2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

PISTON

A Billie Eilish song rocks through the speakers, almost loud enough to drown out the buzz of several tattoo machines all running at once, but not quite. Letting Arrow set the volume was the one concession Jag agreed to as part of the peace negotiations with our neighbor, Lewis, also known as Arrow's boyfriend. I had the pleasure of mediating that one since Arrow is clearly biased and Jag is Jag.

Personally, I'm just glad he's finally out of his ‘Play the Barbie album on repeat' era. It was only a few months ago that we held a vote and decided music choices for the shop would be on a rotating system, but somehow the schedule keeps going missing.

Jag sings along to one of the faster paced songs on his playlist, growling in his own version of her raspy style. He shakes his ass, clad in a pair of leopard print leggings that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. And somehow through all of his antics, he still manages to keep his hand perfectly steady and his client smiling serenely at the ink he etches onto her skin.

"Those pants are so tight, dude, I feel like I could give you a prostate exam from all the way across the room," Hero says while he organizes the supply drawers in his cart.

"Tight pants, loose morals," Jag singsongs, shaking his ass more pointedly in Hero's direction.

Hero laughs and then Jag takes his needle away from his client's skin, stripping off his gloves so he can rummage for something in his own cart—likely more of a certain color ink. After a second, he pulls his hand out with a small green rubber dick between his fingers. The woman in his chair stifles a laugh and he whips around to glare at the rest of us.

"Who the fuck keeps putting dicks in my supply cart?"

Tex shakes his head, Hero shrugs, and Arrow ducks his head down a little lower like he's focusing really hard on the tree he's currently tattooing on a guy's bicep. Jag doesn't even look my way. Of course, I would never be juvenile enough to pull a stupid prank like that. Perish the thought. I suppress a sigh. Sometimes it sucks being the one who always makes the right choices and spends too much time worrying about keeping everyone else in line.

Jag huffs and chucks the dick across the room, nailing Tex in the back with it. It bounces off and hits the floor, managing to land upright with a reverberating wiggle that goes on for a few extra seconds. Then, he goes back to the tattoo he's working on, and I turn my attention back to my sketch pad and the design I've been perfecting for my afternoon appointment.

My mind wanders while I work on getting the shading the way I want it. I lick my lips, and I can almost still taste Milo's tongue from last night. My cock swells and my skin heats, a smile stretching slowly across my mouth.

Even when I'm trying to do something impulsive and irresponsible, I still end up being a fucking Boy Scout about it. Not that I'm mad about how last night turned out. Even after going home, jerking off, then taking a shower so cold it would have frozen Frosty the Snowman's nuts off, it was still totally worth it. I grin, tapping the end of my stylus against the sketch pad and replaying the feeling of Milo's wandering hands mapping my body.

My plan is to text him tonight to see how things went with meeting his dad and offer to take him to dinner if he's up for it. My gut flutters with nerves and excitement. It's been a while since I've bothered to take anyone on a date, but I couldn't really say why. Not a lot of guys turning my head lately, I guess. Too much time and energy spent focused on Ink Slingers, both the tattoo shop and our motorcycle club, is probably part of the problem too. Whatever my excuse is, hopefully Milo will break my dry streak.

The electric bell on our door chirps to announce the arrival of a customer. If I remember right, Hero has a consultation scheduled to come in around now, so I'm guessing that's who it is. I glance up from my sketch to see that he's not fucking with his workstation anymore, but some of the drawers are still open, so he probably popped into the back to grab some fresh supplies. I set my pad down and swivel around in my chair.

"Hero will—" I stop mid-sentence as my eyes catch up with my mouth.

The person standing near the front counter isn't Hero's consult at all. Milo shifts on his feet, putting his hands in his pockets, then pulling them out again right away, his shoulders tense and his expression tight. I push myself out of my seat and lean forward to put my elbows on the railing around the raised level of the shop, looking down at him. He looks just as casually, effortlessly hot as he did last night and in the bright, fluorescent shop lights I'm able to take in a few details I missed before. His nail polish is chipped like he chews on it, and the leather necklace he's wearing looks aged, like he's had it his whole life.

Did I tell Milo I worked here last night? I can't remember, but I don't think so. It's possible he found my Instagram—that definitely wouldn't have been hard.

His eyes focus on me after a second and the stiff set of his jaw and shoulders softens. He blinks a few times like he can't believe he's seeing me, and his lips part in a look of surprise. I cock my head and furrow my brow.

"Are you…" I trail off, aware of the weight of several sets of eyes on me. I couldn't give less of a fuck if they all know I met Milo last night, but it feels like something weird is going on that I haven't quite put my finger on yet.

Milo clears his throat.

"Here to meet with Kaden Hainey." He bites his lip and fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt, then clears his throat again. "Hero," he says.

My frown deepens and I feel like a real-life version of the meme of the woman trying to do complicated math. No one calls Hero by his real name. I don't think it's even on his Instagram, and I know it's not listed on the shop's website.

The heavy clomp of Hero's boots sounds against the tile floor behind me and I look over my shoulder to see him coming out of the back room. I've been looking at Hero every day for nearly fifteen years now, not really paying much attention to his features, but all of a sudden I'm noticing the shape of his eyes and mouth. I whip my head back around towards Milo again, needing to confirm what I'm seeing.

Nope, I'm not imagining it. Same shaped eyes, same whiskey color, same over-full upper lip.

My stomach drops and my heart breaks into an all-out sprint, flailing wildly against my rib cage like a trapped bird.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

MILO

The last thing I expected was to walk into Ink Slingers and end up face-to-face with Piston. For a second, I thought I was daydreaming. It certainly wouldn't be the first time I spent so much time thinking about someone that I started seeing them everywhere. It would have been a record for me to fixate that hard in just twelve hours though.

It also doesn't help that my eyes are burning from lack of sleep, and I'm so fucking jittery I'm pretty sure the Uber driver who dropped me off thought I was tweaking. My gaze darts from Piston to Hero and my heart lodges itself in my throat. It's him. My mom told me a hundred times before I packed up my shit and hopped on a bus to Wisconsin that she wasn't sure Kaden was my dad, but looking at him now, there isn't a doubt in my mind.

Sure, he looks like a certified badass with a full beard and biceps bigger than my head, both of his arms covered in colorful tattoos. But I can see a dozen small things that match what I see in the mirror every morning. He's my dad.

My fingers feel numb. I flex them, trying to get some feeling back, trying really damn hard to ignore the curious stares I'm getting from the other artists in the shop. I can still feel Piston's eyes on me too, and I want to say something to him, I really do, but I can only deal with so many things at once. The only thing keeping me from crawling out of my skin right now is the fuzzy feeling in my brain thanks to the stimulant I took before leaving the motel. I hardly ever bother with my prescribed meds because most days I don't necessarily want to feel calm and peacefully drowsy, but this morning it was definitely necessary.

I swallow hard and take a step forward, forcing what I hope is a relaxed smile.

"Hero?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

He gives me a friendly smile in return, nods, then jerks his head to the side.

"Yeah. You must be Milo. Come on up and have a seat so we can chat about what you have in mind."

My knees are quaking, but somehow, I manage to do just that. The fact that I don't stumble over the step up to the elevated level is a minor miracle of its own. It's a short walk to the spot he gestured to, but along the way I find the time to twirl a strand of hair around my finger and then tuck it behind my ear, tuck then untuck my shirt, momentarily forget the normal way to swing my arms when I walk, and finally trip over my own feet right as I reach the chair. Luckily, I manage to fall into the chair itself rather than face planting on the floor.

Hero catches me with a steadying hand on my way down, so I can't even play it off like I didn't trip. My face heats and I huff out an anxious laugh.

"Let me guess, this is your first ink?" He gives me an understanding look, and for a second, I swear I'm eight years old, daydreaming about my dad coming along to save me from my mom's endless impulsive decisions.

I bob my head and swallow hard again.

I practiced this whole thing in my head a thousand times, but now that I'm here in front of him, I can't remember a single thing I wanted to say. My tongue feels too big to even fit in my mouth, let alone form any words.

My eyes wander over to where Piston is sitting, slouched in his rolling chair with his feet up on the one meant for his clients. His head is dipped, and it looks like he's drawing, but his gaze flickers up to meet mine just long enough to let me know he's still paying attention to me. I'm not sure if that's comforting or not. I didn't expect to do this with an audience, let alone right in front of the guy I was kind of hoping to take another shot at having sex with.

Fuck, he must think I'm such a little kid right now, watching me practically fall apart meeting my dad. Especially after I brought him back to my motel last night and didn't do anything except make out with him like we're a couple of teenagers. Ugh, focus. One problem at a time, Milo.

"That's no problem. We love a virgin around here," Hero says with a wink. My stomach twists and my face flames again before I remember he's talking about tattoos.

I let out a weak laugh.

"I drew up a few rough ideas based on what you described in your email. Let me show you what I've got."

He swivels away to grab his digital sketch pad, and I tap my foot anxiously against the floor, and some of the rough versions of my speech start to echo through my mind.

Do you know a woman named Emily O'Malley…

It's been over twenty-eight years, I doubt he remembers the name of a one-night stand when he was just a teenager himself.

Hey, funny story…

God no, too flippant.

Have you ever wished you had a son?

Ha, way to set myself up for rejection before I can even get the rest of it out.

He spins back to me and turns his sketch pad towards me. I don't even look at it, still stuck staring at him, too many things running through my head at once. So much for the Adderall fog I was riding before.

"So, I was thinking I could—"

"I'm your son." The words fly out of my mouth and it's like a full-on record scratch moment. Everything goes silent: the music, the buzzing of tattoo needles. I'm pretty sure everyone else is holding their breath. I know I definitely am.

His mouth falls open just a little and his eyebrows pull together.

"You're…" His throat bobs with his own hard swallow, and I nod.

"Your son," I say again.