by Paula Cox
“I had a little help.” He springs from his bike and walks toward me. He’s wearing his jeans and a leather jacket. But this jacket does not have the sigil of the Satan’s Martyrs on its back: it’s a brand new, clean jacket.
I look around. “Are we alone?”
He nods. “They’re going to pick them up tomorrow, after the wedding.”
“Wow,” I mutter, the engines rumbling as the lights shine. “All of this, for—”
“For you,” Killian finishes, taking my hand and leading me to the blanket. “We’re not doing stag nights, so I thought we’d have a last night of freedom together. It’s not cheesy, is it?”
I thump him on the chest. “Of course it’s not cheesy, you lump,” I laugh. “It’s beautiful.”
I sit in his arms and we finish the bottle of wine in half an hour. The night is cold, but with Killian near me and the wine warming my belly, I hardly feel it.
“So,” I say, “how exactly do you want to spend your last night of freedom, Mr. Biker?”
“Well,” Killian says. “Like this!”
Handling me as easily as a doll, he flips me over his knee, my ass sticking up.
“I thought I’d give you a damn good spanking.”
I kick my legs in the air, twist my head and look into his eyes. “It better be good,” I say, sticking my ass out. “It better be really good.”
He brings his hand back, aims, and—
Spank.
I moan into the night.
The last surprise Killian has up his sleeve for me knocks on the door of our cabin at seven a.m., four hours before the wedding is due to start. I sit up and find that Killian isn’t here, but of course he’s not; he’s making sure the biker club sets everything up correctly, moves the bikes and sets up the aisle, the chairs, the white petals. Even though Patrick is now the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs—voted in unanimously—Killian can still pull in favors.
I walk in shorts and a t-shirt through the cabin to the front door. Dawn’s smiling face greets me, Dawn’s face which, if placed side by side with her old druggie’s face, would be unrecognizable. She’s not wearing her pink maid of honor’s dress. Instead, she wears a woman’s suit, the kind officials wear. I bring my hand to my mouth in shock.
“Dawn!” I exclaim. “What the hell?”
Behind her, Killian directs Gunny and another Numb member, pointing to where they should place the foldout white chairs.
Dawn smiles, cheeky, the cheeky little girl she only stopped being when she was on drugs. “Let me in and I’ll explain.”
“I don’t know how you can explain this . . .”
But I let her in anyway. Before I close the door, Killian turns to me and winks. Early morning light slants through the forest, and for a moment I’m looking directly into a fairytale scene. Then I shut the door and go to Dawn, who stands with her hands clasped in front of her.
“Why the suit?” I ask, shaking my head. “Is this your idea of a joke—”
“I’m glad Killian didn’t tell you!” she squeals, clapping her hands together. “I’m so glad!”
“Tell me what?”
She waves her hand up and down herself, drawing attention to the suit. “I, my lovely older sister, am going to officiate the wedding. I’m official and legally qualified to marry people. Killian asked me. He knew how much it would mean to you. I’ve been taking the classes in secret.”
My mouth falls open. My heart falls open. I want to spring out of the cabin and throw myself into his arms, kiss him and make love to him right there, in front of dozens of bikers.
“Well?” Dawn says, her face uncertain. She bites her lip. “Don’t you like it? Is it too weird?”
“Weird?” I laugh. “Weird?”
I spring across the room to her and lift her off her feet.
“Ah!” she giggles. “You’ll crumple up my fancy suit!”
I give her a tight squeeze and she giggles again.
Finally, I place her on her feet.
“I love it,” I say. “I absolutely love it!”
“Good,” Dawn sighs in relief. “Now, do you need help getting ready?”
Once my makeup is done, my hair styled, and I’m in my dress, I stand in the mirror in my bedroom and look at myself. My hair is held up with countless white pins, my hair swirling in a teacup pattern. My makeup is delicate, applied discreetly to my cheeks, with some rouge to make them redder. My dress isn’t one of those absurd dresses which require a forklift to shift. It’s short, cutting off at the knee, and shows my shoulders and the top of my chest. My shoes are white and inlaid with small sparkling gemstones.
Dawn takes a step back and nods thoughtfully. “Incredible,” she says. “Sissy, you look incredible.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “How long until you have to go out there?”
“About fifteen minutes,” she replies. “And then Patrick will be in here.”
I smile softly. Patrick is walking me down the aisle, since Dad is no longer here. Dawn and I hold each other’s gaze for a while, and then I say: “How’re things at the rehab center?”
Dawn rolls her eyes. “Really, Hope, you want to discuss that?”
I shrug. “I’m dressed, pruned, and ready to be married to the man of my dreams. What’s wrong with taking an interest in my sister? Plus, I’ve been so busy lately I feel like I haven’t even asked you.”
Dawn smiles at me indulgently, humoring me. “They’re fine,” she says. “Well, maybe that’s an understatement. They’re more than fine. I’m actually surprised, you know, because rehab didn’t work too well for me. But helping other addicts get over their addictions is rewarding. Very rewarding. It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t have given it more of a chance.”
“But then you might not have met Patrick,” I say.
She blushes. “Yes, there’s that.”
“But you’re happy,” I say. “Happy and sober?”
“Sober and happy,” Dawn confirms. She takes my hands. “Look at us!” she giggles. “Shall I get the photographer in here?”
“Declan, you mean?”
“I never would’ve guessed he had any experience taking photos.”
I shrug. “He used to work for a bike magazine, taking photos of models: both human and metal.”
“Ah,” Dawn says.
“Plus,” I go on, “it’s Declan. I really like the old man.”
“When you call him ‘old man’ like that, you sound like Killian.”
“I do, don’t I?” I smile at the compliment. “In ten years, you’ll hardly be able to tell us apart.”
“That’s marriage, isn’t it—”
“What’re you ladies conspiring about?” Killian pokes his head through the door, his shirt buttoned all the way up, his bowtie tight around his neck.
Dawn leaps in front of me. “Monster!” she cries. “You can’t see her yet.”
Killian smirks over Dawn’s shoulder as he enters the room. He nods to me, and I nod back.
Then I sink my hands into Dawn’s side and tickle. She giggles madly and dances away from me.
“Fine!” she pouts, leaving the room. “But I’m getting Patrick in here in five minutes, so no funny business!”
“So, pretty lady, any regrets?” Killian strokes his hand up and down my dress softly so he doesn’t disturb the folds. He can be remarkably gentle when he wants, I think. My gentle, tough, deadly, loving man. “Don’t you want to play the field awhile longer before you tie yourself to me?”
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his clean-shaven face. “The only thing I regret is letting you spank me last night. My ass is aching like hell.”
He laughs loudly, and then his bright blue eyes settle on me like a predator. “You have no idea how badly I want to throw you into bed right now. You look so sexy in that dress.”
“I’m not supposed to look sexy,” I say, while I lift up the hem to flash more and more of my leg, all the way up to my white silk underwear. “I’m supposed to look angelic.”
“Who said angels can’t be sexy, eh?” Killian says, reaching forward and touching my bare leg.
I shiver at his touch, warm whispers of pleasure moving up my thigh to my pussy, making it ache.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice hushed. “You’re making me wet.”
“And you think that will stop me?”
He moves up, up, all the way to my pussy
Then, when I’m a heartbeat away from collapsing into the pleasure, he pulls his hand away.
“Sorry, pretty lady,” he says. “I’m a man of morals and I don’t believe in sex before marriage.”
I slap him lightly across the face. “You make me so mad.”
“That’s why you love me,” he says, jumping forward and pressing his lips against mine.
We must kiss for a long time, because before we’re finished Patrick clears his throat from the door. “Sorry, lovebirds,” he says, “it’s time to get married.”
Killian steps away. “I have to listen to him,” he tells me. “Don’t you know who this man is? He’s the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs.”
“Not half the leader you were, brother,” Patrick says, his voice serious.
Killian looks me up and down one last time, and then turns around. “See you soon, sexy,” he calls over his shoulder.
Patrick steps into the room, past his brother, patting him on the back as he walks by him.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, as Patrick takes my arm.
Outside, the music has started. I know that around one hundred people—all the members of the Satan’s Martyrs, a few of the waitresses from Berelli’s Gourmet, and Alex—will have their heads turned toward the cabin door, waiting for me to emerge.
“It’s a pleasure,” Patrick says, tapping my hand. “In a few minutes, you’ll be my sister. And round here, we take care of family.”
That thought settling warmly in my mind, we leave the room.
During the ceremony, I can’t stop smiling. It’s like my lips are being twisted by hands made of wind. An archway has been erected, leading from the cabin to the lectern, behind which Dawn stands. Everything is white: the archway, the petals, the chairs. Snow-like confetti continuously floats down from slits in the archway, slowly gliding to the aisle. Lily and Alex smile up at me from my side of the aisle; from Killian’s side, every member of the Satan’s Martyrs, all dressed in pristine suits, do the same. Declan stands off to the side, a camera in his hand, snapping photographs. The old man moves fast with the camera, faster than I would’ve thought.
Then Dawn, in a clear, high voice, speaks out over the scene: “Ladies and gentleman, esteemed guests, we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of Hope Warren and Killian O’Connor, two people who have come together in true love and true commitment.”
Dawn speaks with a confidence she never could have mustered last year. But, in truth, I barely hear her. My eyes are locked on Killian, and his are locked on mine. He can’t stop smiling, either. Not his smirk, but a full-on smile. A happier-than-ever-before smile.
“ . . . If anyone has reasons why these two should not wed, please, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Birds tweet in the woods; everyone is silent.
Dawn nods and turns to Killian. “Killian O’Connor, repeat after me. I, Killian, take you, Hope, for my lawful wife.”
Killian’s smile spreads even wider, somehow. And when his smile gets wider, mine can’t help but get wider in response. “I, Killian, take you, Hope, for my lawful wife.”
“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”
“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”
“For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer . . .”
We speak the vows, both of us smiling like fools, smiling like people in love. And then Alex comes forward with the rings. Killian holds my hand in his, his hand as strong as ever, making me feel safe, secure, making me think: This is my man. This is my husband!
Dawn turns to me. “Do you, Hope Warren, take Killian O’Connor to be your lawful husband?”
I can’t help it. Emotions rush into me, assail me. I begin to cry, tears so happy, so overjoyed, that I can’t contain them.
“I do,” I say. Killian slides the solid silver wedding band onto my finger, where it rests above my engagement ring.
Then Alex hands me Killian’s ring, and I take his hand. When I look into his eyes, I’m shocked to see that he’s crying, too. Tears slide silently down his cheeks, slide down and into his smile.
“Do you, Killian O’Connor, take Hope Warren to be your lawful wife?”
Sniffing back a tear, Killian says, “I do!”
I slide the ring onto his finger.
“You may now kiss the—”
But Killian doesn’t wait. He cradles my face and brings me close to him, so close that his tears are warm on my cheeks.
He kisses me deeply, passionately, as Declan snaps the camera and dozens of bikers let out a roaring cheer.
THE END
INKED
CHAPTER 1
“Hey Foxy! You’re sure taking your sweet ass time with that ink, don’t you think? You’re in hour three already, man. What’s the deal?” Ian leans in over my shoulder so that I can feel his warm breath on my skin. I try to ignore those strange goosebumps darting up my spine and focus on the work at hand.
“You can’t rush an artist, Moe!” I exclaim as I give him a soft elbow to the stomach to push him away. Ian has always been my boss first, mentor second, and friend third. This is how we always played around. And I hate to admit how much it’s probably going to hurt me when he leaves this place for his retirement.
He must be reading my mind, because he replies in a soft, almost timid voice, “I’m gonna be in Palm Springs with my old lady by the time you’re done topping off the color on that thing.” He turns to the man in the chair, who’s flipping through a motorcycle magazine with his spare hand. “You had to pick Foxy Anna, didn’t you Pedro? You could have gone with the master and gotten this tattoo done in minutes!”
Pedro drops the magazine to his lap and smiles. “Stop giving the girl a hard time. She’s the best in the business—in all of north Portland. I’m just glad she’s got time to get me in at all.” I’m not the best at taking compliments, but I sure as hell will take this one. It’s been a rough few days… oh, who the hell am I kidding? It’s been a rough few months now, and I can use all the happy breaks I can get.
“When was the last time you did a tattoo anyways?” Pedro asks Ian, wincing in pain as I switch the needle for the color applicants.
Pedro and Ian fight back and forth about the business and the local politics of the town. Two old men bantering like they’re ruling the roost. Pedro’s been in my chair for almost every one of the tattoos snaking up and down his arm. Ian did his legs and chest. That was a million years ago, when this shop was still the king of the tattoo scene. We’re still up there, but we’ve been slowly surpassed by some of the private shops owned by the gangs.
“You wish I still do tattoos, Pe! Some of my artwork belongs in a freakin’ museum! The Louvre wants my work!”
“The Louvre? What in the holy fuck is that?” Pedro tosses his magazine directly at Ian’s head before realizing where he is and that one quick movement could cause me to really screw this tattoo up. He sinks back in the chair, places a hand on mine, and says quietly, “Sorry chica. You know this crazy mofo gets me worked up when he wants to.”
“I’d prefer it if you’d just keep your ass still and not let that stupid son of a bitch get to you.” I try to contain my smile as I focus on the edging of the work. I usually only work in black and white, but Pedro brought me in a design his daughter did, and I couldn’t say no to that. As I stand back and examine it, I have to admit it’s pretty damn spectacular. It’s a white and blue dahlia with wide open petals. Each petal has a skeleton shaped eye with flames as their pupils. I’ve just about finished with the flames. No mistakes, clean lines, good outlining.
I am loving where this is going.
It takes me another twenty more minutes to perfect it and put my signature touch on it. Every tattoo artist has it. Ian’s thing is dark, thick lines that make his drawings seem like cartoons. Brian, who works day shifts and weekends, only does vintage work with comic book pops of red and blue. You could tell Brian’s masterpieces from a mile away. Me, I do shadowing and shading. It’s a tough skill to pick up. You’ve got to be patient and have a steady hand. And you’ve gotta have time.
Sometimes, like today, thoughts get muddled when all you can do is stare at the most intricate part of a man’s skin and plan for which way the needle will swing. Most of the time, I try to think of the person I’m tattooing. With Pedro, it’s easy. I know about his family, his grown girls, the dog I tattooed on his forearm last May. He’s a vet, which makes him skittish but stern. He speaks his mind about everything and anything. He earned that freedom in the middle east twenty years ago.
