by Ann Grech
The questions kept coming, tiring Chloe even further. Her nerves were frayed and she felt faint. Her heart thumped a rapid tattoo in her chest and her palms sweated as she clenched and unclenched her fists, struggling with the urge to vomit. Whenever Sheriff Peterson asked a question, the vision she’d endured earlier in the evening pushed through the walls that Chloe’s psyche had built, and she had to try desperately to keep down the bile that threatened to come up. Working overtime to catch her breath distracted her enough to stop herself vomiting and keep answering the questions directed at her. At least Sheriff Peterson was patient with them, giving each of the girls plenty of time to gather their thoughts before prompting their answers.
At about midnight, the smell of fresh coffee permeated the air, turning Chloe’s stomach again. The shaking had subsided a little, courtesy of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, but the drowning feeling was starting to overwhelm her, the darkness of pain and loss closing in on her vision whenever Chloe’s mind replayed the horror movie of a few hours earlier. Chloe craved returning to the numbness.
Chloe, Cleo and Claire spent that first night huddled together in fluffy pajamas in Claire’s queen bed. None of them slept – losing their parents was too painful to comprehend. When the sun crested over the horizon, they got up and made coffee, sitting quietly around the kitchen table until Cleo announced she was going to shower and change. That was when it finally started to sink in; Chloe, Cleo and Claire had lost the two most important people in their lives; they’d lost everything. Cleo’s legs gave out from under her and she fell back onto the chair she had just vacated. The tears tracked down Cleo’s cheeks and broken sobs wracked her body as she leaned against Claire for support. Her two sisters cried as they held Chloe close, contemplating their lives without the people who had loved and supported them every day they’d had together.
Heat washed over Chloe again, the breath whooshing out of her as her body relived the terror of being thrown to the ground, an immovable weight pinning her down. The roar of the explosion tore through her and the ringing in her ears made her dizzy. But the physical pain of the memories was nothing compared to the chasm that now existed where her heart had been torn out of her chest. It was too painful; she wanted to retreat into herself, back to the emotionally safe place she’d been in at the station. The quiet and hazy detachment of emotional oblivion beckoned. Chloe understood the attraction of drowning pain in alcohol or Xanax-induced fogs.
Chloe knew they would need to organize a funeral for their parents. Both Claire and Cleo were such a mess. Claire had always been a mother hen, but she needed someone to take the burden from her this time, and Cleo was so close to hysteria that Chloe worried she’d lose it. Chloe had to be strong for them both. She had to keep moving, had to keep them on track or they’d lose themselves too. And she couldn’t lose her sisters as well.
Needing to get lost in the menial tasks, Chloe couldn’t stop, not even for a moment. Stopping and feeling the pain had the power to break her. She’d forced Cleo to look at new clothes online and had Claire help her put together a new portfolio from the pictures she kept saved in the cloud just to keep them busy, to keep herself busy. Claire’s attention to detail had actually come in handy when reviewing whether to keep all of the sketches she’d originally included. Normally, that kind of thing would be fun, but not today. Instead, it was a stark reminder of all they’d lost.
News in the little town spread fast. By nine a.m., Jo was knocking on Claire’s front door with a box of clothes, shoes, bags and toiletries from her own closet. The clothes would tide them over temporarily. At least they didn’t have to go to the mall and deal with perky retail assistants and their small talk. Chloe wasn’t up for that. She was barely holding it together now. The thought of having to put on a fake smile and talk to people and answer questions like, “How are you today?” made Chloe sick to her stomach. How did you explain to someone what they were going through without shattering into a million irreparable pieces. Tristan had messaged her as he was leaving Berkley. He was her rock, the one person in the world who would know what she’d need without her having to ask. Hell, Chloe didn’t even know how he’d found out. It wasn’t like she’d posted it on Facebook or anything. But it didn’t matter. He was coming. He would be here and bring something she could draw with. Chloe’s escape was her art, her outlet for self-expression. She knew that she could stay strong for her sisters if she could lose herself in her sketches.
The day came and went in an endless buzz of people they didn’t really want to see, more questions from the Sheriff’s office, and the odd telephone call or door knock from reporters. Thankfully, Sheriff Peterson sent over a uniformed deputy to park out front to get rid of any unwanted visitors. Chloe managed to hide for most of the day and Tristan saved her going out to collect the printout of her portfolio, doing it for her so she had it with her when she started her new job at Ink’d Up the next day. Tristan had tried to talk her out of going, or delaying the day she started at the studio until she’d come to terms with her parents’ deaths. But Chloe couldn’t do that. She was desperate to do the best she could. She needed this job. She needed the peace her art could afford her, and needed to give her sisters some semblance of normalcy. In the hours after her parents’ death, she became a shattered shell, ready to irreparably spill its contents onto the pavement, but she was determined to get through it, to exist, to live. Chloe’s art was the key to that.
Sunset was approaching and Chloe found herself watching the time. Twenty-four hours on and Chloe was reliving the still-fresh memories over and over like some sick version of Groundhog Day. Claire was doing the same, staring at the clock as the minutes ticked by. Busying herself, Claire set about making coffee for them, but it just made the extent of their emotional fragility even more obvious. The memories of Chloe’s last coffee with their daddy resurfaced and she couldn’t stop the landslide of emotions hitting her. Despite being crushed by the emotions, she still couldn’t cry. At the time, Chloe didn’t know that it would be the last chance she got to talk to her parents. And what did they speak about? She asked what time her daddy had booked her Jeep in for a service that day. Of all the things that Chloe could have said to him, she said something as mundane as ‘so it’s okay for you to take my Jeep to the mechanic?’ At least she’d said, “I love you,” before she ducked out of the house. Chloe had no regrets about that part. Cleo wasn’t so lucky. She’d stormed out of the house thirty minutes earlier when they’d argued about something. Chloe hadn’t heard what it was about, but Cleo was furious. The only thing that worked Cleo up like that was Claire.
Chloe felt a lot like Cleo did about their eldest sister. Claire was high strung, stressing out on family stuff at the drop of a hat. Cleo was the subject of a lot of that stress. She was a risk-taker and a bit of a wild child. Even the way she looked was something that Claire worried on. Chloe and Claire left their hair a natural blonde. While Chloe’s was long, hanging down below her shoulder blades, Claire’s was a neat bob. Cleo, on the other hand, had dyed her hair dark and wore it short, a lot like the style Rhianna was famous for. Chloe loved Cleo’s fashion sense. During the day, she was a polite school teacher and at night she let loose, pairing up her sexy clothes with dark eye makeup and red lipstick. Claire always worried about other peoples’ perceptions of Cleo and what would happen to her career. Cleo loved teaching, but was never too concerned. She was amazing at her job, and staff and students alike loved her.
Chloe and Claire had their own issues too. Claire treated her like a daughter rather than a sibling. To say Claire was ridiculously protective was an understatement. Granted, Claire was nine years older than Chloe, but it was made worse by Chloe being a sheltered twenty-one year old, like virgin sheltered. She was Daddy’s favorite and her momma doted over her too. Cleo thought their daddy held on so tightly to Chloe because he didn’t want her to grow up – her maturing into an adult made him feel old. The only problem as far as Chloe was concerned was that her innoce
nce was still firmly intact. Her daddy could be intimidating and he used it to full advantage to scare her dates into preserving that innocence. The last thing she needed was another pseudo-parent making sure the chastity belt was firmly bolted on. So, thankfully, Claire had moved into her own place a couple of streets away when the rest of the family had returned to Rock Springs. The compromise that Claire had agreed to was to join them for dinner at least once a week.
Last night was supposed to be that night.
The damn girl had been filling Timmy’s head since he’d held her trembling body in his arms a couple of days earlier. He could see what was going to happen from a few houses away. The bikers weren’t wearing cuts, but Timmy didn’t have to look far for suspects. Ares Fury pretty much controlled all the bad shit that happened in the town, so even though he didn’t recognize the bikes or the men riding them, he’d bet his left nut that they were responsible.
When Timmy had heard them riding up, he’d held back. Then he saw the guns. When the riders unclipped them from their shoulder harnesses, Timmy had let go of Mohawk, his Rhodesian Ridgeback-Rottweiler cross, and sprinted to Chloe, tackling her to the ground when they’d started firing. He’d covered her body with his, praying she’d be okay when the house exploded. He hadn’t seen what had triggered it, but he could guess. The stench emanating from the house was hard to miss on his nightly walks. Heat from the explosion had singed his back, the embers and flying debris burning holes in his t-shirt and jeans. Adrenaline pumped through his body when he felt the sting of his flesh heating and the girl, Chloe, struggling underneath him. She was beautiful. Well, as beautiful as jailbait could be. And damn it, he’d been hard thinking about her ever since. She couldn’t be any older than seventeen. There was no way he’d tap that; but smelling the light floral scent on her tanned skin as he’d first covered her body with his and seeing her vulnerable, terrified, and dirty from her fall and crying, set off every protective instinct in him. She’d melted into him, obeyed his gentle commands without hesitation when his words had penetrated her shock. Even Mo’s protective streak had surfaced around her. He shook his head in wonder. Weird. That dog is damn picky about who he likes. And that usually suited Timmy just fine. Usually.
Even now, tattooing the brute of a biker with a set of gold wings on his chest, he was thinking about her. And shit, he was having trouble concentrating with all the blood in his cock rather than in his head. That wasn’t good. This dude was scary when he wasn’t pissed. If Timmy fucked up the president of Ares Fury’s ink, Timmy wouldn’t be going home; he’d be getting thrown off the bridge leading into town that people usually bungee jumped from. But there’d be no rope for him. Not that he’d need it; a bullet to his brain would take care of the need for a rope just fine.
The tinkling of the cockleshell divider between the waiting area and tattoo room behind it didn’t normally break Timmy’s attention, but this time it did. The smell of that floral perfume hit him square in the gut right around the time the butch on his table shoved him roughly out of the way. Shock at seeing the innocent beauty quickly subsided when he saw that Blade had an instant boner. Timmy was glad he didn’t have his machine pressed to Blade’s skin. His shudder would have inked one hell of a fucked-up line. He’d hate to think what that cunt had done to women, especially the victim who had earned Blade and his minions their set of gold wings. And Timmy knew she was only one of the unwilling ones. There were plenty of others; Blade’s tattoos told that story loud and clear.
Looking up, he sucked in a breath, his gaze following Chloe as she sauntered through the studio. She was following Dakota, but she eclipsed the boisterous woman in front of her without even trying. Timmy looked his fill as Chloe shook Rake, his partner’s hand before giving him a folder. She was putting on a brave face, anyone could see that but she had the strut perfected. He was damn impressed at how good a job she did holding things together and not looking like a train wreck. Timmy knew loss. After his brother’s death, he’d been a mess. From what he could gather from the sheriff, she and the sister, who needed to be sedated, lived with their parents. The drive by and explosion had torn their family apart and left the girls homeless.
“Fuck me, that honey’s gonna squeeze my dick so hard. Can’t wait to have her thrashin’ around underneath me. She’d be a fighter, scratchin’ and bitin’.”
Timmy couldn’t help the growl that erupted from him. He wanted to throttle Blade, the inevitable death sentence he’d be dealt by the Fury be damned. He pushed away from the chair currently being occupied by the vile bastard, stalked to his partner, and gripped both Chloe’s and Rake’s arms, dragging them into the drawing room out back. Anger radiated from him; he absolutely needed to get her out of the studio. She messed with his equilibrium, and tattooing Blade required all his concentration. Not only that, but Timmy couldn’t stand being anywhere near the dude when he was spouting shit like that.
When Timmy’s brother, Beau, was alive, he’d run drugs for the Fury. Every time he thought about it, Timmy’s stomach turned. His little brother had caused so much pain in the lives of others and what for? A rush. Timmy understood the need to feel alive, to feel the adrenaline high of doing something illicit, but he never understood why his brother was so anxious to sign up to the MC. Why that sort of rush? Animals like Blade reinforced exactly why Timmy had as little to do with them as possible, despite their continual offers for him to become a prospect.
Contact with the Fury was inevitable, but Timmy didn’t have to like it. He had to stick as close to them as possible so he could feed Captain Taylor information. Having a day job that allowed him to do that successfully was a fluke and a bonus. And Timmy did his job well. He had a skill that was in high demand: he was a good tattooist. Plenty of guys could do average quality work, but his was known around the traps. Tattoos, a guy who could stand his own, and another body to run drugs and shoot a gun was all that Ares Fury were worried about. Three out of four were apparently enough for the MC to make them want Timmy, but he didn’t want to get involved with them any more than he had to. And he had no intention of letting the sweet girl become their latest gang rape victim.
“Out Dakota. Organize your shit somewhere else.”
“Fuck you, Timmy,” the manager of their studio spat back as she one finger saluted him without slowing her texting. As soon as they were alone in the room, Rake turned on him.
“What the fuck, man?” Rake asked. “Touch me again in anger and I’ll fuck you up. Touch her again”—Rake pointed to Chloe—“and I’ll throw you to that prick on your chair.”
“You?” Chloe asked, recognition dawning on her face.
Timmy glared at her. “What the fuck are you doing here? You aren’t even legal. You need to get the hell out of this studio.” Pointing to Rake, he added, “And you should have kicked Chloe out the moment you saw her walk in, not gossip like an old lady. She’s fuckin’ jailbait.”
“You don’t know anything about me. You saved my ass and I’m grateful for that, but now you’re screwing with my livelihood and that isn’t cool. I need this job and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you scare me into running away.” Fire lit her eyes as she poked him in the chest. His cock responded instantly even though his head screamed at him to know better. Long blonde hair fell down nearly to her elbows and she wore a floral sundress that was a size too big for her. It sat loose enough that he could see the pale pink satin bra she wore underneath. That dress left little to the imagination. She was tiny compared to his six-foot–three frame, nearly a full foot shorter than him, but her dress was so short it made her shapely legs look a mile long. Her tanned skin was flawless, except for the string-bikini tan lines running over her shoulders. She had curves in all the right places and enough sass to keep life interesting, but her vulnerability was the kicker. It showed in her eyes. They held him captive: the bluest of blue that he’d ever seen, their stormy depths spitting venom at him and yet, also brimming with hurt.
“Chloe’s my new apprentice,
Timmy. Remember the one you said you didn’t need to interview if I was happy? She’s not going anywhere. Make nice, apologize, and get back to your client so we can get him out of the studio.”
“She’s our apprentice? What the fuck? You said you’d hired a college graduate? Chloe’s what, seventeen? This is a fucking mistake, Rake. It’s gonna bite us in the ass. Blade’s already eying her.”
“Get him out of here then, Timmy. I’m not risking Chloe.”
“Stay in here until I come and fetch you. We’re gonna have a talk.”
“What, you just want me to sit around here and do your bidding? I don’t think so.” She shook her head.
“He’s right, sweetheart,” Rake said far more gently than Timmy was able to be. “Stay here until Blade leaves. I’ll send Dakota back to show you around and get you started. I’ve got some photos that need to go online and our portfolios”—Rake motioned between himself and Timmy—“need updating anyway.”
Satisfied, Timmy went to walk out but Chloe snagged his arm. Heat shot through him when she touched him. Her soft, warm skin against the inside of his elbow contrasting with his hard muscles made his cock stand up and take notice.