Private Life // Oingo Boingo

Guy

Afternoons in a tattoo shop are dull. To be real, I haven't had a dull afternoon in a decade, so I should be enjoying myself. Relaxing. Taking the slow pace in stride and unwinding the tension in my shoulders from years of looking over them.

But I can't because Grinder is the only other person in the place for once. And this might be my only opening. Time to do what I came here to do. As he's restocking his station and I'm doing the same, I toss out my first softball question.

"How long have you had this place?"

I ask like I don't already know the answer, but that's the point. Play dumb until he gives me something I don't have the answers for.

"Nearing 20 years." He says without looking up. "But it's only been the last 10 that I've put my full energy into it."

"And why's that?" Again, I know this already.

"Oh, tying up loose ends is all. Other endeavors had my focus."

That focus has a name; Bitter Reapers. His leather cut lies across a box in the storage room, but I haven't seen him wear it. Members of Black Death wouldn't be caught without ours, by unspoken order from Boulder. Jobs like this one are the exception–where I'm hiding who I am in order to gain an upper hand. I've usually gotten the advantage by now in the course of undercover work, but Grinder's hit is not the norm.

Glancing in his direction, I push with my next question.

"You do good work. I've never seen a style quite like yours."

Grinder's eyes appear to twinkle at my compliment. I pull this manipulative shit all the time, but in this case I'm being honest. His work has a depth and realism you don't often see in bikers turned artists. Most club tattoos are symbolic of rank or history, not true works of art. But Grinder's artistic vision is undeniable.

He nods as he speaks. "That's all thanks to Butch. The man has been my canvas for years. I work out my techniques on him and he lets me. Otherwise I'd still be a club hack."

It takes all my focus, but I successfully hide my shock at his casual mention of his club membership. It's not something tossed around in conversation unless one knows their audience is already privy to the information. The fact he openly admitted it means my cover may have been blown, but I handle my shit like it hasn't. I address it head on, exactly as one would if they had no insider information.

"Tattoo club?" Playing dumb is still the game plan.

Grinder side eyes me. "Seriously? You're more worldly than that, Guy. Otherwise you wouldn't be on my payroll. You have "club member" written all over you." He waves a hand in the general direction of my arm. "Ink never lies."

I glance down at the few tats I have on display. These are visible by design because they don't actually have anything to do with club symbolism. This ink is mine and mine alone. But somehow, Grinder's read into it.

"Nah, man, not these. Not what you're thinking, that's for sure."

"Hmm." His throat buzzes the disbelieving sound with zero additional response.

I start sweating. What the hell do I do now? I need to give him a nugget so he backs off.

"Not me." I lie again before adding the little bit of truth I can offer. "My old man. Never knew him, but I've heard the legends." I look back down at my arm. Ironically, these tats have nothing to do with that bag of shit sperm donator. The rose and bones laying over lines of poetry represent my memories of my mom, few though they are. And mostly bad ones, at that.

"Noted," Grinder says, turning to face me, arms crossed over his chest. "Won't poke that bear if you don't want me to. But I read you right. You have a tie to the life without embracing the life itself. It gives you your edge." He levels a look at me I can't quite decipher. "You do good work. A little rough around the edges but flow comes with time and practice."

"I practice on bananas."

Grinder laughs. "Don't we all, man."

I shrug. "It's my least favorite fruit. And oranges are too bumpy."

"We need to get you some pigskin."

I shudder. Too many memories rush to the surface. Nausea bubbles up with them. Breathing through my nose, I shove each one back into the hole they crawled out of. Not today.

Hopefully never.

"Maybe," I manage to say without vomiting chunks all over the shop. So much for the hard as nails persona I've cultivated. "I've got client notes to add to an account when you have time for it." The change of subject might be abrupt, but it's necessary. To Grinder's credit, he doesn't react to my obvious avoidance of tattoo practice.

"I've got time now. I'll show you the system so you can add them yourself."

I lock my jaw to keep it from dropping. The fact he's giving me access to his computerized system testifies his trust in me. I'm blown away by it, because I damn sure haven't earned it. Although he has given me access to the couch in his storage room while I "look for a place"--which I'm not actually doing, but what Grinder doesn't know won't kill him–all I've done to give him the idea I'm trustworthy is keep to myself and hide all truth.

My ties to a rival MC.

The bounty my leader has on his head.

My role as enforcer and reconnaissance.

The weapon I have hidden in the shop.

My history with Mari.

It's the last one that's kept me up at night since I started sleeping on the couch. Thank fuck I have something other than my brain to blame for the dark circles under my eyes.

Keeping private things private has been my M.O. for over a decade. Longer, actually. Ever since crawling away from my mother's dead body, I've been able to lock down anything I don't want others to know. Seeing Mari again has rattled that cage but I refuse to succumb.

Grinder has me follow him down the hall to his locked office door. The metal clinking of keys echoes in the space as he pulls them out of his back pocket and unlocks his lair. Stepping inside is akin to walking into a time machine.

"Damn," I say with a wave of my hand to clear the heavy dust in the air. "Ever try cleaning this place out?"

"Julia said the same thing first time she saw this office."

The smell of must and old carpet hit my nose like a pungent slap. Nothing like the scent of cleaning products and cologne in the main parlor. My skin tingles from a drop in temperature in the room, surprising considering the frigid temps he keeps in the rest of the shop. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, some spots peeling away and giving a glimpse of dust and webs behind them. Piles of papers and files litter the desk along with a smattering of pens and pencils. An ancient yellow phone with a long cord plugged into a jack on the backwall sits on the corner.

"What the hell is this?" I ask, picking up the plastic handle, turning it left and right in my hand as a loud hum spills out of it. A dial is fixed to the body of the device with numbers visible through holes. I have no clue how to make a call from it.

Grinder grabs the handle from my grip and plops it back in place. "I've never felt so fucking old. Thanks for that kid. I thought my stepson had my number, but you've taken his place."

"How old is he?" My stomach twists as I ask. That's intel I didn't have. The guy has a family. Boulder won't care, but it doesn't sit well with me now that I'm hearing it first hand.

"Thirteen going on forty-five." He shakes his head. "Kid is giving us grey hairs left and right. When my wife, Julia, and I got together he was the sweetest boy, always wanting to help out or give his mom a break. Once hormones kicked in he's been a wild ass ride."

"Huh, I bet." I didn't give anyone a wild ride when I was that age. I was already neck deep in club bullshit. No one would have tolerated any grey hairs I'd give them, so I didn't.

"I thought his sister was tough," he laughs. "Lola busted my balls from day one, but the girl is turning out to be quite the lady."

Shit. Two kids. And a wife named Julia.

Not the kind of hit I want anything to do with. Not that I want anything to do with any of them, but these are the worst. It's one thing to take out a nomad biker with nefarious dealings. It's another thing to take out a family man who's walked away from the life. But because Boulder is a stubborn son of a bitch, here I am doing the devil's work.

I've hated myself my entire life, but this is a new low.

Swallowing every ounce of self-loathing and regret I can, I nod toward the only modern device in the room; a laptop that's only a few models old.

"Shall we get to those client notes?"

"Sure thing." He pulls out a wobbly desk chair and takes a seat, firing the laptop to life. "We use a system I can't remember the name of with little tabs and spreadsheets." He mouses around and makes some clicks, opening an Excel program I'm only slightly familiar with.

"Each artist has a tab." He clicks on one with my name. "Once you find the client's name," he points to the list of names already entered by Jackson no doubt, "you can add a link to a document for notes here." Grinder gets the notes program ready for me while my eyes scan the tabs at the bottom of the spreadsheet, because one of them was labeled "contacts" which could be a lead. Boulder insists Grinder's had communication with the law. I don't think he's dumb enough to put their information on his business document, but who knows. Maybe he's slacking considering he no longer runs a club.

"Thanks. It might take a while. I'm a slow typist."

"I'll be in the storage room grabbing more stock to pull out to the floor."

Grinder leaves me alone in his normally locked office. It could be a set up. I wouldn't be surprised if Jackson–who's much more tech savvy than Grinder–set up a device to monitor usage on the laptop. But I have to take the opportunity in front of me.

I move to the contacts tab and open it up, scanning fast for any names that stand out. I'm sure he wouldn't label cops or feds anything obvious, but who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky.

Except the only name standing out to me on the list is Mari's. Heart pounding, I follow the line her name is on to find her last name, her address and phone number. And her job.

Committing it to memory as quickly as possible, because I can't fucking help myself, I tab back to the client list and add the notes I've been holding on to for the guise of getting into this office. Generic and to the point, I exit the notes and make sure the link works. Once I see it does, I allow the screen to go to sleep, wondering if I've poked my own bear by learning Mari's personal details.

I vow not to use any of them, but to keep them for emergency purposes. A deep sense of danger has been crawling under my skin since she walked back into my life. Every emotion from the night of her escape came back with a vengeance. And much like I felt when Grinder mentioned pig skin, a sense of terror hit me too strong to ignore.

I leave the musty room and head back to my station, keying in her contact in my phone as Bunny. Every biker has a few in their phones. Mari is now my only one, and that would cause its own drama if anyone in the club found out, but better to dismiss her importance than put in the real deal.

Another lie to add to the list. It's too damn long to read, but that's what I signed up for, so be it.

Ok, I do PROMISE to get them in the same room in the next chapter. PINKY SWEAR! But I needed a way to GET HIM THERE, haha! Now he's got her info, so... you do the math. *wink*

On another note, Oingo Boingo is dominating my writing creativity right now. This chapter was LITERALLY born from their song, Private Life. Danny Elfman sings about leaving his things alone as well as escaping his life into a dream life to "get me out of here." Incidently, this band's sound is a mixture of new wave, ska, art rock, punk, pop, jazz and other music of the world. Their music and lyrics seem"upbeat" but if you really listen, it's kind of dark. Which, let's be honest, is so similar to the Blue Bloods series.

Anyway, I'm having a blast re-experiencing this band and many of the songs are finding their way onto the playlist.

https://youtu.be/FLJAcMysEgg

Thank you SO MUCH for reading. I appreciate you more than you could possibly know.