Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  Scrubbing my hands over my face, I lift my beer to my lips and take a deep pull. Soon I’ll switch onto the hard stuff for the night and block out all thoughts of Taylor, but right now I’m still hopeful of finding a little female distraction.

  Smoke appears beside me and sinks down onto the huge leather sofa. “Brother, this place is so packed full of pussy tonight, it’s practically a vagina smorgasbord. What do you want? I’m giving you first dibs; do you want the brunettes, the blondes, or the redheads?”

  “Not the blondes,” I reply.

  Smoke turns to look at me, his eyes more assessing than I’d like. “Never the blondes. You gonna tell me about her one day?”

  “One day,” I reply.

  “Okay, so brunettes, redheads, or the rainbow girls tonight?”

  I open my mouth, just about to tell him he can keep them all, when a flash of red catches my attention. Scanning the crowd, I search for another glimpse of the color that’s so vibrant and full of life I’m impossibly drawn to it. In a sea of the ordinary and mundane, the ferocious color should be impossible to miss, but no matter how hard I look, I can’t find her.

  My heart’s beating wildly in my chest, and I can’t explain my reaction. It was only a glimpse of a color that was probably manufactured in a bottle, but something compels me to find it again. I rake the crowd, scanning each head in turn, but there’s nothing, she’s nowhere.

  Then I see her. Hidden amongst the crowd, the woman has her back to me, but her mane of hair flows down her spine like a smoldering flame. To call this woman a redhead would be doing her a disservice. Her hair isn’t red, it’s an intense mix of burnt ember, copper, and amber with some wisps of apricot sprinkled here and there. The artist in me is drawn to it. I want to study the vibrancy, to run my fingers through the strands and watch as the light bounces off it, changing it from bold, to subtle and back again.

  I try to take in the woman the hair belongs to, but I can’t force my eyes to look away from the color. I will my feet to move, to push me up and toward her, but I’m rooted to the spot. The color is so vivacious that a fear of the woman being somewhat ordinary terrifies me. Closing my eyes, I drop my chin to my chest and count to ten under my breath. When I open them again the woman is gone and I don’t allow myself to search her out again. A dull sense of dissatisfaction echoes in my chest, but it’s better this way. She won’t be remarkable, she won’t be special, she’ll just be a girl with a great hairdresser.

  “I’m not feeling it tonight, I’m going home,” I tell my friend.

  “I got an empty spot on my back you can ink, if you need something to fill some time,” Smoke says with a smirk.

  “Come on, you wee freeloader. But if you’re getting the ink for free, I get to pick what I put there.”

  “Sold,” Smoke says, rising from his seat with an eager grin.

  Shaking my head, I push my way through the horde of people and out into the cool night air. The freshness is a welcome relief after the crush of the packed clubhouse. I make my way to my bike, Smoke following behind me and silently we mount our bikes and ride off into the night.

  We reach the shop sooner than I would have liked, but the ride calmed my mounting anxiety and by the time I roll into the inner courtyard I feel settled. Smoke parks his bike beside mine and we both dismount and head for the door that leads into the shop.

  “Go grab us some beers while I set-up.”

  He nods and retreats to the fridge stashed in the corner of the storeroom. I focus on pulling out my gear, taking sterile packaged needles from the drawer to the side of my station and lifting ink bottles from the shelf. The reds and oranges draw me in, and I pull several different shades down, filling tiny plastic tubs with the myriad of colors.

  “Here,” Smoke says, holding out a bottle of beer.

  Taking it, I point at the huge leather bed in front of me. “On your stomach,” I say. Smoke strips his shirt over his head and lies down on the bed, his long arms hanging over the sides. It only takes me a moment to pull on latex gloves and set-up the rest of my equipment. When I turn on my machine, the soothing buzz of the tattoo gun resonates in my gut and I exhale a long steadying breath.

  Smoke’s back is a blank canvas; the only place on his body without at least one piece of ink. He’s been on at me for months to draw something up for him, but my busy schedule hasn’t allowed me any design time. Tonight though, I don’t have to think; my hand and gun work seamlessly together, knowing exactly what to do. Three hours later, I switch off the gun and sit up. My eyes scan Smoke’s skin, taking in the lines and flow of the ink.

  “You all done?” Smoke asks as he flexes his shoulders, lifting his arms above his head.

  “Yeah, I’m done.” I say, my voice weary, and suddenly exhausted.

  Smoke rises from the seat and makes his way over to the mirror. “Holy fuck.”

  Silently I wait for more from him. He trusts me enough to let me ink whatever I want on him, but this piece, I think it might be my best work.

  Smoke spins to face me, his smile huge. “Brother, you’re a fucking artist.”

  My eyes drift to the mirror behind him and there in the reflection is the tattoo I just gave him. A phoenix; its body a riot of fiery heat and flame: red, orange, amber, with streaks of apricot. Its feathers are the exact same color as the woman from the club’s hair.

  “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I shout to Taylor as we try to force our way through the never-ending sea of people. The music’s so loud I can feel the beat vibrating though my bones and sweat pools on my neck, slowly rolling down my back as the oppressive heat surrounds me.

  “Come on, let’s see if we can find the bar and I’ll ask the bartender where Park is,” she shouts over the booming music.

  Reaching out, I take her hand and hold on tightly, not wanting to get separated in the packed room. At five foot three inches, some people might call me short. I prefer to use the term vertically challenged. In day-to-day life, my height rarely causes me a problem, but in a club packed full of giant men I feel like a midget.

  Taylor seems to effortlessly flow through the mass of bodies, gliding this way and that with ease. Her statuesque, willowy body barely seems to turn as she weaves in and out of the crowd, towing me along behind her. Unlike my friend, I seem to stumble at every turn, narrowly avoiding several people as I try to follow her path and fail miserably.

  By the time we finally reach the bar, my hair is damp and my cotton top is stuck to my skin. Taylor looks as cool as a cucumber and the bartender takes a long assessing look at her as she leans over the bar to speak to him. The music prohibits me from hearing their conversation, but Taylor’s body language becomes flirtatious and she arches her back, squeezing her breasts together. Moments later, she hands me a glass of something and waves sweetly at the bartender before she pulls me out of the way.

  “The guy behind the bar said that Park is here somewhere, but that’s all he knows. Maybe we should just head to the dance floor and hope he spots me. We could wander around in this crowd all night and never find him.” Taylor says.

  “That doesn’t seem like the best plan. Maybe we should just leave a number for our hotel with the bartender and leave.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Why would we leave? This is a party; let’s have a little fun. If Park’s here, he’ll find us, especially if I’m in the middle of the dance floor where everyone can see me.”

  Holding her hand tightly, I scan the people to either side of me. The crowd is a mix of men in leather vests and women in virtually nothing. So many of them are gorgeous, almost as beautiful as Taylor is, and I doubt even she could stand out in a crowd like this. “I don’t know TayTay, there are a lot of people here and some of the guys look downright scary.”

  “Oh for god’s sake, Rosie, live a little. It’s a party at a biker club. A night like this features on every girl’s bucket list. Just relax and let’s go dance.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already stridin
g away. If I lose sight of her, I might not be able to find her again, so I quickly follow and moments later I find myself in the middle of a makeshift dance floor. Taylor immediately starts to dance, grinding her body to the beat of the music. I try to relax and enjoy the song, but honestly this place intimidates me. I’m not a sheltered little virgin, but unlike Taylor suggested, partying at a biker club has never made it onto my top ten places to hang out list.

  We seem to dance for hours and Taylor garners a lot of attention, despite the fact that many of the women surrounding us are wearing even less than my best friend is. Taylor has a presence that’s impossible to ignore. She looks and acts like the socialite she is, and her inbuilt confidence is so effervescent that if she wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably be a little jealous of her.

  I on the other hand, am a decently attractive, normal girl. Bikers are not at all in my remit. I like nice guys, ones that wear chinos and ironed button downs with nice shoes. I put a lot of stock in the adage that you can tell a lot about a man by the shoes he wears, and that’s why I know none of the guys in here are going to be my type. Too many biker boots and not enough loafers for my taste.

  Reaching out, I lay a hand on Taylor’s arm. “Are you ready, sweetie?” I shout over the loud music. “I’m tired. We were travelling all day and I don’t think there’s any way of finding him when there are so many people here.”

  Her mouth twists into a slight scowl, but she nods and we slowly make our way back through the crowd and outside. Our black town car stands out like a sore thumb parked in the corner of the compound but given that the motorcycle club Tay’s PI sent us to is in the middle of nowhere, I’m glad to have it here.

  I can feel judgmental eyes on us as we reach the car and a suited driver quickly climbs out, opening the back door for us. Taylor seems completely oblivious, but then drivers and town cars are something she deals with every day. I’m not even sure if she knows how to drive.

  A relieved breath escapes me once we’re both in the back of the car and the driver closes the door with a click. I’m not sure I really want to come back here again, even if this is the club that Park is a member of. Obviously, the man he is now is nothing like the privileged teenager he must have been to have grown up with Taylor and her counterparts.

  From everything she’s told me about him, I’d expected him to be a stockbroker type. Nice suit, shiny shoes, you know the sort. But a man like that wouldn’t be welcome here. If Park is anything like the other bikers I saw tonight, then he’s more likely to be a man’s man. Hardworking, unapologetically male, and a little rough around the edges.

  Glancing at Taylor from the corner of my eye, I watch as she poses for a selfie, her blonde hair still perfectly straight despite dancing for hours in the hot clubhouse. She’s all class and money and nothing like the place or the people we’re driving away from.

  “Are you sure you still want to find him?” I ask, my voice small.

  She lowers her cell to her lap and turns to face me, a vacant expression on her face. “Of course I do. Why would I have changed my mind?”

  “Sweetie, this guy may have grown up with you. But this,” I say pointing behind us to the biker clubhouse, “is nothing like where you live. These people don’t live in million-dollar houses or socialize at the country club.”

  “Well obviously, Ro-Ro, they’re bikers.”

  “What I’m trying to say, is that if this is Park’s life now, he’s probably a very different person to the guy you knew in high school.”

  She looks at me, but either she doesn’t understand the point I’m trying to make, or she doesn’t get why I’m bringing it up at all.

  “Taylor, honey, I just don’t want you to get hurt. There must have been a reason why Park turned his back on his family and his life and disappeared. Did your PI tell you how he ended up here?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, did you get a file on him or just this location?”

  “Oh I got a file, but it didn’t say much; just that he was a member of this biker club and an address.” She says absentmindedly, her focus on her manicured fingers she’s holding out in front of her to admire.

  “Are you sure he’s going to want to see you?” I say, too exhausted to sugarcoat the words.

  “Why wouldn’t he want to see me? We were best friends for over a decade. I was the most important person in his life.”

  I feel my eyes widen at her words. Something just doesn’t ring true. If Taylor was the most important person in his life, why would he just leave one day and never contact her again? I open my mouth, intending to verbalize my thoughts, but something makes me pause. I look at my friend and she’s scrolling through Facebook on her cell and smiling at whatever she sees. I want to tell her that maybe they weren’t as close as she thought, or that maybe he doesn’t want to be found. But Taylor sometimes refuses to listen the truth if it’s not what she wants to hear. I have a feeling this may be one of those times, so instead I simply smile, sit back in my seat and enjoy the ride away from biker hell and onwards to our beautiful hotel.

  I wake up feeling like I’m still in the middle of a dream. I can feel the heat from the flames and the cool draft of the wings beating. The phoenix I inked on Smoke last night followed me into my unconscious and I dreamed of the magnificent creature flying above me, close enough to feel the power it emanated, but to still be in awe of its quiet, peaceful strength.

  Bolting up from my bed, I pad naked into the living room, walking straight to the canvases and art supplies that have taken over one corner of the room. Pulling a large blank canvas from the pile, I rest it on the easel and immediately start to pull tubes of oil paint from the rolling mechanics trolley that holds my paints and brushes.

  I paint like I’m in a frenzy, erratic brush strokes coating the white background with a crescendo of bold colors and lines. The image forms in front of me without thought, the picture so vivid in my mind that I don’t even need to close my eyes to remember.

  I’m not sure how long I paint for. Time is unimportant when I’m this inspired. Before I know it, my eyes are drooping, but my body is invigorated. My naked skin is splattered with paint and the floor around me is littered with empty oil tubes, discarded brushes, tools, and paint covered palettes.

  Just like always when I’ve been painting, I lower my aching arms to my sides, squeeze my eyes shut and take three long paces backwards. When I open them again, my eyes take in the bold colors and the subtle lines. It’s her, the woman with the magnificent hair from the club last night. Her skin is porcelain and flawless, each curve of her figure so feminine and womanly that I want to reach out and trace the line of her hip and ass. Her face is hidden, just like it was in real life.

  My breath hitches. The painting isn’t flawless; like any artist I could spend hours, days, playing with the detail and I normally do. But that’s not how I want this canvas to look. For once I want my art to have a side of vulnerability, and this painting with its rough lines has a softness that I rarely allow to come through.

  What shocks me with the painting before me isn’t how flawless her naked back appears to be, or how her hair is a riot of fall colors and open flame. What almost brings me to my knees is that for the first time in over ten years the painting isn’t of Taylor.

  The door to my apartment opens and I look over my shoulder, not surprised to find Smoke walking toward me, a brown paper bag gripped tightly in his hand. “Fuck, brother, go put some fucking pants on. Your tiny dick’s putting me off my lunch.”

  Chuckling, I turn to face him, grabbing my junk. “There’s nothing tiny about my cock, but feel free to come over here and see how big it feels in your mouth.”

  Smoke barks out a laugh. “I think I’ll pass”

  I turn my back on him and look at the painting. A smile twitches at the corners of my mouth and a bone deep sigh escapes from me. The image in front of me is so unlike everything I’ve painted in the last decade, that I’m jarred by how it lo
oks and how it feels when I stare at it.

  “Holy shit,” Smoke breathes from behind my shoulder.

  “I know,” I say. Smoke doesn’t really understand the significance of this painting, but he’s seen me in this exact position, covered in paint and standing looking at what I’ve created, many times before. He knows that my pictures are always the same person, always snippets of her face, her shape, but always blonde and always looking at me.

  “Who is she?”

  “I have no idea,” I say, an air of wonderment clear in my voice.

  “You ready to tell me who the blonde is now?”

  Am I ready to tell him about Taylor? I don’t really know, but the fact that this painting isn’t of her feels momentous, like maybe I’m finally moving past her, getting over her. Maybe ten years without laying eyes on her is long enough. “She was my best friend.”

  There’s a long pause when neither of us speaks. My heartbeat quickens and I feel the pulsing inside my head.

  “Did she die?” Smoke asks, his voice rough.

  “What? No,” I say spinning to face him.

  “Oh, shit, sorry. I just figured.”

  “No, she’s alive. She lives near my folks, or at least she did the last time I saw her.”

  “So what the fuck happened then?”

  “I fell in love with her,” I say bluntly.

  Smoke’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Okay, so…”

  “So it can’t happen. Ever. And if I can’t have her, then I can’t stand to be around her. So I left, end of story.”

  “End of story,” Smoke says, incredulity clear in his tone and expression.

  “Yeah, end of story. It was ten years ago; it’s done.”

  He laughs, “Right. It’s done, of course it is. That’s why every time I’ve seen you paint anything it’s her and it has been since I met you five fucking years ago.”