Chapter 7: The Workshop Loft
The back half of my tattoo shop was an open industrial loft with high ceilings, exposed brick, and tall north-facing windows that caught the afternoon light. It had been my sanctuary for twelve years—a place where I could turn needles and ink into art, far away from the small-town gossip and the ghosts of my family name. Now, the old iron cot I usually reserved for late nights sketching flash sheets was made up with clean wool blankets for Martha, while Leo sat cross-legged on a braided rug near the wood stove, carefully turning a heavy sketchbook over in his hands. Clara stood by the small kitchenette area, pouring hot water into a chipped ceramic mug with sharp, rhythmic movements that betrayed her restless energy. She had driven behind my pickup truck in her faded station wagon, helping us carry Martha’s meager belongings up the metal exterior staircase without asking a single intrusive question until the door was safely locked behind us.
“She needs real food, Jax, not that canned soup from the gas station,” Clara said, setting the steaming mug down on the work table with a soft clatter. She wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes scanning the spacious loft before settling on Martha, who was resting quietly on the cot with her eyes closed, breathing in the steady warmth of the wood fire. “I know,” I replied, leaning against the brick pillar with my arms crossed over my leather vest. “I’m taking my truck down to the clinic pharmacy as soon as they open the morning shift to pick up her prescriptions.” Clara stepped closer, lowering her voice so the boy wouldn't overhear. “The local doctor is decent, but she needs a specialist in the city if her lungs are going to hold out. That costs real money, Jax. More than a couple of custom sleeves on weekend bikers can pull in.”
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Across the room, Leo looked up from his sketchbook, holding out a piece of scrap paper toward me with an expression of quiet pride. I pushed off the brick pillar and walked over, crouching down beside the rug. He had sketched my old Harley parked outside the diner, capturing the chrome details and the heavy exhaust pipes with surprising precision for an eight-year-old. The lines were bold and deliberate, showing a focus that looked hauntingly familiar. “You like drawing machines?” I asked, my voice softening despite my best efforts to keep my usual gruff distance. Leo nodded, his hazel eyes locking onto mine. “My mom said you used to build bikes from scratch,” he said softly. “She said you could fix anything if you had the right wrench.” I felt a tight knot twist in my throat, a sudden wave of emotion I hadn't felt since I was his age, standing in my own father's garage while wrenches flew across the concrete.
“We’ll see about that,” I murmured, reaching out to gently touch the edge of his paper. Before I could say another word, a sharp, ragged cough broke out from the cot across the room. Martha sat up abruptly, clutching the thin wool blanket to her chest as a violent shudder wracked her frame. Clara was by her side in a fraction of a second, a cool, damp cloth already in her hand to dab at the pale sweat beading on Martha’s forehead. I stood up, my jaw locking as the harsh reality of our situation crashed back down on us. The sanctuary I had built over twelve years was suddenly full of life, full of breath and fragile heartbeats, and I knew right then that I would burn my shop to the ground before I let anything happen to them.
