Inked: a Dark Bad Boy Romance Read online

  “Mack?”

  I almost instantly regret the question as soon as he gives me the answer: “Yeah, Mack Steel. He’s the president of the Red Dragon Riders. He’ll take over from here.” The man turns to go before remembering something. “You take this. Mack will want to see it and get all the details from you.”

  He hands me my death warrant back—that circle with the three crossing lines.

  CHAPTER 2

  “He’s a damn cheat, Mack! And you’re just going to let that ass sit there like he didn’t just swindle me outta my payday?” Lonnie throws his cards onto the pile of chips. He doesn’t have much of anything, just a jack and a few number cards. I lean back in the leather folding chair, let my eyes roll upwards towards the ceiling, and muster up a nonchalant smile. It was just another Thursday night at headquarters. Some pansy always has to start something when they lose control.

  Me, on the other hand, I’ve mastered the art of control. I know how to keep a straight face, to not let anyone know when they may be getting the best of me. I’ve trained myself how to talk, how to walk, how to act so that no one could ever accuse me of being emotional or, worse, involved. All these men needed me to be was in control of every aspect of their lives.

  I look back at Lonnie with his red, blotchy face and the grotesque, unclean beard dangling like a spider’s web from his lips. Old man served with my daddy in the Red Dragon Riders and he was still playing this basic shit. But his seniority in the club doesn’t mean jack to me. As President, I hold all the cards and all the power. Whatever I say goes, and I’m not about to let him pull a fast one on me.

  “Calling a man a cheater is a pretty big accusation, Lon. You got anything to back that up, or are you too afraid to go home to your old lady without any pocket change?” I take a slow sip of my whiskey. Thank God for headquarters having a fully stock bar. It means they always have my drink on tap and someone to keep my glass full for as long as I want it. I need it to get through boring nights like tonight.

  “I saw Cal pull the cards myself before he dealt. And we all know he’s a college boy. He probably knows how to count them using some… math trick or who knows what.” More bullshit from the bullshitter-in-chief. I motion towards the bartender, a young gun named Duke, who reads my mind. He grabs the remaining beers from Lonnie’s side of the table and brings them back to the bar. Lonnie watches with a long, drawn face of disappointment and rage.

  His knuckles curl before slamming onto the table in fists. Standing slowly, he shouts down at me, “How dare you! You don’t fucking believe me? I’ve been with this club for—”

  “Thirty-two years.” I cut him off as I grab him by the wrist and force him back into his chair. He stumbles slowly. An old drunk is the worst kind of drunk. “We all know who you are Lonnie. But that just don’t mean a goddamn thing when we all saw Cal deal in and no one else at this table is accusing him of cheating just because he got more school than your fourth grade education.”

  “Sixth,” he mutters under his breath as he slides down with cheeks blazing red and hands still curled. I shoot him a quick side glance from the corner of my eyes before telling Cal to divvy up again. Still, even though I know Lonnie was just trying to make some noise, I do watch Cal, one of our newest initiated members, a bit more carefully.

  Motorcycle clubs are like that. You gotta have trust in your guys. It’s essential for when you’re doing dirty work like riding out past state lines to pick up supplies or supervising a night shift with the company ladies to know that the guy riding with you has your back and your front. We take bullets for one another. It’s in our blood oath. But, at the same time, my daddy—who founded this club—also told me to never, ever take a man at his word. You give him an inch and he’s going to take a mile. The only person you trust, ever, is yourself.

  With that in mind, I take the stack of five cards before me and examine them from the edge of the table. Nothing. Again. Lonnie shouldn’t feel bad. If he was pissed about being out his week’s pay from riding the ammo truck from storage to Mississippi, he should be in my shoes. I’m down two weeks of managing this group of assholes and criminals. I’d rather take a long haul out of here than do some of the more office-and-tie type work the President has to handle.

  Even just yesterday I had to make a phone call to a contractor to fix a roof in one of our facilities. A contractor! I’ve only been President for six months, and I’m already going stir crazy for some real action—the type I would get myself into when I was the head Enforcer. I was top shit then. The old President, a retiree named Chief, wouldn’t mess with me. When he needed me, he’d call and I’d be out before he could give me the full details. There was way more freedom in being the muscle than the brain.

  I groan loudly as I place the cards back on the table. I wasn’t great at playing bluff. What you see is what you get with me. I don’t BS, even in a game of poker. Plus, Jimmy is standing just outside the doorway pacing back and forth like a tweaker needing a fix. He does this often, and it’s my job to calm the guy down. Having to deal with a guy like that, who can barely contain himself, is a full-time job in itself.

  “You can’t quit now, boss! What if this motherfucker starts cheating again?” Lonnie complains loudly as I stomp out of the room.

  “Just quit it, goddammit, Lon. You’re not going to win a dime back from the kid. He’s way smarter than you.” I hear the chair slide backwards on the cement floor as Lonnie stands in his defense, but I’m already out of shouting distance.

  “What’s going on?” I ask briskly as I walk straight towards my office. “I’ve got things to do tonight.”

  “It’s the tattoo. It’s back.” His voice slightly trembles as he says this, but really his words don’t necessarily register to me. I grab a few pieces of paper someone’s left on my desk to rummage through, but he comes back at me. “The Knights of the Dead! They’re back, and they’re killing tattoo artists again.”

  It clicks as he says the name of the club we destroyed over twenty years ago. I was just barely sixteen when that war started and ended. I thought they’d never come back or at least never try to mess with our territory, but if what Jimmy is saying is even remotely true, we have some real shit on our hands. I stare at him as I ask, “How do you know?”

  “I heard the rumor from a dealer friend so I went to see a tattoo owner of mine to give him a heads up. He wasn’t there, but a girl was and she was tattooing a guy with the circle. I pulled my gun and kicked him out. He ran before I could get an ID.”

  I drop the papers onto the floor before running past Jimmy. He follows at my heels out towards the parking garage attached to our building. I call back to him, “What’s the shop? The girl’s name?”

  “It’s the Crazy 8’s on Vine. Girl’s name is Anna Fox. I told her to lock herself in the shop and not open for anyone but you.” Smart. “You going to help her?”

  “Anyone with info on that tattoo or the guy is someone worth saving,” I reply before I spot my jet black cycle in the row of other bikes. I start on and head out into the night, leaving Jimmy standing with his hands resting heavily on the top of his head.

  I don’t have a second to spare so it’s all back alleys and side streets for me. Though I’ve got the police in this town wrapped around my finger, I’m not risking being spotted by someone who shouldn’t be seeing me. It’s a good thing I’m familiar with the neighborhood. My old condo is just a few blocks from here. When I became President, I traded it in for a studio apartment on the top floor of headquarters. It was convenient, but damn do I miss living out among civilians.

  I use my old parking lot to make it to the back end of the business center where I guess Crazy 8’s to be. I spot the old, flickering neon sign of the mermaid with the 8 tattooed on her arm and park in the employee spaces. There’s only a white beater in the other spaces, and my heart beat settles. Could it be that Jimmy got this whole thing wrong? Why wouldn’t they be coming for her by now if she marked the guy?

  I bang hard o
n the back of the metal door, kicking at the rusted over spots. “Anna Fox! It’s Mack Steel. Open the door.” I stand back, but nothing happens. There’s no sound, no turn of the locked doorknob. I call out again, “Jimmy sent me about that tattoo you gave. If you let me in, I can help you.”

  A small, terrified voice finally replies. “How do I know you’re not with that gang or club?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this. He told you I was coming, right?” I try to take out the meat of my voice—the low, gruff sound I use when I try to speak with the rest of the guys. No doubt Jimmy had scared the shit out of this girl and trying to be some kind of beast isn’t going to get her to open this damn door any faster.

  To my surprise, it works. The door opens just slightly, creaking as it lets out the light and sound from the tattoo parlor. Steady, fast drumbeats from a heavy metal rock song I’ve heard before blare from a speaker in the front of the building, but there’s no sight of the girl. I turn quickly in time to see the flash of something metal shining in the light. With seconds to react, I grab at the body, pushing it into the wall until the metal pail drops to her side.

  I press my entire weight into the woman’s thin body. I’m more than a foot taller than her and as I look down, all I can see is a crown of golden straight hair and bare shoulders covered in red, blue, and green rose tattoos. She lets out a muffled yell and I feel her struggle to push me away. “Drop the pail!” I scream back. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  There’s a moment where I can tell she has no clue what to do. Her arms shiver and quake and her head turns from side to side under my arms. I push even closer up to her. The outline of her curves rubs up against me, and I need to remind myself of the word of the night: control.

  Finally, the pail drops, falling with a crash to the tile floor. I pull away, taking it with me, as I give her space. She nearly falls into a lounge chair that seems to belong to an employee’s breakroom. I take a seat across from her on an old leather tattoo chair. After a long second to let her catch her breath, I ask, “You’re Anna, I’m guessing?”

  “Yeah. You’re Mack?”

  “The one and only.” I grin widely, spreading my hands out to the sides, as if announcing royalty. “I hear you did a tattoo you shouldn’t have tonight.”

  “I don’t do club tattoos. I don’t brand anyone, so I didn’t know.” There’s some strength in that panic that I have to admire. Despite all the odds, she seems like she’s still got some bones in that tiny, perky little body of hers. I wonder if the Knights picked her because of her looks. Sadistic killers like them could certainly do a number with a gritty girl like her.

  “You don’t have to get defensive with me, missy. I don’t give a fuck who you tattoo or what little, girly image you put on their body. That’s not why I’m here.”

  She shoots me a hard, cold look. Already I can see the anger boiling deep inside of her. She’s used to men like me questioning her work. Anna places her hands on her lap and stands up quickly. She throws me a black leather photo binder full of images of body parts with her drawings. “You look through those and tell me that my work is ‘girly?’ I don’t do girl’s tattoos. I do real art.”

  Anna isn’t kidding. As I thumb through the images, I’m completely blown away. Most pisspoor tattoo artists I know are just tracers. They get some stock photo off the internet and pretend like they designed the tat themselves when all they’re doing is just following some lines and coloring it in. Her stuff is actual, honest to goodness, art. Still, I try not to register any shock or approval on my face. I toss the book to the side and go back to my original request. “Where’s the image of the tattoo the guy wanted?”

  Her thin, sculpted arms reach down the collar of her black cut-off tank top to fish out a folded piece of paper. With her waving hips, she walks slowly towards me before outstretching her arm. The sly, slightly perplexed smile leaves my face when I see the image. Clear as can be—it’s the mark. I recognize it from the crime scene photos my detective pals passed on to me. That was years ago, but the mutilated bodies with a paper similar to this lying next to their outstretched arms is seared within my memories.

  You can’t forget something like that, even when you’re in my line of work. Deaths were work hazards, part of the job you agree to take on when you get initiated in. My dad drilled that into my head before he was shot down by a Knight about ten years ago. “You’re going to have to make amends with your own death and mine. The more you hold on to life, the harder it will be to do this.” When he was killed by a Knight during our turf wars, I was the first one to see the body. I was numb then. I’m still numb now.

  In my mind’s eye, I can see this little girl looking just the way those other tattoo artists looked. Open eyes, open mouth, hands curled out in front of her as they reach for an escape. Most were shots to the head. But some were far more brutal. A girl like her would probably get the worst of it…

  “What? What are you thinking? Am I fucked? I’m fucked, right?” Anna sits down next to me, her head falling into her hands as she mumbles something to herself. I’m tempted to reach out and touch her, to put an arm out for her. But that’s not me.

  Instead, I reply dimly, “You’re fucked. This,” I explain as I hand back the paper, “is not good. This image has been around for more than twenty years now. The guy who marked you is probably out doing his hit now, and then he’s going to come back for you to tie up the loose ends. Since he knows you know about the tattoo and you may have protection, I have no doubt in my mind he’s going to come for you with even more force, might even bring the whole club with him for added security. Do you know why you were targeted?”

  “I have no idea. I’m dealing with this other shit with my ex-boyfriend so I don—”

  “I don’t really give a crap about your love life, Anna. If I remember right, they usually target places randomly, find the most vulnerable person they can to get that tattoo done. You were probably just someone this dick picked out of a lineup of possible artists.”

  I stand up and walk back towards the rest of the tattoo parlor. Even with the music blaring, I can practically hear the eerie, otherworldly emptiness. I spot the office with the security camera TVs still broadcasting the feed from the front door. With Anna right behind me, I ask, “You know how to get the tape off of this?”

  “Yeah, I can download the day and send it via email.” She sits down and begins typing on the computer all while keeping an eye on the televisions. I’m guessing she spent most of her time waiting for me in a similar position. I wouldn’t blame her.

  My phone pings. The file makes its way to my inbox and I forward it on to Jimmy who will confirm it for me. But, in the meantime, I’m getting anxious here. This girl has a black spot on her and this place is just containing her for now. Who knows what those a-holes will do to get to her, and if they knew I was part of the deal, they’d fire bomb this place until we were locked in our own smoke box.

  “You got some place to go, some place completely safe?” I ask her. “I’m talking about a place where no one in the world would know your address. If they know your name, they could target anyone related to you to find out where you would hide.”

  She stammers to herself, biting that pink painted lip. “No… I was staying with my mom outside of town, but I don’t think I should go back there tonight.”

  “Then I guess you’re with me.”

  “What?” she asks, dumbfounded.

  “You’re staying with me until we can figure this shit out. And while my guys work on the video, we can get some food because I’m starving.”

  “I need to go home. I need to grab my stuff. I have to tell my mom…” She begins to panic, her hands shaking as she runs back towards the lounge area again.

  I charge after her, grabbing her by her hips. With one quick motion, I open the door and push her through. She thrashes under my grip as I whisper to her, “Leave your car here. I’ll have someone pick it up. In the meantime, we’re going to dinner
.”

  Anna stops in her place right before the cycle. Despite the darkened night skies and the only light coming from the flickering lamp post, I can see just how upset this simple command is for her. I smirk, hoisting her up on the back of my bike. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay this time.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I’ve ridden on motorcycles before. Riley, my ex-boyfriend, fell in love with them when we dated. But I don’t think ‘love’ is a strong enough word. It’s more that it became this obsession for him that he couldn’t ignore. Life revolved around going to the bike stores, scanning their inventory, dreaming out loud about rides he would take and festivals he would visit. When we talked about marriage, it became a motorcycle marriage. I thought it was just a quarter-life crisis, but it never stopped. It just got worse.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t see the point. Motorcycles are dirty bikes that old, scraggly guys ride around to prove that they’re still men. It’s like overcompensating with a death machine. I just couldn’t get past all those horror stories about men flipping over on their bikes or them causing car accidents on the highway. Just hearing them sent frantic shivers down my spine.