INKED 8: A Tattoo Shop Reverse Harem

I jump to my feet, wanting to help but by the time I get there, he’s already inside. “What have you got there?” I ask as he glances around for somewhere to put it.

“A cake,” he says. “I work at a youth boxing scheme in the evening and on weekends, and one of the kids I teach is turning sixteen today.”

“So you got him a birthday cake?”

Kole shrugs like it means nothing. “The kid’s in a group home. He doesn’t have anyone else to show him that they care or that his birthday means anything.”

He rests the box on the low table in the customer waiting area and straightens, flexing his hands. I’ve noticed little white scars across his knuckles and wondered what caused them. “That’s real nice of you,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll really appreciate it.”

“We’re throwing a party after the class. It’s a surprise, but the rest of the kids know. The guys here are helping to organize it.”

“Do you need more help?” I ask without thinking. Putting the fact that it’s my first day aside, I’d love to help Kole do something so awesome.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says, nodding with appreciation, even as he turns me down.

“I’d like to, though. What do you need? What can I do?”

“I wanted to get him a gift of some sort, but I haven’t had time to think about what to get him,” Kole says. “Do you have any ideas?”

“How about a watch?” I say, remembering my dad and how proud he was of the watch his dad gave him on his eighteenth birthday. It wasn’t a particularly expensive brand, but he loved it all the same.

“That’s actually a great idea.” Kole sticks his hand in the pocket of his black jeans, his eyes lowering to the floor as he roots around, pulling out a bundle of notes. I whistle, and he laughs, shaking his head.

“That’s quite a stack you have there,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows, wondering at how odd it is to see someone carry so much cash these days. My dad always used to carry cash, too, unfurling it whenever we needed anything. As Kole unwraps a stack of bills and hands it to me, a flutter of something warm and new spreads through my chest.

“A man should always carry cash,” he says, “At least, that’s what my dad always says. Do you have time to step out and get one? Choose whatever you think.”

“Of course,” I say.

Later that evening, with the watch wrapped in shiny silver paper and tied with a bright blue ribbon, I help Kole load the cake into the trunk of his car. Kase is with us, stuffing helium balloons into the back seat. “I think Ryan is going to be embarrassed as hell,” he says to Kole. “You know how he hates anyone making a fuss over him.”

“He pretends to hate it because he thinks it’s a weakness to want it,” Kole says, revealing a perceptiveness that doesn’t fit with his gruff exterior. Maybe he sees that in Ryan because it’s how he feels himself.

“I’m coming,” I say softly. “I’ll help with the drinks and cleaning up. That way, you can focus on making sure Ryan has the best time.”

Kole’s eyes find mine, their stormy grayness assessing me, searching for motive maybe. We haven’t known each other for more than a few days, so I don’t blame him for being wary.

“That’s awesome,” Kase says, shutting the door with a thud. “We can always use help.”

Kole gives me a simple nod and begins to round the back of his car, stopping to open the rear door and holding it open for me.

He doesn’t say anything as I slide inside, clutching my brown leather purse on my lap. When he shuts the door, it feels like his way of saying “okay then,” without ever verbalizing his agreement.

The rest of the men from Ink Factor are waiting outside the boxing club when we arrive. They’re holding bags and boxes of supplies, and as I scramble out of the car, I can see crates of soft drinks and bags of chips poking out the top.

There are already five scruffy-looking teens waiting for Kole to unlock the door, and they eye me with interest as I make my way behind Kole, carrying the balloons. The birthday boy isn’t here because there’s no discussion about the cake and balloons. Everyone troops into the dark boxing gym, and I breathe in air that smells stale and slightly damp. The whole building has a rundown feeling to it, but the actual equipment seems well maintained. A huge boxing ring stands in the center, flanked by training mats and heavy bags hanging from the high ceiling. Kole heads through a small side door into what I’m assuming is a kitchen area. I trail with the balloons, searching for somewhere to keep them out of sight.