by Hawk, Ryanne
She gathered her compassion and courage, donned her professionalism and said, “It’s not a big deal, Luke. I’d really like for you to mark me, but if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll understand and work with another artist.” She rubbed her thumbs into her palms, both to give herself something to focus on, and for stress relief. Years of mastering how to school her face and hide her true emotions lent her a brief reprieve.
He sighed and she heard footsteps, then the drag of metal wheels. She turned her face and watched as he spun around on the stool with his hands in his lap, staring at her with an intensity that almost made her uncomfortable. Then he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and when he opened them, he seemed more at ease.
He blew out the breath and said, “Okay. I’d like to work with this piece. It calls to me. I would also understand if I made you uncomfortable and you wanted another artist.” He gave her a small grin, just lifting the corner of his mouth, and there was almost a twinkle in his eye, but it could have been a trick of the headache-inducing lighting.
Cecelia smiled back and relaxed into the chair, placed her arm on the rest and closed her eyes as he went to work. The buzzing started, then the stinging bees, and she lost herself in thought, trying not to tense up or bite through her lip when he hit a sensitive spot.
“How long will it take?” she closed her eyes.
“About an hour and a half, maybe less.”
She sighed inwardly. “Okay.”
Chapter Two
Goddamn it. Luke concentrated on the buzz from his gun and tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d just put his hands on a strange woman. A client. For fuck’s sake, what was wrong with him? Sure, she was a cute, petite burst of sunshine who smelled like heaven and had thighs made for squeezing his head as he licked her sweet spot, but he hadn’t touched a woman since Amber died three years ago. And those eyes… He shook his head. They were the lightest shade of pale blue, like the sky on a summer afternoon.
He forced his hand not to shake as he shaded the abstract wing of the butterfly with red in smooth strokes, adding streaks of purple and green throughout.
What was it about this woman that made his body perk up and take notice? As it was, his cock throbbed in his pants and a sole thought pounded with each beat of his heart. Sex. Sex. Sex. Well, Luke wasn’t at the whim of his libido, and with each breath he willed his crazy desires back until the noise receded to a quiet hum.
Hunger surged through him, his previous life assailing him. Who he used to be, and what he used to do. He tried to tune the memories out, but the hum of the gun reminded him of his bike, and the club, and the rush. The pounding of his blood reminded him of running on four legs through the forest under the moonlight, his packmates by his side.
Then Amber’s eyes flashed before him, cold and lifeless, and he growled, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He all but threw his gun on the table and bolted from the tent, almost not making it to the bathroom before he threw up in the toilet. The horror still had the power to bring him to his knees. He’d given up berating himself for the grief. He’d accepted it as a part of who he was now.
He wiped his mouth and rinsed, then stared at himself in the mirror. “Get your shit together, Luke,” he said to his own white face. “What’s done is done. Retribution happened. The club understands why you needed to leave.”
They still called to check on him, and he still worked on the MC members and new initiates. Hammer had told him to take all the time he needed to process. However, Luke was pretty sure the president hadn’t meant three years. But they were brothers, and brothers understood. Time went by so slowly, yet so fast, and hindsight was such an ugly bitch. He’d sworn he’d never get involved with another human female ever again. They just weren’t equipped to last in his world.
Luke glanced down at his forearm, and the words ‘loyalty, freedom, family’ mocked him. Some moments they comforted his mind. He thought about all he’d lost as he stared into his own face and then blinked, lowering his chin to his chest, breathing deeply.
Amber had deserved better than being buried six feet under because of him. Because of his choices. So he’d hung up his leather, retired his bike, and tried to find solace in yoga and meditation, hoping to find meaning and inner enlightenment for the whys of the world. He shifted only when he absolutely had to, locking himself in his basement cage in solitary confinement. His animal didn’t like it. The deep claw marks in the concrete and gnawed-on steel bars were a dead giveaway, but Luke didn’t care. It was the only way he could almost control his situation.
Only nothing truly worked. He missed the adrenaline. The camaraderie. Friendships bound in blood. He missed his family, but so much time had passed he wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed back. Not in the same way. They’d always doubt him. Blame him for Remmy’s and Amber’s deaths. He’d started a pack war and then left when shit got hot. He was nothing more than a broken wing.
He’d gone nomad for the first two years, drifting here and there. Then he’d hung up his cut. He’d stayed a patch holder, just barely scraping by working at the shop. And that was only because of his status.
Luke thumbed the engagement ring he carried in his pocket. A symbol and a curse wrapped into one piece of carbon. Amber had never had the chance to wear it and become his official old lady. She’d been a tough girl, a true biker female, and his only real girlfriend. They’d been young and in love, and he’d gotten her killed.
He firmed his heart, willed his blood to be easy, and told his dick to shut the fuck up. There’d be no cute, auburn-haired yoga beauties in his future. Decision made, he opened the door and marched back to his job, determined to keep the little chippy at arm’s length.
“Sorry about that,” he said and resumed his position on the stool to the side of her.
“No problem.”
Luke glanced at her focused face as she intently tried to win a game on her phone. He smiled as the sounds of ‘sweet’, ‘delicious’, and a donut being formed made him chuckle.
“What?” she said without looking up.
“What level are you on?”
She shrugged with one shoulder. “Three something.” She bit her lip and concentrated.
“You’re very into it.”
“I never do anything half-assed.”
Her candor amused him. Not many people were so honest. Cecelia’s arm lay on the table waiting for him. He grabbed his gun and got to work. The sooner he got her out of his room, the better off they’d both be. Licking your client’s neck was a sure-fire way to a lawsuit, and he was sure that if he used his teeth and marked her neck he’d be put in prison. She had no idea shifters existed. How could she? They were the best-kept secret.
The council made sure of that.
Luke figured that if his brothers saw him right now, gawk-eyed and being coy, they’d call him a pussy and slap the back of his head. He was glad Buzz and Trey weren’t in the shop or he’d never hear the end of it from them, either. They were friends of the pack and privy to supernatural knowledge. Buzz’s mom was part of the witches’ coven, and Trey hailed from a long line of empaths.
A female throat cleared near his door. “You want a coffee, Lucky?” Merissa asked from the doorway, trying to get a look at the piece he was working on. He met her brown eyes for a second, finding himself irritated that she’d used his road name in front of Cecelia.
He held in the growl. “No, thanks, I’m good.”
She nodded and left, her heels clicking on the cement.
Back when Merissa had first started at the shop, she’d put the moves on him, presumably at the behest of Hammer, but he hadn’t been interested. Merissa was a former club bitch. She followed the club and for at time, had serviced their needs because she wanted to. Not because their charter forced her. They weren’t into that. Despite being OMC, they dealt primarily with weed, and treaded lightly with guns. Occasionally they got into the heavier shit, but they’d tried to stay on the straight and narrow side of the law ever since
ATF raided their crew and threw their old man in the slammer, making Hammer president in Drake’s absence. Most of the clubs on the East Coast were comprised of humans, but not Inked Menace. They were shifter only.
The Medusa was one of their legitimate businesses, an adult entertainment facility with strippers and a VIP escort service. They also ran a bike repair shop, and two of the old ladies ran a hair salon.
“Lucky, huh?”
The chippy’s soft laughter brought him back to the present moment. His hand had hovered over her arm while he’d been lost in thought.
“Yeah,” he said. He put down the machine for a moment and removed one of his gloves to mop at the perspiration running down the side of his face thanks to his trip down memory lane.
“I’ll bet I can guess how you got that nickname,” she chuckled, and he raised his face to look into her eyes. They sparkled with good humor.
“I doubt it,” he muttered and snapped another glove on, then resumed working.
“You’re an attractive man. I’m sure you have no problems with the ladies.”
God, kill me now. He didn’t want to think about women, pussy, getting laid, or the soft, warm scent of honey skin.
Rather than tell her the truth about his road name, he just nodded. “Busted.”
“You live here long?”
“Few years. I travelled a lot, never settled in one place for any length of time.”
“I understand.”
The quiet way she said it made him perk up. There was something there. Something edgy and dark that called to something deep within him. He shoved it aside.
No complications. No distractions.
He glanced up at her face and got lost in the blue of her eyes calling to him. Almost begging him.
Fuck. His wolf piped up and took a deep inhale, shaking him out of his slumber.
No damsels. He shook the spark and refocused on finishing her tat. The faster he got done, the faster she’d get gone. The easier he could breathe.
“You married or have kids?”
Heat coursed through his body, the blood in his veins running hot and cold at the same time. He wanted to shout at her to be quiet, stop being so damn nosy, but he knew she was just talking through her nerves. Some clients wanted conversation, others wanted solace. What he didn’t understand was why his wolf’s ears were perked up and his eyes were trained on the girl in front of him.
Why couldn’t she be the fucking solace type?
“Single, no kids.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.” Her immediate response to his gruff answer irritated him. “You want me to call you Luke, or Lucky?”
Better change the subject. “Either’s fine. It’s cool. I’m just really trying to focus and the talking isn’t helping.” Not quite a lie, but close enough.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll shut up, then.”
She picked up her phone and went back to her game, effectively giving him the silence he had asked for. She even muted the sound. How fucking polite of her.
Luke clenched his free hand and released it a few times, working this newfound anger out of his system. He had no idea where it had come from. He wanted to punch something bloody and then fuck.
“Hey, darlin’.” A deep voice so familiar to him he nearly stood and saluted came from down the hall, followed by a loud, girlish giggle.
“Fuck,” Luke muttered under his breath. Of all the days, Hammer had to come into the shop on the one where he was about to flip his lid and go apeshit over some woman who smelled too good and made him laugh. He shuddered as his wolf settled down and began testing the scents in the air.
“What’s wrong?” the little bird asked and set her phone down on her leg. She rolled her head from side to side a few times. He looked down at her piece.
Almost finished. A few more strokes, two more blocks to color and he’d be free to fly.
“Hey, Lucky,” Hammer called from the doorway to his studio, his hip resting on the wood, full leathers on, mirrored aviators in place.
“Whoa,” the bird said when she’d turned her face toward their intruder.
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, it’s cool,” the bird said and Lucky almost hung his head. The question had been meant for him, but she hadn’t known that.
Lucky cleared his throat. “What’s up, bro?”
Hammer stared at him. “Time to ride, so saddle up, sigma. Hiatus is over.” He turned and walked out without another word.
His client whistled. “That dude is a freak of nature,” she stage-whispered. “How do you know him? I’m assuming you’re his artist. What did he mean when he said hiatus is over?”
Lucky blew out a breath, then laughed. He was sure she had no idea Hammer could hear her. “Damn, girl, you ask a lot of questions, and I can’t answer any of them. He and I go way back, that’s about all I can say.”
He picked up the gun and started buzzing her again. He’d hit his shit quota for the day and needed to be done. His circuits were overloading and he was about to crash. Too many memories, too much drama, and not enough peace.
Thirty minutes later he wiped her down, lubed her up, and sent her on her way.
“Thank you! It’s so beautiful,” she gushed as she threw down two bills and stared at the butterfly.
“My pleasure, little bird. Here’s your instructions.” Lucky handed her the after-care sheet and prayed she’d leave.
She grinned at him, a true smile, and for a heart-stopping second he knew she didn’t give those out very often. There was a hardness to her face, a set to the way she walked that told him she’d seen some shit. That she wasn’t the delicate wallflower she portrayed.
Well, we all have secrets, don’t we? he thought as he glared out the front window at the three Harleys parked outside the shop and then down at his hands, itching to sprout claws. Hammer, Brick, and Flip were smoking and shooting the shit, laughing out on the sidewalk like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Fuck. Time to pay the piper, and, man, did he suck at singing.
“I’m good, thanks.” She pocketed the piece of paper and turned with a flounce, then walked out the door into the sunshine.
She smiled and nodded at his brothers, and didn’t that just boil his blood? He snatched a bottle of water from the fridge and marched outside.
“Brothers,” he said and fist-bumped Flip. Brick came over and hugged him, slapping his back a little harder than necessary. Hammer nodded and stomped out his cigarette, blowing a line of smoke.
“Fine ass that bitch has,” Brick said and head-bobbed at Cecelia, who’d just gotten into her black Land Cruiser.
Lucky balled his hands into fists and stayed quiet, not needing the drama of getting into a fight over a woman he barely knew, though his wolf was prowling his mind. He jerked his head hard to the side, trying to jar his animal back in line.
“Church tonight at the club, Lucky. Mandatory,” Hammer said without preamble. His black jeans, black boots, and black t-shirt added more menace to their club’s name. Inked Menace MC. His leathers were loaded with patches. President on his right. M.F.F.M. down the side. His various military patches from before his life of crime had started. He turned and Lucky glanced at his back, a small sadness leaking into his heart.
He missed his family. His pack.
Inked Menace sat in the top rocker spot. Their logo was a custom three-headed animal blowing smoke, and MC in the center. Connecticut as the bottom rocker. The animals were a wolf, a lion, and a tiger.
“What time?”
Flip laughed and punched him in the shoulder. Lucky stumbled back a few steps from the force. “Does it matter, bro?” Their club’s enforcer gave him a tight smile. “You be there come dusk, you feel me?”
“Yeah, Flip. I feel you.”
“Good. Listen, man, it hasn’t been the same since you left. Vicky and Rita still ask about you, wondering if you’re gonna come back and tap their asses good. Apparently they miss your king-size dick.”
> It was Lucky’s turn to laugh, though it was a hollow sound. In a drunken stupor two months after Amber’s funeral, Lucky had drowned his sorrow in two club bitches’ bodies and apparently he was now a hound dog legend.
Hammer watched from his perch on the railing, like an eagle right before it plucked its prey right off the ground when the prey least expected it. “Six, Lucky. Don’t be late.”
Flip perused Lucky’s clothes and added, “Wear your cut.”
Lucky swallowed hard and nodded. “We done, boss?”
Hammer growled, low and intense, then said, “Get lost.” Turning to Flip and Brick, he said, “Keep the shiny side up.”
They all fist-bumped. Lucky nodded to his brothers, then walked back into the shop, mentally preparing for the night ahead.
Chapter Three
Cecelia had just gotten into her SUV when her phone rang. Her palms started to sweat.
She hit the green button. “Hello?” she asked, knowing that only a handful of people had the number.
“It’s Frank. We have a problem.”
Cecelia’s heart thundered in her chest, knocking against her ribs so hard she thought it might jump from her body and crack the tinted window. “Tell me,” she whispered, thankful for the dark glass surrounding her so no one could see her hyperventilate.
“We’ve had word down the pipeline that Peter’s put a contract on your head.”
“It’s not the first time,” she said.
“True, but this time he’s gone underground with the outlaws.”
Cecelia closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat, remembering the 1% patch on the big, bad biker who’d just so happened to have shown up while she was getting her tattoo.
Her skin crawled, little needles of fear making it difficult for her to get a deep breath. She cleared her throat. “Do you know which group?”
“The bounty is for two million, and so far the Delta Dogs and Ice Rangers have responded.”
