Page 61 of Property of Kevlar

“What do you think?” Kevlar asked.

Kid ran his hand along his smooth chin before he launched into an explanation of his vision. Couches would be in the front. He figured they could get them at a thrift store or a flea market. Flash art would go on the walls. Binder portfolios would be on a coffee table. Kid wanted to paint the place in bright colors with neon signs. The front counter would be retooled into a reception desk. Stations would be behind it. He suggested four. He didn’t need a lot of people.

Kevlar’s smile made his cheeks hurt. He’d never seen his little brother so excited and animated. Setting up a tattoo parlor would be good for him. Grinning from ear to ear, Kid resembled every bit the child in a candy store.

“You’re going to make an offer?” Kevlar asked.

Kid nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I am.”

“You got it?”

His brother chuckled. “Of course.”

An outlaw biker wasn’t a millionaire by any stretch of the imagination, but the criminal lifestyle could be lucrative if done properly. Kevlar and Kid had done alright for themselves. They’d marketed their skills well before and after joining the Royal Bastards.

Making a legitimate investment for once would be nice.

“Going to offer ten below asking, but all cash,” Kid declared.

Nodding, Kevlar surveyed the place. “It’s going to need a lot of work to convert it.”

Kid shrugged. “It’ll be worth it.”

“I think so too.”

Kid didn’t have to worry about earning money. They’d make it other ways and funnel it through the shop. Even if he never tattooed a single person, as far as Uncle Sam would know, he’d be the best artist in all of OKC.

Kevlar hooked an arm around Kid’s shoulders and pulled him in for a headlock. Running his knuckles along his scalp, he gave his brother a few noogies for good measure. “Then let’s do this.”

Laughing and squirming, his brother escaped Kevlar’s hold. Not that Kevlar tried hard to keep him restrained. Taking a deep breath, filling his lungs, Kevlar watched Kid saunter out of the former bakery to tell the realtor his offer.

Yep. Things were looking up.

Kevlar didn’t consider himself an alcoholic. He knew when to stop. Being blackout drunk hadn’t occurred since he was in high school. He’d learned long ago it was better to stop when he reached a happy buzz.

Though the amount of time he spent at the Knucklehead as of late begged to differ. He nursed his beer. Did a few shots but never let himself lose control.

Presidents didn’t have that luxury. Their heads had to be on a swivel. Especially when at war. Carelessness would cost him too much.

Kevlar had to preserve his wits.

Unlike his father, he limited his consumption and kept his eyes peeled for anything out of place. Did this make him a bit paranoid? Probably, but he’d rather be prepared.

Sitting at the table in the back corner, with his fingers on the neck of the light beer, Kevlar zoned out while Eric Church’s “Round Here Buzz” played over the speakers. Friday night had the bar teeming with people, freshly paid and ready to blow all their cash on a good evening out.

Kid sat beside him, doodling in a sketchbook, ignoring the world around him. Torch was across the room chatting with a woman way out of his league while Lionel acted as wingman. Kevlar reveled in the calmness of it all. Every day wouldn’t be like this, but today was, so he’d sit back and enjoy.

“Hey.” A scrawny guy with a messy mop of brown hair nearly covering his eyes approached the table.

Kevlar lifted his chin as he sized him up.

Did he get in with a fake ID? The man looked like his balls hadn’t even dropped yet.

“What’s that about?” he asked, gesturing to the one percent diamond necklace Kevlar wore.

Kid glanced between them before returning to his drawing.

“Grown-up stuff,” Kevlar answered.