“I don’t know if I could ask that of him,” she said, sounding uncertain. “I don’t really need—“
“He’ll do it. It’s not a problem.” He smoothed his hand over her hair. “Besides, I want to see what you might make. And if it gets you to stay here a little longer…shit, I’d risk going myself.”
And that was the scary part—he wanted to be around her more than what felt reasonable or even logical. Something about her set him at ease; made that tight knot of anxiety that followed him around like a puppy finally ease up and dissolve into a pleasant hum of contentment.
He wanted all of Dakota, all of the time. And he’d do anything to get her to hang around as long as humanly possible.
Dakota laid her head on his chest, looking up at him with soft eyes. “Well if that isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
He tweaked her nose. “Stick around a while longer, you might hear more of it, darlin’.”
***
Dakota sighed with relief when she saw a big cardboard box with ‘Dakota’ scrawled on the side of it. Beside it, two big plastic bags from the neighborhood craft store. Turbo lifted a brow at her, tugging his motorcycle gloves off.
“Your delivery, ma’am.” He bowed a little, stepping aside.
“Thank you so much, Turbo!” She jumped excitedly, pulling open the flaps of the cardboard box. Bo strutted into the main area of the clubhouse, eyes lighting up when he spotted her.
“My man.” He high-fived Turbo, heading straight for her. “It’s like Christmas.”
She hopped onto a stool, peering into the box. Sunlight streamed in from some high windows lining the edge of the bar, and in the late morning light, the clubhouse looked almost like a different place altogether. At night, it was a swirling, rocking, thudding coven of debauchery, from body shots to hired strippers and lots of card games.
But in the day, once the cleaning crew swept through, it looked like a quaint and rustic living area, nothing at all like the loud and chaotic den of revelry it had been each and every night of her stay.
Dakota spread out her vials of ink over the gleaming bar top, setting her tattoo gun down gently. Red left her a little card inside, which she read with a smile: Miss you babe. Counting the days until you come back. Help me make this place what we both dream. Sending hugs and squeezes.
She ripped into the bags, pulling out plastic-covered sketchbooks, colored pencils, fancy markers and even a starter set of oil paints. Turbo went as far as to get an assortment of decent paintbrushes and some paint thinner.
“This is amazing,” she said, smoothing her hand over the sketch book. “You guys are the best.”
Bo leaned against the bar top, grinning sexily. “So you’ll stay?”
“With this stuff, another year, at least,” she joked, tilting her head back to receive a kiss from him. The kiss turned into a second one, and then a third. Once Bo cupped her face and pressed his tongue into her mouth, she felt the familiar tendrils of need shuddering to life.
“What’s all this stuff?” A voice broke through the kisses and she turned, finding Butch strolling into the clubhouse. He had sunglasses and his leather jacket on, the emblem of the MC emblazoned on the back.
“New delivery for the lady,” Bo said, clearing his throat, gripping the edges of the bar on both sides of her. “She wants to do some ink while she’s here.”
“Aw, hell.” Butch cackled. “We ain’t never gonna let you leave, you know that, right?”
Dakota glanced nervously at Bo, then back at Butch. “Um, is that a good thing?”
“We’ll give you plenty of business,” Butch said. “Trust me.”
Bo tensed in front of her. “Not all of us, though.”
“Come on, boss.” Butch slapped Bo’s back at he neared. “Don’t put rules on who and who can’t get a tat.”
“What do you mean?” Dakota furrowed a brow, the shift in energy confusing her. Bo seemed like he was getting protective about something, but it didn’t make sense if all these guys were his club brothers…and he the head honcho, no less.
“I’m just sayin’, you guys don’t need to go hog wild with tattoos,” Bo said, glancing sharply at Butch.
“I’ll be able to give some later today, if anybody wants one,” Dakota offered, hoping this might smooth down the strange ruffle in Bo’s mood.
“Sounds like a plan, m’lady.” Butch bowed a little, taking off his sunglasses and sweeping his arm out to the side. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have to go think of my next half-sleeve.”
Butch strode out of the clubhouse, the front door clanging behind him. After a moment of quiet between them, Dakota pinched at Bo’s cheek.
“Why’d you get weird about the tats?”
He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “I just don’t want them to abuse the favor.”
“Well I could charge them. That would make them think twice about what they’re getting.”
He shook his head. “Nah. We can’t charge the guys. But keep track of what you’re giving them and I’ll pay you.” He knocked her chin lightly. “Sound like a plan?”
“I don’t need to be paid. You’re letting me stay here, remember?” She smiled up at him, happy that the tension from before had dissolved. “Let’s just consider it a work-exchange.”
His face clouded over with an unknown expression and he didn’t respond immediately. After a moment, she squeezed his sides. “Bo? What are you thinking about?”
He shook his head, looking away. The same prickle of tension hung in the air again. “I dunno. Call it what you want.”
She furrowed a brow, locking a leg around his back. “Hey. You’re being weird again.”
He cracked a grin, but it faded fast. “I’m not trying to be. I just, I dunno. Maybe I don’t like the idea of you being here just for work.”
The truth behind his words seeped through her, sparking tiny fires of delight. He wanted her to be here because of him. “Well how about this…we call it a live-in situation? This is my temporary pad, and I live here with you. And I just tat on the side because it’s my gig.”
His gaze swept over her, lips turning up at the corners. “Yeah. I like that a lot better.”
She flushed a little, loving the way he gobbled her up whenever he really took her in. “So if that’s the case, we better send Turbo to get some more stuff out of my house.”
Bo nodded, taking a deep breath. “You’re right. And some more avocados.”
Her mouth fell open. “You ate all those damn avocados already?”
“You know I need my healthy fats to maintain this body,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over her jawline. She broke into laughter and hooked her ankles behind him, cinching her tight between her legs.
“Fuck, it’s sexy when you talk about healthy fats.” She squeezed her thighs around him, shivering once his hands pushed beneath her shirt, tracing up the sides of her body. “But you’re sexy when you do just about anything.”
He laughed through a kiss, then dragged his lips over her cheek. “And you wonder why I don’t want you to leave.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bo slammed the gavel against the table to adjourn the meeting. They’d been at it for almost two hours inside the Sanctuary, debating potential next steps with the Demon Seed issue. The whole group of the Burning Angels rang in at twenty full-fledged members, which meant a lot of dissenting opinions and conflicting feedback about what the right moves might be.
It was Bo’s job to mediate, to find the high road that cut through the center of it all. But sometimes, like in sticky situations like these, his brothers made it extra hard on him.
Bo rubbed at his face for a moment before pushing away from the table. His brothers dispersed slowly, stretching, grumbling, lighting cigarettes. Butch was the first to open the Sanctuary doors, and loud rock music blasted inside.
“Sometimes I forget how damn thick these doors are,” Butch muttered before heading out. It was just after six on a Frida
y, which meant that the prospects and blondies had probably gotten the party started for them while they were wrapped up in the meeting.
Bo stood slowly, stretching carefully with the still-healing bullet wound. It had only been a week since the crash, but in some ways it felt like much longer. With the way he and Dakota had been hitting it off, they might as well have been dating for a year.
He fought a smile, eager to get back to her. A week might be too soon to tell anything, but he only had good feelings about this one. Bo’s regular MO was to avoid getting attached, especially to bombshells like Dakota. But there’d been something different about her from the start, like she played a song only he could hear.
And if their teenager-style hang-out sessions, sex marathons and general premarital habitation said anything, they were on track for the long haul.
Bo pushed through the heavy doors of the Sanctuary into the main clubhouse. Friends and prospects dotted the scene, whoops of laughter mingling with the pounding music. He searched for Dakota, already smiling as he imagined laying eyes on her. Seeing that perfect eyebrow arc, her plump ruby red lips, those eyes that felt like they could see into his soul.
But where is she? He scanned the room, trying to curb the impatience which made tense steps across his forearms. A peal of laughter grabbed his attention and in the corner of the clubhouse, he saw Dakota perched on the edge of the couch, surrounded by leaning, leering men, and pressing herself into someone’s back with her tattoo gun.
Bo’s fists clenched and he stilled, watching the scene before him like it was slow motion. Dakota sat back, shaking with laughter, wiping at her face with her forearm. The guy beneath her—who she practically straddled—looked back at her with a twinkle in his eye. The other guys around her stood, hands shoved in pockets or arms crossed over chests, watching her like she was meat, like some hooker on display.
Anger licked through him, closing his vision into a tight tunnel. The noise of the room dulled into a distant roar, and his feet were moving before he could even think about it. He launched himself toward the cluster of guys around her, shoving into the first guy he saw, sending him reeling backwards.
“Whoa, Bo, what the fuck?” The other friends scattered.
Dakota whipped around to look at him, eyebrows a hard line. “Bo, what’s wrong with you?”
Bo struggled to control his breathing, pointing at the guy he’d pushed. He recognized him, though the haze of anger, as one of Turbo’s friends from town. “Don’t you fucking look at her like that.”
“Look at me like what?” Dakota’s eyes hardened and she set her jaw, turning back to the man she was tatting. “I’m in the middle of a job. You can’t come barging in like this when I’m working.”
Bo’s jaw tightened. “And you can’t drape yourself over this dude like you’re about to star in a porno.”
Dakota stilled, the air around her shrinking. Bo’s insides were a jumbled mess, tension and fear and rage alongside the soft whisper of confusion. What are you doing?
“What are you fucking trying to say to me right now?” Dakota’s eyes were like daggers, slicing him in half on the first try.
Bo huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it. Do what you want.” He turned to the other guys who’d been hovering around her, pointing menacingly at them. “And you assholes stay the fuck away from her.” He stormed away, headed for the bar, wanting a crisp shot of whiskey to even out his emotions. He went up to the shiny wooden bar, the part farthest away from Dakota, and pounded his fist three times to get Yeti’s attention.
“What’s up?”
“Give me a fucking shot.”
Yeti didn’t bat an eye at his tone, simply grabbed for the top-shelf bottle reserved for him and the brothers when they needed a good, stiff drink. While he poured the shot, Bo’s eyes drifted back to Dakota. She was back on top of that fuck, tattooing him, while he probably sat beneath her, hard as a rock.
Bo gritted his teeth as Yeti slid the shot glass his way. He tossed it back, grimacing at the beloved sting.
“Another.”
Yeti lifted a brow, pouring a second shot. “What’s got your panties in a twist since the meeting?”
Bo grunted, tossing the second shot back. It went down smoother. He slammed it on the bar top. “The fact that our clubhouse has turned into a fucking free-for-all. Who are those assholes over there by Dakota?”
Yeti walked down the bar, peering around the corner to get a look. When he came back, he said, “There aren’t any guys by Dakota. Just the guy she’s working on, Jerry.”
“Who the fuck is Jerry then?”
Yeti laughed. “You serious?”
Bo huffed. “What?”
“It’s Jerry. You know, Butch’s cousin?” Yeti shook his head, pushing the whisky bottle back into its place on the shelf. “You’ve hung out with him plenty.”
Bo rubbed at his face, feeling some of the tightknit rage relaxing finally. “Whatever.” He stared at the bar top, trying to focus on anything other than his irritation, something to make the spell break. He couldn’t even figure out who he was pissed at—Dakota, or himself. Maybe both.
Or maybe just himself.
Bo this is the same shit you always do, you gotta fucking stop it already. The heavy spiral was beginning, he could feel it from a mile away, except this time he was standing on the precipice and peering over at the infinite depths of his own dark side. It was too easy to fall into that hole—usually triggered by alcohol or heartbreak—but he’d been doing such a good job at avoiding it in recent years.
But maybe that was only because he’d made relationships a huge no-no. Letting people in—that was a surefire way to unleash the possessive beast. Because what happened when he got too close?
Shit exactly like this.
Bo stormed away from the bar, heading for the hallway. He burst through the doors, making them clang obnoxiously behind him, and went straight to his bedroom. He paced for a little bit, unsure what his next step should be. He desperately wanted to see Dakota, but also he couldn’t let go of the jealous rage, not entirely. It still had a death grip on him, even though he could glimpse rationality from between the claws.
He pushed aside the drapes, staring out the window. It was dusky but clouded, a smoggy orange blaze in the sunset, and one of the last items of the meeting came back to him: send recon about the Demon Seeds spotted in Burning Angels territory.
It shouldn’t be him on the squad, but hell if it wouldn’t be tonight. Secret ops were one way to keep his mind off unsavory shit, and tonight’s mission fit the bill. The brothers might protest if he joined the team, but oh well—in the dark of night, hardly anything mattered.
Bo grabbed for his backpack and took stock in the room for what he might need—two extra handguns, cases of bullets, black face mask, black gloves.
Dakota opened the door while he packed, poking her head in. “Can I come in?”
He sniffed, nodding. She came inside and shut the door quietly behind her. Nobody spoke for a moment.
“You so mad at me that you’re moving out of your own room?” He caught the lightness in her voice but he didn’t react. When another few moments of silence dragged on, she tried again. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Bo set the backpack down, steeling himself to look at her. “Nothing.”
“You came out of your meeting like a half-cocked hellion. I was giving Jerry a tattoo. Nothing fucking wrong was happening. Jesus, if I was going to be in a porno, I’d at least have the decency to not do it in plain sight.”
Her words slashed through him, leaving jagged trails. “Oh, so that is the sort of thing you’re into, then?”
She scoffed. “You’re missing the fucking point.”
“Am I?” He picked the backpack up, zipping it shut. “Seems like a lack of respect, and good sense.”
“No, it actually seems like a completely irrational fit of jealousy.” She put her hands on her hips, mouth thinning to a line. “And I don�
�t give a fuck how you spin it. What happened out there was not my fault.”
“You don’t need to put yourself on top of every guy you work on,” Bo spat, feeling his own vitriol dissipating into the void. She was right. “You don’t have to fucking mount him to get an angle.”
“I didn’t mount anybody,” Dakota said, “And if you talk to me like this again, I’m fucking out of here. I don’t give a damn how risky it is.”
Bo’s jaw tensed and he slung the backpack over his shoulder, studying the comforter. “Don’t say that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” She scoffed, tossing her hands in the air. “Like I want to stick around someplace where I get accused of bullshit like this. Bo, I didn’t do anything wrong. This is your issue.”
BIKER’S SURPRISE BABY Page 47
