Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
But his studio isn’t just a for tattoos. It’s sacred. A place where King, Bear, and Preppy get together and lock the rest of the world out. When decisions need to be made, it happens behind those doors.
Which is exactly where they are right now.
I’ve been inside the studio a hundred times. Between King and Ray, they’re solely responsible for every inch of ink on my body, which means that over the past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time inside that studio.
But never after hours. Never when the three of them are behind that locked door.
Bear, King, and Preppy have been running Logan’s Beach for years. It’s their town. I respect the fuck out of that.
Out of them.
That’s why it doesn’t bother me that I’ve never been invited inside. It’s not my place. Sure, I’ve proven myself to them over the last couple of years, but there’s a difference between earning their respect and thinking I somehow deserve to be in that studio after hours.
Which is why I’m wondering why the fuck King asked me here.
I’m standing outside the closed studio door. It’s after midnight. Preppy’s classic Chevy and Bear’s shiny bike are parked out front. They’re all inside. I don’t bother knocking. They know I’m here. They’ll come for me when they’re ready.
“You in trouble?” Ray asks, with a knowing smirk. She comes down from the porch with their youngest daughter on her hip.
“Beats the hell out of me,” I answer, taking a drag from my smoke. “They called me about an hour ago. Told me to be here. So, I’m here.”
“Well, whatever it is, good luck in there,” she says. Before she goes back inside the house, she stops and turns around. Her face lined with worry. “I mean, it, Nine. Good luck. The guys can get really…intense in there.”
So much for calming my fuckin’ nerves.
She enters the house at the same time the studio door opens and Preppy appears in the doorway.
“Come on, kid,” he says in a voice that doesn’t sound like him. Nothing about him screams this is a casual meeting. His expression is flat. There’s no smile. No joking.
“Are you having a stroke or something,” I ask, stubbing out my smoke as I approach.
He blows out a breath. “Not yet, but the night is young.”
He steps aside, and I enter the studio. It’s completely dark, except for the bright green neon King’s Tattoo logo. It’s a skull wearing a crown and a bow tie. The crown for King, the skull representing Bear and the bikers, and the bow tie for my brother.
The door slams. I spin around to face Preppy, but he’s not there. “Sorry about this brother,” he says from behind me.
“What the fuck?”
There’s a bag placed over my head, and I’m shoved onto the leather couch. I’m reaching for the chains on my wrists when I realize that no one has attacked me or bound my hands. The light clicks on, and I can see figures through the bag. I reach up and slowly pull it from my head.
“Man, you didn’t even piss yourself!” Preppy whines, stomping his foot and snagging the sac from my lap. He folds it in his hands and places it back into a drawer as if it were a family heirloom.
“I told you not to fucking bag ‘em,” Bear growls. “We were in the apartment for two fucking seconds and come back to you lookin’ like you’re recruiting the newest member of your satanic fuckin’ cult,” Bear says, slapping Preppy in the chest. “We agreed no bags on the head.”
“Ouch, Care Bear. I don’t know what hurts worse. Your words, or the fact that you don’t think I’m going to use what you just said as innuendo against you. Bags on the head? Really? You can do better than that.”
Bear pulls over a chair and turns it around so it’s backwards. He straddles it and rolls his eyes. “Fuck me.”
“No thanks,” Preppy replies, laying down on the tattoo chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at the ceiling. “I’ve got a wife for that.”
“Oh, trust me. I know,” Bear says. “Because I’ve fucked yo—”
“Are you really going there right now?” Preppy says, shooting up to a sitting position. “We agreed you would never go there.”
“And you agreed you wouldn’t bag your brother like a hostage in one of those cheesy action movies!”
King walks over to his tattoo chair and takes a seat. He rubs his face like he’s annoyed with the scene playing out in front of him, but in truth, I see the smile he’s trying to hide.
“Kids,” he muttered. “Can’t take ‘em anywhere.” He looks to me. “Not my kids. My kids are great.” He lights a joint and inhales. He jerks his chin over to Bear and Preppy, who are griping at each other like an old married couple, then runs his hands over his short hair. “It’s them two I gotta fuckin’ worry about.”