The Rules of Survival (Mercer #1)

RoS Epilogue

Epilogue

A bell chimed overhead as Justice Montoya pushed open the glass front door of a tattoo parlor he'd driven by countless times on his way to and from work.

Exhausted from the eighteen hour shift he'd pulled at the club, he wondered if he might not be slightly out of his mind for pulling into the empty lot and dragging his ass up the two stairs, through the door, and over to the counter. It hadn't been a conscious move on his part. Sure, he'd thought about stopping to check it out more often than not, but that was about as far as he normally got.

Obviously today was different, and the more he thought about why he'd bothered getting out of his car, the more he realized he'd made the right choice. He'd wanted to act on this impulse for six months now. Hell, he was surprised it had taken him this long to relent and give in.

A small part of him was insistent that what he was about to do was beyond stupid. What if you change your mind later, that niggling doubt whispered through his mind. What if you find that kind of love once again? What will you do then? Luckily, the bigger part of him knew better. There were no what ifs. So long as he lived nothing would sway him and nothing could tempt him from what he already felt.

Done with the internal bullshit, Justice scanned the walls that were plastered floor to ceiling with images. Some were rough, hand drawn sketches. Others were photographs of fresh tattoos. Words and phrases, animals, flowers, people. Some were so weird they had him screwing his face up in distaste.

A monkey's ass tattooed over your belly button, he thought incredulously. Whoever had gotten that was seriously fucked up.

There was a stack of books on the counter full of more tattoos. Snagging the one at the bottom of the pile, Justice began thumbing through it, skimming over the dozens upon dozens of different fonts and lettering that filled it. He was aware of someone behind the counter and out of sight in a back room. It sounded like they were in the middle of a phone call. About a minute later, he heard a beep that signaled the end of the call before footsteps preceded the arrival of a man Justice assumed to be the owner.

"What's up, man?" he said by way of greeting, slapping both hands down onto the counter.

Justice spared the tattoo artist a single glance before he went back to perusing the book. The guy was tall and lean with medium brown hair. He'd adopted the Goth look by lining his eyes with kohl, piercing his eyebrow four times, and painting his nails black. A silver hoop hung from his nose, and like any true tattooist, he was covered in ink.

"Hey, haven't I seen you before?"

Again, Justice didn't respond. The guy would figure it out sooner or later.

"Yeah, you're the new muscle they hired at Bennett's," he exclaimed excitedly. "Honestly, I thought you looked a little young and inexperienced, but then I saw you take down a guy twice your size last Saturday. Do you know who that was? His name is Eric, and he doesn't take kindly to being shown up. You better watch your back."

Unable to help himself, Justice scoffed at a warning that was not only too late, but unnecessary. Eric had returned for vengeance alright, and Justice had enjoyed taking some of his frustrations out of the asshole dumb enough to cross him not once, but twice.

Unperturbed by the fact Justice wasn't participating in the conversation, the artist continued to yammer on about Justice's surprising fighting prowess.

"Name's Viper," he eventually said, holding out a hand for Justice to shake.

His first instinct was to grab it and bend it backwards when Viper flicked his fingers at Justice to get his attention. It took him a moment to remember that inflicting pain without hesitation was something he'd done in his old life. Still, some habits were hard to break, and he had to work not to let his irritation get the better of him.