Chapter 6: The Morning After
The shop was a sanctuary of quiet, the kind that existed only in the hour before dawn. Gunnar was already there, sweat beading on his forehead as he ran the autoclave, the sharp, clean smell of steam cutting through the lingering scent of ink and old coffee. The night’s work—a sprawling sleeve on a trucker from Billings—was cleaned up, the wipedown tables gleaming under the single overhead lamp he kept on over the front desk. He liked this time. It was his.
The bell above the door jangled, harsh and out of place.
He turned, expecting a lost drunk or an early-rising farmer with a question about his sign. Instead, Stacy Butterfield stood silhouetted against the weak, pre-dawn light, a thermos in one hand and a look on her face that was all business and pure defiance.
“Door was unlocked,” she said, her voice cutting through the hum of the sterilizer.
“It is now,” he replied, not moving from behind the counter.
She stepped in, the heels of her sensible pumps clicking on the linoleum before being muffled by the old runner rug. She was back in her mayor armor: a taupe skirt-suit, pearls, hair in that perfect, helmet-like bob. But there was a slight hitch in her step, a stiffness as she walked. He saw it. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips beneath the beard.
She set the thermos on the counter with a definitive thud. “Figured you might need this. After the… extensive renovations yesterday.” Her eyes held his, daring him to comment.
“Coffee’s always welcome.” He popped the lid, inhaled the rich, dark aroma. “Good bean.”
“It’s Kenyan. From the co-op on Third.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the wince more pronounced this time. A flush crept up her neck. “The, uh… the work you did. It’s holding up. Bruises, though. Thought you should know. For your portfolio.”
Gunnar took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of the cup. She was vibrating, a live wire stuffed into a Brooks Brothers suit. “Bruises fade. Ink’s forever. You ready to see it?”
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she walked around the counter, past him, toward the private studio in the back. She knew the way. He followed, the thermos forgotten.
In the back room, the light was better—a bright, clinical LED panel he used for fine detail work. She stood in the center of the tile floor, the orange neon glow from the street sign outside painting a faint stripe across her cheek. Without ceremony, she reached for the button of her skirt.
“It’s still tender,” she said, her fingers working the fastener. “Puffy. Red. You warned me.”
“I did.”
The skirt fell away. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose today. Just simple, white cotton panties. And there, on the smooth skin just above her right hip, was his tulip. The black lines were crisp, bold, the shading at the base giving it depth. It was a beautiful, simple piece. And just below it, in the same stark font, the word: GUNNY’S. The skin around it was inflamed, a fresh, pink halo of healing.
“You do good work,” she said, her voice softer now.
“You sat like a stone.” He moved closer, not touching her, just examining his work. The scent of her—jasmine soap and something sharper, more fundamentally her—cut through the antiseptic. “Most people twitch on their first one. Especially there.”
“I had motivation.” She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “Seeing it… in the mirror this morning. It made me feel… real.”
He reached out then, not to the tattoo, but to her hip, his thumb brushing the un-inked skin just below the script. She shuddered, a full-body tremor. “It’s gonna itch like hell in a few days.”
“I’ll deal with it.” She turned fully to face him now, her hands going to the buttons of her blazer. “I didn’t just come to show you the ink.”
“I know.”
She shed the blazer, then the blouse. The plain bra followed. She stood before him, 44 years old, her body honest in the harsh light—the soft curve of her stomach, the slight droop of her breasts, the silver stretch marks like lightning scars from a child she’d never had. She was magnificent in her unvarnished truth.
“My husband,” she began, but Gunnar cut her off with a shake of his head.
“Don’t.” His voice was gravel. “He’s not here. This isn’t about him.”
He closed the distance between them. His hands, big and rough, framed her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. He didn’t kiss her gently. He kissed her like he was claiming territory, his tongue pushing past her lips, tasting the coffee and a lingering hint of mint toothpaste. She moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to claw at the back of his shirt, fisting the fabric.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot against her skin. “You came back for the other thing. The thing after the ink.”
“Yes.” The word was a plea.
He spun her around, not ungently, bending her forward over the padded leather tattoo chair. The pose was stark, utilitarian. Her cheek pressed against the cool, black vinyl, her back arched, his fresh artwork on full display. He unbuttoned his jeans, the sound of the zpper loud in the quiet room.
He didn’t tease. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and guided his cock to her entrance. She was already wet, the heat radiating from her. He pushed in with one steady, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Stacy cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was swallowed by the leather. It was tighter than yesterday, more intense, the inflamed skin around her new tattoo stretching with the motion. He fucked her like that, bent over the chair, with a methodical, powerful rhythm. Each thrust drove a gasp from her lungs. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers aligning perfectly with the bruises he’d left the day before, pressing into the tender flesh.
“This what you needed, Mayor?” he grunted, his pace quickening. “To get bent over and fucked in your town’s new tattoo parlor? To feel owned?”
“God, yes!” she sobbed, pushing back against him. “Yes! Own it! Own me!”
The vulgarity, the raw submission of her words, ignited something in him. He drove into her harder, the slap of their bodies a brutal, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his beard scraping her shoulder. “You see that word on your skin every time you look in the mirror,” he growled into her ear. “You remember who put it there. You remember who fucks you like this.”
She came then, a violent, shaking climax that tore through her with a wordless scream. Her muscles clenched around him, a tight, pulsating fist, and that dragged him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he emptied himself into her, a hot, spurting release that seemed to go on forever.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them panting, dripping with sweat. Slowly, he pulled out. She collapsed onto the chair, boneless, her skin gleaming.
He tucked himself away, fastened his jeans. He fetched a clean towel, ran it under warm water at the sink, and handed it to her without a word. She took it, her hands trembling, and cleaned herself up.
Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. She dressed slowly, each piece of clothing a return to her public self. The mayor was being reassembled over the raw, well-fucked woman beneath.
When she was fully dressed, she stood before him again. The wince was gone from her step, replaced by a loose-limbed calm. She picked up her thermos.
“The Hicks brothers,” she said, her voice back to its official timbre. “They filed a formal complaint with the sheriff this morning.”
Gunnar leaned against his worktable, crossing his arms. “And?”
“And Sheriff Moss is a pragmatist. He also knows Grady Hicks is a methhead who can’t hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun.” She adjusted her pearls. “I’ll handle it. You just… keep your door locked at night. And get that plywood replaced with something stronger.”
She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. She didn’t look back.
“The tattoo,” she said. “It’s perfect.”
Then she was gone, the bell jangling once more behind her. Gunnar listened to her footsteps fade down the empty street. He looked at the tattoo chair, at the rumpled towel in the sink. He walked over to his sketchbook, flipped it open to a fresh page, and picked up a pencil.
His hand moved quickly, surely. Not a tulip this time. The rough, angry lines of a bear, standing on its hind legs, claws extended. He shaded it with deliberate, dark strokes. He worked until the sun had fully risen, bleaching the orange neon glow from the room, filling it instead with the clear, unforgiving light of a new day.
He worked until the sun had fully risen, bleaching the orange neon glow from the room, filling it instead with the clear, unforgiving light of a new day.
The smell of sex and antiseptic still hung in the air as he cleaned the tattoo chair with a clinical thoroughness, wiping away any trace of Stacy Butterfield. He disposed of the paper towel, bagged the laundry, and opened the front door to let the morning air, crisp with impending autumn, flush out the room. The plywood over his broken window was a stark reminder of the town’s other, less welcoming sentiments.
He was taping a fresh piece of cardboard over the plywood, the better to draw a temporary “Open” sign, when the cruiser pulled up.
Sheriff Moss didn’t slam the door. He eased out of his vehicle with the tired grace of a man who’d seen everything twice and disliked most of it. His boots made a hollow sound on the wooden sidewalk. Gunnar kept drawing, a bold, block-lettered “OPEN” taking shape under his marker.
“Bjornstad.”
“Sheriff.”
Moss stood next to him, looking at the boarded-up window. He was a tall man gone soft in the middle, his face a roadmap of disappointments and sun damage. “Hicks boys.”
“Yep.”
“They’re saying you started it. That you sucker-punched Grady while Boyd was just talking to you.”
Gunnar finished the ‘N’ and capped the marker. He turned to face the sheriff. “They carrying tire irons when they were just talking?”
A faint smile touched Moss’s lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Boyd’s shoulder’s popped out. Grady’s got a concussion that makes him piss himself when he stands up too fast. That’s a lot of law for a simple conversation.”
“It was a lot of tire iron for a simple window.” Gunnar’s voice was flat, devoid of argument. It was just fact.
The sheriff studied him, his eyes taking in the worn knuckles, the relaxed but ready posture. He sighed, a sound of profound administrative weariness. “Stacy was here early.”
“She brought coffee.”
“I bet she did.” Moss looked away, down the empty street. “She also told me to forget the Hicks’ complaint. Says she’s a witness to their vandalism.” He paused, choosing his next words with visible care. “Small towns, Bjornstad. They run on balances. On favors. You put two of our local embarrassments in the hospital. That disrupts the balance.”
“I’ll remember to just let them break my hands next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Moss said, finally looking back at him. “I’m guessing those boys will find their trouble elsewhere for a spell.” He shifted his weight, the leather of his gun belt creaking. “My wife, Bea. She’s been talking about a tattoo for years. Pretty thing. Butterflies. Roses. That kind of shit.”
Gunnar waited, saying nothing.
“I’m sending her in this evening. To look at your portfolio.” Moss held his gaze, and the unspoken transaction hung in the air between them, heavier than the humidity. “You make her happy—with your artwork—and I’ll make sure those idiots leave you alone. Permanently.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He just nodded once, a brief dip of his chin, and walked back to his cruiser. Gunnar watched him drive away, the balance of the town shifting on the axis of a tattoo he hadn’t even drawn yet.
The day passed in a grind of mundane tasks. He dealt with the glass company, sketched more of the bear design, and inked a small infinity symbol on a waitress’s wrist. His mind, however, kept circling back to the sheriff’s quiet threat disguised as a favor. Make her happy. The ambiguity was the point.
At 5:55 PM, as the long shadows swallowed Main Street, he flipped the deadbolt on the front door. He reached for the cardboard sign to turn it to “Closed.”
The bell jangled.
She stood there, backlit by the dying sun, a silhouette of outrageous curves. He knew it was her immediately. Sheriff Moss’s wife. Bea.
She wasn’t pretty in a conventional way. She was a force. Voluminous chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, and her body was a lavish hourglass squeezed into a dress two sizes too small, the fabric straining over her breasts and hips. She smelled of vanilla perfume and Juicy Fruit gum.
“You must be Gunnar,” she said, her voice a syrup-slow drawl that held a smile in it. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she slinked in, her hips rolling with a practiced, swaying rhythm. Her eyes, a hard, glittering blue, scanned the shop—the flash art on the walls, the sterile equipment, him. “Sheriff said you were the best. Said I should come see you.”
“Shop’s technically closed,” Gunnar said, not moving from the door.
“Oh, sugar, don’t be like that.” She pouted, a full-lipped, theatrical expression. She walked up to the portfolio on the counter, not looking at it, instead tracing a finger along its edge. “I’ve been dreaming about this. A little something… private. My husband, he’s a traditional man. Doesn’t see the art in it.”
She finally looked at him, and the attempt at seduction was so blatant it was almost comical. Like a stripper trying to seduce the furniture. But beneath the performance, he saw a sharp, hungry intelligence. This wasn’t just a bored housewife. This was a deal being presented.
“Private how?” he asked, his voice neutral.
She turned, leaning back against the counter, hiking her dress up just enough to show a significant portion of her thigh. “Somewhere only he would see. When he’s… you know.” She bit her lip. “Between my legs. A little welcome sign.”
The request hung in the air, vulgar and direct. This was the test. This was the “make her happy.”
“That’s a sensitive area,” he said, walking slowly toward her, locking the front door behind him. “Requires a… specific approach. And absolute stillness.”
A flicker of something real passed through her eyes—challenge, maybe, or relief. “I can be still. When I need to be.”
He led her to the back room, the same chair Stacy had been bent over that morning. Bea’s eyes took in the sterile setup, the bright lights, and she shivered, not with fear, but with anticipation. “You want to see the portfolio first?” he asked, playing the game.
“I trust your artistry, baby,” she purred, already hiking the tight dress up around her waist. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Her pubic hair was trimmed into a narrow, neat landing strip. The offer was explicit and utterly transparent.
He put on gloves. He set up his machine with a sterile, single-use needle cartridge. He showed her the ink. He was all cold, clean professionalism. “Design?”
“Surprise me,” she said, lying back and spreading her legs wide, an unabashed presentation. Her flesh was pale and soft, a stark contrast to the room’s clinical glare.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flirt. He adjusted the light, wiped her skin with antiseptic, the cool liquid making her gasp. He placed a stencil, a simple, elegant script font spelling “MINE.” He positioned it just above her slit, where the sheriff would see it.
“This okay?”
She lifted her head to look, her breath catching. “Oh, he’ll love that.”
The first buzz of the needle made her jump. “You need to stay perfectly still, Bea.” His voice was a low command, leaving no room for her performance. “This isn’t a game. One slip and the line is ruined.”
She clenched her jaw, her hands gripping the sides of the chair. He began, the machine a constant, angry drone. The skin there was tender, sensitive, and he worked with a brutal, focused efficiency. She whimpered, a real sound of pain this time, as he shaded the letters, making them bold and permanent.
“You’re doing good,” he muttered, not looking up from his work. His focus was absolute. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, and her legs began to tremble from the strain of holding position. The scent of her—perfume, sweat, and the faint, metallic smell of blood—filled his nostrils.
When he was done, he wiped away the excess ink, revealing the word. It was raw, red, and angry-looking against her skin. A brand.
She let out a long, shaky breath, her body collapsing into the chair. “God damn,” she whispered, a genuine laugh bubbling up. “That fucking hurts.”
He cleaned the area, applied a layer of ointment, and covered it with a protective dressing. Only then did he break character. He pulled off his gloves, looked down at her splayed form, her dress still bunched around her waist. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable for the first time since she’d walked in.
“Your husband’s favor,” Gunnar said, his voice devoid of all warmth. “Consider it paid in full.”
A complex series of emotions played across her face: shame, gratitude, a flicker of disappointment that the transaction was so starkly concluded. She slowly pulled her dress down, wincing as the fabric brushed the fresh tattoo. She stood on unsteady legs.
He walked her to the front, unlocked the door. The street was dark now.
“He’ll ask if you were… professional,” Gunnar said, holding the door open for her. The cold night air rushed in.
Bea looked at him, the mask of the seductress gone, replaced by the tired, cunning face of a woman who knew exactly what game she was playing. “You were a perfect gentleman,” she said, her drawl less pronounced. “An artist.” She stepped out onto the sidewalk, then turned back. “The Hicks brothers are moving to their cousin’s place in the next county. By the end of the week.”
She melted into the darkness. Gunnar closed the door, the lock clicking with finality. The shop was silent again, holding the echoes of two very different women, two very different deals sealed with ink and silence. He turned off the main lights, leaving only the single bulb over the bear sketch on his desk. The animal’s snarling face seemed to watch him from the paper, a silent judge in the empty room.