“Is that you?” His voice came out gritty.
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms, cocking a hip. “So what did you want me to do?”
The corner of his mouth turned up and his gaze met hers. Oh God. Please don’t say something totally inappropriate. She’d left that door wide open.
“Since Tony’s out and he’s got that design, I think you should touch up a different piece,” he said, undoing the buttons of his vest. He slid it off, draping it over a nearby chair. “It’s one that needs a little attention.”
The smirk on his lips held her captive as he unbuttoned his shirt. It hung open slightly as he worked his way down and Dakota gulped. He shrugged it off and laid it over the vest on the chair nearby. A sun kissed chest greeted her, washboard and all, and he sat there smiling at her like this was all a game. Tattoos covered his chest and ribs, over his shoulders, up and down his arms. She could spend a half hour taking them all in and still want to look just a little bit longer.
“Okay.” She furrowed a brow, trying to make this clinical somehow, like a doctor assessing a patient. So she might focus on the tattoos instead of the arcs and valleys of his muscles. “Which one needs the work?”
“This one.” He pointed to gothic lettering stretching across his low abdomen. She squinted to read it—Burning Angels. It looked old and faded. She nodded.
“Sounds good. That one definitely needs to be spruced up.” She tossed him a quick smile and stood. He eased back into the chair, adjusting something at his low back. The ink she needed was already in stock in her room, so she got those and slipped on bright purple powdered gloves before readying her tattoo gun. Bo’s gaze practically broke skin as she scooted close to him on a swivel stool, tattoo gun poised.
“So, Bo. Let’s get started.”
CHAPTER TWO
Bo’s eyes fluttered shut as the tattoo gun made contact with his low belly. Something about the whirr of the gun and the tiny points of pain were like a meditative trance to him. It didn’t hurt—far from it—just lulled him into comfort and peace. The only thing that hurt on him right now was the handgun tucked into the back of his pants, biting into his lumbar area. But going anywhere unarmed was out of the question—not with his lifestyle. His head dropped back to the headrest of the tattoo chair and he cleared his throat.
“You good?” Dakota didn’t look up at him.
“Oh yeah.” He smiled as he looked down at her, enjoying this perspective far more than when Tony worked on him. Tony wasn’t a sexy, immaculately made-up pin-up model, though. Hell, he might need to switch to Dakota just for the eye candy. Though if she sucked, he wouldn’t dare try a second time, no matter how sexy she was.
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip as she shifted to look more closely at his tattoo, revealing the lush swell of her cleavage. He gritted his teeth. Dakota. She was hotter than sin and looked like she’d bend over real nice if he wanted to take her over the side of this chair after their session. Maybe she’d be into that. He’d sure as hell try.
But it was hard to tell. Dakota seemed clueless as to who he was. Most girls jumped at the chance to service Bo in any way they could, but Dakota’s reaction to him told him she’d have preferred to tattoo a homeless man over him. Could it be possible she worked with Tony and had no idea who he was, or had never heard of his motorcycle club Burning Angels?
She must not have been here long. He was here only last month and he would have remembered tits like hers and those high-waisted pedal pushers. Everything about her made him salivate. From winged eyeliner to the luscious red vixen lips to the beat-up Chuck Taylors, this girl was made for him.
“You said you’re new here,” he said slowly, relishing the repeated stab of the needle. Between that and the view of her chest, he was semi-hard already. “So does that mean new to the neighborhood or to Ink Works?”
The hum of the gun stopped and she glanced up at him. Dabbing the tip into ink again, she resumed coloring in his letters. “New to all of it. I just moved here from Nevada.”
“Hm.” He shifted beneath her as she pressed a palm against his hip to stretch the skin a little. She peered at the work so far and then dipped the needle into more ink. “You like it here?”
“I do. Tony’s been an amazing mentor. I’ve been learning so much from him.”
Bo watched as she retraced some of the letters with the gun, then went back over it a second time. It stung, but it was the good kind, the kind that hummed into his bones. “So you know what you’re doing then?”
She glanced up at him. “It’s a little late to ask that question, don’t you think?”
He smirked. He liked her sass—it was somehow even more attractive than the way women tended to fall at his feet, begging for a chance at him. He and his brothers could have their pick of the litter, whenever they wanted it. But Bo had even more privileges than the rest—as the club president, the girls had to take a number. “Maybe I just think you’re cute and worth the risk.”
The buzzing stopped and she turned away to ink up again, but her cheeks were flushed. Gotcha. While she was turned away he looked her up and down again, eyes landing on the sliver of creamy skin exposed between pants and black halter top. He’d like to smooth his hand over that, and every other part of her body. Goddamn, he’d find a way to get her to meet up with him. Maybe even spend the night with him.
“That’s a little reckless for a man who values his body art,” Dakota said after a long silence. She avoided his gaze, the whirr of the gun sounding. He licked his lips, letting his head drop back against the chair.
“Tony wouldn’t hire someone who didn’t show promise. Did you do tattoos in Nevada?”
She nodded. “Been doing it for three years.” She sat up, reaching for a paper towel. She wiped gently at the tat, and then snagging his gaze, added, “I’m no noob.”
At first he was confused, then he realized she’d referenced his mini-tantrum in the waiting room. “Right. Sorry about that. I was pissed that motherfucker was here.”
She scoffed. “Who, Ray? Why?”
Bo shook his head, looking away. “He’s not supposed to be around these parts, that’s all.”
“That’s Tony’s brother. He has every right to be here.”
If there was anything that showed her innocence, it was that. “You have no idea what this ink means, do you?”
She glanced up at him, question marks in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“You ever heard of the Burning Angels?”
She shook her head. “Not until I saw your gut.”
He bit back a smile. Gut was pushing it—he worked hard on this body, and he had the sculpted terrain to prove it. “Then you’re even newer than you thought, darling.”
Her brow furrowed. “Hey. What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t need the cryptic bullshit.”
Bo cleared his throat. “It’s an MC. A motorcycle club.” He paused, watching as her tongue poked out of her mouth while tracing the thick edge of the last ‘S’. “Ray used to be patched – a member – but he’s not anymore. He’s a coward.”
Dakota sat up, wiping at her cheek with a forearm. She avoided his gaze, but he could sense the gears turning in her head. “Well, so what if you run into him? It’s a big world. Just move along.”
He couldn’t help laughing. She was innocent, and it was sweet. If she knew half the stuff that Ray had done behind closed doors, or the way in which he’d backstabbed his brothers, she’d be first in line to kick him out of a shared space. “I guess it looks like that to you. But let’s just say you should trust me on this one.”
Dakota shrugged. “Whatever you say, Bo.”
She ran over the lines of the remaining letters without speaking, then sat back, her ruby red lips curling demurely. He couldn’t rip his eyes from her; she was so beautiful. He’d come in here each week to touch up each and every tattoo if it meant he could just sit by her for a little while. After a minute, she looked up at him expectantly.
“So, w
hat do you think?” She wiped at the tattoo one last time, clearing away the remaining ink smudges. The “Burning Angels” gleamed up at him, precise and fresh.
He grinned, sitting up slowly. The crinkle of his belly stung a little as the fresh ink contracted. He scooted to the edge of the seat, cocking his head to the side to watch her. Dakota met his gaze hesitantly, that sweet flush staining her cheeks again.
“You did a great job, darling.” He sat there a minute, enjoying the heat rolling off of her, the way they were just a few inches too close. He dragged his knuckles against her wrist, pleased to see goose pimples erupt on her forearm. “I might come back for more.”
She laughed a little but she swiveled away from him, snapping the gloves off. “I wouldn’t mind checking out what you were thinking of having Tony do. It might be something that’s in my area of expertise. And, let’s face it, who knows how long it’ll take him to make bail?”
That could be the perfect in. And right about now, after a full half hour of his dick throbbing for a chance to press himself against her, he’d do anything to see Dakota a second time.
“I think I have a copy of it with me,” he said, easing to standing. Dakota reached for a tube of post-tattoo gel and swiveled back to him, her head right at hip level.
“We should put this on,” she said, waving the tube in the air. “We can cover it if you’d like, but we should definitely get this on now.”
He nodded, coming closer. She looked up at him, almost guiltily. “You want to do it?”
He shook his head. “No, you do it.”
She drew a low breath and squeezed some of the clear gel onto her fingertips. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, fingertips smoothing the cool stuff over the angry red skin. He laughed low as she spread it over his low abdomen—it tickled, but it was also a huge turn on—and goddamn if he wasn’t getting fully hard now. But did she notice?
Dakota glanced up at him, her cheeks red. “Feel okay?”
He wet his lips, never breaking his gaze on her. “Oh yeah. It feels more than okay.”
She slowed her movements, unmoving in front of him. After a moment she tilted her head back to look at him. Maybe she’d caught the husky undertone in his voice. “You want me to cover it?”
He smirked. “With your hand, or your mouth. Whichever you prefer.”
Her cheeks flushed again and she jerked her head away. “Jesus. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Bo laughed, abs flinching. “Sorry, it was too easy. What do you expect from me? I’m only a man.”
She sighed, wiping her fingers off on a paper towel. “That’s the excuse that every man uses. Try harder next time. I’m gonna cover it up now.” Dakota grabbed some transparent film and cut it to the right size. She smoothed it over his tattoo before he could add anything else. Then she went to the sink to wash her hands.
“Thanks, darlin’.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I appreciate your help.”
“Now you won’t ruin your pretty clothes,” she said, drying her hands on a paper towel. “Anything else I can do for you?” She must have seen the look that crossed his face because she quickly added, “And don’t answer me with something gross.”
He laughed, reaching for her hand. Her mouth parted when their skin touched; electricity sparked and their gazes met, surprised.
“There is one thing,” he said, lowering his voice. “I want to take you out.”
She arched a brow, but indecision reigned. “Out where?”
“Anywhere I can show you exactly what I want to do to you.” He leaned closer and she stiffened, but didn’t move away. “I promise it’ll be a good time. I’ll make you feel good.”
Dakota’s gaze careened over his face. She wanted him, he could tell—she just didn’t know how to deal with it. “What you want to do to me?”
He dragged his knuckles over her forearm, up the side of her creamy bicep. Shivers followed in its wake. “I’ve known you less than an hour and I’ve already got a list.”
“Hm.” She shifted, gripping on to the countertop behind her. “Sounds like you just want to hook up, and I don’t do that, Bo.”
“Oh?” He lifted a brow, dragging his fingertips over the curve of her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut. Score. “We’ll do whatever you want to do, then. Promise.”
A grin ghosted across her face and she opened her mouth to speak but the lights went out. She gasped and he stepped away, looking around.
“Shit.” Weak light streamed through the curtained window; after a few moments, his eyes adjusted and he could see the basic layout of the room.
From the next booth over, Red’s voice was muffled. “Dakota, did you pop a breaker?”
“Wasn’t me, Red.” Dakota moved toward the hallway. “Where’s the breaker box? Want me to go check it?”
“I know where it is,” Red responded. “Hang tight, everyone.”
Bo snatched his button-up and shrugged it on, leaving the buttons undone in the dark. As he shrugged the vest on over top, shouts sounded at the front of the tattoo studio.
“Everybody down!”
Bo reached for Dakota’s hand and pulled her back toward him, the reaction to the words instinctual rather than planned.
Dakota gasped. “What the hell?”
He tumbled to the ground and brought her with him, breaking his fall with his shoulder. He held her there, wincing as he awaited the cause for alarm. Before he could even explain, gun shots fired, the rapid fire pum-pum-pum-pum of an automatic weapon peppering the front of the building. Shrieks sounded from the next booth, and Bo’s guys in the front responded with gunfire of their own.
Dakota heaved in his arms and he sat up against the tattoo chair, keeping her tight against him.
“What the fuck is going on?” Her voice shook, and in the dim light, he could see the wild gleam in her eye. “Was that really someone shooting at the building?”
Bo nodded, eyes skating over the soft swell of her cheeks, the hard line of her jaw. “Welcome to L.A., darling.”
CHAPTER THREE
Dakota sat curled up into Bo for longer than necessary. Something about him felt so safe and sure, like he was the go-to spot for anything remotely concerning or difficult. Maybe she could curl up against him all the time. But the way he’d come onto her so hard after the appointment told her all that she needed to know: this guy was a player, and he was used to getting his way.
He would not be getting his way with her.
She pushed off of him, crawling toward the hallway. “Red, can you hear me?”
“I’m good, baby.” Red’s voice came out a harsh whisper from the front office. “You guys okay in there?”
Before Dakota could respond, the men out front shouted another warning. The front door burst open, and gruff shouts floated from the waiting room down the hallway. The lights came back on and across the hallway in the front office, Red army crawled on the floor back toward the hallway. Dakota winced, motioning her to hurry.
Bo sat up, his belly crinkling as he reached behind him, fishing something out of his pants. He produced a sleek black handgun and cocked it, his dark eyes sweeping over her.
“Stay in here,” he said, his voice low. He pushed to standing and headed toward the hallway, keeping low. “Get Red back here and just wait until I come back.”
She nodded in response, mouth too dry to speak, and watched as he snuck down the hallway, crouched over like someone in stealth mode in a video game. Red got up on her feet to rush across the hallway into Dakota’s booth, then pressed herself against the wall, chest heaving.
“There’s a bunch of guys out front,“ she said in a hurried whisper. “Some of them are part of Bo’s club, the ones who came with him. But there’s about four more thatt just burst in, and they’ve all got guns.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dakota said, pressing a hand to her forehead. “What the fuck are they doing here? Why is this even happening?”
Indecipherable shout
s rang out; punches landed, mixes with intermittent gun shots. Please, Bo. Be safe. Make us all safe again. “I can’t say, baby. But I’ve gotta warn those girls in my booth. I’m gonna hurry over there and make sure they’re hiding.” Red squeezed her hand, her green eyes darting over her face. “I’ll be right back.”
“Red, no. Just stay here. You might get hurt!”
Red shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips and then slipped out of the room, headed toward her own. Dakota pressed herself against the wall, chest heaving as she listened to the sounds in the waiting room. More shouts, knuckles on flesh, muffled grunts. Another gunshot made her wince and pinch her eyes shut. Bo’s words echoed through her head—welcome to L.A. If this was L.A. then maybe she should have never come. She’d always heard the worst of the worst horror stories whenever she told her family back home she wanted to move here. Frightening tales bordering on fantasy about gang violence and more. Stuff she brushed off—how could that happen to me?
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