Chapter 5: Tattooed again
The sharp, citrusy scent of disinfectant couldn’t quite mask the underlying smell of ink and aged leather. The buzz of the tattoo machine was a familiar drone, a constant hum that vibrated through the plush chair and into Alex’s bones. She was shirtless, lying back, her chest bare to the cool, conditioned air. A fresh trail of black and crimson ink snaked from her collarbone, curling over the swell of her left breast and down her ribcage. Miles, his own arms a tapestry of illustrated history, worked with a focused precision, his touch firm and sure.
Angel sat beside her on a plain wooden chair, angled close. He held her right hand, his fingers laced tightly with hers. His thumb traced slow, calming circles on her knuckles. Every time the needle bit into the tender skin near her sternum, her grip would tighten instinctively, but she didn’t flinch. Her eyes were fixed on Angel’s face, a smirk playing on her lips despite the sting.
“Fuck, Miles, you’re really going for it today, huh?” she grunted, her voice a low rumble.
“Stop talking or I’ll fuck up your nipple, Hawk,” Miles replied without looking up, his hand steady as the machine buzzed relentlessly.
Alex’s smirk widened. She turned her head slightly, her black eyes locking onto Angel’s concerned blue ones. The contrast was stark: her, all sharp angles, tattooed skin, and defiance laid bare under the bright lamp; him, soft and swathed in a oversized cream-colored sweater, his platinum hair a fluffy cloud around his blushing face.
“My tits kinda hurt,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Suck them better for me, will ya, baby?”
Angel’s eyes widened, a startled gasp escaping his lips. The blush spread from his cheeks down his neck, disappearing beneath the soft wool of his sweater. “Alex!” he whispered, mortified, his gaze flicking quickly towards Miles.
Mies let out a short, sharp laugh. “You two are gonna get me fired for inappropriate conduct.” He wiped away a trickle of blood with a cold, damp paper towel, making Alex hiss. “Though if you keep him that distracted, his hand might be steadier.”
“He’s always steady,” Alex said, her tone shifting from teasing to genuine. She squeezed Angel’s hand. “Aren’t you, Angel? Steadier than I am, most days.”
Angel’s embarrassment softened into a shy smile. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the machine’s buzz. “Just breathe through it. Like you tell me to.”
She closed her eyes for a second, focusing on the sensation of his lips on her skin, using it as an anchor against the sharp, persistent pain. It was a different kind of vulnerability than the one she wielded like a weapon. This was passive, raw. She was the canvas, not the artist. And he was her quiet guardian.
The memory of the bar, of Angel calmly cleaning out a table of hardened bikers, flashed behind her eyelids. That hidden core of steel. It made this tender care even more profound. He could face down a room full of Mick and Cutters, and then sit here, perfectly still, holding her hand through something he knew terrified her on a deep, primal level.
“Remember that time,” she muttered, eyes still closed, “with the safety pin and the shitty motel room? When we tried to give each other matching dumbass symbols?”
Angel let out a soft, airy laugh. “You said it would be punk rock. It just got infected.”
“And you cried trying to pour vodka on it.”
“It stung!” he protested, his voice rising slightly in pitch.
“Everything stings with you, you big baby,” she teased, opening her eyes to see him pouting. “But you still sat there and let me mess up your arm with a dirty needle. You trust me too much.”
His gaze was unwavering. “Always.”
The simplicity of the word hit her harder than the needle. Miles paused to dip into another cap of ink, giving them a moment of reprieve. The sudden silence felt heavy, intimate.
“This one’s different,” Angel said softly, his eyes tracing the fresh, inflamed lines on her chest. “It’s… bigger.”
“It’s a guardian,” Alex said, looking down at the work-in-progress. A mythical beast, part wolf, part dragon, was emerging from the skin over her heart, its tail wrapping around her rib cage. “For you.”
Angel’s breath hitched. He didn’t say anything, just looked from the tattoo to her face, his expression so full of emotion it was almost too much to behold.
“Don’t get all weepy on me,” she warned, but her voice was thick. “Miles will smudge his art.”
“I’m not weepy,” Angel whispered, but he had to blink rapidly, his eyes glistening.
Mies switched on the machine again, the buzz cutting through the moment. “Alright, lovebirds. Deep breath, Alex. This part’s spicy.”
He started on the sensitive area just below her breast. Alex’s whole body tensed. A sharp, guttural “Fuck!” escaped her lips. Her knuckles were white where she gripped Angel’s hand.
Angel leaned forward, his face close to hers. He started talking, his voice a soft, steady stream, a technique he’d clearly learned from his psychology books. “Just focus on me. It’s just a sensation. It’s sharp, then it’s dull, then it’s gone. It’s a wave. You just have to ride the wave, Alex. You’re so good at riding waves.” He was paraphrasing her own words back to her, the ones she used when he was lost in a panic attack.
She focused on his eyes, on the faint scent of his strawberry shampoo. She rode the wave of pain, each pass of the needle a crest, each brief pause a trough.
“Tell me about the bike,” she gritted out, needing a distraction. “The first one your dad built for you.”
A bright, genuine smile lit up Angel’s face. “It was yellow. A little Yamaha PW50. He painted flames on the side himself. They were really bad, all wobbly.” He chuckled at the memory, his thumb resuming its soothing circles. “He made me a little track in the field behind his house. With jumps made of dirt and an old wood plank. He’d stand in the middle with a stopwatch, grinning like a maniac.”
Alex listened, picturing it: a smaller, even more delicate version of Angel, swallowed by a helmet, putting around a field under the watchful eye of a bearded biker. It was a world away from the sterile tattoo shop, from their college life. It was a piece of him she was still uncovering, and each new fragment made her feel like she was falling for him all over again.
“He sounds like a character,” Miles commented, not looking up.
“He is,” Angel and Alex said in unison. They looked at each other and shared a small, private smile.
The session continued, the buzz of the needle a constant companion to Angel’s soft stories and Alex’s occasional gruff responses. The dynamic was palpable. To any outsider, it would look like a tough girl being comforted by her soft boyfriend. But they knew the truth. The comfort was a two-way street. His softness was her strength, and her hardness was his shelter. He was the anchor in her storm, and she was the shield for his gentle soul.
Finally, Miles switched off the machine for the last time. “Alright. We’re done. Don’t fucking move.” He carefully applied a layer of ointment and a transparent adhesive bandage over the entire piece. The relief was instantaneous. The pain subsided to a warm, throbbing ache.
Alex sat up slowly, her body feeling electrified and raw. She glanced in the mirror opposite. The guardian beast was fierce, beautiful, a permanent part of her landscape. It belonged there.
Miles started cleaning up. “You know the drill. Keep it clean. No tight clothes. Angel, make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“I always try,” Angel said, standing up and handing Alex her ripped tank top. She slipped it on carefully, wincing as the fabric brushed against the fresh tattoo.
They paid, Alex handing over a thick wad of cash from the poker game weeks prior. Mick’s card was still in her wallet, a silent testament to the night Angel had quietly blown her mind.
The cold evening air was a shock to her sensitized skin as they stepped outside. Angel immediately shrugged out of his oversized sweater. “Here,” he said, holding it up for her.
“I’m not cold, baby,” she said, though she was trembling slightly from the adrenaline comedown.
“It’s not for the cold. It’s loose. So it won’t rub.” He looked at her with such earnest concern that she acquiesced, letting him help her pull the soft, warm wool over her head. It smelled like him, like strawberries and home.
“My place?” she asked, pulling her keys from her pocket.
He nodded, slipping his hand into hers. As they walked towards her motorcycle, he was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very softly, “You didn’t have to do that. Get a tattoo for me.”
“Yes, I did,” Alex said, her voice firm. She stopped walking and turned to face him, taking his other hand as well. “That thing inside you? That cool, smart, brave fucking person who took over that poker table? That’s the real you. And I want everyone who sees me to know that I’m the one who guards him. That he’s mine to protect.”
Tears finally spilled over onto Angel’s cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away. He just stood on his toes and kissed her, a sweet, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and unshakeable devotion.
When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against her chest, right above the bandaged tattoo. “I love you, Alex.”
She wrapped her arms around him, careful of her sore ribs, and held him close. “I know, Angel. I love you too.” She looked over his head at the city lights beginning to glitter in the dusk. “Now let’s go home. I need you to be very, very gentle with me tonight.”
He looked up, his blue eyes wide and shining. “I can do that.”
“Good,” she smirked, that familiar, confident fire returning to her eyes. “But tomorrow… tomorrow, you’re all mine.”