Page 74 of Caution to the Wind
“Speaking of, how do you plan to deal with this? Axe-Man doesn’t want you here. The rest of us don’t want you here because we know all you’ll bring is drama and painful memories to twogoodpeople who have already been through too much. Tell me I’m wrong.”
It was strange to hear him calledAxe-Man. I knew his club name was Axe back in Calgary, but I wondered at the new moniker and the distinction between the two. I also wondered if the Henning I knew existed within this Axe-Man everyone here seemed to know.
“I can’t promise there won’t be drama.” I knew Henning’s stubbornness because it so exactly matched my own. He wouldn’t let me waltz back into their lives without throwing up obstacles every two feet. “But I can promise I know when something is worth fighting for. I learned that the hard way, but I’m not stupid, and I’ve learned it now. Cleo is worth fighting for.”
“And Axe-Man?” she asked, flinging the words at me like daggers.
They slipped between my ribs and inflicted so much pain I almost lost my breath to them.
Anger surged in the wake of the pain, an instinctive, defensive response I’d honed since I was young. If I was threatened, I threatened back. But Bea knew that about me, it seemed. Knew enough to cast shade on my ability to be a soft place for the Axelsens to land in the rough wake of Cleo’s trauma.
I refused to prove her right even though a small, niggly thing at the back of my mind worried she was.
I tipped my chin and levelled her with a cool glare. “I’ll try to stay out of Henning’s way when I can. If he works or something, I’ll be here with Cleo when he’s gone and leave well before he gets home. I’m not here to hurt him anymore. I’m here to heal where––who––I can.”
Bea stared at me for a long moment, face perfectly implacable, before she looked away out the window to the gleaming blue-green lake the same colour as Henning’s eyes.
“I didn’t know his real name,” she murmured, almost to herself, a little grimace catching at the corner of her mouth.
I didn’t say anything. It didn’t surprise me Henning hadn’t shared. He’d never been much for conversation, and he was a loner by choice. Another reason I was surprised he’d joined up with the club again, let alone this chapter so infamous for its tight bonds.
“He’s always been the strong, silent type,” Bea continued softly, looking down at her hands as they smoothed over her swollen midriff. “I’ve been in this house hundreds of hours over the years, and I only know a handful of things about my best friend’s dad.” Her mouth twisted. “Now this has happened, and all we want to do is help them. Cleo and Axe-Man. Cleo, I can do.” She turned to face me again, eyes flashing with conviction. “I love her, and it doesn’t matter that you loved her first. I’m going to be here for her, too, so we’ll have to make our peace. Maybe together, we can bring her back to life.
“But Axe-Man? I don’t have a clue how to help him. A man like him whose daughter has been attacked and maimed right under his nose?” She shook her head and hissed in sympathetic pain. “I don’t have the first clue how to get him out from under that pain. All I do know is that word of his outburst at the hospital spread like rapid fire through our ranks, and based on that, it’s clear to me he hates you. And Axe-Man isn’t a man who emotes much, let alone like that. So you promise me you’ll stay clear of him as much as you can, or, Mei, friend of Cleo or not, I’ll have my man escort you out of town.”
Her smile was sinister. “And trust me, he’s a whole lot scarier and more convincing than me.”
“Are you done?” I asked mildly even though my hand trembled a little as I stroked Cleo’s hair.
Bea’s laughter was broken off at the ends, discordant notes struck on an out-of-tune piano. “Oh no, definitely not. We all know now that you’re the reason behind Axe-Man going to prison, so don’t expect a friendly welcome party. We’ll put up with you around Cleo, for her sake, but otherwise, you’re on your own.”
This time, it was me who laughed roughly, a cough that tasted of blood. Bea’s threat was no threat at all. I’d been on my own for so long I never hoped for anything else.
At least, not anymore.
AXE-MAN
I wasbent over Bat’s torso with a buzzin’ tattoo gun in my hand, finishin’ off the weepin’ angel in tribute to his recently deceased wife. I’d just shaded into the skin beneath the left side of his ribs when the chime over the doors sounded, followed by the click of expensive shoes across the wood floors.
Street Ink Tattoo Parlour was famous across the globe.
Mostly, this was ’cause Nova Booth, fellow brother in The Fallen MC, had a fuckin’ gift. The man could make even the lamest idea from a customer into pure art. It didn’t hurt he was easy on the eyes. The shop’s social media was filled with photos of him tattooin’ or in various states of undress to show off his own heavily inked, gym-toned body.
It was also because of his woman, Lila Meadows. I’d been around her the past five years, and none of that time had dulled the impact of her beauty. She just had that kinda strikin’, sensual, inherently womanly beauty that made your heart beat fast and your dick go hard. She’d become the face of Street Ink years ago when Nova first started tattooin’ all that deeply tanned gold flesh with dozens of flower-themed tattoos. Fans called her Flower Child, but Nova’d been the one to do it first. Now that Nova’d got his head outta his ass and they were finally together, blissfully, obviously so, their coupledom had brought Street Ink even more notice. Lila ran one of those couple’s accounts on social media that had over a million followers.
Third and final, though, was me.
Yeah, former military man, once doctor, Henning Axelsen was now a revered tattoo artist.
Who’da thought it?
The reputation I’d started to hone in Calgary meant nothin’ in prison because most of your life before the cage meant shit all inside. But Harper Correction Facility, where I’d spent three years of my five-year sentence before gettin’ paroled, was one of the five sites Corrections Canada chose for a pilot program that established roughshod tattoo parlours within the prison. As a doctor, I thought it was a clever way to reduce the aggressive spread of HIV and other infections. As a prisoner, I was fuckin’ thrilled.
Tattoos in prison were like patches for motorcycle clubs. Most inmates got them, even if they didn’t want them, so they could be associated on sight with their group. It was a form of protection, identification, and, in a place where self-expression was stifled practically to death, it was a way to remind yourself about who you were and what you stood for.
Of course, I signed up for work detail my first week in the joint, and thanks to Zeus’s connections greasin’ the wheels, I got one of those coveted spots.
We had old gear and few supplies, but the program was a fuckin’ hit, and we were busy every damn day. The skills I had as an artist and the time I’d spent at Battle Scars Ink meant I was the most in-demand artist in the place. Even though I’d been associated with a white motorcycle club, every inmate of every race came by to be inked by me.