Beautiful Ink

by Nicole Reed

  “Here,” he says, offering it to me. “Have some water. You must be thirsty after your long ride.”

  I glance from the glass to Ward and something inside of me screams not to drink it. “No, thank you,” I say, barely getting the words out.

  Several of the men chuckle around me, confirming I made the correct decision. I don’t know what is in it and I don’t want to.

  “I guess you know by now the headache you have caused me and every other Hell’s member, some more than others,” he says, nodding toward someone standing against the wall.

  I turn my head to see Sandman leaning back, arms crossed, staring intensely at me. He nods his head in my direction. My heart races into warp speed. I never cared to set eyes on either of these sociopaths again in my lifetime, however short that may be.

  “But we have a problem, Hels. You are one of our own. There is only one way in and one way out. Those in our inner circle don’t get the choice to have their tattoo blacked out to move on. I am sure you remember my preferred method of getting rid of fuckin’ problems that threaten the club. There is just one complication with you though. Holden. Even after you ran from him, he still wants you,” he says, staring at Hold. “It’s not like the boy has a shortage of pussy, but shit, yours must be dipped in gold.” His comment garners laughter around the room.

  “Ward,” Hold says, through gritted teeth.

  Ward holds up his hand to silence Hold. He slowly stands. “Has she made her decision?”

  “Yes,” Hold says. “She’s still alive, isn’t she? You told me if you she chose to blood-in, that club justice was mine and all would be forgiven afterward. We still good on that?”

  I can see Ward isn’t happy with the arrangement Hold obviously made with him. If I were going on an assumption, I would say he didn’t think I would return, at least not alive.

  “No one is to lay a hand on her, and her death is mine and mine alone from this point forward,” Hold says, glancing over at Sandman.

  Sandman places a hand over his heart, nodding his head at him. Hold turns back to look at Ward. A silent standoff ensues. No one in the room speaks or moves for several minutes. Hold doesn’t have to tell me that there is discord within the MC that has nothing to do with me. It is evident by the tension between these two.

  “If I am satisfied with the punishment, I wholeheartedly agree. I will welcome my daughter back with open arms,” Ward says.

  “Fuck that,” Hold says, stepping up to Ward, going chest to chest. “Don’t play fuckin’ games. She will suffer for the years away from me, and the shit she brought down on the club. I want your word that, following it, you will not go after her.”

  Ward doesn’t say anything. He only glares at Hold.

  “Your word,” Hold says, directly in his face.

  “You have my word, son,” he says.

  I cringe when he calls Hold son. He makes it sound like a derogatory term.

  “Let’s do this then,” Hold says, stepping back to reach for my hand. He intertwines his fingers with mine, tugging me behind him.

  We walk through the building with the entire MC following us. Hold exits through a door that connects to the garage. When we enter it, the cavernous building seems devoid of its usual chaos. Even the gray cement floors seem too clean for a car garage. I notice two cars at the far end, but the majority of space is clear. The back wall is lined with toolboxes and machinery that have been bunched together to provide empty space.

  When I glance around, it becomes clear why. Over two hundred men fill the area to almost full capacity. Hold has maneuvered us to be in the midst of them all. Mikey brings over a metal fold-up chair, placing it directly in the center. I hear the sound of male laughter; it echoes against the high ceiling. Ward and Sandman come to stand in the front.

  A terror unlike any I have ever known steals the very air I breathe. I cough, fighting to catch my breath. Hold pats my back with his hand. Tears fall down my face and I’m not sure if they’re because I am so terrified or from my choking fit.

  “Do you need water?” he asks, in my ear.

  I shake my head, not wanting him to leave my side for anything. Better the devil you know versus the devil that you know will kill you without a second thought. It takes about a minute, but I finally regain my composure.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper.

  “Okay. Showtime then,” he softly says, for only me to hear.

  He leads me to the center of the room. “Stay,” he says, loudly for everyone to overhear. “Remove your clothes.”

  My eyes frantically turn to search his. He can’t be serious.

  “Don’t make me repeat my words,” he says, his hand snaps out to grasp my chin painfully. “Remove your goddamn clothes.”

  His tone brooks no argument. Oh my God! What is he doing? I have the same shirt on from last night. My eyes close to him, to those who surround us. He has been trying to warn me all day and now it is time to pay the piper. I undo every button slowly, removing my blouse to let it fall to the ground. My hands tremble when I try to grab the button of my jeans. I’m wearing nothing underneath. I am afraid of stalling for too long, so I slip the button through the hole and unzip them.

  Taking a deep breath, I exhale and push them down to my ankles. I remove each jean leg from my feet, tossing them down. With my eyes tightly shut, sounds seem to magnify. I hear Hold’s hiss of breath and the whistles from the spectators standing barely ten feet away. My brain shuts down, not registering the actions around me. It’s almost as if I am seeing everything happening to me, instead of experiencing it. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself removing my bra, but I can’t remember doing it.

  “Mikey, gimme your belt and grab her clothes off the ground,” Hold says, somewhere behind me.

  He is close: I can feel his body near me. There’s an instant awareness of him, being my first, but it’s not sexual this time. This time it’s fear. His hand caresses down my back, coming in contact with my new tattoo. He rips off the plastic wrap covering it and I cry out in pain, the raw skin sensitive.

  “Shh,” he croons in my ear. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” His chin rests upon my shoulder as he stands behind me, fully dressed against my naked skin.

  His fingers dig into the flesh that my tattoo covers, callously hurting me. This time the cry that escapes me echoes around the room. My eyes meet with those of a spectator—the man who has always claimed to be my family—and the coldness that greets me is that of a stranger’s. I know that what I am about to experience will change everything. Will change me. Forever.

  “Do as I say, when I say it,” he forcefully commands. “Turn around and put your hands on the chair behind you.”

  I pivot slowly on the balls of my feet. He doesn’t have to tell me to grip it tightly: my fingers curve over the back of the metal chair instinctively. Thousands of tiny chill bumps cover me. I dread the thought that my naked body is on display. My heart throbs in a frantic rhythm, this moment being the torturous accumulation of years of anxiety and apprehension.

  His heavy breathing sounds frighteningly close. “You are not allowed to fuckin’ move.”

  My eyes clamp shut. I am afraid of the consequences I have wrought. My tongue darts out of my dry mouth, wetting my cracked lips. I should have taken the water when he offered it earlier. The last harrowing fifteen hours have been an emotional train wreck, and just when I think things can’t get any worse, they do.

  I don’t hear a whisper of the leather until it rips across the center of my back, the cracking sound against my skin reverberating all around me.

  “Ahhh,” I yell out, the white-hot pain sucking the air out of my lungs. There must be small metal spikes lining the belt. I almost let go of the chair, until I remember his words not to move.

  “That’s for the year I woulda gave you my name,” he says, directly into my ear, but loud enough for everyone else to hear.

  I didn’t think I could shed another tear, but at the sound of the pain laced through his
voice, my eyes swim with them. Even after this, it kills me inside to know that I hurt him. Many seconds pass before the second strike slams across my sensitive butt cheeks. My knees go weak, making it harder for me to stand. A cry escapes me from the onslaught of the metal and leather, this one stinging worse than the last. I dig my fingers into the cold metal of the chair, hoping that I can hold myself up.

  “That’s for the year I woulda made our dreams come true.”

  So many memories assault me along with the belt, memories both sensual and evil. I want to open my eyes, but I fear what I would see in his gaze. The grief in his voice already rocks me to my core.

  I loudly scream at the next two consecutive swings of his belt, and my knees roughly hit the concrete floor. My eyes open to see red splatter across my arms, staining my already colorful skin. His unerring aim catches the exact spot as the first, slicing deeper into my flesh. I choke back the bile that threatens to erupt.

  “Take it easy, brother,” Mikey says.

  “Shut the fuck up, Mikey. This isn’t any of your business. Get up,” he growls at me.

  I force myself back to my feet, head bowed, bracing myself for his words as much as his strikes. My tears represent the agony of defeat that I don’t want to give him.

  “That’s for the goddamn year,” his voice breaks midsentence. “I woulda gave you my child.”

  Any inner strength I have left vanishes at the words torn from his mouth. His feet stand before me now. I have to see him. My eyes lift from the ground to stare directly into his dark, penetrating gaze. The room and those in it fall away and I only see him. This was once my friend. My brother. My lover. My savior.

  “Our child,” he whispers through gritted teeth. He leans down to deliver a tender kiss upon my chapped lips, his tongue soothing them. His actions surprise me, the antithesis of his words. I watch him back slowly away from me. The look of desolation in his eyes is more than I can bear, so I close mine.

  His backhand catches me completely off-guard. The searing pain explodes across my jawline up to my eye, staggering me backward. The chair scrapes against the floor, following me several inches. I stare at the blood-splattered ground, blinking my vision back into focus. I hear the sound of his heavy shit-kickers as he moves behind me once again.

  The voice in my head screams enough. I am too close to my breaking point. I wouldn’t have lived through the earlier offer of the bullet to my brain, but I am not sure I will physically or mentally survive this agonizing persecution.

  My head slowly lifts to catch the evil glare as Ward stares at me. Beside him, Sandman watches on with an almost sexual intensity in his eyes. The nausea rises by several degrees—these men are fucking sickos.

  The next whip of his belt catches me against the soft flesh of my legs and on the underside of my rear. My body quivers uncontrollably. I completely lose my balance, letting go of the chair. He grabs my elbow to help me steady myself. His foot kicks out to knock the chair across the room away from us. My stomach threatens to revolt at the feel of something wet and warm running down my back, down the crease of my ass, slowly over my legs. I glance down to see rivulets of crimson silently rolling over my feet to the ground encircling me. He tosses the belt so that it lands in it.

  Our joint harsh panting is the only sound between us. He painfully tugs me backward to him, further lacerating my torn skin. The smooth texture of the leather rubbing against my back prompts another scream of pain. His jeans roughly grind against my buttocks.

  “No,” I say over and over, but make no attempt to move, knowing it would cause him to order more of this torture.

  “Do you know what it’s like to pretend it’s your face on every girl I kiss?” The sound of his husky voice whispers softly against my ear. “Wanting it to be your body under me every time that I fuck someone.”

  A violent tremor racks my system. His words make me sick and scared and I whimper as I feel his fingers brush across my wounds. They tenderly wrap around my body, and I look down to notice him painting the letters “HHMC” across my heaving chest in my own crimson blood.

  “Blood in and blood out,” he says, kissing my neck in between his words. “Your fuckin’ choice. But know this: it is forever now my blood that runs through your veins. And I will drown you in it before I let you escape me again.”

  He has broken me. My body. My mind. I want him to stop. I don’t know what is real and what is not. I hear him talking and I try to listen.

  “Justice is served,” he says to someone near us. “Now get me a fuckin’ blanket.”

  “I would say so. Let me be the first to officially welcome her home,” Ward says, his voice close.

  I whimper. Please, no! My body trembles harder with the thought of his hands on me. I back farther against Hold. His arms gently slide around my body, holding me to him, trying his best to cover my nudity.

  Ward reaches for my hand, bringing it to his mouth. His eyes find mine. I don’t miss the amusement in them. Sick bastard.

  “Welcome home, my daughter,” he says, kissing the top of my hand. He lets go to step back.

  A blanket appears and Hold wraps me up in it. A shriek escapes me when it touches my back, but I’d much rather deal with the pain than to be naked another second. I don’t miss the fact that Hold’s lips or hands are touching me at all times. Something inside tells me that it’s to show his affection toward me in front of the MC, so I don’t protest. I have been here before and know when to keep my mouth closed.

  I learned how to survive years ago and as I look out at all the prying eyes, I know I can endure whatever they are going to throw at me. Surprisingly, even to me, they haven’t broken me yet.

  “You can’t stay in bed forever,” Hold says, leaning against the bedroom door.

  I haven’t spoken to him in over four days. Four days since he brought me back to Harmony and thoroughly beat the shit out of me. Afterward, he drove me to this small three-bedroom ranch house that he said he purchased two years ago. He led me to his bedroom, and I passed out cold from the exhaustion and pain.

  The next day I couldn’t get out of bed because the severely torn flesh down my back and legs was too extensive to move. I was in and out of consciousness throughout the day with some pain meds Hold gave me. I only allowed him to touch me to apply some type of salve that alleviated the burning, but other than that, I told him I would kill him if he came near me.

  And even though I told Luke not to come for me, deep down I believed he would anyway. The days pass slowly with no Luke. Yesterday, I started to doubt that he loved me. Maybe it was all a believable act. The only answer was that he deceived me, lied to me. My emotional unrest compounds the physical pain.

  “Leave me alone,” I say, lying on my bare stomach. I turn my head on the pillow to face away from him, staring at the dingy tan-colored wall.

  “Hels, I feel like shit about what I did. Talk to me,” he begs. “You know I didn’t have a choice. Ward was going to have you killed if I didn’t make it believable. You are gonna live.”

  A bitter laugh erupts from my throat. I turn my head to see the agony of what he did on his face. “Says the guy who beat the shit out of me. I saw your eyes, Hold. I heard your voice. That wasn’t all for show… and you and I both know the truth.”

  I watch him glance away, the pain evident. “My hurt turned to anger. I thought I could control it, detach myself from it enough so that I could get through that in one piece, but it burned inside of me. And it all just happened. I couldn’t control my actions or my words.”

  “Well, I hope you and the rest of your sociopath friends enjoyed it.”

  “Hels, no matter what you believe, I did this to protect us. I love you,” he says, his eyes pleading with mine.

  “Love? I’ve had a lifetime of that kind of love. Get out,” I say, once again turning away. I don’t want to hear another word from him.

  “Hels, you’ve hardly eaten in four days. Don’t do this.”

  “Get out!” I yell, liftin
g my head.

  He turns around and storms away. I close my eyes. The pain isn’t as bad as it was, but I also am afraid to test my limits. I barely am able to get up to go the adjoining bathroom, but nature calls. I don’t dare look in the mirror. My back has to be a mess and my face can’t be much better. The entire left side was swollen for the first two days and now I can barely touch it.

  A knock on the bathroom door makes my heart jump. Damn Hold.

  “Leave me alone,” I yell.

  “Honey, it’s me, Diamond. Can I help you?”

  Diamond? I shuffle across the bathroom to open the door.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, reaching out to hug me.

  I am not fast enough and she wraps her arms around me. I groan from the pain.

  “I am so sorry. I forgot,” she says, stepping away from me. Tears fall from her eyes. “What did they do to you?” She looks me over, bending her head to glance at my back.

  I shake my head no, but she already gets an eyeful. Her gasp alerts me to the severity of the damage.

  “Your angel,” she says, covering her hand with her mouth.

  Oh, no. My angel! I turn my head to look in the bathroom mirror. My mother. Deep welts crisscross my back, marring the beauty of my tattoo. Some are so deep that I can see inside my flesh. I know these will scar. I slowly turn, my Ferris wheel is also marked, but it survived most of the damage. My vision blurs as the tears swamp my eyes. My beautiful tattoo.

  “Don’t cry, honey,” Diamond says. “We’ll fix it. You’ll see.”

  I sink to my knees on the cold tile floor and cry out from the sting of the welts covering my backside. My life has never been mine—always controlled by the MC, the pain that I suffered always because of them. Those years spent away already seem like ages ago. I see myself years from now living this same life, beat down because of it. My sobs are not for the mother I lost again, but for finding and experiencing real love and knowing what it is. I am never going to have it with Hold, and I can’t settle for anything less.

  Diamond holds me on the floor while she tries to comfort me. Eventually, my tears subside. I can’t worry about Luke. I need to get through every day the best I can, the only way I know how.