When it was put like that, Sam knew the position Johnny had been put in and it was no real surprise to hear the yay that stumbled from his lips. Just like it was no real surprise to hear married father-of-two Jake’s equally shaky nay.
One by one, they made their decision. Those who’d known the young woman most of her life unable to look past that and registering their nays without daring to glance at her furious father, those fixated on how close they’d come to ruin still for the most part uncertain, but adding their yays in the end.
“Sam?” Will finally growled and he realised he was the last to vote. Scanning round quickly in a bid to tally up and feeling his heart sink like lead into his churning stomach. A nay would save her life – and most likely ruin his. What good was a sergeant who balked at disciplining those who needed it? “Sam, we need a fucking answer.”
He’d never backed down from a job before, had never given anyone cause to question his loyalty or commitment to the club. He was a soldier through and through. But this was Taylor.
It didn’t matter that she was a woman, or that she was still young enough to have the best of her life ahead. It did matter though that she was the flesh and blood of a man who was his brother - more like a father really. And most of all, it mattered that he knew she could be devious, questioning, one to watch ... But also fearless, feisty as all hell. Passionate.
Even though they’d agreed it could never be anything more and even though if her father had known, Sam might have been the one facing some brutal punishment, their nights together had been explosive. Nothing but a fiery heat they knew would consume them both if they let it.
And yet, when she turned on them all, she turned on him too.
“Sam, for Christ’s sake!”
He could hear a near plea beneath the anger in Will’s voice, could feel the desperation in Taylor’s eyes as they burned into his back, and he fixed his gaze on the dark horizon.
“Yay.”
***
CHAPTER 21
It took a hell of a lot to be one of the Fallen.
Commitment, guts, resilience, loyalty. A certain self-preservation and yet the selflessness needed to put the club first at all times. Or was that selfishness? You could argue it either way. It wasn’t like choosing the club over family though – the club was family. Brothers through blood spilled, rather than running through veins.
Club life required sacrifices, Colton knew that more than most. But for all the risks, he also knew it was probably the only thing that had kept some of the guys alive. Himself included.
Death was a recurring threat, prison even more so. But threats could be handled, dealt with. Threats were not certainties. Not like the fates that had been facing many of his brothers before they found their way into the MC. Club life was infinitely better than a drug-addled life of petty crime, even if most civilians found it hard to see the difference.
It was no coincidence that many of the Fallen were ex-military. Some of them had met before, in what seemed like another world. On the streets of Saigon like the clubs founders or in Beirut, Kuwait, or even the Afghan desert like some of the younger prospects. It was hard to know what was worse. Being there or, if you were lucky enough to make it back out, being plunged back into whatever was supposed to pass for normal life.
As if you could flick a switch and forget what it was like to smell death thick in the air. To stare blindly down the barrel of a gun and know that it was kill or be killed. Wondering if today would be the day they sent your dogtags back home in an envelope – or just the day you’d watch a bullet bury itself in your friend’s skull and damn yourself forever for thanking god it wasn’t yours, even as you hauled his body back behind the firing line.
And that was only if it wasn’t one of those darkest of all days, the ones that made you look at the muzzle of your own rifle and wonder if eating that cold steel might be the cleanest way out.
Lucky probably wasn’t the word, but at least Colton hadn’t gone in blind. His lengthy stint inside had put an edge on the hardness he’d already cultivated on a different kind of battlefield – the backstreets of a rough neighbourhood deeply entrenched in gang culture. War just gave him a licence for the weapon in his hand and money he could send to his ma in his pocket.
Everything else, he blanked out. He’d gotten good at that over the years.
Other guys had it tougher, he knew that. He’d gone to war because a knife in the back would have broken his mother’s heart, but a bullet in the chest and at least she could have pride in her grief. Other guys, they wanted to right wrongs. Fight for something worthwhile. Save the whole fucking world.
That had been Sam all over. Before he got his eyes opened.
Life experience, that was how Colton had heard it packaged. Show you places you’ve never seen before, new ways of doing things. Toughen you up, make a man of you. He supposed it was true. And then you could take your new-found education in the ways of the world and see what goddamn good it did you when the blood money ran out and you were thieving to survive, while shooting up to forget.
People expected certain things of Colton, he knew that. His reputation went before him and spoke for itself. Then he showed up and confirmed it all. He knew the impact of a mere black look from someone like him, but he also knew by now that even the bluest eyes and brightest smiles could hide true darkness.
If it wasn’t for the Fallen and the sense of purpose the club gave back to him, Colton had little doubt Haven’s poster-boy - struggling to cope with life beyond the Marines - would be just another statistic. Still a junkie lost-cause. Either that or laying dead in an alleyway somewhere. The club might have put a gun back in his hand, but it had still been the only incentive open to the blonde to get that shit out of his system once and for all.
And having been clean for well over a decade now, he was down to just one vice – and pussy wasn’t quite so likely as heroin to get your ass killed, usually anyway. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still have his demons. And it was clear, with everything they were facing weighing heavily on his shoulders, that they were coming back to haunt him.
Colton’s grip tightened on the handlebars of his bike as he thought about the position president’s girl had put Sam in. The sergeant might be feigning concern that it was playing on Will’s mind, clouding his judgement, but the bitch had spun his head around, just like she’d spun her own father’s. Had really stuck the knife in the pair of them and twisted ... Ironic really.
He’d claimed he was fine though, hauled himself out of his chair and across to the bar, slinging an arm around the shoulders of the second nearest chick with his usual confidence. Seemingly content to seek solace in any warm body that came along.
It hadn’t escaped Colton’s notice that the most convenient target was passed over though, despite the pout – Sam ignoring the leggy brunette leaning on the counter to give him a better view of what was on offer, in favour of some bottle-blonde. Probably just coincidence that the broad he all but shied away from bore a marked resemblance to Taylor ...
Or maybe he was over-thinking things himself. Maybe Sam just already knew the brunette was a lousy lay. Maybe they all needed to get the hell out from under the thumb of the feds, before the pressure brought everything crashing down.
Colton twisted the throttle at that and let his speed creep up. Booze and broads were all well and good, but there were only a couple of places he was used to going when he really needed a break from the thoughts in his head …
***
“You’ve been quiet.”
Callie looked up from her sketchpad and smiled softly. She knew Sketch had been watching her like a faithful Labrador all day and now he’d paused in his cleaning up to consider her again. Business had been fairly steady all day, but now – not long before closing time – they had the place to themselves. “I’m fine,” she tried to reassure him. “Just ... thinking.”
“Too much, by the looks of it,” her boss frowned, reaching to turn down the radio a little so they c
ould talk. “I know you got a lot goin’ on in that head of yours, kid. If ya need time, you know you just gotta holler.”
But she shook her head, going back to her design as she carried on the conversation and not meeting the gaze she could tell was still trained on her. “I know I still have to talk to Michael and I guess I do feel sad at the thought of hurting him, but I kinda feel like ... like a weight’s already been lifted off my shoulders, you know? Is that bad? I feel like I should be more upset, but I’m not – I’m ...”
“Free?” Sketch supplied, nodding knowingly and making her bite her lip.
“Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I should be sad we’re breaking up and instead I’m thinking what a relief it’ll be not having that commitment, not having to feel guilty if--”
“If you bang Colt again.”
“Thanks for the tact, Sketch!” Callie exclaimed, flushing just a little. “And that wasn’t exactly what I meant ...”
“I’m guessing it’s true though,” he grinned. “Come on, darlin’, I get it and of course it ain’t bad! Gorgeous girl like you - young, free and single ... You gotta enjoy it and get a proper smile back on that face!” He crossed the room to tug her into a hug, but then pulled back to talk to her with near sternness. Albeit with a hand resting fondly on the back of her neck as he made her look at him. “Listen, Cal, I know you’re feeling guilty, but I also know you ain’t the sort of chick to play a guy. You wouldn’t be feeling that way if you were. But what’s done is done, you hear me? Ain’t no need for you to keep beating yourself up over him – you don’t deserve it, sweetheart. Let yourself be ...”
“Happy?” Callie said wryly, both of them staring at each other before starting to laugh.
***
Pushing the door of the studio open, Colton was almost surprised at himself. With all the shit with Taylor getting stirred up again, he’d almost expected his own mind to start telling him to pull back. To start telling him that allowing connections to form wasn’t what guys like him did – and for good reason.
But instead, he found himself putting himself in Sam’s shoes. The sergeant could protest all he liked, but it was obvious to those closest to him that he’d been getting in deep. Now, traitorous bitch or not, he had to get used to the reality that she wasn’t ever coming back. That he couldn’t fix her.
And rather than cut his own losses while the going was good, as his dark eyes fell on the laughing little blonde, Colton knew that, deep down, he wanted to pull her closer. Make it so she wouldn’t be ripped from him by anyone. And one night hadn’t done it. It just reinforced everything that had quietly been building for months.
“Private party or you still open?” he asked from the doorway, hooking his thumbs into his back pockets.
“Colt! You here for business or ... pleasure?” Sketch grinned, a should-have-known look written all over his face as he shot a glance at Callie. But he quickly shook his head at the black glare he got in response and reached for his jacket. “Tell ya what, doll, I reckon you still owe me for your little MIA stunt, so how about I make tracks, leave you to close up and we call it quits?”
She knew what he was trying to do – it wasn’t exactly subtle – but nodded anyway, hardly in a position to argue. Instead, she was left almost dazed by the speed with which he gathered his shit and pressed the studio keys into her hand as he kissed her cheek, slapped Colton on the back, and disappeared without a backward glance.
“Soooo ...” she tried, swallowing almost nervously as she looked at the latecomer. “What can I ... do for ya?”
“Can get your ass over here for a start,” Colton said, the few words bluntly spoken.
“Could ask me nicely,” Callie retorted, an eyebrow arched at his order, though she found her feet moving anyway.
Something in his eyes darkened dangerously and, in one fluid move, a hand found the small of her back and had her pressed flush up against him. “Sassy little bitch,” he growled, just before his mouth claimed hers roughly. He always had liked that side of her. “That nice enough for ya?” he pulled back to demand, once he’d robbed her of her breath.
“For a start ...”
***
CHAPTER 22
If he was honest, he’d half been wondering if the novelty might simply wear off.
Colton had never really been one for relationships. Unlike some of his brothers, with more baggage than they could ever fit on the back of their bikes, he had no ex-wives lurking in his past. No kids. No real ties at all, except his mom and aunt.
In fact, the last time he’d really gotten involved, he’d been a lot younger and had seen a helluva lot less. So no wonder it had crossed his mind that maybe it was all about the thrill of the chase. Wanting what he thought he couldn’t have, only to get bored once he’d got it.
But, so far anyway, that wasn’t the case when it came to Callie. Far from it. Instead, it was like his body had gotten a taste of hers and now it wanted more.
He wasn’t usually above taking what he wanted and yet, despite that pull, something was keeping him from treating her like he had some kind of claim. Like he could just use her when the need was too great to ignore. She deserved better than that. Hell, she deserved better than him. He’d never claimed to be selfless though, so here he was again. Seeking solace in the usual sanctuary of the tattoo studio, in the buzz and pull of the needle. In her.
It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since they’d ended up in bed together. Less than twelve in fact since he’d woken up with the little blonde wrapped in his arms. In other words, he was in deep shit.
Once he’d kicked a chick out of his room, she was out of sight and out of mind, never costing him a second thought. But, while he already recognised that Callie was no casual lay, he hadn’t been prepared for just how deeply she had already worked her way under his inked skin over the course of all the months since she’d stepped up for him.
“Think that’s the rest this stage finished,” she said, breaking into his thoughts as she turned off the needle and assessed her handiwork, wiping the excess ink from his tanned skin. “What d’ya reckon? I didn’t want to do too much more and risk spoiling the effect ...”
“Looks good, darlin’,” Colton acknowledged with a nod. The praise was hardly gushing, but he meant it and knew she knew that.
“Yeah, it really does,” she mused, taking in the sight of his chiselled torso and flushing just a little when he smirked.
“We still talking ink?”
“You usually fish for compliments?” Callie retorted, turning her attention to peeling off her gloves and trying to recover from the embarrassment of getting caught eying him up.
“Didn’t think I had to.”
She laughed at that. “I’ll bet you don’t. There’s probably chicks lined up round that clubhouse to hand ‘em out. Although I’m guessing they usually take a more hands-on approach to showing their appreciation.”
Colton could hardly deny it. He knew she’d been to the clubhouse before and that she knew the score when it came to the perks of having a cut on your back. “Don’t mean shit though,” he’d said before he could stop himself. He stood up to pull his t-shirt back over his head, in a bid to shut his mouth before it dug him a bigger hole.
“Anyway, I’d better get this place cleaned up,” Callie shrugged easily. “Sketch’ll only throw a hissy-fit if I close up without bothering and since it looks like you’re my last customer ...”
“You wanna maybe ... get dinner?” The gruff question came as equally out of the blue as his last comment – for both of them - and he clocked her surprised look, which in turn made his defensive reaction come over like he’d just been accused of getting on one knee. “What? A guy’s gotta eat ...”
***
Hair of the dog had been a hell of a bad idea.
Michael had no idea how long he’d been out, but his plan to go and talk to Callie over the state of their relationship had fallen to nothing as soon as he’d woken up in the cold light of day
and decided a shot of vodka would ease his hangover. All well and good at first, but after drinking all night, it didn’t take much to make his blood-alcohol level go shooting back up. So, when one shot became two and two became three ... Game over.
It was probably just as well though. After all, his booze-soaked mind had succeeded in painting a pretty convincing, if decidedly X-rated, picture. One that featured none other than his very own girlfriend and a certain blonde biker who, for all he knew, had most likely screwed his way round half of Nevada.
But that was then and this was now.
And now it was early evening and the usually cool and collected lawyer was, quite simply, a mess. But a straight-thinking mess - so he thought anyway, despite the roaring in his head that seemed loud enough to rival Will’s entire goddamn fleet of Harleys.
Had he really been about to storm round to Callie’s, profess his love for her and then accuse her of fucking Sam?
Michael groaned at the thought. And then again at what even just that sound did to his poor abused head. He really was getting too old for this shit, much as he hated to admit it. There was nothing classy about stinking of what had somehow turned into a two-day bender and he knew that not even a designer suit could change that.
Especially not one as crumpled as his.
He just wished he’d paid more attention to his girl over all the months they’d been together, maybe then he’d have the answers to the nagging questions at the back of his mind. They talked, didn’t they? It was true he didn’t want to talk about his work and risk boring her, or his ex and their son and risk scaring her off, but they talked ... didn’t they?
Staggering upright from his makeshift bed on the couch, Michael lurched to the fridge with a sudden urgency, fumbling for a cold bottle of water and wrenching the cap off with shaky hands to down a long gulp. Trying to clear the fog in his mind and thinking hard.
Why didn’t he know how Callie knew any of the Fallen?
Or why she would be calling them at the cop shop of all places? He was her boyfriend. He should know this, because he was supposed to know her …
Ink (The Haven Series) Page 14
