Page 215 of Fatality

She's openly mocking me.

After stealing my shipment.

I close the distance between us in three long strides.

“What the fuck did you just say?” I lean in, growling, my voice dropping to a dangerous tone. “You think you can steal from me and call me an idiot because I don't know something you do? I don't give a fuck about what you do here. I want my shipment.”

She stops laughing abruptly.

The air seems to drop a few degrees.

“I said you were an idiot, got a problem with that?” She growls back “Then why the fuck did you ask what it was, huh?”

She jabs a finger into my chest.

She tilts her head, mimicking my own gesture.

Something tightens in my chest, something I refuse to fucking acknowledge.

“You can just start asking the right questions.”

She shoves three heavy bags into my arms.

“Here, your shipment, I need to ask you something.”

I let them drop to the floor, my gaze stays locked on hers.

“Yeah?” I ask. “First, my question—what is it for?”

I point at the machine that's still buzzing on the floor.

“It’s a tattoo machine, we are in a tattoo studio.” She walks to the buzzing machine and stops it “It’s my job.”

“No, it’s not,” I shrug my shoulders “People are getting their tattoos with imprint machines, not that vibrating shit.”

I gesture dismissively to the now, silent machine.

I know tattoos, I've got plenty of my own, and I chose every one of them carefully. I wanted to look dangerous.

To make people think twice before coming at a broad, tall bastard like me.

Ink does that, it tells a story before you ever open your mouth.

People probably ask themselves, how the hell did I sit there for hours, letting that damn printing machine butcher me?

People think tattoos don't hurt.

Bullshit.

Maybe they don't when it's just a tiny one, mine hurt like hell. The micro lasers burning into your skin while driving ink beneath it.

I don't really know how the whole thing works, but what I do know is that it sure as fuck isn't a vacation.

“What the fuck do you mean no?” She steps back “I’m a tattoo artist, I make traditional tattoos, I use—”

“Traditional? The fuck do you mean, traditional?” I cut her off.

I cross my arms over my bare chest.