Love Within

chapter 1

Amiri POV

The buzz from my tattoo gun filled the room like white noise. Calm, steady, and familiar.

I didn’t need music, just the hum of the needle and the scratch of my pencil on the edge of the sketchpad nearby.

I always made sure to be clean. My hoodie sleeves pushed up and gloves tight.

I always made sure I never rushed when it came to my appearance. I thank myself every day that no matter what I'm going through you'll never be able to tell.

My shop sat on a corner most folks passed without noticing. One flickering streetlight out front, cracked sidewalk, and a chalkboard sign leaned by the door that read:

“INK BY AMIRI: CASH ONLY.”

People came for that last part. I took in quite a few drug dealers, and yeah, a lot of people use cards nowadays, but I minded my own.

While I would like the extra money and could take in more clients if it wasn't cash, I was content, especially since most of them are drug dealers. They tip like motherfuckers anyways.

I was halfway through cleaning up when the door creaked open. Quiet sure, but there wasn't no real urgency behind it.

I glanced up.

Long dreads tied back low, black hoodie, loose sweats, and a pair of Jordans I guessed had never touched dirt. He had skin deep brown on the verge of dark skin. He had a silver ring on his finger, but he didn't have no chain on. He wasn't flashy like the others, yet he still looked like he had money. Quiet money.

"You Amiri?" he asked, voice smooth, low.

“Yeah,” I said, wiping down the tray. “You got an appointment?”

“Nah.” He leaned against the wall, one hand in his hoodie. “Didn’t think I needed one. I heard you don’t talk.”

I just shrugged. “I don’t.”

He smirked, stepped closer. His eyes scanned the walls, framed sketches, flash sheets, a couple vinyls tacked up where the paint peeled. “Cool.”

He sat down in the chair like he belonged there. No hesitation.

“What do you want done?” I asked, already reaching for a clean sketch page.

“Somethin’ small,” he said. “Under the collarbone.”

“Word?”

He pulled the hoodie down a little, showing smooth skin and the soft curve of his chest. No tattoos there yet. Blank canvas.

“Draw what you want,” he said, voice even. “just don't fuck up my shit.”

I paused.

“You lettin’ me freestyle on you?”

He nodded once. “Heard you were good.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dontrell.”

“Aight.”

That was it.

I started sketching, not even questioning it. My pencil moved on instinct, lines smooth and fluid. No words. Just me drawing and listening to his deep but quiet breathing in tune with the silence. When I felt I had a good sketch I started getting ready.

"You good with pain?" I asked as I prepped the needle.

Dontrell pulled the sleeves of his hoodie and revealed he had arm sleeves. “ I'll be alright.”