Inked In (Tattooed Love)

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Inked In copyright @ 2014 by Tamara Knowles. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Ink
ed In

The motorcycle underneath Miranda roared to life, as the rumble from the engine reverberated through her body. As always, it sent waves of warmth through her body. If given a choice, she would much rather straddle her hog than any man, though plenty of men had tried to prove that they were better than the beast. Everything about her bike enlivened her senses. The way the metal gently bit into her bare thighs and the warm leather of the seat caressed her backside was better than any lover could be.

The wild, open road was in front of her, free to be explored by anyone brave enough to take it on. Miranda slid a tube of red lipstick over her bottom lip, then donned a pair of sunglasses. She was a nomad, a drifter. She was unshackled by society, by a husband, by anyone. Her motto was
Live free, or not at all
. It was even tattooed on her lower back in lacy lettering.

Miranda cranked back the throttle and her hog bucked and kicked underneath her. The vibrations sent shooting sensations between her legs, as warm tingles radiated to her thighs. Then, off she went, into the breaking dawn. There was nothing but asphalt and desert for the next hundred miles, just how she liked it.

The bike show was in Black Hills, Nevada this year. Bikers from all over the States would be there. It was the biggest biking venue in America and boasted the best barbeque, the coldest beer, and the coolest tattoos. The promises of fun and fortune were the only way you could get a biker to sit still that long.

For Miranda though, it wasn't about the event itself, she had a job to do. Even she wasn't free, not completely. Her lifestyle required a reliable source of income, and a hefty one. So for the past six months, she had been working as an assistant at a tattoo parlor called
The Bandit's Hideaway
. She hated having a boss, but secretly loved the work. There was something about fresh ink and smooth skin that really got her motor running. She loved watching the needle bury itself into bronzed skin, over and over. It was so satisfying and sexual for her.

Miranda did the body sketches, so the artist could ink it in. In her time at the parlor, she had run her hand over more than a few chiseled bodies. As the road rushed by, she couldn't help but keep thinking about the last man she had sketched on. He wore a long, leather jacket, with nothing but his bare chest underneath, revealing his bulging muscles. When he sat next to her, his rich, leathery scent nearly made her lose control. She remembered the way his tight jeans hugged up against his package. She had wanted desperately to run her hands down his abdomen and grab his thick member. That would have been what a real believer would have done. That would have been true freedom. Instead, Miranda had simply smiled vacantly and completed the sketch.

The man’s tattoo had been on his left peck, a cross with someone’s birth and death date. It must have been a friend. Memento tattoos were very common, yet Miranda could not forget this particular one or the broad, rugged man she drew it on. It was only at night, when she was all alone, that she could indulge in her fantasy of him.

Focus, Miranda
, she thought. This trip to the Hills wasn't for pleasure, but for business. The rally drew a big crowd, and the streets would soon be filled with drunken renegades, anarchists, and people who weren't afraid to indulge on impulse. The people at the rally allowed themselves to fulfill whatever whims crossed their minds. These were the kind of people tattoo parlors profited from, and the kind of people Miranda loved. They were modern day Sioux Indians. They rode around on steel horses through the plains, equipped with lash and leather. They followed the herd, whether it be beer or bison. No one could tell them where to go or what they know. It was the only lifestyle worth living, in Miranda's eyes. She truly believed that anything else would only be a lie.

When Miranda got to the rally, she planned to meet up with Todd. He was both her boss and her ex. Todd was a good-looking guy, if not a bit scrawny; but, he was a pretender. He didn't embrace the nomad's lifestyle, he didn't feel it in his heart. He simply put on the show. It was all about the money and the women to Todd. The tattoos for him were nothing more than profitable dried ink. For Miranda, they were reflections of the self, self-expression immortalized on the skin. Todd never understand that.

Miranda took the exit to Black Hills. She could already hear the distant roar of the motorcycles. Much like the Indian and the wolf, bikers usually hunted in packs. Some of the biggest tribes around were gathering here, assembled from every corner of America, to strip the land bare of all of its valuables.

Excitement began to build in Miranda, as she took the exit ramp into town. It had already begun. The city’s bars were packed to the brim with hundreds of steel steeds outside. The bikes often took up an entire parking lot because of their sheer number. An old man, a settler by the looks of his old Honda, was honking his horn angrily at two bikers perched lazily in the middle of the street, sipping beer in the desert sun.

“Get out of the way you damn fools!” the old man howled out of the car window. The settlers didn't like Miranda's kind because they scared them. But, this town belonged to the nomad now and for the next week. The old man was the fool, he should have escaped when he had the chance.

“Nice ride, old timer. You on your way to church?” one of the bikers asked. The other one laughed, draining the remnants of the beer in his hand. He then crushed the can and threw it at the old man's car.

“A tin can for the tin can,” he said, and the two howled with laughter. It irritated Miranda. The settlers never got along with the nomads, that was true, but that didn't mean they were at war. In fact, without the settlers, the nomads could not exist. The nomads needed the settlers to make the food and brew the beer. The nomads should show the settlers their due respect.

“Hey, morons! You think you're tough? Hassling the old man? Guess you're out here because the real men inside the bar kicked you out, huh? Looks like you thought you'd pick on someone more your speed!” Miranda shouted.

The two men looked at each other, then back to Miranda. “Why don't you mind your own business? You ain't even patched.” Patched was a term used by the nomads when they were initiated into a tribe. Once they went through the initiation process, they would get a patch sown onto their jacket; but, Miranda's was brand new, not even broken in yet.

“You know...” the other one grinned, displaying a row of yellow teeth. “A girl like you could get patched real easy. Maybe if you show me and my friend here a good time, we'll see what we can do,” the biker said with a chuckle.

Miranda laughed. “That's three minutes of my life I would never get back. Tell you what, if you go back inside and find me a real man, then I'll think about it. Until then, you're holding up traffic.”

The two bikers looked at her in shock. Even the old man was giggling in his Honda. “Bitch,” one of them muttered, as they moved aside.

“That's better,” Miranda said, cranking back the throttle. Nomads like them gave bikers a bad name, and all the patches, tats, and jackets in the world wouldn't change that.

***

“You're late!” Todd said with a grimace. “I told you to be here by nine sharp. Not whenever you feel like it.”

Miranda shrugged. “I got held up by a couple leather-clad clowns. They were blocking the road, nothing I could do.”

Todd examined her. She assumed he was trying to feel out whether she was lying or not. “Was it one of the Jackals?” he asked.

Miranda nodded. “Two of them actually. You know how they are. Bunch of hooligans.”

Todd shook his head. “Doesn't matter. They're good for business. This year I got prime time real estate, too. I got a podium between 5
th
and 7
th
Street. Right by the bar and the gas station. We can get them coming and going. I'm going to be rich by the end of this.”

Miranda was watching a group of bikers, as they rode into town. Their pack was high and tight, not a single bike strayed. It was an impressive formation. On the back of their jackets a picture of a tomahawk was stitched into the leather. The words,
The Braves,
were stitched over the top.

“Hey! Are you listening to me?” Todd demanded.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Yes, between 5
th
and 7
th
, rich, blah, blah. Where is this podium of yours anyway?”

“Already set up, no thanks to you. I have half a mind to fire you right here.” Todd remarked.

Miranda scoffed. “I'm the only help you've got.”

“That's the only reason I haven't,” he growled. “Now, get my needles disinfected and warm up the ink. I've got a local boy shaking a sign for me, so the business should be rolling in any minute now. Plus, we still have to get all of this stuff to 5
th
Street.”

“Okay, okay,” Miranda said, as she nodded.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man staring at her. He was tall, dark, and covered in leather from head-to-toe. The goggles over his eyes and the bandana over his mouth concealed his face. The light on the street had turned green, yet he was still staring at her. Then, he seemed to awaken, as if from a dream, and drove off. On his back, she saw the same stitching that she had seen earlier.
A stray Brave,
Miranda thought. She knew that only the chiefs rode at the back, so they could watch the pack.
I bet that strange man was the war chief of the Braves.

“Miranda!” Todd yelled. It was going to take all of her willpower not to kill him today...

***

It was a long day and Todd had been right. People were lined around the block, waiting for a shiny new tattoo to commemorate their visit to the rally at Black Hills. The sun was high and hot, making bodies sweaty. It was always more difficult to sketch on a sweaty body. Miranda had to dab, not wipe, the area repeatedly to prevent smudging and to make sure the sketch held. The work was hard, but gratifying. Miranda had a deep, carnal craving for tattooed skin. The black ink, the designs, the sculpted bodies they wrapped around, all of it made Miranda's insides quake with lust.

When Miranda finished her latest sketch, the man stood up and looked into the mirror. He examined the sketch, then frowned. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asked.

“What?” Miranda was confused.

“Well, I'm having second thoughts about this tattoo,” he said. “What if she leaves me, I'll be stuck with her forever.” The tattoo was a portrait tattoo of a woman, and Miranda had done many of them. Underneath the portrait were the words,
Love bound in blood
.

Miranda smiled. “So what? Tattoos are mementos, memories of your life. Don't think about it as if you are stuck with it or branded by her. Even if she leaves you, she was a part of your life, a big one by the looks of it. Think of it as paying homage to that part of your life. Tattoos tell a story, like a tapestry. When you die, all someone has to do is look at your tattoos to know what kind of person you were.”

The man looked at the sketch once more.

“Trust me,” Miranda said. “You always want to get it inked in, makes it more meaningful.” She meant every word.

The man nodded. “You're right. Pretty, too. If I didn't already have her, it would be your portrait on my arm right now.”

Miranda laughed. “She's lucky to have you.”

“Hope she feels the same way,” the man said with a grin, as he made his way to Todd. He would ink in the sketch for the man, making it forever a part of him.

***

The day dragged on, and it was already past seven; but, Todd refused to close down. As long as there was another customer, he wanted to continue on. Unfortunately for him, the light was getting scarcer as the sun went down, making it impossible to continue. Finally, with a deep sigh, Todd called it, telling Miranda to pack up the gear. She was relieved. Though the day had cooled down, she must have done over forty sketches, just today alone. They were going to be out here for two more days. If the customers kept up like they did today, she wasn't sure she'd have anything left in her by the end of the rally.