The Devil's Scars (The Road Devils MC Book 1)

by Marysol James

  “A bit like Wolf, then,” she said hollowly. “This is the only life he’s ever properly known.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. And the fact is that between the two of them, Wolf and Scars built up the club to what it is today.”

  “Since they became President and VP, you mean?”

  “Nah, gorgeous. I mean – they joined within five years of each other, and even though they didn’t really work together directly much because Scars was into deliveries pretty early, and Wolf was more about backing up the Enforcers, they independently did great work. Gave the club a good rep because they got jobs done, and they were tough, and they came through every time. They didn’t shirk their duties, and were damn hard workers, no matter what they were told to do. You know? They made the club their family, and that kind of loyalty gets noticed. It gets rewarded.”

  “I know that Wolf moved up the ranks quickly.”

  “Sure did. Got tapped for management pretty early. Scars too. He was running all club deliveries within five years of prospecting and patching in, and believe me, for a twenty-six-year-old kid, that’s a big goddamn deal. He basically gave the MC financial security and stability, and I don’t think he was in Denver more than a month a year for a while there. He was out dealing with suppliers and clients directly, setting up distribution chains, negotiating prices and partnerships. Because of Scars Innis, I think we can say that The Road Devils have one of the healthiest bottom lines of any MC in the country, and I know that he benefitted personally in terms of cash.”

  That startled Zoe. “Wait… you mean that Scars is the one who set up all the Kirk Jensen deals? Not – I don’t know. Not any former Presidents before Wolf?”

  “Hell, yeah, sweetheart. That was all him. His idea, his initiative, his network. He’s one hell of a savvy businessman, believe me. Ruthless, money-oriented, cut-throat.” Silver glanced through the sliding porch door to the clock on the wall. “Damn. Gotta motor, Zee, I’m sorry. Thanks for the wine.”

  “Sure,” she said automatically, her mind still whirling with the new, disquieting information that Scars was even worse than she’d thought, that his past was even shadier than she’d imagined. “And thank you so much for fixing the sink.”

  “No problem, and you know that.”

  She stood with him, gave him a hug. Silver grinned at Keira and told her to run Zoe ragged for the rest of the day, if not the rest of her life, and then he was off, leaving Zoe more upset than she thought she would be, or could be, or should be.

  And as she gazed at her perfect, beautiful, innocent daughter, a little angel and her personal sunshine and entire reason for living now, Zoe resolved – yet again – to keep the dark, dank shadow of Scars Innis away from Keira, and herself. Out of their lives.

  To hell with those amazing hands.

  Just then, her cell beeped, and she jumped about four feet in the air. She took it out of her jeans pocket, then smiled at the text from Willa, and the incredible photo of the desert at sunset that she’d attached. Seems that she and Jimmy were having such a good time, they were extending their vacation another week.

  She sighed a bit, staring at the image of golden-pink sand and rugged, wild cliffs. Well… at least one of them had their love life together, Zoe thought. Hell, maybe she should flirt a bit with the grocery store guy when she and Keira went shopping that afternoon. And who knew, really? Maybe this time next year, she’d be the one watching an incredible sunset with a good man, maybe on this very back porch. Why not?

  ‘A good man’ is the key phrase here, Zoe. Not one who goes courting assholes like Kirk Jensen. Not one like that. At all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Late the next afternoon, Zoe turned when the tattoo parlor door opened, setting off the bell that let her and the guys know that a customer was entering. When she saw Scars standing there, staring at her, all huge and muscular in a jean jacket and his cut, she started, blushed, dropped a stack of papers.

  “Heeeeeyyyy, Zoe,” he said, still staring, drawing out the first word so that it sounded vaguely like a threat. She suddenly panicked that he was going to say something about the Friday night in his office, about his fingering her to orgasm on his desk, right there in front of the guys. She was pretty sure that he was pissed about her running out of the office, and she’d made one hell of an effort to avoid him all day – and now here he was, looking like he had plenty to say. “How you doing on this lovely day?”

  “Good,” she whispered, picking up the invoices and order forms, planning her escape out the back door, through her office and the storage room. “You?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  She looked at him again, that sound instantly throwing her back to Friday night. She flushed, then stiffened her spine. If he was going to let the cat out of the bag, fine. He could just go ahead and stop messing around. She’d deal with it.

  “So – can I help you?” she asked crisply. “You need something?”

  “Actually, he’s here for me,” Arrow said, appearing at her side and pulling his long, black hair into a ponytail. “You ready, man?”

  “He’s here –” Zoe was perplexed. “You mean – for a session?”

  “Yep,” Scars said, wandering over and past her, like he barely knew her. Like he had no idea how she looked naked, or how she tasted, or what it felt like to have her bucking and begging under his touch. “I’m getting another tattoo.”

  “Oh, right,” she muttered, not sure if she felt relieved or disappointed. “Well… I’ll let you guys get on with it, then.”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm,” Scars said, the sound positively loaded with meaning; she felt his breath on her skin, and she silently cursed him. “See ya.”

  Zoe fled to her office, looked at the laptop clock. Argh. Two more hours before she could leave. She thought that two hours in her office was just the perfect way to spend the rest of her work day.

  Far, far better than going out there.

  **

  An hour later, Arrow knocked on the door jamb, and Zoe looked up.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she responded, glancing at the clock again, knowing that his shift had just ended. “You done?”

  “Not quite.”

  “You need some overtime? Or you want to come in later tomorrow?”

  “Normally, yeah, I’d be open to either. But I got to get to the dentist, Zee, and nobody else is here to finish Scars’ tat.”

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl, then actually move backwards. “Ummmm. What?”

  “He’s about twenty minutes from being done, and everyone’s gone.”

  “What about Viking?” she said. “He had a client an hour ago, and no way he’s done already.”

  “Yeah. The guy never showed, and Viking just left to run some errands with Rebel.”

  “Saint?” she asked, just before she remembered that it was his half-day. “Oh, right. Damn.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Arrow asked her. “Seriously, boss, it’s twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. You’ll get home to Keira on time, I swear to you.”

  “And Scars can’t come back tomorrow?”

  “Not really. He and Wolf are off tomorrow for a few days.”

  “They are?” she said, alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nah. Not really.” Arrow hesitated, because it was club business, really, and Zoe’s status wasn’t totally clear to him, for many reasons. “It’s – a memorial thing, kind of. They want to go and pay their respects to… someone.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, fully aware that he was being evasive, not liking it, but not really willing to push. “Ohhhh-kaaaay. So I guess Scars doesn’t want to wait to finish his tattoo until he gets back from this mystery trip?”

  Arrow cocked his dark head at her, looking speculative. “Some reason why you don’t want to finish the ink, Zee?”

  “No!” she blust
ered, blushing. “It’s just – I don’t like – well. Nothing. It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

  “You sure?” Arrow teased her. “Maybe I’ll tell him you’re humming and hawing?”

  “I’m not doing either of those things,” she said with great dignity. “Tell him that I’ll be right out.”

  “I shall do that, Zee.” Arrow’s black eyes sparkled. “See you tomorrow.”

  “You know it.”

  Arrow left, and a minute later, Zoe heard the bell on the front door tinkle. Then silence.

  Oh, God. I’m all alone here with him. Jesus Lord, give me strength. And please, please let his jeans still be on.

  Or maybe not.

  Gah.

  Without stopping to consider why she was doing this, Zoe lunged at her purse, got out her small makeup bag. She opened her compact and dusted powder across her nose, put on a bit of blush, even used her lipstick. She gazed into her own eyes, and then lined them with a bit of gold pencil, liking how the color picked up the tiny gold flecks in her eyes, and her blonde curls.

  She smiled at herself, frowned at the stiffness, tried again. Then she shook her head, annoyed at herself for caring how she looked to damn Scars Innis, and threw the makeup back into her purse. She got to her feet, went into the main work area.

  “Hi,” she started, then stopped dead in her tracks at the sight greeting her. “Uhhh…”

  He was lying on his back on Arrow’s client table. Shirtless. His arms bent at the elbows, his hands under his head, cradling it like a pillow. The position made those incredible arms bulge with muscle and tendon; his shoulders were huge and hard. His broad, tattooed chest was rising and lowering with every breath, and she licked her lips as she remembered running her tongue over that strong collarbone. Her eyes followed the line of hair down his body to the groove of muscle just above his belted waist, loving the ‘v’ that disappeared into his jeans.

  God help her. The man was nothing but gorgeous. Sex on legs. Hot as hell.

  And she was nothing but dead meat.

  Scars turned his head to look at her, and those blue eyes flashed. “Hi.”

  “Ahem,” she replied. “So – what are we doing?”

  He smiled. Slow. Hot. “What do you want to do, baby?”

  She flushed – yet again! – and spun to find some gloves. “I mean, what’s this new tattoo that I’m finishing?”

  “Here.” Scars patted his right shoulder, and she approached warily, then walked around the table to get a better view. “Nothing too dramatic, as you can see.”

  She furrowed her brow at his massive upper arm. “Uh… so it’s not a new tattoo? It’s an addition to an existing one? The sun and garden one?”

  “Yep.”

  “Alright.” She squinted a bit, trying to recall the tattoo that night in the back room, knowing that it had changed, but struggling to see how. “What – what’s different, exactly?”

  “The number here is new,” Scars said, tracing the Roman numeral for ‘twenty-three’ in black ink. Zoe looked more closely, saw that the tree was scattered with the numbers from ‘one’ all the way to ‘twenty-three’ now, and she wondered what they signified. “And Arrow added a new sunburst here.” He pointed at the bottom of the Aztec sun.

  “Oh, right. OK.” Zoe nodded. “What else do you want added, then?”

  “A rose encased in ice,” he said. “Next to the sun… right here.”

  “A rose in ice,” she repeated. “OK, coming right up. Relax.”

  He nodded, settled back into position, and Zoe thought of a large jungle cat in repose. Huge and dangerous and maybe a bit sleepy in the sun, but able to go from drowsy kitten to killer beast in seconds.

  You got this, girl. Skin and ink, just skin and ink. Come on, now.

  She checked the ink bottles that Arrow had placed on the glass work table, saw red, green, white, black, and grey. He’d also brought out a few fresh needles, and lots of wipes and antiseptic and disinfectant. She checked the tattoo gun, saw that it was ready, and adjusted the light a bit.

  “OK,” she said, switching the ink from yellow to black, and putting in a new needle, just to feel like she was starting from scratch. “Here we go. How big?”

  “The same size as the Roman numerals.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Zoe fired up the gun, pumped the foot switch a few times, and leaned over Scars, mightily ignoring how great he smelled. Over the next twenty-five minutes, she focused on nothing but the tiny patch of skin that she was inking, on every individual rose petal and leaf, on every crack in the ice that she added for depth.

  She most definitely did not notice the sinewy curves of his muscles under her fingers, or the way that his incredible chest rose and fell with every breath, or his tight, hard abs that had jumped under her kisses, or the smattering of dark hair that trailed down his chest and stomach and disappeared into his well-worn jeans.

  No. She saw none of that.

  Yeah, right.

  She worked quietly and efficiently, but not too quickly. Despite her anger at being put in this position, and her eagerness in wanting to shift his hot ass off the table ASAP, she found that she actually really cared about making this tiny tattoo beautiful. She pictured the flower as something delicate, with an inner strength and light, that protected it from the icy cold, even as it was trapped by it. She wanted the rose to have grace and power, to have confidence in its own vulnerability.

  She finished, moved the light a bit more to check a petal or two, then smiled.

  “What do you think?” she asked, pulling off her gloves. “Is it OK?”

  Scars didn’t answer, so she glanced up.

  “Scars?”

  He was staring at her, just staring like he’d never seen her before. Startled, she jumped a bit.

  “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”

  “I love it,” he responded, his voice lower than usual. “It’s… it’s incredible. It’s got such a… what? A light, maybe. A quiet glow. Strength and fragility. It’s waiting for spring to set it free.”

  “Good.” She smiled, rolled her chair backwards and away a few feet. “That’s what I was going for.”

  He nodded, swung his feet over the side of the table to face her, and suddenly, she saw his scars under the bright work light. She blinked as she saw them – really saw them – for the first time.

  God, they must have been born out of such pain. Agonizing pain. From the first night they’d met and she’d shaken his hand, Zoe had been totally confident and sure that they were burns, but suddenly, she wanted to hear from Scars how he’d been so damaged by fire… what… twenty years ago? Maybe a bit more? He’d have been a teenager, surely? Her eyes traveled up the raised, scarred roads of hell that he carried with him, up and across his chest, down both arms to his hands, then back up to his face.

  Scars had seen her expression change and sharpen, seen where she was looking, and he’d sat very still. She moved her eyes to meet his now, and that’s when she caught herself. She muttered an apology, started to push the rolling chair back a bit.

  Scars grabbed her hand. “Hey. It’s OK. You can ask.”

  “No. Oh, no, Scars. It’s private. It’s none of my business.”

  “It was a car accident,” he said softly. “I was nineteen.”

  She gasped, horrified, stood up. She came closer to him, close enough that her thighs were touching the fronts of his knees. “The car caught fire?”

  “It was on fire, with me inside.” Scars paused, wondering if now was the time to tell her about his parents, decided to go ahead. “I was trying to –”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice gentle, and he paused, a bit taken aback at the interruption, and this side of Zoe that seemed to appear without warning, without rhyme or reason. “You must have been in so much pain, for such a long time.”


  “Actually, the pain was bad for only a couple of weeks,” he said, rushing to reassure her. “And off and on, depending on the drugs. Really, Zoe… I was mostly numb after the first two days. Nerve damage, you know.”

  She nodded, and then, before he quite knew what was about to happen, she reached out. He held his breath, absolutely unable to believe that she was voluntarily touching him. There was nothing sexual about any of this, but he didn’t care. Having her hands on him at all, in any capacity, and for any reason, made him indescribably happy.

  She traced the scars on his chest, on his arm, on his hand. Then she worked her way back up his body, to his face. She put her fingertips on his cheek, lightly resting them on the really bad scar on his face, the big one that started just under his right eye and extended down past his cheekbone. She stopped, held his gaze. Just held it. Her fingers on his face, his heart in her hand, they looked at each other.

  They sat and breathed, in the space that they’d created and were holding together. Time stood still and they saw each other. For the first time that she could remember, Zoe wanted to see a man; she also wanted to be seen.

  When she kissed him, it was the most natural thing in the world, in that space and time. It was impossible to not kiss him, to not want to be close to him. In a way, she was maybe kissing all that hurt and pain that his nineteen-year-old self had been through, trying to assuage it and offer him some comfort. In another way, she was very much kissing the man that he’d become, this tough, uncompromising, complicated man that she was equal parts afraid of and drawn to.

  The fear was silenced for now, though; all she felt was the attraction.

  And the dark, molten, desperate need. Both hers and his.

  It was all rising between them, so big and overwhelming. Bigger than her hesitation, and excuses, and logic. It was bigger than her past, in some ways, and much, much bigger than the tiny voice whispering caution into her ear.

  It was so overwhelming that it washed away her determination to not do this again, to never ever again let this man into her body, to not even once more give in to her need. But she was betrayed by her neediness and weakness – or was it that she finally trusted her strength? She pulled away, just a bit, rested her forehead against his.