“Are you out of your mind, Ape?” Clay reached for his KA-BAR—of course Ape would have been cocky enough not to take the knife off him—his mind flying through the options. Get the fuck out was foremost among them. He threw a knee to Teller’s groin, took a millisecond to enjoy the sick groan he got in response, and slid a hand into Ape’s filthy hair before the other man could react. Jesus, it was so greasy, he almost couldn’t get purchase. Finally, he managed and pulled the shithead into him.
“You got a death wish?” Clay snarled.
“Do you?” The man’s breath was fetid, rotten, like his mouth had never seen the business end of a toothbrush. “We know who you are, you fucking traitor.”
“Oh yeah?” He inhaled through his mouth, ignoring the sound of the others gathering, and set his blade beneath Ape’s ear, right where the carotid would be in an actual human being. With Ape, who the fuck knew? The bastard probably had raw sewage running through his veins. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Beside him, someone moved, and Clay pressed the knife in—just a couple of millimeters, but enough to make Ape gasp and throw up his hand. “No closer, man. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on here, Ape?”
“Got a call.”
Clay waited, the early fog of nerves giving way to the precise, clear-cut vision he got when adrenaline did its job. Energy and strength shimmered under the surface of his skin. God, he was born for this shit.
Clay asked, “Call from who?”
“You’re hurtin’ me, man,” Ape moaned. Clay tightened his hold.
“Shut up,” interrupted Clay. “What’s this traitor bullshit?”
“Got an informant. Told us you’re—”
Something hard and cold was pressed to his forehead. A gun.
“Put it down,” said a voice right beside Clay’s ear, dark and certain. Fuck. Of all the guys in the club, Jam was probably the deadliest. Ex-military, ex-con, and racist as fuck, Jam had wanted Clay’s blood since the day he’d seen his too-dark skin. If Clay hadn’t saved his life about a year ago, the psycho would never have voted him in. “Handles’s on his way back. Told us to lock you up till he gets here.”
“I’m not what you’re thinkin’, Jam.”
“Not thinkin’ a goddamned thing…Brother.”
For a good five seconds, Clay waited, the barrel of Jam’s gun burning a hole in his temple and the blade of his KA-BAR ready to slice into Ape. Five seconds during which he pictured doing it—ending this man’s life in exchange for his. It was almost worth it. Almost.
Except a whole goddamned operation depended on Clay getting out alive and giving his testimony in federal court. It depended on Handles going through with the huge deal that was set to happen in less than an hour—was probably happening right now, in fact. The only way Clay could ensure it went down as planned was by releasing Ape, because if he held on, he was a dead man.
Finally, he opened his hand and let Ape go. The big dude came after him then, of course. All brawn and no smarts, as usual, but with Jam’s weapon leveled on him, Clay was powerless to counter. A meaty fist to the jaw, another to the stomach, and Clay waited, doubled over, for his breath to return.
Fisting Clay’s hair in a parody of his earlier move, Ape leaned down and whispered into his ear, “You’re a dead man, Indian.” He spat a fat, sticky wad onto Clay’s face, wiped his own, and backed up a couple of steps.
“Grab his phone and his weapons. I’ll lock him in his room till Handles gets back,” Jam threw over his shoulder before leading him away.
“Not a traitor, man,” Clay tried in the hall.
“Shut your face,” was all the answer he got as Jam brought him to his room, where he pulled the key from the lock, shoved him in, and locked the door behind him.
Through the door, Clay heard him tell someone to shoot on sight.
Jesus, how the hell was he going to get out of this? He turned to look at the room and found it ransacked. Fine. They wouldn’t have found anything incriminating anyway. Giving a hard exhale, he pulled out his phone and made the call.
“Speak to me,” said Tyler.
“Wire not working? I asked for backup thirty minutes ago.”
“We’ll get someone in there soon as we can.”
“They’ve got me in my room, under guard, while they wait for Handles. Did it happen? Did you guys get him?”
“No. He never showed.”
“Fuck.” Clay ran a hand over his face, surprised to see blood when he pulled it away.
“Bread there with you?” Tyler asked.
“Don’t know where he is. Why?”
“If you were outed, stands to reason—”
Beyond the walls, something blew, rattling everything and sending bottles flying. The air in the room stilled for a millisecond in that strange vacuum of suspension that happened before everything exploded.
When the next wave of chaos came, it was in the form of shots fired outside the club walls, along with agonized screaming and shouts from all over. More gunfire in rapid bursts—club AK-47s, from the sound of it.
Clay put the phone back to his ear and yelled through the dense fog of noise, “The fuck’s going on out there, Tyler?”
Silence from the phone. Everywhere else was mayhem.
And there was nothing he could do. He was a sitting duck in here. He ran to the door and pounded. “Let me out of here. Let me the fuck out.”
No answer from the other side. None from Tyler either when he redialed. Minutes passed, and the fighting continued.
Was that his team out there, forcing their way in? Christ, he hoped so.
The yelling drew closer, and his adrenaline ramped back up. He searched the room for something, anything, to fight with, and came up empty-handed.
When the door flew open to show Handles standing there, pointing that fucking Glock at his face, the only thing he could do was turn and dive.
Too late, though. Too fucking late.
The first bullet tore into his back, pinning him to the bed, and Clay Navarro was a dead man.
2
Five months later
The door to the clinic stood wide open, inviting in a way Clay didn’t entirely trust. It had all been too easy—the drive into town, locating the place, finding a parking space right out front. The few people he’d encountered on the sidewalk had been friendly, smiles so wide and open Clay developed an uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck—like the buildings were a facade and everybody actors, and he was the only one who wasn’t in on it.
He was right not to trust, he decided when he reached the door, only to find a hand-written sign taped to the door. It read: CLOSED—NO A/C.
Dead end.
Yeah, well—not good enough. They’d need a roadblock to keep him out at this point. He tried the door and found it open.
Inside, the place was dark and stifling. There was a reception area, waiting room—what you’d expect from a doctor’s office—all empty. He waited for his eyes to adjust and listened to what sounded like the scratch of pen on paper. He cleared his throat, and the woman hidden behind the reception desk jumped up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Afternoon,” he said and walked farther inside, still squinting against the dark interior.
“Hi there,” the woman said, her voice bright and warm. “Sorry to say we’re closed. A/C’s out, and we can’t see patients in this heat.”
“You the doc?”
She hesitated, looked to the side as if searching for reinforcements, then faced him head-on again. “I am.”
“Any chance you could help me out?” He made his voice as light as possible, trying for friendly, even though it never seemed to work.
“Do you have an appointment? Cindy was supposed to call everyone and—”
He sighed. “No appointmen
t. I hear you’re the only place around that does what I need.”
“Oh.” She blinked, big eyes roving curiously over him from beneath blond hair that looked darker along her forehead. From sweat, he realized, before letting his gaze travel down the rest of her—not a large woman, but curvy in a way that he liked. Something about the heat, her flushed face, the way the fabric of her tank top clung to her belly, and her hair stuck to her slick neck woke him up a little. She swallowed, her vibe slightly nervous. That was no surprise, since he knew exactly how he looked: mirrored glasses, long-sleeved shirt, short dark hair, ink creeping up the back of his neck. Staring at her like some goddamned creep.
“I don’t mind the heat,” he said, taking a step back. See how nonthreatening I am?
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll pay.”
“Cindy takes care of paperwork and invoicing, insurance and all that. I’m just not equipped to—”
“Could you just take a look, Doc? Please?” he cut in, unable to keep the emotion out. “I could use your help.”
She hesitated another beat, then softened. “What do you need looked at?” she asked, voice gentler. Warmer.
Stomach a goddamned fireball of nerves, Clay reached up and pulled off his aviators. He stood there and let her see what Ape had done to him, what he’d have done himself for the sake of the mission—and waited.
* * *
The man who stood in her reception area didn’t look like he needed help. But then he removed the glasses, baring eyelids marred by ink, and George squinted over the desk at him. Taking off those lenses transformed him from a hard wall of masculinity into something even more appealing, if just as intimidating.
“The eyelid tattoos?” she asked, moving to walk around the desk.
“Yeah. Others, too.”
Up close, she felt the difference in their sizes more keenly. He was huge. “Lean down, please. Let me get a look.” Lord, what had the man done to himself? “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” The word emerged on a half laugh, as if she’d surprised it out of him.
“You haven’t had this long, have you?”
He shook his head, and George’s brain filled with questions—some appropriate, some not. She went with the former.
“How long?”
“Few months.”
“Any idea what was used?”
“Used?”
“What kind of ink?”
“No.” He cleared his throat before going on. “Tattoo ink, I guess.”
“They protect your eyes while they did this?” she asked, and he snorted in response.
“Not exactly.”
“Did you consent to having your eyelids tattooed?” she asked, knowing this wasn’t the sort of question you asked a man this big, this badass.
His eyes shot open, and George fought not to step back.
Oh dear God, his face.
“Have we met before?” she asked, wondering where she’d seen those eyes, the high, flat cheekbones, the perfectly shaped mouth, outlined by dark stubble that made her fingers itch disconcertingly.
“Don’t think so, Doc. I’d remember if we had.”
George blushed at what she thought might be a compliment even as she continued to study him.
Those wide cheekbones, a sharp nose, and an obstinate-looking jaw made her think this wasn’t a man who’d easily ask for help. Layered over his striking features were the ravages of life: those lids marred by black ink, a scar bisecting a cheek and disappearing into short, dark hair.
But most intimidating—and appealing—of all, were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, perfectly in keeping with those dark looks. They were wide and hard. Just like the rest of him, she thought, with a hiccup of something sharp and hot and previously dormant in her abdomen.
“You have others?” she asked, ignoring the unwanted twinge with a quick step back.
She wouldn’t allow herself even a glance as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. She saw the ink on his arms only peripherally, barely looked at how it contrasted so dramatically with the bright white cotton of his T-shirt. He reached to take that off, too, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm, immediately removed.
His golden skin was covered in tattoos, starting at his hands and crawling over solid shoulders to seep through his tee, dark enough to look like a design on the surface of the white cotton. He was wide, his arms long and strong-looking. She didn’t say anything for a time, caught up in ink and muscles and the crisp-looking hair of his forearms.
He finally broke the silence. “You get it now?”
“I’m sorry?”
He fisted his hands, knuckles up. “Kinda urgent. Ma’am.”
Ma’am. She hadn’t been called that in ages. It made her feel like she’d been bad, chastened—the way she’d felt the one and only time she’d gotten pulled over for speeding.
“I see.”
“Can we get started today? I’m on a bit of a deadline.”
She considered it, her feelings divided. On the one hand, she had the perfectly normal urge to make him better, to help. But on the other hand was this overwhelming whoosh of something…uncomfortable, disconcerting.
Attraction? Was that it? It had been so long since George had felt anything even remotely physical toward a man that she wouldn’t recognize it if it came in and bopped her on the head. Or punched her in the gut, more likely.
She shouldn’t bring this man into the back with her. Shouldn’t be able to picture him splayed across an examination table, shouldn’t feel the need to get a closer look, inviting intimacies with just the two of them here—all alone in the clinic with this beast of a man. Not only that, but once most patients found out how much it cost to get their ink removed, as opposed to put on, they got a little angry.
Would this man get angry? She narrowed her eyes at him, trying hard to picture that.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr.—”
“Blane. Andrew Blane.”
“Mr. Blane, I’m alone here as you can see and—”
“Look, Ms.…”
“Doctor. It’s Doctor Hadley.”
“Right. Doctor. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay whatever it takes. I’ve just got to get these taken off. The sooner the better.”
“I understand it’s urgent, Mr. Blane, but tattoo removal is a long process. It’s never instantaneous. And, even so, I can’t guarantee that you’ll—”
“Please. Please, Doctor.” The words, even in that low, coffee-rich voice, reeked of desperation.
And George Hadley was a sucker for desperation.
She glanced again at his face and saw, besides the obvious, no real threat there. Yes, he was big, tattooed and scarred, leaning on the counter, hands thick and capable-looking, but his vibe wasn’t threatening.
With a sigh, she stood up and, as much as she could with their disparate heights, spoke directly to him. “You’re an intimidating man, Mr. Blane. Forgive my hesitation.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked in a voice too low to be hers.
A corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, and George had to look away from a smile that was positively annihilating.
“Yes, Doctor. I promise you’re safe with me.”
“All right, then, Mr. Blane. Let’s get you taken care of. You can fill in the paperwork while I get things set up.”
In an effort to recoup some sense of professionalism, she grabbed a new client packet and pushed through the swinging door, holding it open for him and then going back at the last minute to grab her lab coat off Cindy’s chair.
* * *
Clay watched as the doctor moved around the room, setting things up quickly and efficiently. That was how she appeared—like someone who didn’t waste extraneous time on things. That hair, short a
nd blond, looked easy to maintain rather than stylish, and her face was devoid of makeup. All business, which he kind of liked. And fresh in a way he didn’t think he’d ever seen in real life. Fresh like a shampoo commercial or toothpaste. Only more real.
And the way she looked at him… When was the last time someone had looked at him like that? Like he was just a guy. A man. A patient. In the hospital, he’d been an agent, under heavy guard, riddled with bullets, fighting for his life. But even the nurses and docs who knew exactly why he was there gave him a wide berth. Because of how he looked.
Bullshit. It wasn’t his looks; it was his demeanor. No matter where you came from, spending every waking hour as a dirty-ass biker rubbed off on you eventually. But this woman—
With a loud crack, the doctor pulled one of those sheets of paper over the exam table and ripped it, breaking through his thoughts, then washed her hands at a sink before settling onto a stool and rolling it over to his side.
Even with those beads of sweat collecting along her hairline, she looked smart and in control. Not the kind of chick who’d ever touch him, under normal circumstances.
“Okay,” she said, gathering the papers in front of her like a shield. “I’ll have the receptionist get anything we miss here today. She can also deal with payment next time you come in.”
“Don’t have insurance,” he said, thankful but a little surprised she’d actually agreed to take him in, alone like this. “Filled those papers in, but if we could…you know, keep this on the down-low, I’d be grateful.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flew up to his, full of concern. “Are you in trouble?”
“I can pay. Just rather keep this quiet.” He swallowed, reading her as too much of a straight shooter to go for it. “If you don’t mind.”
After a quick scan of his body, she looked at him again, everything about her serious. Whatever she saw must have decided her, because she grabbed the papers he’d just spent five minutes filling out with bullshit and ripped them in half before throwing them into the trash. Clay’s brows lifted in surprise. Maybe not quite the Goody Two-Shoes he’d taken her for.
“Okay, Mr. Blane. Let’s see what we’re working with here.” Her eyes ran up his arms. She was clinical now, in charge. “You want all of these removed?”
Under Her Skin Page 29
