Chapter 2 Her Eyes Said Fight
King POV
When she steps out of the shop, I just stare at the spot she was just standing in.
The bell settles above the door, but I’m still looking at it like she might change her mind and walk back through.
I thought she was another rich girl coming in here thinking she wants a tattoo until the gun is in my hand.
That happens more than people think. Somebody walks in after brunch, points at some shit they found online, then realizes halfway through the stencil that permanent actually means permanent.
But she was different.
Timid from the moment she spoke.
When she flinched, I knew what it was.
She a victim of domestic violence.
I’ve seen that reaction too many times. The way somebody’s whole body moves before their mind even catches up.
When she showed me her wrists, that confirmed it.
Whatever dickhead is putting his hands on her deserves his ass whipped.
Cuff marks don’t happen by accident. Not marks that clean around both wrists.
Even under all the makeup, I could tell she’s beautiful. She just isn’t being treasured.
And whoever she belongs to—or used to belong to, because nobody really belongs to another person—got her walking around like she needs permission to breathe.
The bell rings on the door, pulling me from my thoughts, and my brothers walk in.
“Aye, King, you got a client?” Sincere asks.
“Yeah, at two,” I say.
My middle brother Saint studies my face.
“You good?” he asks.
I look up from my sketchbook.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You got a face, like you got something on your mind. Or someone,” he says.
Sincere snorts and Omari immediately looks interested.
He knows me better than any of my brothers, and that’s why he’s never too far from me.
“A woman came in asking about a tattoo, and I think she a victim of DV, but she ran before I could ask anything,” I say.
“Oh shit. King trying to save another one,” Sincere says.
I chuckle.
“Nah, I’m not trying to save her. She didn’t look like she needed saving. Her eyes said, I’m fighting.”
Scared as hell, yeah. But not defeated. There’s a difference.
“You think she going to come back?” Omari, my youngest brother, asks.
“I don’t know. I might have scared her away.”
Which is probably for the best. I don’t know the woman, and whoever put those marks on her isn’t my business.
Still doesn’t stop me from wondering if she made it wherever she was going safely.
I shake the thought off and start getting my equipment ready for my next client.
“Is everything at the club ready for tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah. Bar is being stocked and ring is clean and ready to go,” Sincere says.
“How many fights?”
“Four. Main event still locked.”
I nod.
“I don’t want any bullshit tonight. I don’t want to have to talk to anybody.”
The last event ended with two dudes arguing over money in the parking lot like I hadn’t already made the rules clear. I’m not doing that shit again.
“You got it, King,” Omari says.
“You’re not going, Omari.”
“What? Why not?” he asks.
“Because if we get raided again and you get arrested, Mommy will fucking kill me.”
He sucks his teeth.
“But I want to fight.”
“Hell no,” Sincere says. “Mommy will kill all of us.”
Omari folds his arms like that’s somehow going to change my mind. Twenty-two years old and still act twelve when somebody tells him no.
“You can fight another night,” I say.
“That’s bullshit.”
“And yet you still not going.”
Saint laughs under his breath while Omari glares at all of us.
“Saint, what’s going on with that other thing?” I ask.
“It’s quiet,” he says.
I nod.
“Make sure it stay that way.”
He looks at me.
“You sure?”
“You going to explain to his mother why he in jail?”
His jaw shifts before he nods.
“I hear you. It’s handled.”
“Good.”
I don’t ask for details. Saint knows when I say handled, I mean I don’t want to hear about that shit again unless something changes.
“I’ll be at the club after this session. It’s six hours,” I say.
“Heard,” they say.
“Omari, go home. Take my bike.”
“How are you going to get to the club?” he asks.
“Don’t worry about that.”
He looks like he wants to ask another question but thinks better of it. Smartest decision he made all day.
Just as my two o’clock walks in.
“Hey, King,” Samantha says.
“Wassup, you ready?”
“Hell yeah.”
She’s been waiting almost four months for this appointment, mostly because she refused to let anybody else touch the design after I sketched it.
She takes off her shirt and unhooks her bra before laying on the chair.
“Can I stay?” Omari asks, eyes roaming her body.
“No. Get the fuck out.”
Samantha laughs.
“Damn, King. Want me to yourself?”
I chuckle.
“Something like that.”
Really, I just don’t need my little brother staring at somebody while I’m trying to work.
“Everybody out,” I say.
“Damn, bossy ass,” Sincere says.
“Bye.”
They laugh their way out of the shop, Omari complaining the entire time.
I put on my gloves, clean Samantha’s back, shave the area, and place my stencil.
Full peacock. Full color.
The tail starts high between her shoulder blades before spreading across most of her back, feathers opening toward her waist. Blues, greens, golds, little touches of purple. Six hours if she sits well. Maybe longer if she starts moving.
“Go look before I start,” I tell her.
She gets up and checks the stencil in the mirror.
“Oh yeah. That’s hard.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
She lays back down, and I switch on the machine.
The buzz settles me almost immediately. Always has.
Some people meditate. Some people pray. Me, I draw lines into skin.
I start with the outline, working slowly around the curve of the first feather.
Samantha sits good, barely moving except when I hit closer to her spine.
“Breathe,” I tell her when she tenses.
“I am breathing.”
“You holding your breath.”
“Mind your business.”
I laugh.
“Your back is my business for the next six hours.”
About halfway through, I switch needles and start working more color into the tail. My hand moves on instinct now, stretching the skin before each pass and wiping away the excess ink so I can see what I’m doing.
Samantha turns her head.
“So when you going to settle down, King? I never see you taken.”
“I just haven’t met the right woman yet,” I say.
Plenty of women. Nobody I wanted to bring home and keep around. There’s a difference.
For some reason, those scared but stubborn eyes flash through my he
I pause for half a second before going back to the feather I’m shading.
What the fuck?
I don’t even know that woman’s name.
“Uh-huh,” Samantha says.
“What?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one that says there might be somebody.”
I laugh.
“You worried about the wrong shit. Stay still.”
“I’m just saying.”
“And I’m just tattooing.”
She laughs and finally shuts up.
By the time I’m done, my shoulders are tight and my hand needs a break, but the piece came out exactly how I pictured it.
I wipe the tattoo down one last time and put some ointment on it.
“You sat like a champ,” I say as I take a few pictures from different angles.
The colors pop against her skin, and the feathers move naturally with the shape of her back.
I grab a mirror so she can see.
“Oh my God, King, I love it. This shit is dope.”
“Told you.”
“No, for real. This might be my favorite one.”
“Until the next one.”
“You already know.”
She hands me her payment.
I count it, put it away, then grab the second-skin wrap.
I cover the tattoo and help her get her shirt back on.
“You know the routine.”
“Yeah, I do. Same shit.”
“No soaking it. Don’t pick at it. And if that second skin fills up too much, take it off.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I know, Dad.”
“Then stop acting like I haven’t told you this ten times.”
She laughs.
“Want some company?”
“Nah. I got shit to do at the club.”
And for once, I’m not even tempted.
“Okay. Call me,” she says, jumping off the chair.
“Be safe.”
“You too, King.”
She walks out.
The shop gets quiet again, and I start breaking down my station.
I toss my gloves, disinfect everything, and reach for my phone.
For some reason, I look toward the front door again.
Still thinking about a woman whose name I don’t even know.
Yeah. I need to leave that shit alone.
