Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
His bike's just inside the big garage, and he rolls it out looking cooler than anyone has a right to. I hop on behind him, a bit amused at how normal it’s getting. A big, blond, shirtless biker with braids in his long beard waves at us as we pass on the way out the gate.
First stop is a fast food place. At first I'm nervous, wanting to stretch my barely-there top to cover more, but Preacher rests his big hand comfortingly at the small of my back. Slowly I realize that if we do get any second glances, it’s mostly just women doing a double take of Preacher. Which is annoying in a very different way. I slide my hand into his back pocket as I scan the menu.
He chuckles knowingly.
Fifteen minutes, a breakfast sandwich and a hot tea later, I'm feeling a lot better.
“I didn’t even know you could get hot tea at a burger joint,” Preacher says with a laugh. He's already put away his second sandwich.
“I like tea, okay? It's what I make for breakfast at home. And it's easier than coffee. All you need is a teabag, water and some milk and sugar.” It was Vivian’s favorite.
“Fair.” He checks his phone. “We need to get going. I’m supposed to be there in ten.”
“Where?”
He grins. “You'll see.”
Nine minutes later, we stop in front of Haunted House Tattoo. The sign is neon and simple. There are big windows, but they're completely blocked by drawings and pictures of tattoos, presumably samples to show what the artist can do. I recognize the style immediately from the Preacher’s inked body. “You're getting another tattoo?”
“Yep. Come on in, and you can watch.”
Well, that's an opportunity I'll never get again. If I ever go back to my old life, at least. This doesn't feel real yet.
Wraith is a tall, athletic man with long dark hair tied back to keep it out of his eyes. There’s a streak of deep, vibrant red mixed in that suits him. He looks up as we walk in, and gives Preacher an acknowledging nod. He takes me in second, his dark gaze immediately honing in like he can tell I don’t belong here. “Who's this? You getting one too?”
“What? Me?” I'm sure my eyes look like saucers. “No no! I'm just here to watch.”
“You sure?” His smile's warm, disarming. I'm learning that's a dangerous quality about these guys. First they make you smile, then laugh, and then suddenly you're naked in bed between three of them. Good thing I’ve got more than enough of my own to worry about. “All that virgin skin? You'd look great with ink. We could start with something small, on your arm or wrist. Tramp stamps are coming back. Just don't ask me for a fucking ankle rose, or bird silhouettes, know what I mean? It’s cute, but I've done my time in the walk-in trenches. A little something behind your ear, maybe? It'll only show if you put your hair up.”
I shake my head. “I don't think so.”
“Suit yourself.” He turns to Preacher. “I'm all set up. You good?”
“Always.”
“Then right this way, sir,” Wraith says with a laugh, motioning us to follow. “Come on, maybe she’ll change her mind when she sees it's not as bad as it sounds. I would be fucking honored to be the first guy to mark you.”
Crash, Devil and Preacher have already marked me more deeply than any ink, but he's right that I don't have any tattoos.
Wraith's setup is surgically clean. Again, my prejudices precede me. I was imagining some rough-looking guy with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a needle in a dark and dirty corner shop while Preacher chugged whiskey and waited for the pain to be over, but the actual tattooing space is meticulously organized and well lit. Wraith puts on latex gloves as Preacher sits in the adjustable chair. The tools are neatly arranged on a rack, and when Wraith grabs his tattoo gun, he tears open a single-use packet with a fresh needle. I don't know anything about getting tattoos, but so far it feels a lot like going to a doctor, just with edgier art on the walls.
Preacher peels off his shirt and tosses it over a chair. Despite having seen absolutely all of him last night, I haven't tired of the sight yet. “You got my changes, right?”
“Yeah, no problem.” Wraith wipes down his side with disinfectant before he starts transferring an outline from a template he's made. It's a kneeling woman, more stylized than realistic, and she's… oh. I try to focus on Wraith's technique, rather than the subject matter.
Preacher doesn't even grimace when the needle is applied.
“Doesn't it hurt?” I sit in the chair, hugging Preacher’s shirt to me. I want to see, but I don’t want to get in the way.