“I don’t know why in the hell Golden Boy asked me to show up this week, it’s not like you can’t handle this on your own.” I didn’t mind spending a few days at GET INK’D but I knew jack shit about drawing up tattoos. I only painted for therapy and I only kept it up because I loved to paint with my woman. At least when we found time between taking care of our kids.
“Because someone, me, needs to do ink and piercings while someone else, you, takes calls and mans the registe
r.” Jag grinned over at me with a smartass smirk. “Besides, the artists coming in this week can handle a few extra slabs of skin while you oversee the important stuff.” Golden Boy had connected with two big name tattoo artists looking to spend some time in Vegas and grow their brand. He had some notion it would help the club but I didn’t see how.
“The ink isn’t important?”
“Yeah, but money is too. And we have the ink part handled. If you really don’t wanna be here,” he began and trailed off in that reasonable way that was damn annoying when it was aimed at you. “With The Inky Minx and Indigo coming in, we’ll have more than enough ink to worry about.”
“Okay, fine. If you want to me here to hold your hand, Jag, I’m happy to help out.”
“Dick,” he smirked and went to set up his work station before his first appointment showed up.
Every time I set foot inside the shop, it amazed me that my brother was able to create this beautiful shop from the worst shit that had ever happened to him. I’d barely survived PTSD but he’d been wrongfully convicted for six years and had somehow found a way to make it into something good. I was damn proud of him and I knew our mom would’ve been proud as well, if she was still around. “We’re not open yet,” I called out from behind the counter where I was unloading after-care kits.
“Your wife told me I could find you here.” I knew that voice. I’d heard it too many times over the past few years.
“Dodds.” I stood to my full height. “What are you doing here?” I couldn’t hate on the guy because he’d not only saved Moon’s life but he was also instrumental in bringing down most of Roadkill MC and the crooked politician working with them. “Came to get a thin blue line tat?”
His lips twitched with amusement as he walked in, looking around in that intrusive way of law enforcement all over the world. “Maybe another time. I have a question or two. For you.”
My body tensed right away. Not because I thought we were in trouble, hell the club had finally rebounded from all the shit thrown at us last year, but cops asking questions was rarely a good thing. “Do I need my lawyer?”
He shook his head and leaned against the counter, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Nope. I have questions that you might not like but I need answers.” His brown eyes were clear and sober. Serious as hell.
“Ask.” I might not answer them but I knew the club as a whole owed him so I squared my shoulders and looked him straight on. And waited.
“Are the Reckless Bastards doin’ business with cartels now?”
“What? Fuck no!” We had a hard and fast rule as a club that the cartels were off limits. They were always into bad shit like trafficking kids and selling arms indiscriminately. We were no angels but we had our limits. “Why would you ask that?”
Dodds sighed, the weight of his new job weighing heavy on his shoulders. It couldn’t have been easy going from Internal Affairs and taking down a well-respected but dirty as fuck cop, to being a top detective for the Gangs & Drugs task force. “We’ve spotted a few known cartel members over at Siren Casino & Resort when their tats popped up on surveillance. I’m just trying to figure out if they’re here to experience ‘What happens in Vegas’ or if they’re here to do business.”
“Shit.” Cartel visits were no good for anyone. Even if they were here for fun, they were notorious for trying to squeeze other business out if they saw an opening. “Reckless Bastards don’t fuck with cartels but I’ll talk to Cross and see if he’s heard anything.”
“Sounds good. I didn’t want to ask these questions with the kid around,” he said, referring to Beau who was Cross’s number one fan. “Any intel you have would be appreciated and anonymous.”
“Appreciate it. Don’t forget to come back for that tat, Detective.”
He laughed again and gave a quick wave before heading out of the shop just as a guy with almost clear blue eyes showed up and stared at me. “I’m Indigo.”
I nodded and motioned to the big room Lasso usually occupied since this guy was known for sleeves and big ass tats. For the next couple hours I sat up front listening to music and answering the most idiotic fucking questions from potential customers. They were all tourists and didn’t have a clue about tattoos. “You’ll have to come into the shop to get that answer,” became my mantra to callers by the time lunch rolled around. “Jesus, fuck! You have got to be kidding me.”
“Callers getting’ to ya, Max?”
I growled at Jag who looked far too fucking happy for a guy who’d been hunched over a sweaty hog-riding weekend warrior for the past three hours. “There should be a fucking IQ test before you get inked.”
He laughed, shrugging it off like the calm and collected guy he was. “Ink is serious business for most people.” He waited a beat and then another, until Indigo stepped out for a smoke. “So, Dodds?”
I gave him a quick rundown of what the detective wanted and he let out a long, low whistle. “He didn’t say which cartel though?”
“If any tattoos popped up on surveillance, I can find them when I get home.” The guy was a damn genius when it came to working on computers and techy shit and sometimes, I wondered why the hell he’d become a Reckless Bastard in the first place.
“You can find what came up on surveillance?”
Jag snorted. “Who the fuck you talking to man?”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. I told him I’d talk to Cross to see if he knew anything but there wasn’t much else to say.” We both sat there in momentary silence, probably thinking the same damn thing. Please don’t let more shit be headed to Mayhem. “Any word on Vivi?” It was Jag’s least favorite conversation these days but the guy needed to talk about it. At least according to my wife.