Missing Ink

by E J Frost

  Besides, Brenna’s looking as eye-catching as she always does with her dreads bound up in a big, tie-dyed bandana, wearing a black button-down that shows off her tits and trim waist and those oxblood leather pants that make me fucking drool every time she walks by. Some of the bikers are a hell of a lot better looking than I am and several of them have been giving her the appreciative eyeball. I don’t want one of them to throw her over their shoulder and ride off with her while I’m in the meeting.

  Erin starts up again and I let Brenna return to the sleeve planning while I eat my own tongue-searing noodles. As I’m clearing my plate and wondering if Bren will ever let me live it down if I slink off to the bar for a glass of milk, the sergeant at arms comes up behind Walter, puts a hand on the president’s shoulder, and says, while looking at me, “We’re all set up in the Little Green Room.”

  Walter nods. “Mac, you about done?”

  They’re not wasting any time. “Sure. Just tell me where to take my plate.”

  The plates stacked at the beginning of the long buffet were metal, probably Army surplus, instead of paper. Seems like a lot of washing up, but maybe the club figures it’s better for the environment, particularly if they have big meals like this often.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. Us girls will take care of it,” Erin interjects.

  “Okay.” I hope I haven’t just sentenced Brenna to KP duty, but I rise, giving her a kiss on the temple as I go.

  Walter, Bud, and Baez rise with me, leaving Erin and Bren at the table. Erin scoots into the chair I was occupying so she can continue to regale Bren with ideas about her sleeves. I lift my eyebrows at Bren as I follow the bikers away from the table and towards a door behind the bar but she just gives me a wry smile. She’s probably used to this sort of tattoo-groupie.

  Smiling to myself at the thought of being one of my favorite tattooist’s groupies, I walk through the door that the club’s VP, Miller, holds open for me. He closes the door once I’m through and I get the sense that this is a private space for the bikers, off-limits to everyone else. That sense is reinforced when I walk down a hall that’s draped with flags: all branches of the service, the state flag, the stars and stripes. There are pictures hung over the flags, of men wearing the Rolling Blue cut, standing proudly next to their bikes. Each picture has a diagonal black strip of cloth carefully pasted to the lower right corner and I realize these are the club’s departed. It’s a nice memorial, dignified but also celebrating their passion. There are worse ways to be remembered.

  I hope I’ll be remembered this way someday, instead of a sad announcement in a Florida newspaper I never read.

  Ahead of me, Bud holds open a door with an opaque glass window set into it and the words “Little Green Room” stenciled on the glass. It looks like it was part of the original factory, although I can’t imagine what a little green room would be for. The room I’m ushered into is a conference room, with an old, round, wooden table in the middle and straight-backed, wooden chairs drawn up around it. Both the table and chairs look like they were part of the original factory as well. The wood creaks as I take the seat Walter holds out for me.

  Five of the Rolling Blue officers sit down around me. Walter, Miller, Bud, Stape, and Baez. Former DEA, cop, Air Force, cop, and ATF. Lot of service to our country gathered around this battered table. These are hard men, who have probably had to make the same sorts of decisions I have, and I respect them. I sit as comfortably in the chair as the unyielding wood allows and wait for them to say their piece.

  Bud and Stape are carrying folders that they set down on the scarred table. The others arrange their hands, and their expressions, into what I’d call neutral ready. They’re alert, listening, but relaxed in the company of their brothers. That’s a level of comfort, of mental relaxation, that I’ve missed and would very much like to have again.

  Bud shifts around on his seat and grumbles, “Why haven’t we replaced these damn chairs? They’re breaking my ass.”

  There are chuckles around the table. “Helps keep meetings short,” Baez offers.

  “Let’s get to it, then,” Walter says. “Mac, we’re going to talk about some club business. I’m not going to confiscate your phone, but I’d appreciate it if you’d turn it off in front of us.”

  “Sure.” I take out my phone, tap it on, then power it off.

  “Thanks for that,” Walter says. “I don’t think it’ll come as a surprise when I tell you we want you to join the club.”

  I nod. That’s what I’d guessed.

  “I don’t mean as a hang-around or a prospect. We want you to patch in as a member. You’ve done your twenty in the service. That’s enough for us.”

  “I appreciate that.” Although I’m always willing to pay my dues, I wasn’t looking forward to the hazing prospects get to assure their loyalty.

  “Just speaking for myself,” Walter continues. “I think you’d be a real addition to the club.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bud clears his throat. “That’s a poker face to envy. Can you give us a hint here, Mac?”

  Baez chuckles. “I’m never sitting a table with this fucker.”

  I shoot him a grin. “I’m very interested. I’ve missed being part of a brotherhood.”

  “Great,” Walter says, patting the table with his meaty hand. “Bud, your show.”

  “Okay.” Bud takes a pair of wire-rimmed specs out of his breast pocket and perches them on his nose, flips open his folder, and takes out a handwritten list. “We have a few rules. We’re not the Hell’s Angels and we’re not a fucking fight club, but you’ll appreciate that we don’t share club business outside this clubhouse or with anyone who isn’t a patched member. Respect your brothers. Respect the club.”

  “Understood,” I say.

  “This is a Harley club, so you must ride a Harley. If you ride anything else, you don’t ride with us. You must wear the cut when you’re in the clubhouse or on any club business, like a ride. Respect the cut. Treat it like the flag. It never touches the ground.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Rolling Blue is not an outlaw club. No brother will commit any crime, be implicated in any crime, or be an accessory to any crime. If any brother is convicted of a crime, they forfeit their cut.”

  “Okay, I understand.” Seems a little harsh, but I guess it’ll keep me honest about parking tickets.

  “Attendance at club meetings is mandatory. Meetings are held alternate Thursday nights at nine. One brother speaks at a time. Votes are by two-thirds majority.”

  “Makes sense,” I say.

  “Members must live in New Jersey,” Bud says, drawing a finger down his list. “At least part time. I know you got a place in Brooklyn. If you don’t wanna give that up, club can rent you a room.”

  Disappoint the brother and son who has already had blueprints drawn up with “Mac’s Suite” on them? I don’t think so.

  “How negotiable is that?” I ask.

  Bud looks up over the rim of his glasses. “Is that a problem? I thought your place in Brooklyn was just a rental?”

  I nod. “I have something permanent now in the East Village.”

  Bud and Walter glance at each other.

  “How permanent?” Walter asks.

  “Before we get into that, we should talk about the other thing,” Stape interjects.

  “Right.” Walter rubs his chin. “Mac, how well do you know Brenna?”

  Unsure where he’s going with this, I shrug. “It’s fairly new between us, but I know she’s trustworthy. She’s well-trained.” Walter’s a Dom, so he’ll know what I mean. “She certainly wouldn’t do anything to break club rules.”

  Stape snorts. “Let me tell you a few things about your trustworthy girl.” He flips open his folder and reads from the pages clipped inside. “Brenna Truelove. Eight counts of disturbing the peace. One count of solicitation. One count of assault with a deadly weapon. A baseball bat. Only reason she didn’t go down is the girls she attacked were kno
wn gang-bangers.”

  I keep my face blank. I can’t wait to do a baseball bat scene with my little slugger. And if Stape thinks he’s going to turn me against Bren by unearthing her juvie record, which he’s got no fucking business disclosing, he’s got me all wrong.

  Stape continues with a curled lip, “Known associates, Edwina Lincoln, former head of an all-girl gang in the Bronx known as the East C Girls, currently serving a dime in Otisville for gang assault. Alice Simpson, ex-gang member, sex worker, web-cam girl, and professional dominatrix—”

  “You missed her friend the drag queen,” I observe.

  “Point is—”

  “I get the point.” I rap my knuckles on the table. “I think we should stop there, boys. This isn’t going to happen.”

  Bud flips his folder closed. “We can work out the living situation, Mac.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not the issue. I’m not giving up Brenna.”

  Stape gives me a long, unfriendly look. “You just said the thing between you is new. She’s just a girl. She’s half your age. Plenty more where she comes from, if that’s what you’re looking for. She’s not worth throwing away the brotherhood for. Hell, she’s a criminal. She may have gone straight for now, but they always revert to type.”

  “I understand why you’d feel that way,” I say evenly, although nothing inside me feels even. I want to roar at this unbending ex-cop for condemning my sweet sammie. For not seeing the wonderful woman she’s grown into. For ever thinking women are interchangeable. For thinking that our age difference cheapens what’s between us. But it’s pointless. There is someone here who will always revert to type, but it’s not Brenna.

  “Mac.” Walter blows out a breath. “We think you’d really fit in here. The brotherhood’s worth it.”

  Maybe to some, but not to me. Not if I have to give up the woman I promised I wouldn’t disappoint. And any brotherhood that would ask me to give up my woman is not one I want to be a part of.

  It stings. I do want this. I’ve been more relaxed over the last two days than I have been in months and that’s not just because the situations with Naomi and Bren have improved. It’s because I’m back with a group of men I know have each other’s backs and would have my back if I became one of them.

  But there are other brotherhoods. More accepting brotherhoods. I just have to find them. There isn’t another Brenna.

  That thought makes my decision crystal clear.

  “Thanks for the offer, fellas. I appreciate it. I hope you’ll still think of me for charity rides.”

  There’s a chorus of “yes” and “of course” around the table. Not from Stape, though, who is glaring at me. I’ll have to ask Brenna if he’s said anything to her and if he has, make sure she knows I disagree with him very, very strongly.

  I make a point to shake every man’s hand before we leave the room, even Stape’s, just to show there’s no hard feelings.

  As we head back down the hall towards the bar, Walter falls into step with me. His beefy hand settles on my shoulder. “I wish you’d reconsider, Mac,” he says, low enough it’s only for my ears. “I hate to see you backing the wrong horse.”

  “Thanks, Walter. I’ve made my decision.”

  If he knew me better, he’d know that once I make a commitment, I never back out. I’ve made a commitment to Logan, who means more to me than any of these men ever will. And I’ve made a commitment to Brenna, who could mean more to me than anyone but my daughter.

  He gives my shoulder a squeeze but releases me before we reach the bar. My eyes immediately seek out my sammie. She’s still sitting at the table with Erin and they’ve been joined by the redhead who was serving behind the bar. Bren’s laughing. She looks relaxed and happy; none of the tension I’d expect if Stape had blown his attitude her way. As soon as her gaze meets mine, warmth floods into those brown eyes. She grins that cocky grin that shoots me straight through the chest.

  I definitely made the right choice.

  *****

  We end up needing a ride back to the motel, not because either of us has had too much to drink, but because Bren’s so sore she can’t sit on my bike. She gives it a try, my bold girl, but when she straddles the seat, all the color drains out of her face. In the actinic safety lights of the bikers’ parking lot, her face looks like unripened cheese. I offer her my hand and help her off the bike.

  The hang-around, Chris, drives us back to the hotel, carries my saddle bags into our room even though I didn’t ask him to, and asks when we want to be picked up in the morning. After checking with Bren when she needs to be back at her shop, I ask him to pick us up at nine.

  He pushes his hands into his baggy jeans and nods. “I guess we won’t be seeing much of you after this.”

  That circulated fast. “We’ll be back for charity rides. Hopefully by then you’ll be back on two wheels.”

  He smiles sheepishly before saying good night and ambling back to his primer-orange pickup truck.

  “Mac?” Bren asks softly from behind me.

  I should have known she wouldn’t miss that.

  “Yeah, sweetheart. Let me get the salts and we’ll get you into a bath. That’ll help with the soreness.”

  “Thank you, sir, but what did he mean by that?”

  “Let’s talk about it in the bath.”

  I get in with my girl because I could use a little hot water myself after the ride and our scene. As good as it was, and it was a damn good scene if I say so myself, it was a little taxing on my already overtaxed back.

  The hotel’s bathtub isn’t as large and comfortable as the cast-iron monster at Logan’s, but it holds the two of us, hot water, and the bath salts, which is all we really need.

  Bren doesn’t waste any time once we’re in the water, with her perched between my legs as I lazily rub the motel soap over her back. “What did Chris mean, sir?”

  I draw her to me, so she’s resting against my chest, and kiss her temple. “They invited me to join the chapter, but their rules make it a no-go. Like I said to Chris, I’ll still do charity rides with them. Don’t worry. We’ll do this again.”

  “I enjoyed the ride, sir, but mostly because I was with you.” She takes a deep breath. “Mac, real talk. Was it me? Did they have a problem with me? That one guy, Stape, he kept glaring at me, and Erin said he used to be a cop.”

  “Don’t think you can get away with turning real talk around on me, girl. Truth is it wasn’t only you. They require their members live in Jersey and Logan’s just asked me to move in with him. I’m not going to let him down.”

  “But was it me?”

  “They don’t want anyone with a criminal record. And I don’t want to be part of any group that holds someone’s past against them. I’m damn proud of the person you’ve become, Bren. If they can’t see that it’s their loss.”

  “But—”

  “No, girl, no buts.”

  She lifts her hand off my knee to rub across her eyes. “It always comes out. Those records are supposed to be sealed, but somehow, they always come out. It happened at Blunts, too.”

  “What happened at Blunts?”

  “When I was being interviewed, the management committee asked me about it. I wanted into the club so bad I didn’t make a fuss, even though there’s no way they should have been able to get access to those records. When I found out Theo was a cop, I realized he must have gotten them.”

  Fuck that.

  “You still did scenes with him?”

  “I didn’t know until a few weeks ago. He pulled out his badge to shut down a party where the punch had been spiked. I’d been doing scenes with him ever since he came back to the club after his wife’s death and I . . . it was too late to get pissy about it.”

  “I’d have been pissy, sweetheart.”

  She laughs, a low, relaxed peal. “No point. Just, you seemed jealous of him and you shouldn’t be. After I realized he was the one who gave my records to the committee, I couldn’t trust him. I’ll always be a criminal
and he’ll always be a cop. Nowhere for anything to go between us.”

  “He had no damn business breaking open your juvie records. Neither did Stape or whoever did it with Rolling Blue. Makes me angry on your behalf, Bren.”

  She turns her head so she can look up at me. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, girl. You ready for bed? Alarm’s going off at seven if Chris is picking us up at nine because I haven’t had that ass since this morning and I want it before we hit the road.”

  She laughs and rubs my knees gently. “Yes, sir.” As we climb out and towel off, she looks up at me, her eyes suddenly sharp and bright after the haze of an intense scene and subspace. “Can I call you my Sir now?”

  I grab the end of her towel to pull her tightly to me and give her a hard kiss. “’Course you can, girl. Why now?”

  She shrugs and cuddles to my chest. “Just feels right.”

  I finish rubbing her dry, then scoop her up and carry her to bed, which has her laughing into my shoulder. Despite her amusement, once we’re in bed and settled, her breathing softens after barely a minute to sleepy puffs. Her part of the scene: chained to the bikers’ stripper pole, rocking on her knees, rubbing her pussy on the bristly, upturned head of a floor sweeper until she came while taking me down her throat, was strenuous. Between the scene and the ride, I’m not surprised she’s tired.

  I shift until her weight on my shoulder is comfortable and close my eyes while I mull over why it feels right for her to claim me as her Sir. Could be because of all the orgasms. Could be because I got angry on her behalf.

  Or it could be because I chose her over the bikers.

  And I’ll keep right on choosing my dirty girl.

  Chapter 11

  Why didn’t anyone ever clue me in to the fact a motorcycle is basically a giant vibrator? I feel like the universe has been keeping secrets from me. Mac might not be aware of it—or he might be, because he’s a fucking mind-reading Dom—but he’s been edging me with his damn bike for three days. The last time I was this horny was the club auction, and I think our ride might just beat that.