“Relax and it’ll go easier,” he says.
“This is a testament to how much I trust you, you know.”
“I get it, but I’m serious. You’re clenched so tight you’re going to hurt yourself. What do I need to do, sing you a fucking lullaby?”
Before I can tell him to spare me, he launches into a perfectly pitched rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” which has the desired effect. I’m too stunned by his pretty voice to remember he’s digging needles into my ass. Instead, the lyrics evoke an image of Celeste, and my insides erupt in molten turmoil over how I’ve felt about her for months. Halfway through the song, it hits me that he’s probably singing about her. How could he not be after the story he just told me? And I can’t help but wonder how many times over the past decade he might have sung this song while thinking about their trysts. I would have.
The sense of brotherhood only grows, despite the fact that I hate him a little for the stolen moments he shared with her. Not a single man has gotten close enough to Celeste Flores to be considered her boyfriend in the entire time I’ve spent within her circle.
He finishes the song, and we say nothing for the rest of the evening. I doze off and on, my brain fabricating confounding images of the grown-up versions of Maddox and Celeste kissing, and I hate like hell how she looks at him, but I’d never come between them.
It’s close to midnight when his stool creaks and he leans back with a groan and a stretch.
“You know the drill,” he says after covering my tattoo and standing.
I follow him out to the front counter while slipping into my shirt. Sam’s conked out with his head on his arms, his sketchbook underneath his hands catching a puddle of drool that’s soaked into one of the pages. Maddox kicks the stool the kid rests on. “You’re up, ese.”
Sam’s head jerks up, and his gaze darts blearily around. “Time is it?”
“Time for you to clean. You wanted to learn what the job was like. This is part of it. I’ll settle up with Leo, then I’ll take you home.”
Sam looks like he wants to give his brother lip, then thinks better of it and trudges off. I peek at the sketchbook and my eyebrows shoot up. “Kid’s got talent. You going to put him to work with a tattoo machine?”
“He needs to make his own way. But we agreed that as long as he graduates high school next summer, he can spend evenings here learning the business side of things. After that, he needs to find someone else to take him on as an apprentice.”
I’m flipping through the sketches, page after page of mind-blowing artwork. “Why would you want to let this talent get away from you?” On the next page I pause, suppressing a laugh at the face that looks back at me. It’s my brother’s girlfriend in one of her publicity shots from the popular video blog she stars in. Looks like Sammy Santos has a little bit of a celebrity crush on Toni Valentine. No surprise there; Toni is as gorgeous as she is talented.
“Because he’s too fucking good. He’ll make me look bad.” Maddox chuckles, then shakes his head. “Nah, he’ll have more self-respect down the road if his big brother didn’t give him a handout. I don’t think he needs it anyway. If he stays here, I’ll always treat him like an employee, and that’s no environment for talent like that. If only he’d get his head out of his ass about school.”
“Some lessons a kid has to learn the hard way,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the designs as I keep flipping, but a thought occurs to me, and I go back to the drawing of Toni for a second before landing on the first drawing that caught my eye: one of an elaborate tree of life. “There’s another tattoo artist I know who’d jump at a chance to work with him. Mind if I snap a shot of this to share?”
Maddox shrugs. “It’s up to him. Hey, Sam! Leo has a friend who might want an apprentice.”
It takes the kid two seconds to appear like an eager pup with a big grin on his face. “Hell fucking yes! Anyone I know?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Why don’t we take it one step at a time here. I’ll share your art first, and we’ll go from there, all right?”
“Our deal still stands,” Maddox says in a stern voice to his brother. “You graduate first.”
“You got it, boss,” Sam says. I’m reminded of how Manny used to talk to me when I was younger. The difference is Manny joined a gang to help pay the rent our single mom couldn’t keep up with. He was desperate to keep me on the straight and narrow so I wouldn’t have to follow in his footsteps. The Santos brothers have two parents with good jobs as far as I can tell. His mom’s dance studio has been a fixture in the neighborhood for as long as I can remember, and his dad is career military—an aviation mechanic who takes assignments wherever and whenever he’s needed. Not exactly rolling in money, but they’re honest people who work hard for what they have. I doubt Manny and I will ever get out from under Papá Flores’ thumb. It’s the only world we know.
Yet to hear some of Mad Dog’s stories, it’s apparent his dad isn’t in the picture nearly as often as he should be, and when he is, they probably wish he weren’t. Maddox acts more like a father than a brother to Sam. Is he like this to his other three siblings? I’ve never met them, but I hear
