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The guy is sketching, and Merch moves around to look over his shoulder, pointing at something on the paper and murmuring, moving his hand. I assume they’re talking about the tattoo I am clearly here to get. Ugh. Needles.
I open my mouth to tell them, “no, thank you,” when I catch sight of Merch’s face as he watches the sketch take shape. His eyes are flashing with excitement and something else. Hell. It’s pride.
A surge of courage shoots through me as Merch nods, and the guy drops the sketchpad onto his little cart. I can do this. I can do this for Merch. It means a lot to him.
“All right, Shelley. I’m Cockerel. Did you want to lay back for a moment?”
Nodding, I lay down on the bench, shivering as Cockerel runs an alcohol wipe over my hip. Oh, god. It’s happening. A small whimper escapes me. So much for courage.
At the sound, Cockerel’s eyes snap to my face. “You sure about this?”
Merch leans down, his lips brushing over my ear. “What kind of rebel is scared of getting a tattoo?”
“Maybe I’m not a real rebel,” I whimper. Merch chuckles, low and rumbly.
“It’s not too late to back out, kid.”
Like I would want to back out. My fingers find Merch’s hand, gripping it tightly.
“Hurry up and do it,” I tell Cockerel, my voice only shaking a tiny bit. I count it as a win.
The needle starts stabbing me, and I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut and clinging to Merch’s hand with a death grip. I hear a hiss of breath between his teeth every so often, so I must be holding him tightly enough to cause him some pain.
Good. Because I’m in a fuck ton of pain. This tattoo better be amazing, and everything Merch ever dreamed of because I am sure as shit not getting another one. No fucking way.
The buzzing of the tattoo gun cuts out before the pain stops. It eases to a dull throbbing like I’ve used sandpaper to scratch my skin raw.
My fingers ache from holding on so tight, and as my eyes flutter open, I release Merch’s hand.
“Fucking finally,” he mutters, shaking his hand. I can see my handprint in red from the corner of my eye.
Cockerel holds up a small handheld mirror, a bit like they do at a salon, so you can see the back of your haircut. He’s aiming it at my hip, and a smug smile plays across my lips. Merch has branded me with his name. Like Lisa hasPalmertattooed along her collarbone, my hipbone now readsMerch.
It’s pretty, like calligraphy, the M bold, and the rest curvy. I love it. The tattoo isn’t huge, but neither is my hipbone, so it stands out. Black against my pale skin. At the moment it’s red and angry at the moment, but I’m sure it will go down once it has healed. Merch says something, but I miss it, too busy staring in wonder at my tattoo. When I look back at his face, he’s also staring at my hip. My breath catches at the look of triumph on his face. All the pain was worth it for that look on his face.
Cockerel takes the mirror back, places it down, and smears ointment over my new tattoo, covering it with plastic wrap, which he tapes down.
He says something about aftercare, but Merch grunts that he knows what to do. Right, because he’s covered in tattoos. Well, not covered. His arms are full, and he has them on his pecs and down his sides. He has a large one of the club insignia over his upper back.
“Is that all?” Cockerel asks. Merch grunts, lifting me off the bench and dropping down onto it. He says something that has Cockerel laughing, picking up his sketch pad again.
He starts tattooing Merch on the back of his left hand. I can’t make out what it will be, but it seems pretty detailed. While he gets his tattoo, I stand, walking around and looking at the walls.
They are covered, every inch, in framed artwork. Some photographs of tattoos, mainly sketches. I think they’re sketches from the artists here because I see the same names over and over again. Cockerel. Jax. Keith. Harvey. Camila.
I have almost worked my way around the entire space, carefully examining the sketches, when a hand lands on my shoulder. I jump, peering up at Merch’s grinning face.
“Come on, kid,” he laughs. “Let’s hit the clubhouse and have a drink.”
His hand slides into mine, and he waves off some teasing from the waiting crowd as we leave. Walking back to the clubhouse in the twilight, the crisp air swirling around us, I look over at Merch.
“So, what did you get?”
Merch grins, holding his left hand up to me. I lean in, my eyebrows shooting up.
“A goat?”
His new tattoo, covered in clear plastic wrap on the back of his left hand, is a little goat. Like, a baby one. It doesn’t have horns or anything.
