Hell's Ink

by Nicole Reed

  “If you drown, I’m not comin’ in after you!” Hold yelled, standing with his arms crossed, on the dry sand.

  “You don’t swim?” she asked, glancing up to see him without his cut. His white t-shirt shone starkly in the bright light of day. He still had his black boots on with his well-worn jeans.

  “Yeah. But I got no desire to get soaked if the tide takes you under. If it’s bein’ dry or you, I’ll choose bein’ dry,” he said, a smile tipping the corners of his sexy mouth. Hold backed up to sit down on higher ground.

  Shyla decided she had enough water and followed, plopping cross-legged beside him. Her fingers and toes ground into the sun-warmed sand.

  “Is everything okay with Mikey?” she asked, surprised at her own question. Shyla didn’t realize just how worried she was for him until now. Something wasn’t right and it obviously had to do with the club.

  Hold glared at the horizon, his face masked over for a split second before some type of pain showed clearly. He started to nod, but stopped and didn’t answer her. His eyes retained a blank stare while he looked at Shyla.

  For one second it seemed as if he wanted to share something with her. To answer her question truthfully instead of whatever was expected. Shyla knew things weren’t okay within the MC because of Diamond’s confidence. But how much was Hold involved?

  He turned his face away to stare at the endless ocean. Shyla was transfixed by his tattooed arms, each design beautifully carved into his tanned skin. His Hell’s Highwaymen tattoo peeked out under the sleeve of his shirt. Hold quietly hung his head, his shoulders hunched over. She watched the long fingers of his strong hands cover his skull. They brushed over the soft down of hair that sprouted on his shaved head.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure of why she even said it to him. Something about the way he solemnly sat beside her broke her heart. Shyla wanted to touch him. Her fingers slipped free of the sand, and lightly curved around the hard muscle of his bicep. “Sometimes life completely sucks.”

  “You’ve no idea,” he said, his voice sounding strained to her ears.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We could be more alike than you realize.” She watched him lift his head; an incredulous look covered his beautiful face.

  “What could we possibly have in common?” he asked, sputtering out his words. His knees were bent before him with his arms outstretched, resting on top.

  “I-I,” she stuttered, not sure how to handle the animosity he directed toward her. Shyla released his arm.

  Hold stood, dusting the sand off the seat of his pants. He finished and glanced down to catch her staring intently up at him. His eyes held so many mysterious deep secrets within them. For one second, Shyla wondered what made Hold tick. What drove him to be so hard, yet still harbor something so soft inside that begged to be carefully tended?

  Her thoughts scattered when he offered an arm to her. She hesitated before placing her small hand in his strong one. Working hands, she thought to herself, at the feel of the roughened skin. A shiver ran the length of Shyla’s body and her mouth went dry. He slowly pulled her to stand. Their bodies aligned, facing the other. His beautiful eyes remained hard and inscrutable.

  “Let’s get you home,” he said, turning and heading directly for his motorcycle.

  Shyla quickly and quietly followed.

  The sound of the popular reality television show blared throughout her apartment. Shyla didn’t really watch it, but it lent something other than the silence surrounding her. Most nights she missed bartending. For someone who didn’t sleep very much, it’d been a godsend. It kept the wandering thoughts and insecurities at bay.

  Not that she didn’t love working at Hard Ink. Especially now that she was considering becoming a tattoo artist. Her Aunt D mostly worked days and didn’t want Shyla to work at night when she wasn’t there herself. Her aunt was very protective of her.

  For a little town, the shop stayed busy. Club members frequented it at all times of the day. The kids from the local high school drifted in and out at night and on the weekends. Hard Ink had such talented artists that people from nearby towns drove specifically to the shop because of their reputation. It excited Shyla to be part of something that truly interested her, but she’d been thinking about getting a second job. The money wouldn’t hurt and she could use the distraction.

  Her cell ringing brought a welcome respite. She rushed to answer it, noting an unknown number.

  “Hello,” she answered, reaching for the remote control with her empty hand to mute the television volume.

  “Hey,” Mikey said. Shyla instantly recognized his voice.

  “Hey. I was wondering if you were all talk and weren’t going to call,” Shyla said, sitting down on her couch. It’d been several days since he left town with her number. She hadn’t been holding her breath that he’d call, but it had at times crossed her mind.

  He gave a low laugh. “It’s been a crazy couple of days. I finally found a free minute to check in on you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she replied, laughing. It felt good to be talking to Mikey.

  “So… did you have fun on your ride?”

  She was dreading this question. Shyla hadn’t seen Hold since he dropped her off without a word at Hard Ink’s front door. As he speedily drove off, she’d yelled her thanks. Her aunt asked if she had a good time and she’d answered yes, but Diamond hadn’t plied her for details. Not that there were any to tell. It didn’t seem like they’d parted on the best of terms.

  “Why? Did Hold say something?” she asked, instantly worried she’d said something wrong when Mikey didn’t say anything.

  “I haven’t talked to him. What would he say?” Mikey asked after several minutes.

  Her relief was short-lived when she realized she might as well tell him.

  “I think I might’ve made him mad.” Shyla didn’t want Mikey to be upset if she’d said something she shouldn’t have to his friend. Not that she knew why she’d set him off in the first place. Hold was the textbook definition of incredibly sexy and seriously moody.

  The male snort on the other end of the line had her curious. “Wait. What do you mean you might’ve made him mad?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just so damn moody. We stopped during our ride for a second and I was trying to be nice. He seemed upset about your leaving and when I tried to talk to him about it he clammed up,” Shyla said, feeling lighthearted to hear Mikey gurgling with a soft chuckle on the other end of the phone call.

  “Give me a sec,” he said, in between bouts of roaring laughter.

  “You sound like a little girl,” she told him jokingly. It caused him to continue louder.

  After several minutes, he finally calmed long enough to talk. “Sorry. I find it hilarious to hear a girl callin’ Hold out—especially for bein’ moody. Most women fall all over themselves before they even notice he’s not interested in anything other than a good fuck. Well, except for you,” Mikey quickly amended.

  Shyla almost asked why not her when she realized Mikey meant because of him. Hold wouldn’t hit on his best friend’s love interest. But she was curious why he’d even make that comment in the first place.

  “And Carrie, right? He seems to love her.”

  “Love? I doubt it. I think he’s a dumbass if he doesn’t marry her but I know he doesn’t love her,” Mikey answered.

  “Because of his old girlfriend, Hels?” Shyla asked, cringing at her own question. She knew she’d no right to ask but for the last couple of days, she’d thought a lot about Diamond’s story of Hold and the mysterious girl. Aunt D had explained that he’d done something to her that she couldn’t forgive.

  “What do you know about her?” Mikey asked, his voice hardening.

  “Nothing really. Diamond said something about Hold helping her leave town and then she came back only to leave again.”

  “Did you say anything to him about it?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, answering his question. He sounded entire
ly unfriendly and Shyla instantly wished she hadn’t brought up the conversation.

  Mikey sighed heavily. “Hold doesn’t let many people close to him. Hels messed him up pretty bad.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought her up. It’s none of my business,” Shyla said, knowing it wasn’t, but it made her curious as to why everyone associated with Hels had this intense reaction to her.

  “Listen, don’t mention Hels to anyone in the club. It’ll stir shit up that’s better left dead. Trust me on this,” Mikey uttered.

  “’Kay,” she answered. An awkward silence developed instantaneously between them. Shyla could hear him lightly breathing on the other end of the call.

  “I’ve gotta run. If I get a chance, I’ll call back. Okay?” he quietly asked.

  Shyla realized he wasn’t alone when she could hear other voices talking in the background. If she weren’t mistaken, she could hear several men speaking another language.

  “Sure. Be safe,” Shyla added before he disconnected the call. She wasn’t sure why she added the “be safe” comment, but it felt entirely justified.

  Hold drove his bike furiously down the isolated road, replaying Mikey’s phone call in his head. Mike had explained that everything was running smoothly. Lev was giving them all the entry points for how the shipment would come into the States. Sandman and Mikey then provided information on how they’d move the guns down the coast and eventually distribute them to their contacts in Cuba. Mike acted as if there were no worries on his end, which grated at Hold’s already thinned nerves. He told the big son of a bitch to stay sharp and ended the call.

  He knew Mikey really hadn’t come to terms with Ward’s duplicity. Hold barely managed it himself most days. But Hold had to put what was best for the club before it all. That’s what had to be important. If Ward had the MC’s best interest at heart, then he would sit back and shut up. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The garage made them money, but it was never enough for Ward.

  The last several hours had been spent driving over to Barrow County and getting an update on the MC’s supposed meth problem. Both of the prospects who he’d chosen for surveillance hadn’t gotten any great intel yet. They were still trying to infiltrate the redneck bastards who cooked the shit. What they didn’t realize was that they were playing double agent for Hold. If they came back with a story differing from Ward’s, Hold had his proof that his father was setting him up.

  As he was riding out of town, heading back to Harmony, he passed a souped-up older black Pontiac Firebird that carelessly careened off the side of the road. In his rearview mirror he watched the driver and its passenger hastily right the car. A foreboding chill rippled from his neck, leaving the hairs down his back standing on end. He glanced over his shoulder to see the same car rushing to catch him, gaining speed. Someone had been expecting him.

  Hold didn’t have anywhere to go on this long, straight road. Low-lying brush grew on either side. He drove faster, but so did the other vehicle. Hold reached for his Glock while keeping his bike steady with the other hand. An ominous feeling lodged in his throat and his heart raced with the knowledge that danger and death were only seconds away.

  Shyla was supposed to be gone from Hard Ink for only an hour, but a simple trip to stock up on supplies had turned into her being lost for the entire afternoon. While loading up on paper towels at the wholesale club, a young cashier had mentioned a funky secondhand designer clothing shop not thirty minutes away. Unfortunately for Shyla, half an hour turned into three because she was lost.

  One thing Florida had in spades were long, straight roads that never ended—nothing and no one for miles and miles. It was ridiculous… and completely scary.

  She needed to turn around and drive back the way she came. Shyla eased up on the gas pedal when suddenly, in the distance, she spotted a motorcycle racing her way with a car following entirely too close. As they came nearer to her, she knew instantly that something was off. Her eyes widened when the passenger of the car leaned out of the window with a shotgun.

  The loud blast made her scream and cause her to jump, bumping her head on the roof of her own car. Thankfully the driver of the bike swerved, missing the bullet. God knows where it landed. Shyla veered off of the road, causing a massive cloud of dust. Her hands shook badly as she reached for her cell. She was barely able to punch in 911. The no service message popped up on her phone.

  At the same time, her eyes continued to frantically watch the oncoming drama. She was startled and sickened when they closely approached and she noticed who the driver of the bike was: Hold. He pointed his own handgun back at the car and fired as they both swiftly flew by her vehicle. She ducked in panic, half of her body crouching over the passenger seat.

  “Damn, stupid cell!” she cried, slamming her phone against the dashboard. Her mind refused to believe what was happening.

  Shyla didn’t know what to do. She didn’t even know where she was and now she couldn’t call the police for help. Without another thought, she gunned the gas pedal, whipping her car around, and speedily tried to catch up to the action. They were too far ahead of her, which was probably good considering the flying bullets.

  “This is crazy,” Shyla repeated as she chased the madness. “I’m crazy!”

  Her hands shook as she gripped the wheel, stricken with horror at what was happening in front of her. Tears freely fell down her face in fear. She was close enough now to watch the car pull alongside the motorcycle. Hold expertly handled his bike, continuing to dodge the shots fired, while his trajectory seemed to hit its mark. The fast car jerked off the road then swerved back, catching the back tire of the bike.

  It all unfolded slowly in front of Shyla. The bike and its rider hit the pavement on their side, fast and hard. They both slid several hundred feet on the rough concrete, orange sparks surrounding the bike, before both flew off road. The motorcycle raced ahead of Hold, slamming into a tree, and exploding in a ball of fire.

  Shyla screamed, “OH MY GOD!” Her body shook with quivering sobs as she watched the mushroom cloud of black smoke rise into the blue sky. She lost sight of Hold.

  The car ahead of her slowed to a crawl. She knew they were looking for Hold. Her hand laid on the horn, loudly alerting the bastards to her arrival. Shyla didn’t know if they could see her in their rearview mirror, but she waved her cell phone out of the window in hopes they’d think she called for help. Thankfully they took off before she came to a screeching halt.

  Her car sat sideways, blocking the isolated road. She sprung from her seat and ran toward the burning brush. There was no time to waste. Shyla cringed to see the no service message still at the top of her cell. With a sense of doom, she tucked it inside her shorts pocket. The smell of burning gas was unmistakable and Shyla could feel the intense blast of heat radiating from the inferno engulfing the tree where Hold’s motorcycle had crashed.

  “Hold!” she yelled, searching for him. “Please don’t be dead,” Shyla silently whispered to herself. Her breaths came in tight, tiny gasps of air. She raised her hands to rest on top of her head as she surveyed the area around her.

  A groan came from a thicket of bushes. She rushed over to see him cradled in the center—the dense brush must’ve cushioned his landing. Relief at the sight of him being alive poured over her.

  “Thank God,” she said, falling to her knees to evaluate his injuries.

  Hold’s face, arms, and hands were scratched all to hell with road rash. His jeans were shredded, the flesh torn and bleeding in between the rips. None of his appendages seemed to be lying at odd angles, but she was afraid to move him. His chest rose before falling again in soft breaths.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, leaning over Hold. His eyes slowly opened and blinked several times up at her. A cut directly above his left brow threatened to ooze blood, covering his vision.

  Shyla whipped her favorite Racing Glaciers t-shirt over her head, balling it up in her hand to cover his wound. Hold grimaced and slowly reached up
to press the side of his temple.

  “Fuck me,” he whispered, groaning. “Are they gone?”

  “I think I scared them off. But who knows,” she replied, blotting away the blood from his forehead. “I tried to call 911, but I have no cell service in this godforsaken place.”

  He let out a low hiss when she obviously touched a sore spot.

  “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “I think I’m good,” Hold said, struggling to lean up. He slowly rotated his neck side to side before replacing Shyla’s hand that held her t-shirt pressed tightly to his head. “We need to get outta here.”

  “Can you stand?” she asked, silently agreeing with him. The adrenaline was wearing off and her heart felt like it was going to burst right out of her chest.

  She stood and offered a hand to help him up. Hold grasped it. Shyla could feel the jaggedly torn flesh that covered his palm pressing against hers. It was a gut reaction to pull away, but she didn’t. He grunted and groaned as she tugged him to standing. There was nothing steady about his actions. He swayed a couple of times, threatening to topple over.

  “Help me to your car,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder and putting the majority of his weight on Shyla. “You got a gun?”

  “No,” she automatically answered, listening to him curse under his breath.

  Her eyes roamed the landscape, praying his attackers didn’t return. It seemed like a long journey to get him back to her car. She was out of breath with the exertion and sweating profusely. Shyla didn’t know if she was doing the right thing by moving him. Hold seemed to be in bad shape, but he didn’t complain once. She helped him into the passenger seat before jogging to her side and starting the car. Neither of them let out a steady breath of air until they were safely speeding toward home.