INKED 8: A Tattoo Shop Reverse Harem

"Did something happen?" she asks, looking around at everyone tidying their workstations. Noah's sweeping the whole shop, something we always do at night. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and her face twitches at the sight of my jeans and hoodie. She's never seen me in this kind of outfit before, and my hair must be unkempt.

"Police raid," I say, turning my back and storming into the office. I can't talk to her like nothing's happened when my nerves are frayed this way. My phone rings and it's another franchisee who's just been approached by cops with a warrant. I yell to get the attention of the boys, and when they crowd into the office, I give them each a franchise to attend to and send them off to minimize the collateral damage.

"You need to cancel the entire day of bookings," I snap at Kyla. "We can't be bringing people in for tattoos under these circumstances."

"The whole day?" she says.

"That's what I said."

Her cheeks flush with color, but I turn and storm back into the office before I have a chance to see any more. I don't need her asking me questions. I just need her to listen when I tell her to do something. Why the fuck can't she see that? Doesn't she understand me at all?

From the office, I can hear Kyla apologizing to customers and trying to find spaces to rebook their appointments. We're pretty much fully booked for months in advance, so it won't be easy. The shop is so quiet that even from the office, I can hear how irate some of the customers are. Kyla handles it well, but she must be feeling the pressure.

It's her job. I tell myself as I bury my head in my hands. Calls start coming in as each of the boys reaches the other stores. Noah's the first to report bad news, as he arrives to find the store owner being led away in handcuffs. "Fuck!" I yell, tossing the stapler at the wall. The plastic top splinters against the exposed brickwork, and staples fly like shrapnel across the room. That's two. How many of these fuckers have been using our brand as a front for illegal operations? One more, and it's going to look like something organized, and if it does, will it come to our doorstep? Will we be dragged into a case against our franchisees?

I don't know what to do.

None of this is within my control, and I can't stand it. My fists are clenched so hard that my palms begin to hurt. When I release them, my nails have cut crescent shapes into the skin. I rest my head in my hands, trying to breathe deeply and evenly, needing to find a way to settle the raging uncertainty that's spinning my mind out of control.

When there's a soft tap on the door, I snap my head up, finding Kyla standing nervously in the doorway. "I've called everyone," she says. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Just go," I say. I don't mean it to sound so dismissive, but I don't have anything left in me to soften my words or tone. She's done what she needs to do. No point in her staying around to witness my unraveling.

Her face falls, her eyes dropping to the floor. Her shoulders lower, too, as she turns and walks away.

Last night, Kyla was our everything. She was the glue that brought us all together—the one woman we've all desired equally and who seemed to desire us equally, too. But everything's coming apart at the seams. Without our business, I can't even contemplate what the rest of our life would look like. Kyla deserves men with their shit together, not ones that are fighting for their survival. She deserves to work in a place where she's not risking getting dragged to the police station at any moment, or worse, getting accused of being complicit in something she knows nothing about.

I don't trust the justice system. There are too many wrongful convictions and too many lawyers more interested in lining their own pockets than helping the clients who desperately need them.

I know I don't look like a traditional businessman. I look more like an extra from the Sons of Anarchy, a man more comfortable on the back of a Harley than behind the wheels of a successful business.

Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions.

Maybe everything will be fine. Closing a couple of dirty franchises wouldn't be too hard. They're in breach of contract for their conduct. Dealing with it will mean hiring lawyers, but at least they can sort out the technicalities.

Maybe we can get back to running this business and being the kind of men who could make the kind of proposition that Nash was talking about to a girl as great as Kyla. Maybe she'll still see us as decent men. Maybe there's a chance.