Mad Dog
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Ophelia Bell
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1: Chapter One
Maddox
âYou ever been in love, Mad Dog?â
Iâm mid-tattoo, my machine buzzing in my hand, when Leo asks this question. Heâs facedown in my tattoo chair, a pillow clutched in his arms.
The question catches me off guard and I pause, lifting the needle and glancing at his profile. My heart thumps because the first thing I think is that somehow heâs read my mind. Somehow heâs figured out the reason I look forward to our Saturday-night tattoo sessions.
He shifts sideways a fraction and twists his head to look at me. A coiled lock of his crazy black hair falls across his forehead and he expels a breath through his mouth to blow it off. Is now the time to come clean about how I feel? But I rein in the split-secondâand suicidalâimpulse.
Instead, I let out a grunt and shake my head. âLove is fucking dangerous in this town, man. Why? You have something you need to get off your chest?â
Iâve been doing this job for long enough to know questions like his are usually a prelude to deeper confessions. I donât really want to know his answer, but our friendship is more important to me than petty jealousy. I canât have him. Heâs straight. Iâm not. End of discussion. I should at least let him know that detailâweâve been friends going on a year nowâbut I canât bring myself to confess it without opening the floodgates to deeper shit. Being queer in gangland is bad for your health, so Iâll just sit on my feelings and deal.
He sighs, then buries his face back in the pillow. I get back to the tattoo. âYou know this is a no-judgment zone. Tell me about her.â
Whatever he has bottled up inside must be pretty intense because his shoulders tighten up hard as rocks. He gives his head a frustrated jerk, groans, then lets his body relax as he surrenders, and I brace myself to be the recipient of whatever secret heâs finally allowed himself to spill.
âI shouldnât even fucking look at this girl. Her fatherâs a goddamn killer. But I canât not, you know? Sheâs always there, and so pretty. Half of me wonders if the reason I want her is âcuz I know I canât have her. Thatâs a thing, isnât it?â
I make a low hum of understanding. âLa douleur exquise.â
âI forgot your mom is French. What does it mean?â
âItâs like what you said. âExquisite painââbecause you want it so much it hurts, but not even that hurt will make you stop wanting it. I was hung up on a girl in high school, and when it became crystal clear I couldnât have her, Mom taught me that phrase.â
Leo snorts into the pillow. âExquisite pain. Like getting tattoos, huh?â
âYeah, except you actually get to keep the tattoo.â
Heâs silent for a few minutes, and I keep inking his skin, absorbing the irony of that old memory popping up at the exact moment Iâm yearning for Leo while heâs feeling the same about some girl.
His tension returns to a point I canât ignore and I pause again, swiping a damp paper towel over the growing swath of fresh ink on his back. âWhoever she is, sheâs got you tied up in some serious knots. Maybe you need to distance yourself from her for a while.â
âNot an option.â He clutches the pillow a little tighter, and his gaze cuts sideways to me. âThereâs something you oughta know about me. About who I work for. La Valla is only part of it.â
The gang he belongs to isnât unfamiliar. In the year since I opened this shop, my clientele has largely consisted of members of La Valla, including Leo Reyes and his older brother, Manny, who are the shot callers for the gang. They were my first clients from the darker side of Los Angeles. They even tried to recruit me to join and become their in-house tattoo artist, but I turned them down. Not that it wasnât tempting. The offer was sweet, and Iâm not above exploring a few moral gray areas to make money, but after a decade in the military, I value my newfound independence too much to sign on for something like that. But if thereâs more to his world than La Valla, I definitely want to hear.
âIâm listening.â
He turns a little farther so he can look me in the eyes. I meet his gaze but say nothing. I donât know what heâs about to tell meâitâll probably be less of a shock to me than he thinksâbut he will always have my full attention when he wants it.
âManny and I work for Arturo Flores. La Valla answers to him.â
A trickle of cold dread washes down my spine. Itâs impossible to play off my reaction, and Leo gives me a rueful smile.
âYeah, so if you want to just show me out, I understand.â
I take a breath and force my clenched jaw to relax. I shake my head and motion for him to roll back over so we can get back to work. âHow long?â
He settles his cheek against the pillow, one eye still on me as if he worries I might bolt at any second. âFive years. Weâre his enforcers under Gustavo, his lieutenant. But several years back, he started hiring me and Manny as bodyguards for his daughter sometimes too. Turns out, there were people trying to get to him through her. Someone tried to kidnap her one night, so itâs good we were there.â
Iâm fairly certain I know where this is going, and my head is spinning from the revelation. Memory flashes of a pretty, hazel-eyed girl, her face one thatâs been etched on my mind since I was sixteen. La douleur exquise indeed.
âIs she okay?â I ask before I can stop myself. But Iâm no stranger to how closely Flores protects whatâs his. If Leo had failed to keep Arturoâs daughter safe, he wouldnât be here to tell me this story right now.
He laughs. âYeah, she was fine. I wasnât. Not after seeing her take down the bastard who was after her before Manny or I could even get to him. She knows how to handle a pistol better than I do.â
âSheâs her fatherâs daughter.â Somehow itâs easy to picture Celeste pulling a trigger and putting a bullet through someoneâs skull.
âIâm crazy to want her, I know. Men who get close to her tend to disappear. But itâs my goddamn job. And whatâs worse is that Mannyâs with her best friend, Toni, now. Itâs serious between the two of them, so all bets are off on me ever getting any breathing room. Your fucking needles are easier to handle.â
I latch on to that new detail, grateful for an excuse to change the subject finally. âToni, as in Toni Valentine, right?â I donât even care that itâd be a stretch for an average person to know of Celesteâs connection to the celebrity tattoo artist from San Diego. Iâm intrigued, but even more grateful for the diversion so I can focus on my work for a change.
It works, thank fuck, and Leo relaxes as he dives into stories about his brotherâs pursuit of the gorgeous artist who has risen in prominence in my world over the past few years. I have deep respect for the place Toni has carved for herself in the tattooing community, but itâs my younger brother, Sam, whoâs the true fan.
After another hour of tattooing, a chime sounds from one of Leoâs pockets. His broad shoulders twitch beneath my needles and I sit back, eyeing him in irritation. âIf you need a break, just say so. Youâd think Papa Flores himself was about to walk through my door.â
He lifts up and fishes into his pocket to look at his phone, then puts it back. He turns his head, his mane of black curls a halo around his face. His dark eyes squint, and his lips twist in a grimace I doubt has anything to do with the tattoo. âYou have no idea how close you are, man. Gustavoâs at the club tonight. That text was a warning from Benny that the fuckerâs headed this way now. Heâs such a fucking glory hog.â
âShit,â I growl, my pulse picking up. Gustavo is the same thug who took a set of brass knuckles to my face more than a decade ago to teach me a lesson, and Iâm not exactly keen on seeing him again.
I block out the boisterous voices approaching my shop outside and motion for Leo to lie flat, as if all that bothers me is the interruption. Getting this thing finished is the only goal I have for the evening, though Iâd hoped for a quiet night.
I swipe a damp paper towel over his skin, unwilling to lose focus. I have the man at my mercy rarely enough as it is.
He flexes his shoulders once before relaxing. An elaborate lion spans his back, clinging to him by its claws. Its tail curls down past his hip and ends at the top of one ass cheek. The details are rendered in geometric shapes rather than smoother shading. Itâs probably the most intricate tattoo Iâve ever done, and itâs going to be a masterpiece once itâs complete.
Itâs my turn to be too tense to focus now that I know whoâs about to visit my shop. I routinely ask the most dangerous men in LA to strip for me, then photograph them to hang on my wall. So I shouldnât flinch when one is about to pop in. I have armor now after spending four consecutive tours in Afghanistan. I came home with a medal and an abundance of scars to show for it. Yet where is that armor now?
âYou gonna hang me on your wall up there when this is finished?â Leo asks when I shake off the fear as best I can and settle back down, pressing the needles to his skin.
âMaybe if you ever let me finish this damn thing,â I mutter. His crazy hair obscures the side of his face, but I catch his mouth curving into a smile. Heâd like that, egotistical bastard that he is, but I donât think Iâll hang photos of him for the world to see. I might just keep this one to myself. Of all the subjects who might grace the walls of my shop, Leo Reyes is the one I want most to bare his body for me.
The noises from outside the shop grow louder. My stomach clenches, and I take a deep breath to tamp down the rising agitation. I donât like crowds as a rule, but even if they come in, my actual studio space is walled off from the windows that look out onto Wilshire Boulevard.
Saturday nights on Wilshire are never peaceful. At least half a dozen different nightclubs and dive bars surround me within a mile radius, and despite my policy of not tattooing inebriated knuckleheads, they still gravitate to my doorstep.
Tonight, the bell over my door jingles and my spine prickles with tension. Loud howls carry through from outside. Soon the space is filled with Spanglish smack talk, though thereâs less cursing than usual. If I had to guess from the voices, there are at least half a dozen people crowding in.
A knock sounds on the wall just outside the room weâre in, and Sam peeks through the bat-wing doors. âHey, bro, youâve got another client.â He looks agitated, and I narrow my eyes at him. His big gray eyes belie an innocence the eighteen-year-old lost years ago under our fatherâs fists.
I shake my head, opting to behave as if itâs business as usual and the right hand of LAâs most notorious crime lord didnât just walk through my doors. âNo fucking way thereâs a man out there sober enough to sit tonight. Read them the rules and tell them to come back tomorrow, Sammy.â
âI think you should tell him yourself,â Sam says. âHe doesnât look like the kind of guy who takes no for an answer. But itâs not him Iâm talking about. Thereâs a woman. Someone I think you know.â
Leo rolls onto his side. âDid you say thereâs a woman with him? Curvy girl with big, pretty eyes?â Sam nods, and Leo curses. âThat dick just came to fuck with me. Let me handle him.â His face turns grim, and he slips off the chair. He reaches for his shirt, and I stop him.
âWeâre not done tonight, Leo. What happened to powering through?â
âIâm not leaving. He is.â
Shirt in hand, he strides through the doors, and I strip off my gloves and follow. Based on the hard set to Leoâs jaw and the way his knuckles turn white around his shirt, Iâm about to witness a fight. Iâve never seen him this pissed and have a suspicion itâs less about Gustavo than whoever he brought with him.
When I round the corner, the posse of gangbangers is right where I expected them. Leo is eye to eye with a polished, forty-something man in a designer suit standing at the counter. Leoâs pointing in the manâs face, yelling in Spanish so vehemently my brain canât translate fast enough. All I manage to pick up is what a reckless asshole Leo thinks the man is for bringing this mysterious woman into my shop.
I almost donât recognize Gustavo Delgado. Heâs aged well since the last time I saw him, but the shine on his cufflinks canât disguise the rough edges underneath. A small pachuco cross on his left hand gives him away as another gangbanger, even if his clothing has elevated him to a stature not many men like him ever achieve. Gustavo is the man who carries out the will of his master with the brutal efficiency of a trained attack dog. His eyes are black and intense, and when I appear, he whistles sharply. The other men go silent, and a few of them slip back outside and disappear.
The real shock is the sight of the curvy goddess who stands a few feet away, staring daggers into Gustavoâs back.
Her gaze shifts to Leo, pausing long enough that I don't miss the way her expression softens and she almost smiles. Then she looks at me, the smile disappears, and her hazel eyes go wide. Her lips form my name without a sound. Still, I hear her voice in my head, and I mouth her name too: Celeste.
Gustavo sneers at Leo, turns, and grabs Celeste by the arm, yanking her toward the door. A split second later the room erupts into chaos as Leo lunges at Gustavo, fists flying.
