Inked & Dangerous

by Evelyn Glass

  She walks to a nearby table, places the deed down carefully, and then sprints across the room and throws herself at me, wrapping her legs around my waist. I hold her up by her ass as she attacks me with kisses: my forehead and my cheeks and my chin, and then my chest and my shoulders.

  “You just bought me a house!” she squeals. “Killian, you just bought me a house!”

  She lets out a giggle and then jumps away from me, running around the room like she’s full of energy and doesn’t know what to do with it. She runs from wall to wall, giggling, clapping her hands, punching the air.

  As I watch her, my chest fills with warmth until it is overflowing with it. I made her this happy, I think. And I’m in awe of it. Not just of her happiness, but of the fact that seeing her this happy brings a wide grin to my face. I never dreamed that could happen. I never dreamed that making a woman happy would make me happy. I never dreamed that I would care about a woman so much that seeing her bounce around would make me want to bounce around. But it seems even non-dreams can come true. And sometimes they’re all the sweeter.

  She bounces over to me and reaches down, grabs my cock in her small hand. It goes hard and I take in a deep breath, looking at the nape of her neck and thinking about how much I’d like to bite it, to make her squeal in pleasure and pain. But—

  “We’re not done yet, pretty lady.”

  She gives my cock a squeeze. “I know that.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ve still got something else to give you.”

  She tilts her head. She looks like a curious owl, only cuter. “As well as a house?”

  I nod, as well as a house.

  Then I swallow, because this next thing isn’t just a question of giving. Hope also has to accept it.

  I go to my pants, reach into the pocket, and take out the ring box.

  When I stand up, I don’t turn around straightaway, so that she can’t see what’s in my hand.

  “Killian?” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “I need to say something,” I tell her.

  “Okay . . .”

  I take a deep breath, and then launch into it. I haven’t planned the exact words, but I need to speak my mind before I ask her.

  “For most of my life, Hope, I’ve been an outlaw. I’ve ridden and I’ve fought and I’ve bled. That’s been my life. I never questioned this. It seemed like the natural thing to do, since Patrick was in the club. And I was good at it, damn good. I was a top guy by the age of fifteen and leader before I was twenty. I’ve been a good leader, too. The club is richer than ever. My life before you was a series of fights and fucks. Fucks with women who didn’t mean a damn thing to me, less than a damn thing. I know how that makes me sound, but fuck it, it’s true.

  “I thought I’d be like Declan, grow old in the club, until, just like him, I’m sitting around in the clubhouse drinking and waiting to die. I love the old man, but that’s what he does. He’ll tell you himself.

  “But then I met you, and you changed me, pretty lady. You changed me so much I can hardly believe I’m the same man. I’ve been thinking if I need to be the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs. I’ve been thinking if I even need to be a member of the Satan’s Martyrs. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and my answer is, no. I don’t. I don’t need to ride and fight when I have you. I don’t need anything but you.

  “So I’ve made a decision. I have enough money to get out of the life, and I’m doing it. I’m stepping down from the club and I’m stepping away from the life.”

  I stop, draw in a breath, and then turn.

  Hope’s eyes go wide when she sees the box in my hand.

  “Is that what I think—”

  I walk to her, kneel down, and open the box. A glittering diamond engagement ring looks up at her, just as I do. “Hope Warren,” I say, “will you marry me?”

  My heart is a fireworks show in my chest. No sooner has one heartbeat pumped my chest hard than another follows it up. I can’t hold the ring box still, I’m so nervous. I never expose myself like this. I never show myself like this. Not once since Dad died have I felt this open, this vulnerable. I’ve stripped myself for Hope. I’m naked inside as well as out, right now.

  I look up into her face for what feels like an eternity.

  But it’s only half a second, and then she cries out: “Yes, of course I will!”

  I snatch the ring out of the box, take her left hand, and slide it onto her ring finger. Then I jump to my feet and cup her face in my hands. “You mean it?” I demand, breathless. “You mean it, Hope?”

  “Hope O’Connor,” she muses. “It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I say. I lean in and kiss her, hard, on the lips.

  I press my naked body into hers and we both moan. When she places her hand on my chest, I feel the ring, cool on my skin.

  Epilogue

  Hope

  Planning a wedding in two months is no small task, even if the wedding is taking place at our cabin, and even when the reception is taking place at Berelli’s Gourmet in the Cove. For two months—from Christmas until Valentine’s Day—my life is consumed with invitations and dresses and details, details. I’m busy, but I can’t say I don’t enjoy it. Because every day I collapse into bed exhausted from all the planning, I know I’m one day closer to becoming Hope O’Connor, to becoming my man’s wife.

  “Do we really need to send all the Satan’s Martyrs individual invitations?” Killian asks one night, when we’re lying in bed, naked and sweating, in the cabin.

  I turn over and glare at him playfully. “Of course we do,” I tell him. “We’re doing this properly.”

  He holds his hands up, smirking. Every time he smirks like that, I remember the night he was waiting for me outside the restaurant. I remember that night and I think about how my life is now, how much it’s changed, and my mind soars with possibilities for the future.

  “You’re the boss,” he says.

  “Yes, I am.” I lean up and kiss him on the nose.

  We have sex every night for two months, sometimes rough, sometimes loving, but always intense. I have so many orgasms I’m sore with them, but it’s a sweet soreness, a contented soreness. When I wake beside him and he’s still sleeping, I’ll often prop myself up on my elbow and watch him, trace his tattoos, his muscles, trace my man. When he’s sleeping, he looks so peaceful my heart sings a little song.

  Even though I’m busy planning the wedding, I still find time to use the studio.

  I no longer have painter’s block. I sit on the stool in front of the canvas and even before I’ve touched it with my brush, my mind is loud with ideas, each one vying for my attention. And then I lay my brush upon the canvas and I paint Dawn, but she’s not depressed in a hospital room; she’s flying high on top of a sunlit hill, looking away from the view, her hair blowing golden in the wind. I paint Killian, sitting on his bike, looking sexy, staring off into the distance. I paint myself in his arms, small, tiny, him large, massive.

  And sometimes when I’m done painting, Killian creeps up behind me and wraps his arms around my torso, squeezing my breasts, twisting my nipples lightly. He lifts me up and lays me on the papered floor, and when we make love—or fuck, depending on what mood we’re in—the paper crumples beneath us.

  Never before in my life have I felt so sure, so contented, so at ease. Never before have I been so certain that everything is going to work out.

  “I love you,” he whispers into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper in return.

  The night before the wedding, I wake up and Killian is not beside me.

  I panic for a moment, wondering—like brides have for years, I’m sure—if I’ve just been jilted. Then I get a hold of myself and lean over to his side of the bed, where a note sits on the bedside table. It reads: Outside. I jump out of bed and pull on some sweatpants and a hoodie. My dress hangs from the wardrobe, crisp in its plastic covering.

  When I open the door of the
cabin, I see the lights. I cover my eyes and gasp, and then I slowly peep through my fingers. The lights are bikes, bikes upon bikes with their high beams lit, lined up side by side and opposite each other, making an aisle of light. The bikes lead away from the cabin and deeper into the woods. I pull on some sneakers and follow the aisle, walking through the light, the bikes throwing my shadow huge on the nearby trees.

  I walk for around a minute, past what feels like fifty or sixty bikes, until I come to a picnic blanket laid out on a grass patch of the earth. Blankets are stacked up next to it, and a bottle of wine sits beside two wine glasses.

  “Do you like it?”

  I turn quickly and see Killian sitting on the last bike, his bike, grinning.

  “How did you manage this?” I gasp. The lights remind me of Christmas, making a glittering path through the woods.

  “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 Pat
rick 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.”