Chapter 1
Stitch
downed his third beer of the day and slammed the glass on top of his divorce papers.
“Another?”
asked his best friend, Captain, and Stitch squinted at him. He could never be
sure whether Captain was winking at him or just blinking. The perils of only
having one eye. It didn’t stop Captain from driving a bike like a madman or
being the VP of the club.
“Go
on, I earned it,” Stitch rasped and leaned his elbows on the greasy counter. He
could feel at home in the Hounds of Valhalla club bar. If worse came to worst,
he could always fall asleep in one of the guest rooms in the back and not have
to face going home. The Louisiana heat was getting to him today so he wore his
cut over naked skin, but in hindsight it hadn't been such a great idea, since
now the leather was sticking to his back.
It
was a busy Friday night, and the bar was full. Most of the patrons were local
so Stitch knew them one way or another, with a few outsiders sprinkled all over
the large room. During public parties like this one, Valhalla catered to
everyone, from old friends, gathered in comfortable booths, to the crowd that
spent their time at the counter, to the drunken dancers by the pool table. It was more crass than class, but to Stitch
it felt like home, from the beat-up counter to the small room in the back where
Stitch had fucked a girl for the first time. Good times.
Captain
poured Stitch some whiskey and grinned, rubbing down his black beard into a
more sensible shape. “One down, brother. You’ll find yourself a better woman.”
“Of
course I will. Not a cheating slut like Crystal.” Stitch sipped his liquor with
a frown.
“You
fancy any of the pussy by the pool table?” Captain gestured toward the
ever-present crowd of hangarounds in sparse clothing. The pool table was off
limits on Fridays, unless you were a member of the Hounds of Valhalla. Or a hot
bitch.
Stitch
followed his friend's nod (to keep up appearances), but he looked right past
the girls. He was not dipping his dick in that lot again. Not to mention that
none of the girls were even his type. Most of the ones that were in today were
cute blondes, like they got the wrong bar or something. That was what drew him
to Crystal in the first place, she was all tats and rock ‘n’ roll.
“Nah,
I’ll pass.” Stitch downed his whiskey and tried to pretend he didn’t see any of
the direct looks from the pool table. The sudden spike in interest could only
mean one thing: they all knew he was back on the market. “Where’s the rum,
Captain?” he said, but his mouth remained open when someone new walked into the
bar and stopped at the door, looking around as if he had lost his way. The
dimmed, blue light made all the tattoos on the stranger’s arms pop out
immediately, and while Stitch couldn’t see what the patterns were, the ink was
dense, mostly black and white.
The
man was tall enough to stand out in the crowd, slim but toned. He walked
through the bar with a self-assured sway, looking like a character from a
futuristic movie. Stitch didn’t know where that comparison came from because
the guy wore a simple outfit consisting of narrow pants stuck into knee-length
combat boots, and a tank top, but he did look like an outsider in the
old-school biker bar. His hair was pitch-black, with shaved sides and the long
strands at the top of his head gathered into a ponytail. There was a sly smile
tugging at the corners of his lips as he approached Stitch of all people.
A
silly grin surfaced onto Stitch’s face like a dead body floating in the bayou.
That would be his choice of ‘pussy’ if he could have his way. He knew it wasn’t
gonna happen, yet he still straightened up on the bar stool far too small to
properly hold his bulky body and turned to the stranger. The man was first to
speak, but he looked past Stitch as if he were made of glass.
“Hi,
how are you doing?” he asked in a rich, velvety voice, reaching out to shake
the hand of Joe, one of the Hounds of Valhalla’s prospects, currently serving
at the bar. He had short, blond hair and a small gap between his front teeth.
Stitch always saw him as a younger brother he never had.
Joe
smiled at the tattooed man and shook his hand. “What can I get you?”
Stitch
never took his eyes off the stranger, now even more set on getting his
attention. The newcomer had large, expressive eyes the color of a cloudless
summer sky and a heavy brow line over a firm, straight nose and pale, wide
lips. It was a handsome face, yet it somehow made Stitch think of a malevolent
spirit, which could be due to the piercings on his face. There were two balls
on either side of his nose between the eyes, a small ring with a purple ball in
his septum, and then a piercing in his left brow, and a round metal hoop
circling the mid-point of his bottom lip. In contrast to the moderate size of
those were thick spirals plugged into the flesh of the man’s earlobes,
stretching them over their normal capacity.
“A
beer would be nice,” said the stranger with a grin. “Listen, I’m new in town.
Do you think it needs its own tattoo studio?”
A
drop of sweat trailed down Stitch’s spine and into the back of his pants like
an invisible hand.
“Get
the man a beer, Prospect.” Stitch waved a hand at Joe, never taking his eyes
off the hot, tattooed flesh. There were so many designs on the stranger’s skin
that Stitch wasn’t sure which ones to focus on. “You should ask someone who’s
actually inked, not baby boy Joe.”
“Oh
yeah?” The stranger’s blue eyes were on him immediately, but they soon trailed
lower, and Stitch felt heat rise in his chest under the skull and fire tattoos
the guy was looking at. “And I suppose that would be you?”
“Yeah,
I know a lot of guys who’d like to visit a good ink pusher. And I suppose that
would be you?” Stitch smirked and couldn’t help but flex his stomach muscles.
The
guy gave him a crooked smile, still looking down at Stitch’s chest, but then
raised his gaze and offered his hand. “I’m Zak.”
“Stitch.”
He shook Zak’s hand with a smile, making sure not to hold it too long. Joe put
a beer on the counter, and Captain passed Stitch a glass of rum that smelled
like catnip for pirates.
“Oh,
I know a tattoo Stitch needs to cover up!” Captain chuckled. Stitch frowned,
knowing exactly what his friend meant and imagining ways in which he could
scalp Captain’s black, furry head for mentioning the unmentionable.
Zak
raised his brows and gathered the bottle in his hand, tapping it with a whole
array of heavy signets. “Confess.”
Stitch
had some rum and poked Captain’s ribs so hard the guy yelped. “Okay, okay.
Prospect, out,” he ordered Joe, and the guy walked to the other side of the bar
to bother other customers. Stitch got up from the stool and stole a second of
breaking into Zak’s personal space before circling the bar and gesturing for
Zak to follow. It was good to have free access, it made him almost feel as if
he were the sole owner of the whole place. “I got divorced today, you see. So I
need to get rid of a love crime.”
“Sounds
interesting.” Zak marched behind him, and Stitch noticed that the handsome
newcomer was even a bit taller than him. As soon as they disappeared behind the
counter, the man leaned in, flooding Stitch with the smell of a musky, fresh
cologne. “Is it on your dick?”
Stitch
snorted and winked at Captain. “Nah, almost.” Stitch opened the big skull
buckle on his belt and went on to unzip his jeans. He was trying not to get too
excited and not being alone with the guy was helping him keep his cool. This
was probably as close as his dick would come to Zak anyway.
“So,
what do you want to get?” asked Zak, loud enough for Stitch to hear his voice
through the noise.
“I
haven’t thought it through yet.” Stitch pulled his pants down low enough to
expose the ink on the inner side of his hip, next to his pubes. He took out his
cell phone and turned the screen on to illuminate the tat for Zak, who
unceremoniously scooted down. It brought him face to face with Stitch’s crotch,
and made Stitch’s heart stop, even if for a brief moment.
“Yeah,
that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Captain
started laughing so hard that Stitch reached over the counter to smack the side
of his head. “Shut it!”
“Sorry,
man. It just looked like--”
“I
know what it looked like,” Stitch growled and looked down to Zak. “Good. I’ll
make an appointment then,” he tried to talk without slurring and pulled up his
pants.
Zak
got to his feet, unfazed by the mocking and produced a card, which he passed to
Stitch. “Have a look at my portfolio first.”
“I
will. But anything will be better than that fucking name on there. I’d rather
have Captain’s face inked.” Stitch pointed at his friend with a scowl. A
massive one eyed bastard with an eye patch, black beard, and a mess of hair.
Yep, he’d still prefer that broken-nosed mug to Crystal’s name. Stitch buckled
up his belt and walked out from behind the counter.
“A
picture of devotion,” chuckled Zak, following him. “Are you somehow associated
with this bar?”
“Pop
quiz. What’s this place called?” Stitch plopped his ass back on the stool and
took the glass of rum in hand.
Zak
blinked. “Valhalla.”
Stitch
turned around in the seat, to present the back of his cut. He was always proud
to show it off. It had their patch with ‘Hounds of Valhalla’ over a dog's head
sticking out of the triangular Valknut symbol. A hound with more teeth than any
animal should have in their jaw. “You could say we’re all… shareholders.” He
took another sip of rum and clinked with Captain’s glass.
Zak
crooked his head. “In that case, I guess my fate is in both of your hands, gentlemen,”
he said with a widening grin. “Could I leave my leaflets, and a poster? I run
the studio in my home.”
“Sure.”
Stitch patted the counter. “Do I get a divorce discount?”
Zak
chuckled and bit his lip, watching him with small wrinkles of humor appearing
in the corners of his eyes. “If you promise to be my poster boy, I can do you
for free.”
“Hear
that, Stitch?” Captain snorted his rum. “You’re such a catch, he’ll do you for
free.”
Heat
travelled up Stitch’s chest and he avoided those big blue eyes. “Shut it, Cap,
unless you wanna lose your teeth. It’s my night tonight, remember?” he snarled
at Captain. The last thing he wanted was for Zak to get some stupid ideas. “If
it’s free, I’ll come round on Sunday. You better not be shit though.” Stitch
finally looked back up at Zak, but he found no trace of intimidation in the
handsome face.
“I’m
not,” Zak said, relaxed as ever.
“We’ll
see about that. Go on, leave the leaflets.” Stitch was looking forward to
seeing Zak walk out, just so he could ogle his ass in those tight pants.
Zak
gave him a firm pat on the arm. “I’ll get them from the car.” He nodded at
Captain and Joe, and turned around, beer in hand. It was a great ass. Round but
slim, underneath the black denim it seemed as firm as a newly put on tire.
Stitch
licked his lips, suddenly wishing he could do more than just watch that ass. “I
wanna see his ride, be right back,” he said to Captain and was already the wolf
following the black sheep.
Zak
jumped off the porch like a gazelle and made his way across the lawn, which
served as an impromptu parking lot. Stitch squeezed his hand into a fist,
spotting a car he hadn’t seen in town before. He couldn’t be certain as it was
dark, but it looked like a 1970s Chevy, matte black, with purple flames
scorching on its sides. If Satan drove a car, this would be it.
The
vehicle was so cool it even distracted Stitch from Zak’s ass. He strolled over
to the car’s side and scooted to have a better look at the paintwork.
There
was the sound of someone clearing his throat. “Can I help you?” asked Zak, and
all of a sudden, his gaze burned Stitch’s back. He couldn’t help a smirk as he
got up and turned around.
“Nice
ride.”
“Thanks.
A friend did it for me. Birthday gift.” Zak leaned against the car, his slim
body molding to the vehicle. With the streetlight close enough, Stitch could
take a better look at the beautiful ink. There were people in goggles and
fabric masks on one of Zak’s arms. They reminded Stitch of one of those medical
horrors, where a character is being experimented on by mad surgeons, and the
sight alone was enough to give him a little chill. On the other bicep was a
whole array of pills and syringes floating around a man in a straitjacket who seemed
to cower in a corner, but what really drew in Stitch’s attention was a sentence
inked in bold letters over Zak’s collarbone.
He
walked up closer and had a better look at it. “‘Don’t talk to strangers’,” he
read it outloud and poked it. “You don’t follow your own advice.”
Zak
chuckled and looked down to the finger at his neck. “I know. And that’s what I
get. A big bad biker crouching next to my car.”
Stitch
pulled back his finger. Too much
touching. Yet the guy didn’t seem scared. “Is there a story behind it? A
warning to yourself or to others?”
Zak
shrugged, watching Stitch with a sly smile. “It’s something I heard a lot as a
kid. And incidentally it’s also the title of the first chapter in my favorite
book. All of my tattoos are inspired by it.”
“Oh
yeah? What book is that?” Stitch stroked the back of the car in a way he wanted
to move his hand over Zak’s inked skin.
“You
heard of The Master and Margarita?
It’s about demons throwing Stalin’s Moscow into chaos, and there is a romantic
plot, between the Master and Margarita, obviously.” He sighed, moving his hand
over the side of the car, toward where Stitch was keeping his.
Goose
bumps broke out all over Stitch’s skin. He had no idea what book Zak was
talking about or why would he be interested in a romance with demons in
communist Moscow, but Zak could tell him it was a story about a horse
shapeshifter in North Korea and it would be just as interesting. “So what do
you like about it? And what happens when you talk to strangers?”
Zak
relaxed even further against his car, and the more Stitch was looking at him,
the more he liked his handsome, but somehow cocky face. “Well, it was a play on
the fact that everyone felt watched and spied on at the time, but in the actual
chapter, this guy meets a foreigner, who’s actually the devil. They talk, and
the foreigner reveals that the Russian guy’s gonna die. It’s not atheist and
rational, so the guy doesn’t believe Satan and then dies a page or so later. He
slips on some oil, and a streetcar cuts his head off,” Zak said with a wide
smile.
“And
the moral is: don’t talk to strangers?” Stitch chuckled. “Nothing happens to
the devil though?”
Zak
stepped closer and poked his long finger against Stitch’s ribcage. “Duh, he’s
the devil. He saves the Master.”
Stitch’s
cock felt a surge of excitement at the touch so he backed off, pretending he
wanted to have a better look at the hood of the car. “You not afraid to talk to
a devil?” Stitch looked into Zak’s eyes.
“Nah,
the devil’s fair. It’s the people around you who grasp you at the throat and
don’t want you to overstep some preset boundaries. That’s what this book is
about for me.”
“Sometimes
the devil has boundaries as well…” Stitch cocked his head to the side, not sure
anymore what this conversation was about and wondering whether maybe he should
end it.
“Does
he?” Zak’s teeth sank into his bottom lip, and he moved back to the trunk.
“He’s the devil,” he said, opening the door.
Stitch
played with his signets. “I suppose he should act any way he wants to then…”
Zak
pulled out a block of fliers and shut the trunk, making his way to Stitch.
“That would be my actual motto.”
“Maybe
I shouldn’t talk to strangers then.”
Stitch held out his hand, and Zak placed the papers on top of his outstretched
palm.
“So
far so good.” Zak smiled at him, and the silence became strangely long.
Stitch
swallowed. “So… yeah, be good Zak, don’t talk to strangers.” He took the
leaflets and turned around before the rum in his veins could push him to do
something rash. Something was off and he couldn’t pinpoint it.
He
walked straight into the bar without looking back, in case Zak would hold his
gaze again in this chilling yet blood-warming way. Captain hadn’t moved a
muscle since Stitch last saw him, but took the top leaflet as soon as Stitch
placed the pile on the counter.
“So,
how’s his ride?”
“Cool.
It’s this repainted old Chevy.”
Captain
looked at the leaflet, and then suddenly slapped Stitch’s arm. “I thought he
was gonna go down on you back then.” He pointed behind the bar counter.
Stitch
groaned. “Come on, the guy seems all right.” Yet he couldn’t shake the weird
vibes he got from Zak.
“A
bit of a weirdo though. What’s he doing in Lake Valley of all places?” Captain
downed his liquor. “It might be different where he comes from, but he should be
more careful, you know what I’m saying?” he asked, lowering his heavy eyelids.
Stitch
took a deep breath. “Yeah. I can see he’s just clueless, but some people might
not get his jokes.”
Captain
emptied the small bottle of whiskey into his glass and tapped it with his thick
fingers. He turned his head away, so Stitch found himself facing the eyepatch
with the club symbol. “You heard what happened to a fag biker over in Edmonton?
I have a friend in The Rippers.”
Stitch
had to use all of his drunken self-control not to sneer. He didn’t wanna hear
it. “What?”
Captain
gave him a wide grin. “The guys wanted to teach him a lesson, and they overdid
it a bit. After being dragged behind a bike, naked, any man would lose interest
in riding. He’s got no skin on his ass now, that must be tough luck for a fag.”
“Yeah.”
Stitch pushed away the empty glass and took the whole bottle of rum. This was
not going to be him. He knew to keep it in his pants. He didn’t even feel all
that gay anyway. “He knew what he was going into. Rippers don’t fuck around.”
“Yeah,
fuck him. Better tell your new friend to behave when you visit him on Sunday.
Some people won’t get his sense of humor.” Captain shrugged and sipped the
whiskey with a self-satisfied smile.
Stitch
snorted. “I’ll tell ‘im while he’s looking at my dick. He's not from around
here. Has to settle in.” He kept quiet for a while, just enjoying the jukebox
music in the background and drinking his rum. “You know that Rippers guy? How
did they find him out?”
Captain
put the glass back on the counter. “This guy I know said somebody saw him
fucking a guy in a shitter at a gas station. If you ask me, he had it coming.”
Stitch
nodded and looked to the door when tattooed hunk Zak walked back in.
So off limits.
