I really needed a different hobby because this one was becoming annoying as fuck. Back in the day I could just zone out for hours while tattooing, finding that little corner of my life that didn’t involve all the bullshit I had to deal with on a daily fucking basis. It didn’t help that the tattoos people were requesting were becoming fucking dumber and dumber. Football team logos, quotes from books you know they’ve never read, and wannabe gangsters wanting tear drops on their faces. In prison the tear drop tattoo represented taking a life. Some of these little bitches probably couldn’t step on a roach without cowering in the corner and crying for their mamas.
But since my cliental consisted mostly of bikers, strippers, and the occasional spring breaker that found themselves on the wrong side of the causeway, I should’ve lowered the bar on my expectations.
When I was done with the purple cartoon cat tattoo, I applied vaseline, covered it with wrap, and disposed of my gloves. Did this girl think that guys would be turned on by this thing? It was good work, if I didn’t say so myself, especially for being out of commission for three years, but it was covering up my favorite part of a woman. If I undressed her and saw it…I would flip her over.
Which sounded like a good idea.
Instead of giving her instructions for its care and sending her back into the party, I roughly grabbed her hips and pulled her down the table toward me. I stood and flipped her over onto her stomach, with one hand on the back of her neck I pushed her head down onto the table and undid my belt and fly with the other.
She didn’t have any money…I didn’t do free.
I took her pussy as payment for her new tattoo…of a pussy.
Fuck my life.
She had a great body, but after a few minutes of irritating over-the-top moaning she wasn’t doing it for me, not even close, so I grabbed her throat with both hands and squeezed, picking up my pace, taking out my frustrations with each rough thrust in rhythm with the heavy beats from the other room.
Nothing.
I almost didn’t notice the door opening.
Almost.
Staring up from my doorway was a large but vacant pair of blue eyes framed by long straight icy-blonde hair, a small dimple in the middle of her chin, a frown on her full pink lips. A girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen, a bit skinny, a bit haunted.
I didn’t even realize I was still pumping into the brunette, my orgasm taking me by complete surprise. Closing my eyes, I blew my load into pussy tattoo and collapsed onto her back.
What the fuck?
When I looked back up to the doorway, the doe-eyed girl was gone.
I’m fucking losing my mind.
I rolled out of and off the brunette who was luckily still breathing, although unconscious from either strangulation or the dope that had made her pupils as big as her fucking eye sockets.
I sat back on my rolling stool and put my head in my hands.
I had a massive fucking headache.
It was supposed to be my coming home party, and earlier in the evening I was ready to snort blow of the tits of strippers, but now? Now I just wanted a good nights sleep and these fucking people to get the fuck out of my house.
“You okay, boss-man?” Preppy asked, his head peeking through the opening of the door.
I gestured to the unconscious girl in the chair. “Come get this bitch out of here.” I ran my hand through my hair. “And turn this shit down!”
“You got it.” Preppy slid past me and didn’t question the half naked girl on the table. He hoisted her limp body over his shoulder in one easy movement and made his way back out into the hallway. The unconscious girl’s arms flailed around on his back, smacking against random people with each step. Before he could get too far, he turned back to me. “You done with this?” he asked. I could barley hear him over the music, but I could read his lips. He gestured with his chin to the brunette on his shoulder, a child-like grin on his face.
I nodded and Preppy smiled like I’d just told him he could have a puppy, disappearing through the crowd.
Sick fuck.
I loved that kid.
I closed the door, grabbed my gun and knife from the bottom drawer of the tool box I kept my tattoo equipment in, sheathing my knife in my boot and my gun in the waistband of my jeans.
I shook my head from side to side to clear away the haze, prison will do that to you. I hadn’t had a good night sleep in three years. Three fucking years sleeping with one eye open in a prison full of people I’ve made both friends and enemies with over the years.
It was time to keep some of those friends.
Sleep could wait. It was time to party with the bikers. I’d been avoiding doing business with them in any capacity for years. In the past they’ve been sloppy, slow, and a hindrance. If I didn’t need them so fucking badly I wouldn’t have even bothered. Money used to be something disposable for me, something I just used to fund my ‘I don’t give a fuck’ lifestyle. But now?