Razor (Hounds of Hell MC 6)

Razor (Hounds of Hell MC 6)
Jamie Targaet
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Jamie Targaet

Deva

Zipping the front of her coat against the bitter cold wind of January, Deva Crane climbed out of her SUV. After slinging her backpack over one shoulder, she walked from where she parked behind the building. She and her brother Jackson had been lucky to have rented a space in the strip mall when they did. Theirs was a corner shop in a gritty, historic part of Mercy. Dark, graffiti-style art covered the outer wall of the building, perfect for their vibe. Decades of imagery and symbols decorated that wall conveying rebellion, strength, and transformation.

Deva and her brother, called Outcast by his biker brothers, had opened the shop three years ago. She was damned proud of what they’d built. The shop’s bold neon sign read “No Mercy Ink” in fiery red and cool white. She liked the way the sign caught people’s eyes on gray, rainy days, and the ominous light cast on the street outside at night. It had been her brother’s idea to tint the windows, and it was a good one. The lighting made the intricate tattoo designs they displayed there stand out, giving passersby a taste of the artistry within while maintaining privacy. A small wrought-iron bench sat out front under the old metal awning with a bucket that served as an ashtray, finishing the exterior -- an invitation to rest, get lost in thought, smoke a cigarette…

Deva unlocked the shop to get started with her day. As she flipped on the light, she smiled. Inside the shop was a weird mix of her style and her brother’s, like an odd cross between an art gallery and an old biker bar. The walls were painted in dark, muted tones of indigo and slate gray. There were metal accents and hints of exposed brick lending an authentically rough vibe to their studio. Framed tattoo flash, custom designs, and photos of some of their best works hung on the walls.

The waiting area in the front had metal stools and a weathered leather sofa bought from thrift stores. She placed their high-end aftercare products and branded merch in a glass display case there. No Mercy Ink was stamped on everything from leather jackets to T-shirts and trucker hats.

Their tattoo stations were further in, separated by worn steel dividers, offering their clients a little more privacy. There were three stations. One was hers, one was Jackson’s, and a third that she hoped to fill one day with another hired artist. They just needed to get their profit margin a little higher to finally pull that off. Each station had a tattoo chair, a tool cabinet, and an adjustable lighting rig. The workstations were well organized with tattoo machines, bottles of ink, and sterilized needles. The presentation was important to her because it showed their pride in their craft. Jackson usually kept his area bare bones, all except for a photo of a phoenix tattoo that he kept there. It was odd because she was pretty sure it wasn’t his work. Her station had warmer lighting and a few plants, reflecting her creative style.

Her goal had been to work on paying bills this morning, since she had no appointments scheduled today. Business off the street didn’t pick up until lunchtime or after. But suddenly the door sensor triggered the low rumbling sound of a chopper engine that Jackson assured her would be so cool. At first, she’d begrudgingly tolerated it. Over time, she came to love the rumble of the sensor. Still, Deva had to wonder who was there.

It was a familiar-looking young woman Deva couldn’t quite place, with long, red curls and big eyes who stood in the waiting area, looking more unnerved than excited. Her dark winter coat reached her knees and had a faux fur-lined hood that she eased back. A tattoo virgin? Deva smiled when the woman’s gaze found her.

“Hi, there,” Deva said. “Can I help you?”

A flush of color brightened the young woman’s face -- no one blushed quite like a natural redhead -- and she nodded. “Yes, I was hoping to make an appointment to speak with Deva.”

“That’s me. And I’ve got a few minutes. We just opened. Come on back.” Deva motioned for the woman to follow her, heading for her own station. Motioning to the tattoo chair, she said, “Have a seat.”

The woman’s green-eyed gaze took in everything before she sat down, perching on the edge of the chair. The visitor’s emotions were palpable, her posture hesitant. Deva waited patiently, giving her the time and space to speak when she was ready. Whatever it was the young woman was dealing with, it was obviously still haunting her.

“My boyfriend recommended you,” she explained. “Axel?”

That got Deva’s attention. Axel was one of the twin enforcers of Mercy’s chapter of the Hounds of Hell. The same MC her brother belonged to.

“I know him,” Deva said. “My brother is Outcast. We co-own this shop and we’re both artists here.”

A little of the tension in her pretty face eased at that. “Outcast is… very nice.”

Deva laughed. “No, he’s not. He’s a quiet, broody asshole, but I love him.”

The redhead smiled. “He is quiet and…” Shaking her head, she held out a hand. “I’m Sadie Downing.”

“Sadie. Well, I’m honored that Axel sent you to me,” Deva said. “What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to get a tattoo. To, um, cover something up. It’s…” Sadie paused, drawing in a deep breath, then rose from the chair instead, her movements deliberate. Shrugging off her heavy coat, she draped it over the divider and swept her long red curls over her left shoulder. With hesitant hands, she tugged her shirt off one shoulder, revealing just enough for Deva to glimpse the markings. What little she could see was enough to make her stomach twist.

With Sadie glancing over her shoulder, Deva asked, “May I?”

At Sadie’s nod, Deva gently shifted the shirt and bra strap to reveal the full extent of the damage. The words “Bobby’s Bitch” were crudely carved into her skin, a brutal mark of ownership. The sight infuriated Deva. The jagged, uneven lines spoke volumes -- rage, entitlement, and pain. It was a violation, both physical and emotional, leaving scars that went far deeper than the skin. Just the thought of the agony Sadie must have endured made Deva’s stomach churn.

Deva adjusted Sadie’s strap and blouse back into place with care. Sinking into the chair, Sadie swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks. Deva reached for the box of tissues on the counter, handing her one. It took every ounce of control Deva had not to cry alongside her.

“I’m… sorry,” Sadie said, her voice trembling as she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. “Axel thought maybe there was a way to cover it up. It’s not that he’s bothered by it -- he’s actually been so kind. It’s just…” Her voice trailed off, unable to finish, the weight of her pain and vulnerability hanging heavy in the air.

“You want to reclaim that part of you,” Deva said simply.

“Yes.” Sadie nodded. “I’m sure that’s so bad that there’s probably not a lot you can do but…”

“There’s plenty we can do to cover that,” Deva assured her. “I get a lot of requests to cover old wounds and scars these days. It’s a specialty of mine.”

Sadie’s eyes widened, flashing hope. “You can?”

Deva nodded and reached beneath the counter to retrieve a photo album. She flipped it open to a specific section, her fingers brushing over the pages with care. Positioning the album on her lap, she turned it so Sadie could see the images through the protective clear plastic sheets.

“Most of these are cover-ups for cutting scars.” Deva gestured to the first two pages, which showcased intricately tattooed inner forearms. The designs were bold yet delicate, turning painful memories into something personal, meaningful. “But not all,” Deva added, flipping through the rest of the pages. The other photos featured stunning tattoos covering hips, thighs, and backs -- art meant to reclaim and transform.