’t ask, so I don’t offer an explanation. At some point, Imighttell him what it signifies to me, but that won’t happen today. My left forearm is now a tribute to James and Amberlea, with the butterfly tat on the inside near my wrist. Between my drawing skills and Uncle Mack’s abilities with his gun, it’s a work of art and one I’m proud of since it helps remind me that I’m still here.
Is life still painful? Absolutely. There’s not a morning that doesn’t come where for a brief minute when I wake up, I wonder where we’d be now if they had survived. Would Amberlea’s hair have been curly like mine is? Or straight like James’ was? Would she take after him personality wise, or be hell on wheels like I was when I was a kid? It doesn’t take long for reality to crash in once again and force me to take one breath after another as the pain courses through me. But I’m still here, as painful as it can be sometimes, so as long as I’ve got air in my lungs, I’ll keep pushing through.
“I like the idea and think we’ll incorporate it here,” he says, bringing me out of my reverie. “You got a problem inking bikers?” he asks.
Confused by his question, I reply, “No, why?”
“Because you’re in Kings of Anarchy territory, Shelly, and my brothers pop in frequently to get new ink.”
“We worked in the DFW area, and I’ve inked people from all walks of life. It’s not my place to judge them or their lives,” I reply. “As long as they don’t get handsy, I’ve got no issues tattooing anyone, Abyss.”
“Good, then let me show you which station you’ll be at,” he replies. “Plus, if there’s anything you need me to order, let me know that as well after you have a chance to go through our stock. During the downtimes, until you build up your clientele, I’ll need you to work the front counter. Still trying to get someone on a permanent basis, but the system we use is pretty easy so you shouldn’t have any problems.”
“Show me what you got,” I say, then feel my face heat up when it dawns on me how what I said sounded.
Thankfully, he doesn’t say a word, just smirks, as he gives me the tour of the shop, including the inventory closet, which is a disaster in the making, the employee restroom and break room, and then the front reception desk.
Once he goes through the easy point of sale system and shows me how to schedule appointments, he asks, “What do you think?”
Since I’m an honest person, I state the obvious. “I think your inventory is a hot mess, is there a reason for that?”
“Fucking prospects don’t know what they’re doing,” he grumbles.
That word is somewhat familiar to me, but still, I ask, “Prospects?”
“They’re trying to become members of the club, so we have them doing a variety of things while they’re earning their patch. It’s a hazing of sorts just not on the level of a fraternity. They have to prove themselves, but we don’t degrade them in the process like those college fuckers do. The only one who’s got half a brain right now is Mongrel, but he hasn’t been able to come in and help.”
Mongrel? What kind of name is Mongrel? “I can get it sorted out because I suspect you’ve got more of some inks, and need others,” I offer. “Uncle Mack isn’t coming into town for a few more days so I’m at loose ends needing something to occupy my time, and staring at the walls in my hotel doesn’t interest me in the least.”
One of the things I’ve found works best for me is to keep both my mind and hands busy. Everything I do is purposeful, but boredom leads me down a path that’s best left untaken. One ofmy priorities is to find a new therapist, but I’m waiting on my old one to get me some recommendations. In the meantime, I’m using my coping skills she taught me to get through. Plus, doing the inventory would allow me to see how things work in this shop since Uncle Mack stressed to me that everyone is different.
“Have at it, I’ve got an appointment,” he says. “I’ll get you a set of keys and the alarm code before you head out. Oh, and Shelly?” At my look, he says, “Keep in mind that nobody fucks with the Kings.”
“Understood.”
It takes several hours before I’m satisfied with the organization of the inventory closet. In fact, I got on the computer at the front desk and created a list that shows what we already have in stock, as well as what we need to order. The supply list is now on the wall inside the inventory room, with a pen attached so that whatever’s removed can be marked off and documented. I have an order form started as well, since he doesn’t have the size gloves I wear. While I have some from our old shop, they won’t last long, so he needs to order them relatively soon. Thankfully, I have both of my guns, as well as plenty of needles and tips, since Uncle Mack kept those items, only selling off the shop, chairs, and ink inventory.
Standing, I stretch, then walk toward his cubby where he’s been steadily working all day. Seeing that he’s currently without a client, I ask, “Abyss, do you have a few minutes? I wanted to show you what I managed to get done.”
“It’s bound to be an improvement over what we had,” he murmurs as he stands and follows me to the inventory room. “Damn, this looks fucking fantastic,” he says, looking around. “That’s a good idea,” he states when he sees the inventory sheet. “Especially since the person who was here before would just order whatever without taking any counts.”
“Explains why there are fifty bottles of black. I mean, I know it’s the most used due to outlining, but still, the disparity is somewhat glaring, don’t you think?” I ask. “Plus, I do a lot of watercolor tats, and you have almost none of that ink on the shelves.”
“It is, let me show you how to place an order then you can get out of here and explore,” he says, grabbing the list from the wall.
It doesn’t take long to input an order, including my gloves, and before I know it, I’m leaving with a set of keys, the alarm code, and instructions to come in on Monday at nine. Guess I got the job.
CHAPTER
TWO
Abyss
