Page 430 of Devil’s Disciples

The tattoo shop’s walls were peppered with vintage black and white photos of actors and actresses sporting photoshopped color tattoos. WC Fields had an anchor on his forearm. Marilyn Monroe had a floral sleeve along her left arm, from wrist to shoulder. I scanned Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, and Robert Redford, looking for James Dean, and eventually gave up.

“No James Dean?” I asked.

“He’s in the men’s bathroom,” The tattoo artist responded. “Over the toilet.”

“Why is he hidden in there? He’s awesome.”

“He was awesome. He was also gay.” He gestured toward the station on the other side of the shop, where a cute skinny jeans clad kid with a well-trimmed beard was tattooing a woman’s foot. “Carson’s gay. So, I thought James Dean could get a peek at Carson’s wiener every time he goes in there to pee. It creeps him out. Carson, not JD.”

I laughed. I liked that he called him JD. Sometimes I did the same thing.

It was my first trip to a tattoo shop. So far, I liked what I was seeing. Old-school tattoo art was on display by the entrance, the artists sat in vintage leather office chairs, and the tattoo tables were refinished dentist’s chairs from the turn of the century.

“I always say, ‘go big or go home.’ You’re going big as fuck on this one,” the artist said.

“I wanted to get it reduced to the size of a quarter, and have you put it on my left butt cheek,” I said. “But the club shot down that idea.”

“Get your head in a good place, and give me the word,” he said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

I lifted my head. “Kiss me.”

Goose knelt and gave me a kiss. “It’s not that bad.”

“Says the guy that’s got a shit-ton of tattoos.”

He shrugged. “If it was bad, I’d only have one.”

“True.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m ready when you are.”

The buzzing sound started before I felt the first prick. The sensation wasn’t at all what I expected. I detested getting any kind of shot at the doctor’s office and feared it would resemble countless repeated shots.

It was more of a scratching feeling, as if someone was dragging the tip of a knife blade across my skin. It wasn’t pleasant by any means. Oddly, I found it satisfying. As the artist traced the needle along the outline he’d placed on the center of my back, I tried to decide what portion of the design he was working on.

The sensation enveloped me. Lost in the sea of pain, I lowered my head, and closed my eyes.

The tattoo etched upon my skin would bind me to the five men who shared the same branding. The night before, I’d sworn an oath to protect the anonymity of the club—and my brothers—at any cost. Although lacking in physical stature, I was sure my street-smarts and experience more than made up for it.

Meeting the club’s expectations wasn’t going to be easy. I didn’t want easy. I wanted a challenge. I needed a challenge.

Being in my father’s presence provided a sense of belonging. Working at his side filled me with self-worth. It had been eleven years since he passed. That time was spent aimlessly attempting to find a place where I fit in. A place where I felt I belonged.

Now that I was doing what I loved with the man I loved, my self-worth was constantly elevated. Goose didn’t have to dole out praise or accolades—even though he did on every occasion that presented itself.

One glance at his pride-filled eyes provided all the reassurance I needed that I was doing exactly what he expected of me, and more.

I liked that about Goose. He didn’t wear his emotions on his shirt sleeves. He didn’t attempt to hide them, either. He was balanced. Perfectly so, as far as I was concerned. He kept me guessing when he needed to and offered an immediate explanation when he felt one was useful.

“That ought to do it,” the artist said. “Get up and take a look.”

I lifted my head. “You’re done already?”

“Already? Three hours wasn’t enough?”

Goose reached for my hand and helped me to my feet. Once in front of the mirror, I glanced over my shoulder at the reflection.

The image spanned from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, and from just below the base of my neck to the middle of my lower back.

A grim reaper-ish devil with a pistol in one of his skeletal hands, and a bag of loot in the other was centered beneath the top “rocker” which bore the club’s name, Devil’s Disciples. Below the pistol-packing mascot, a Latin phrase was now a permanent part of my being.