Page 31 of Tony

The random laughter and chatter of people fills the shop filtering in from the front. I hear all sorts of things in the moments of silence as I wait for Vic to say something.

The squeaking of wheeled stools as his brothers work. The buzzing of the tat machines as they ink art on skin. The low hum of the autoclave behind me. And the sick music of long-forgotten rockabilly coming from the sound system.

Vic. His real name is actually Vicious. Yes. His crazy tattoo-artist father and whoever their mother was actually named their baby boy Vicious.

When I first found that out, I imagined his parents having a Sex Pistol fascination, but knowing what I do now of good old Vic here, I seriously doubt that’s where his name came from.

He is vicious.

Not at all good-natured and charming like Vann. Not at all fun and entertaining like the twins.

Vic Vaughn is serious to the nth degree. He is a cold man with an assassin’s heart. An assassin who just happens to make art.

“What?” I say, unable to bear the silence another moment.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Get back to work, Belinda.” And then he turns and walks back to his studio near the front of the shop.

I head for the breakroom bathroom reserved for employees. And I’m just about to pull the door open when I hear, “I said, get back to work.”

I look over my shoulder and find Vic back in the doorway. For a moment I consider arguing with him. But then I just nod.

He turns away again and I follow him.

The hallway leading to the front is long and narrow. The right side, as I travel back to front, is just a wall filled with pictures of the ink this shop has created over the years. Those years add up to decades. This place has been a staple in the old Fort Collins downtown since the Fifties.

And on the left side of the hallway are the studios. Four in total. Each of them has a pocket door. Vic has the studio closest to the front, then Vonn, then Vinn, then Vann in the last one closest to the break room. When I first came to work here the father had the front studio and the twins shared one. Their sister used to work here too, but she has since retired to do face painting for kids. Didn’t care for the blood. Has some weird obsession with germs or some shit.

Vic turns into his studio, satisfied that he’s going to get his money’s worth out of me tonight, and I slowly walk to the front. I pass Vann’s room—his pocket door pulled closed now—and I’m just about to open Vonn’s door to let him know his food is here when I hear laughter burble out from Vann’s studio.

What the hell is going on in there?

I pause, curious. Because… that laugh.

Oh, no. It can’t be. Vann doesn’t let Soshee Ameci anywhere near his studio. He knows damn well she’s in lust with him and he has insisted to me for more than six months now that it’s over between them and he doesn’t want to lead her on.

So that cannot be her.

I backtrack a little until I’m standing in front of Vann’s door.

And then I hear more than just laughter. I hear fucking. I’m talking grunting, and moaning, and sighing, and skin slapping. God.

I quietly pull the door open a crack and immediately wish I hadn’t. Because it is her.

Soshee Ameci is sitting on the counter, just to the left of Vann’s neatly stacked and custom-curated ink assortment, with her legs open. Vann’s hips are between those legs. He’s thrusting into her with force.

She’s got her eyes closed, her hands wrapped around his neck, fingertips playing with a curl of wild blond hair that is just long enough to touch his shoulders, mouth open as she pants out her lust. And he’s got his hands flat against the upper cupboards on either side of her body like he needs the support, the muscles of his back clearly defined under the tight Sick Boyz t-shirt he’s wearing.

I don’t know what to do.

I understand what I should do.

I should close the door just as quietly as I opened it, walk up front, sit down on my fucking stool behind the glass counter filled with after-care products and piercing options, and mind my own fucking business.

And that’s my plan when suddenly Soshee opens her eyes and our gazes lock.

She smiles at me. And then she starts moaning.

Not loud. Not loud enough to carry into other rooms over the din and clatter of people in the shop or the music coming from the ceiling.