Hell's Ink

by Nicole Reed

  “Goddamn it, Hold!” Mikey screamed in his ear, while tackling Hold. “Stop!”

  Mike forcefully took Hold to the concrete floor as a sharp whistle passed by Hold’s ear. It eerily buzzed his outer lobe. Hold glanced around to see all hell breaking loose. Badger lay across a bleeding Sandman, relieving him of his gun that he’d just fired at Hold. Ward fell down next to his friend, trying to revive the mortally wounded man. The Hell’s Highwaymen world imploded within itself.

  “Sandman, hold on, brother!” Ward yelled, trying to patch the holes in Sandman’s chest with his hands. “Hold on!”

  Time seemed to slow down for Hold. Badger crawled over to Hound, gathering his brother in his arms. Other members rushed crazily into the room. Different types and sizes of weapons were drawn, but no one knew who to fire upon. The enemy always was within. Their faces reflected shocked and shaken expressions, witnessing the fatal scene. It brought grown men to their knees.

  Hold pushed Mikey away to sit and watch Ward bow his head over Sandman. Ward’s chest heaved for several seconds. His fingers brushed over Sandman’s eyes, closing them for all eternity. Hold saw Ward stagger to his feet, turning his hardened gaze directly toward him. He had several chances to end this shit before today and Hold didn’t take it. The agony tore at his already polluted heart and he closed his eyes, ashamed of his cowardice that could’ve saved Hound’s life.

  The only sound in the room was the quiet grieving that grown men did for fallen comrades. Hold opened his eyes to notice the gun Ward gripped tightly in his hand by his side. He waited for the old man to level it in his direction, but it never happened.

  Hold wanted to scream at him that this was all his fault. Ward’s eyes traveled between both of his brothers: one dead on the floor and the other dead in Badger’s arms. Sandman hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Hold, only Ward. Hound had been the one to care what happened to Hold when his father didn’t give two shits. He’d offered guidance and wisdom in a world gone mad. And now he was gone, another senseless death indirectly caused by Ward.

  “I guess this makes us even,” Ward said, rubbing the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand that still gripped the gun.

  “Nothing will ever make us even,” Hold whispered through clenched teeth into the cold silence.

  Both men stared at the other, their malevolent dispositions loaded with silent questions of blood and brotherhood. Nothing hurt Hold more than letting this man, once his father, turn to walk away alive. He slowly struggled to his feet.

  “Leave him,” Badger commanded, when Hold started to follow Ward out the door. The older man kneeled beside Hound. “Everyone now knows he’s not good for the club. You goin’ out and shootin’ him won’t do shit, but make everythin’ worse. Trust me, boy, I want to kill that fucker too. Justice will be served.”

  Hold wasn’t sure he agreed with Badger—he’d let Ward walk too many times—but he respected his friend enough to let his words sway him. Three people died today, three members of his MC, two of them club officials. He glanced around at the faces that looked to him for an explanation.

  “Remember who brought this shit down on the club when you question who you should follow,” Hold said, making eye contact with those who’d previously sided with their president. “Ward has let the past corrupt the club’s future. If he continues to lead, all of us are going to end up doin’ time, either locked up or in the dirt. I’m not askin’ anymore for anyone to take sides. I’m tellin’ you now so that you can spread the word to other members: his time is over. You’re either with me or against me.”

  He didn’t waste any time waiting for anyone’s reaction. “Let’s get this area cleaned up,” Hold ordered, walking toward Carrie’s vacant stare that no longer witnessed the carnage piling up around her.

  Shyla peeked anxiously out of the window blinds one last time. The motorcycle and its rider sat unmoving directly across the street from Hold’s house. When she first noticed that she was being watched, she’d reached for her cell to call Hold, but she’d hesitated, not knowing what hell he was dealing with at this very moment. She couldn’t bother him. It was time she learned to handle herself if this was going to be her life.

  The gun she held in her hand should’ve made her feel stronger, but it didn’t. Instead she felt incredibly scared at the knowledge of the strong possibility that she may have to use it. It was a responsibility that weighed on her. If you have to pull a gun on another human being, you better be ready to use it—that was her reality.

  She had stationed herself on the couch, her legs crossed beneath her so that she could perch and keep watch out of the window. The strong beating of her heart only intensified with every minute until she came to the realization that the man outside was here to only keep watch when after several hours he didn’t move. Shyla still kept a diligent lookout, but it at least gave her some comfort knowing that she might not have to use the gun tonight.

  Far later than when she should’ve been warming Hold’s bed, Shyla finally watched him ride up and park his motorcycle in the driveway. The mystery watchman jogged over to listen to whatever it was that Hold said as he removed his helmet and dismounted the bike. With a nod the other man went back to his own ride and continued to keep guard.

  The sound of the back door opening and Hold yelling out her name was a welcome respite. As quickly as she could, she laid the gun on the table beside her, not wanting him to sense her unease at being left alone.

  “It’s just me,” he said, walking through the doorway from the kitchen. His shirt was covered in streaks of blood.

  Hold stopped when he noticed her sitting on his couch. Her heart ached at seeing the devastation clearly revealed in his dark gaze. Without a word she went to him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, and burying her face against his chest. Her hands slid underneath the back of his shirt, softly rubbing his skin to try and offer him the silent empathy this life demanded.

  He released a deep, exhausted breath, his expression haggard. Hold slowly slid his arms to surround her. The feel of his strong, wide shoulders convulsing with mute sobs, ushered in a deluge of her own tears. She wept boisterously, vocalizing his agony for him. Shyla loved him so much that his grief became hers.

  “I love you, Hold,” she said, pulling back to glance into his watery eyes.

  “Don’t say that to me. You don’t know me,” Hold said, one lone tear escaping long enough to drift down his dirt-lined cheek. “I killed a man tonight.”

  Shyla’s already fractured soul entirely cracked open. She wanted to rage at him that he didn’t, he couldn’t. Death surrounded them both, continuing to deprive them of any semblance of a normal life. She couldn’t remember a time that it didn’t unleash chaos around her.

  “If you killed someone, I know it was because you had to,” she quietly answered, believing Hold had to have a reason.

  “No, I wanted to. The bastard deserved to die. So after he killed Hound, I unloaded my Glock in ‘em,” he said, looking away with a glassy stare. Hold seemed to be reliving whatever had happened.

  “Hold, look at me,” Shyla begged. When he seemed too lost to follow her words, she gently laid her hand on his cheek to guide his face back to hers. “I believe in you and that means I believe in your decisions. Whatever you did made your family’s life safer. That’s all that matters to me.”

  “You don’t understand…” he started, but stopped when she laid her finger across his mouth, hushing him.

  “You are all that matters to me,” she whispered, replacing her finger with her lips.

  His bright blue stare searched hers, obviously looking for lies that weren’t there. Hold’s groan of acceptance made her knees weak and his mouth responded to hers. They didn’t rush the kiss, but slowly let it build toward something more substantial than only lust could bring.

  Shyla’s lips released his to slowly lean back from his grasp. She reached out to hold his hand, intertwining their fingers before slowly tugging him toward
his bedroom. As they entered, she didn’t reach for the light switch, and he thankfully followed her into the darkness.

  Without a sound she completely undressed him, the only light coming from the moonlight shining between the blinds. Shyla ached to caress the sinewy muscles and flat plains of his deliciously nude body—her own body clenched with agonizing need at the thought of how much pleasure Hold could bring her, but he needed something else now, something deeper and more complicated than the physical release she could easily give him.

  The whisper of the sheets being turned down was the only sound other than their breathing. She didn’t make a move to take off Hold’s t-shirt that she’d donned after her shower or the pair of his boxer shorts, leaving them securely on her body. Shyla gently maneuvered him to the sit on the bed.

  “Lie down,” she said quietly, while walking to the other side and climbing beneath the bed covers.

  He did as she asked, turning his body onto his side to face hers. A beam of light slid across Hold’s cheek, highlighting the strong bone. He didn’t try to touch her, but stayed still in their tiny cocoon of peace. Shyla laid her head on top of her hands that rested against the pillow, returning his stare.

  Hold might be a hard man, but he wasn’t a hard man to love. It was so easy to see his faults because he didn’t try to hide them like other men do. But if you were able to look closely enough and long enough, you knew that he accepted the things he couldn’t change, and tried to change the things that he could.

  The light of the morning sun did nothing but enhance the beautiful woman sleeping next to him. Hold had been awake for about an hour, still trying to decide if he should kiss her, and wake her with his mouth. The painful hard-on that tented the sheet hadn’t lessened and he knew Shyla’s body was the only way of releasing the sexual tension, but something still cautioned him to hold off.

  Last night, she’d offered him more than anyone had in a long time. He physically felt her need but she didn’t think about herself—only him. And as much as he wanted to take her, ached to consume her, he knew that in his current mindset, he’d only use her for her body. It took a Herculean effort on his part to hold back and not fuck her.

  It’d been off-putting at first to let his guard down, to communicate without words or touch. Their gazes locked until her eyes drifted shut and then his followed. To wake beside another person and feel more connected than when having sex—something that he normally used in order to feel anything—was foreign to him. Hold couldn’t hide who he was from Shyla. He’d made that mistake once long ago. No, she had to know who he truly was and accept it because, in truth, he couldn’t survive giving her what was left of his heart if she couldn’t handle his life.

  “Morning,” Shyla whispered, smiling up at him.

  “Mornin’,” he said, leaning down to lightly brush his lips against hers.

  She entranced Hold: his breath caught in his chest as he watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips and her slender hand comb the tangles from her messy bedhead. It almost made him laugh, to watch her combat the unruly strands of blonde hair. He’d be lying to himself if he denied the quickening of his heartbeat or the way something inside of his chest tightened at the sight of her.

  “Ugh,” she said, covering her mouth while yawning. “My hair’s a mess.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a sexy mess,” he said, laughing at her exaggerated eye roll. He moved until his back was leaning comfortably against the headboard.

  “Men say the damndest things to get in your pants.” Shyla sat up to face him, crossing her legs beneath her. “I know you can’t miss the yucky morning breath and frizzy hair.”

  “I have a toothbrush you can use,” he answered playfully, grinning like a jackass at her. “And lucky you, it’s new.”

  “Lucky me, huh?” she asked, lightly punching his arm.

  He started to form a reply when the horror from the night before intruded on his thoughts unbidden. The happiness the morning brought, waking next to Shyla, slipped from his tenuous grasp. His life crashed on top of them, ending the serene normalcy he evidently craved.

  “Hold?” Shyla asked, her pale eyes conveying a simple tenderness. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Hold nodded his head. He needed her to hear him out, almost as much as a Catholic needed confession. But damned if he didn’t know where to begin. How could he possibly explain the viciousness of the atrocious crimes he not only witnessed, but also willingly participated in?

  Last night he could’ve lowered his gun and walked away from Sandman. However, he chose to be judge and jury. His past sins were no less or more than Sandman’s. The difference was in the calling to change the club, to try and make his life and those around him better—and Hold’s quick and final decision benefited the MC.

  “I confronted Ward about Carrie. In the middle of it all, Hound busted in with guns blazin’. He obviously didn’t know I was in there with Ward and in the second he took to look at me, Sandman shot him in the back. The bastard didn’t even give him a chance to put down his weapon,” Hold said, bunching the sheet tightly in his hands.

  “What happened then?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper.

  His eyes swung from the nothingness he stared at toward her. “Justice.”

  “Justice,” Shyla quietly repeated, looking directly at him for answers.

  “Yes. I shot him,” Hold said, looking for the horror and revulsion he expected to see in her gaze—neither of which she ever showed.

  “Oh my God, Hold! He killed Hound. He could’ve easily done the same to you,” she said, her eyes softening toward him. “What about Ward?”

  The question caught him off-guard. What about Ward? The shipment from the Russians was scheduled two days from now. Tomorrow the club members who’d been selected for the run were riding out, which included Ward, Hold, Mikey, and seven other members. He’d been replaying several options since Luke’s visit and none had a positive outcome in his mind.

  If he went to Ward with his intel about the shipment being compromised, it would look entirely too shady that Hold knew that kind of information. Some club members may question his association with the feds and the MC didn’t need any more damn friction at this point. Hold knew if he set Ward up to take the fall, other members would be caught in the crossfire. He wouldn’t know how to keep them all out of jail.

  And the last option was killing Ward. Hold had imagined a million different ways, but what would it do to Sage, or to himself? Even if he could, would that be the ultimate destruction of the Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club. It may well be the end.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered, glancing down to see Shyla staring at him. Her eyes held no condemnation. None.

  Hold reached for her, seeking comfort in her body, silently begging her for a salvation he didn’t deserve.

  “Shyla, wake up.”

  The low throaty voice tugged Shyla from her sensual dream. She’d fallen asleep in the shadows of his lovemaking, envisioning every single erotic moment spent with Hold over the last twenty-four hours. Every silken touch. Each mindblowing kiss that had swept them both into a hedonistic oblivion. Hold had made her keep her eyes wide open, connected with him as he made maddening love to her over and over.

  “Shy…” Hold whispered.

  Shyla’s near to bursting heart skipped. It was more than enough… Hold was more than enough. She felt the pad of his fingertip caress a corner of her mouth. He must notice the smile she couldn’t hide behind sleep. Her eyes fluttered open and Hold’s handsome, rugged face gazed at her.

  He leaned down, touching his warm lips against hers, a new growth of facial hair scraping against her sensitive skin. Hold swept the hair away from her face and the wayward strands slightly tickled her cheek. The blue of his eyes shone clear, but a hint of sadness seemed to darken them.

  “It’s time for me to hit the road,” he said, stroking the side of her face.

  A quick glance revealed Hold to be completely dressed in his t-shi
rt and jeans. The fullness of her heart fled like the last vestiges of sleep. Last night, he’d explained that he had club business and needed to leave today. He didn’t have to expand on the dangers he’d be exposed to—she already knew them, having lived it every day as part of this lifestyle. Shyla wanted to stop him from going, beg him to stay. But that never was going to be the part she played in his life.

  Shyla lifted her hand to brush the prominent line of his unshaved strong cheekbone. “I don’t want you to go.” She watched him wince. “But I know you have to. So go, but keep yourself safe.”

  The words brought an actual ache to her throat. She fought with her inner demons to say what Hold needed to hear. Of course she wanted him here with her, to start their life with family surrounding them. Something she’d only ever dreamed of. It might not include a white picket fence or a blindingly white wedding gown, but she’d given up on childhood fantasies long ago. Hold was real—he was her reality, and she wanted every second of it, including the death and destruction that came with it, if it meant he’d be hers.

  His hand reached up and caught hers, stalling Shyla from touching his face. Hold brought her wrist to his mouth to lightly kiss the underside. A trepid shiver went down her spine while the entire time he stared into her eyes.

  “Come back to me,” she whispered, unable to hold back the tears that seeped from the corners of her eyelids.

  Hold nodded, but didn’t say anything. His hand released hers as he stood from the bed. She knew he fought his own devils, literally and figuratively speaking. If she could, she’d fight every last one of them for him.

  “I love you,” Shyla said through the clogged emotion she tried to hold in check. Every teardrop that fell from the endless well of liquid pain was because of the love she had for him.

  Her words, uttered softly, stopped him in the doorway. Shyla watched him grasp the frame, his knuckles turning white, and bow his head. He tilted his face just enough to glance over his shoulder at her. They both knew the link between them was genuine, as much as it ever gets, and if she lost him, she’d lose out on something so precious it was better left undescribed. Better because Shyla knew she’d spend the rest of her life searching in vain for it.