Vic Vaughn is Vicious

CHAPTER ONE - VIC

“I’m just about there. Hold still for just a few more minutes.”

Bobby is lying face down on my studio chair, his back raw, and red, and seeping blood because I’ve been inking him up all night. But this back piece is finally done.

I’ve been working on Bobby’s back for the better part of three years. And it’s gorgeous. Patriotic pin-up girls, Old Glory waving in the wind, and stars and stripes everywhere you look. I sigh. “It’s so fucking good, dude. You’re gonna love it.”

“Why do I care?” Bobby’s voice is a little muffled. “I mean, the back piece is the dumbest fucking tattoo ever. I’ll never even see it.”

“But we will.”

“Like I’m trying to impress you dumb fucks.”

I laugh. He’s right, though. I haven’t seen my back piece in so long, I barely remember what’s on there. “The ladies love them, Bobby. That’s why we get them.”

He chuckles, lifts his head a little to side-eye me. “Works, right?”

“Every fucking time.”

There are lots of women out there who hate tattoos. Wouldn’t be caught dead with guys like us. And that’s fine. We’re not looking for those girls. Guys like Bobby and me, we’re looking for the other kind of girl. They wear cut-off shorts and go braless under their skull tank tops. They own black leather jackets with lots of zippers and have seventy-two pairs of leather boots in their closets. They like cheap beer, expensive shots, and vacations on a beach.

And these girls, they come from everywhere. Even if Sick Boyz Inc wasn’t semi-famous for various reasons, they would still just… appear. Like fucking magic.

“So who are you seeing these days, Vic?”

“Me?” I nearly guffaw. “After that last one? Fuckin’ hell no. I needed a break after her crazy ass.”

That’s the other thing about the girls who like guys like us. Most of them are… let’s just call them strong-willed.

Hell, who am I kidding? Most of them are batshit fucking crazy.

But so are we. Take Bobby here. He’s been my friend since we were seven. We were inseparable as kids. Did everything together. All my formative years were spent with Bobby. We did all the firsts together as kids. All the bases with girls were covered over the summer after sixth grade. We got in our first fistfight together, we got drunk together for the first time, we got arrested together for the first time, hell, we even tattooed each other up for the first time. He lucked out on that end. I was always going to grow up to be this guy right here. But I got stuck with a shitty scorpion on my lower leg. It’s ugly as fuck, and even though I’ve recolored it a couple times and added some filler, I never covered it up. A fucking badge of friendship is what that tattoo is.

We still do some shit together. We have a little side business going up in the mountains that makes us some fast, easy cash. But that’s only an occasional gig. We don’t hang out nearly as much as we used to because he fell in love back in his twenties, so he’s already got the old lady and the kids while I’m still a bachelor.

“OK.” I push back from the chair and my rolling stool hits the counter. “I’m done. I’m sure it will need touchups, but let’s give it a month.” Bobby slowly gets up out of the chair, groaning, his back creaking and cracking. “Damn, dude, you’re getting old.”

He takes a moment, still bent over, then slowly straightens up and lets out a breath. “I’ve been in that chair since eleven o’clock last night. What do you expect?”

“Shit, is it morning?”

Bobby holds up his wrist so I can see his watch. “Time for church, Vic.”

“Fuck. And it’s Sunday too?”

He laughs at me. “You’re so dumb. Why do you even go?”

“I don’t. Not usually. But my fucking sister, man. She’s always on me about goddamn church.”

Bobby gets a dreamy look in his eyes. “Fuuuuuck. Ron the Bomb. I have not seen your sister in years.” Then he points at me. “You’re going to Hell for that goddamn church remark.”

“Fuck Hell.” I take my tray of ink and needles over to the sink and start throwing shit away. “And don’t even start thinking about my sister. She’s been off the market for over a decade.”

“Yeah. Fucking Spencer. You still hate him?”

“Spencer?” I let out a long breath. Because that dude is nothing but baggage. “He’s… whatever.”

“He hook you up with free bikes?”

My brother-in-law owns a legit famous bike shop just down College Avenue from Sick Boyz. His custom bikes go for about a hundred and fifty grand these days. Hell, my sister Veronica will build a bike every now and then, and hers go for even more than that. Which is stupid. Ronnie’s not a bad bike builder, but she’s nothing special. She inks up the paint all custom, though. That’s what people are really buying when they get a Shrike Bike. The art. And maybe Spencer and I have had our moments of hate, but those bikes really are beautiful and I respect him artistically. My family might look like just another bunch of tattooed asshole bikers on the outside, but we are artists first and foremost.