Inked

by Anne Marsh

  Stupid nipples.

  “Yesterday you gave me a tattoo,” I say suspiciously. “At what point did we discuss becoming roommates?”

  He rubs my thigh gently. Frankly, this doesn’t seem like roommate behavior. Also? I enjoy it way too much. If we actually shared a place, there’s no way I wouldn’t jump the man.

  “You should relax. You’re tense.”

  “Because you’re crazy.” Someone clearly has to be the voice of reason here. I’m not sure I’m qualified though because his hand drives me crazy and I’m having serious thoughts about wiggling lower to see if he really is as uninhibited as he seems.

  His hand moves higher, and all logical thought vacates my brain. Not only is he crazy, but he cheats.

  “Tomato. Tomatoh.” He looks supremely unconcerned.

  Since I’m right, however, I can’t let it go. “We never discussed moving in together.”

  His hand curls around my thigh. Thank God for denim. It’s almost thick enough to allow me to block out the fantastic sensation of those fingers easing up my thigh. Or the other places he could put them. Some of my very favorite places.

  “You were distracted.” His breath ruffles my hair. If he gets any closer, he’ll either be in my lap or we’ll be simulating sex in public. A quick glance around the clubhouse tells me that no one will notice. There are bikers wrapped around girls, and girls wrapped around various combinations of bikers. It’s all very un-PG. People dance, they drink and grind, and apparently they fuck.

  In public.

  I yank my gaze away from the pool table in the corner of the clubhouse. There are things you can’t unsee, like the penetration occurring on the green felt surface.

  “Yesterday,” he says helpfully.

  “What about yesterday?”

  “I volunteered myself as your booty call. You did not say no.”

  “Silence isn’t a commitment.” For example, I’m totally thinking about a dozen dirty things he could do with his tongue, but none of those are actual requests.

  “You’re breathing hard. Are you thinking about me?”

  Yes, yes I am.

  I deflect. “Are you really that conceited?”

  “I’m that good.” He slides his hand upward.

  I think he’s fully prepared to finger me in public. I grab his hand, stopping its upward movement.

  “We’re in public.”

  “So you’d let me touch if we were alone?” He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Good to know.”

  “No.”

  He winks. “I’m even better than your imagination. Let me show you. I make the best friend with benefits.”

  “Vik—”

  “My benefits are huge.”

  “We are not friends with benefits,” I say firmly. I need to get out of here before I forget that and launch myself at him. Stupid body wanting its own personal biker toy. I’m ready for my forever man and happily-ever-after, not a fun diversion. I have my life all mapped out and there’s no pit stop for Viking pillaging.

  “Maybe I inked my number on your ass last night after you expressed your interest in me.” He picks up my hand, running strong thumbs over my palm. With each pass, I melt further.

  “You told me you were giving me a firebird.”

  OMG. He didn’t, did he?

  “Shhh.” He keeps a gentle hold on my hand, turning my arm in his grip. From somewhere he magically produces a Sharpie and uncaps it with his teeth. We both lean in, our heads almost touching, as he scrawls a phone number over my skin.

  “Something important?”

  He draws the Sharpie down my arm. “Mine.”

  The possessive note in his voice really demands some kind of response. He doesn’t let go of my arm, either. Instead, he starts drawing. Roses and vines. Big, bold flowers. I may never wash again.

  “Am I your Etch-a-Sketch now?”

  “You deserve flowers.” He adds another bloom, smaller and shyer. I’ll have to wear a long-sleeved blouse at work this week but I don’t want to pull away. Heading straight to Ink Me seems like my best idea. That way I can see Vik’s flowers in color.

  “Is that your number?”

  His hand glides down my arm to wrap around my fingers. “Yeah.”

  “Most people just put numbers in their contacts.”

  “Good point.” He caps the Sharpie, vanishing it back into a pocket, and then holds out a hand. “Phone.”

  Not giving it to him doesn’t even occur to me. I pull it out of my purse and hand it over. And then when he taps the screen and looks at me, I type in my passcode. His arm comes around me and he snaps a picture of us.

  “What should I call myself in your contacts?” He bends his head over my phone, fingers flying. I didn’t know adding a contact was such a multistep process, but whatever. I like watching him. Beautiful doesn’t cover it.

  “Vik,” I say, and he makes a face.

  “I should have one of those couples’ nicknames. Like peaches or love muffin or big daddy. Christen me now.”

  The giggle flies out of my mouth like some kind of freakish exploding alien baby. I don’t giggle. I’m a mature woman with a career, responsible for millions of dollars of other people’s money.

  I expect him to give the phone back. He doesn’t. He starts snapping pictures of other bikers, adding them to my contacts list.

  “I’m curious, Vik. What am I going to need them for? Body disposal?”

  He shrugs and slips my phone back into my purse. “Do whatever needs doing. My old man is gonna love you, though. Can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  Say. What?

  “That sounds like a pretty big step.”

  He presses a kiss against the black rose he’s drawn on my skin. “When you know, you know, right? And we’ve got something, babe.”

  I reluctantly extricate my arm from his hold. I really shouldn’t let the crazy man fondle me, no matter how good it feels. “I’m sure your dad’s a lovely man.”

  Vik purses his lips. “He can be difficult.”

  “So he’s related to you,” I say drily.

  Vik beams. “And he really, really wants me to settle down. It was kinda a surprise to me. We hadn’t talked in months, and then boom. He moves in with me because he’s lost his place and now he’s after me to find The One. I’m not big on planning, though, so we’re taking it one day at a time.”

  I have no answer—just lots of questions. I start with the obvious. “The One?”

  Vik hums a few bars of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Most guys aren’t big on settling down. I know this thanks to years of looking. Vik, however, looks amused rather than spooked.

  “I don’t look good in white,” he confides. “And the jury’s out on diamonds.”

  Ooookay. Next question.

  “You didn’t speak? And now he’s living with you?”

  We normal people plunge into family life a little more cautiously. Vik, however, apparently believes in doing everything at Mach Seven.

  “I’m turning over a new leaf. Gonna need a new biker name.” His smile gets more mischievous, and my panties get correspondingly wetter. “The Saint.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll go by The Saint.” He practically bounces on his seat. Unless it’s opposite day, this man is about as far from sainthood as you can get.

  Since there’s no point in disabusing him, I nod amicably. “That’s sweet of you.”

  I haven’t met too many people who’d just up and move their dad in because he needed a place. Most people would just toss some cash at the problem—or ignore it. It’s a little embarrassing how smiley his protectiveness makes me feel. God, I’m so screwed here. There’s all this sexual tension between us and while I know it’s as temporary as a firefly, it feels good. Vik’s fun and he makes me feel fun. He’s j
ust drunk and horny, a biker who does God knows what when he’s not inking equally drunk girls. I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket.

  “I have to go,” I say, sliding off the barstool. Staying any longer would be stupid. I’ve come, I’ve seen and I’ve conquered the biker party. I can check one more wild thing off my bucket list.

  Vik snags my hand, his fingers rubbing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. “Already?”

  “Yes.” That sounds firm. That sounds like a woman who’s in charge of her life and the new direction it’s taken. Hanging out here any longer would be like trying to make a meal out of cotton candy at the fair. By the time you’d eaten enough to feel full, you’d be sick. Vik is pure sweet evil, and I need to be smart enough to walk away.

  “Walk you out” is all he says before getting to his feet. His free hand skims my cheek before falling away, while the fingers braceleting my wrist slide down and tangle with mine until we’re holding hands. I take a moment to process that.

  He prowls toward the door, which seems about as distant and as unattainable as the peak of the Himalayas. Every fourth step or so some new girl seems to detach herself from the dancing, drinking crowd and tries to attach herself to Vik. It’s yet more proof of why any attraction between us is doomed. No matter how pretty he is, I’m not into sharing. I’m more ménage à moi than ménage à trois. The girls climb him like a vine, rubbing and grinding and doing a million other sexy, dirty things I’ve never done even in the privacy of my own place. It’s both impressive and off-putting. Eventually, however, we make it to the door, where he shakes off a final admirer wearing an electric blue tube top as a dress.

  He doesn’t apologize or acknowledge all the girls hanging on him. It’s possible he hasn’t even noticed them, that accessories with boobs and vaginas are just that common in the Vik-verse. Yuck. I step outside and inhale a clean, fresh, perfume-and skank-free breath of air. Kissing Vik would be like making out with hundreds of other people thanks to his probable man-whore status.

  So I’m passing, no matter how pretty his package is. I lean up, press a kiss against his cheek because I’m weak enough to want that much contact, and step away.

  “Thanks. Tonight was fun.”

  I’m moving toward my car before I’ve finished speaking, just in case Vik has other ideas. Because well-used or not, I won’t stand firm if he puts that mouth of his to good use. His fingers. His pretty, pretty...package. Yes, I sneak one last look at the impressive bulge in his jeans as I hightail it away. It’s like taking a final peep at the Grand Canyon or some other natural wonder. How can you not look?

  He raises a hand, looking amused. “Later.”

  Oh, I hope not.

  Don’t I?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vik

  I WAKE UP way too early for a Sunday morning. We had one hell of a party out at the clubhouse. Fun times. When I was twenty-one and wet behind the ears, it was about the booze and the babes, tapping the ass I could and generally showing life my middle finger. I don’t like to plan shit out, but now it’s about hanging with my brothers, celebrating another day on the road, another milestone, remembering the good times and not forgetting the bad. On Friday, Hun had officially beaten the charges against him and we’d all raised a beer to that.

  I’ve known plenty of bikers, and we all have stories behind our road names. Some stories are funny, others less so, but I’ve never figured Hun’s out. Depending on his mood, he’ll give a dozen different reasons for his label, but they boil down to one of two things. Either he fights with the cunning intensity of a Hun, or he possesses legendary aftercare skills with the club’s female hangers-on. He claims the ladies nicknamed him Hon’, Honey Bunny or Honey Bunches of Oats because he’s that goddamned sweet to them. Most of the brothers just take turns punching him when he says shit like that.

  Last night, though, was good. Hun walked free, and we celebrated. Party time’s not about knocking back the beer and tequila anymore. Life gets all too real, too fast, so it’s important to slow down and savor the good moments. Harper is definitely shaping up to be one of those.

  Or if I’m a lucky bastard, a really bad, downright filthy moment. No matter what my old man wants, I’m not a long-term man. He’d like me to find an old lady and settle down, but that’s not happening. I don’t look past the next weekend, although for Harper I might make an exception and give her more than a night or two. She’d be worth at least a week.

  I get out of bed before I can do something really stupid like jerk off to a very fucking fond memory of Harper’s heels. Black, leather and a bow tie. Those are the ultimate cock tease in shoes and I’m not dead. I love the way she owns her height. Those four-inch heels scream I can measure up or not. She can take me, leave me, do me—if I’m man enough.

  My dad’s parked in the living room in his boxers, watching Oprah reruns and eating toaster waffles. I take a better look at the plate he’s holding and revise that to syrup with waffles. I need one of those services that ships meals in a box. Or maybe a breakfast place that delivers. Even fruit would be a step in the right direction. That much Mrs. Butterworth’s can’t be good for his arteries. Fuck if I know anything about taking care of an old man, but I’ll learn.

  My old man’s not perfect, and neither am I. Between him and the club brothers who patched me in, they kicked my ass into a man who I can mostly face in the mirror. My old man’s crotchety and he has a sweet tooth—the rest of him is blunt as fuck. Own up to your mistakes and raise a beer to the successes. That’s what he taught me, so now that he needs me to be more, I just have to figure it out.

  I give him the side-eye as he waves his sticky fork at me in greeting. “Morning.”

  It would be better if I’d been waking up with Harper by my side. Or underneath me. On top of me. I’m not picky about her position as long as she’s naked and screaming my name.

  I grunt a greeting in my old man’s direction and grab for the coffeepot. After sex, riding and ink, coffee comes next. Some people fantasize about banging on a beach in Fiji, but I’ve always thought I’d like to give a coffee plantation in Kona a whirl. Wonder if Harper would be up for that?

  I resist the thought and stagger back to the kitchen table. “You have a good night?”

  He beams. “Played poker with Lora.”

  Lora’s awesome. She sits with my dad when I go out. She’s assured me that she’s okay with his incessant flirting, and she also does her best to make sure he’s fed and safe. She’s a good woman, and I don’t need my dad cleaning her out.

  “You shouldn’t take her money.” I empty the coffee as fast as I can. It tastes better than the beers I knocked back last night.

  “Won two socks, a flip-flop and her bra.” My old man cackles like a maniac. “She refused to ante up her panties.”

  Jesus.

  “But she cleaned out that young man you stuck in the hallway.” My old man shoots me a sidelong look.

  “Goolie?” Goolie’s only been prospecting with us for a month. He did two tours in the Middle East and has a strong preference for not shooting shit anymore.

  My old man cackles. “She had him down to his boxers in minutes. Think the bra might have been a decoy.” He shakes his head. “She’s an awesome fucking woman, and that boy didn’t know what hit him. She liked the tattoo on his ass, by the way. Told her that was all your work.”

  If Goolie up and quits the club, Prez will kick my ass. Babysitting my dad isn’t club business, but I cleared it with Prez because I’m not taking chances. Not with my dad’s safety. I’m new to this whole responsibility thing but I’ve already learned that old men can get up to more trouble than teenage boys. That, or he’s aiming for payback for the shit I pulled in high school. With interest.

  Back then life seemed so simple. You drank, you raced, you thanked God for any girl who’d let you get between her legs and worship her on your knees. And y
et somehow all those girls have blurred together, and I’ve forgotten the shot I had at Harper. She’s pretty fucking memorable, so clearly this is on me.

  Might be a way to see Harper and take care of some family business, too. I have to fix my old man’s finances whether he likes it or not. He’s been resisting but he needs to know how much he has, and I need to know how I can add to it so he never goes without.

  Too bad if that makes him grumpy.

  Fuck that noise.

  I go into the kitchen and come back with a glass of orange juice. The carton promises it’s full of important vitamins and calcium (which might be another vitamin for all I know about nutrition).

  I set the glass in front of him. “I’m making us an appointment with a financial planner.”

  I wait for the heavens to shoot down lightning at the thought of me planning. Nothing. My dad’s interest in Oprah, on the other hand, becomes downright fixated. “That so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Better be discussing your own stuff. I’m good. I don’t need anyone poking around my checking account.”

  We’ve had this conversation or a variation thereof ever since my dad showed back up out of the blue a month ago. A social worker called and told me to come and pick him up from the Happy Vegas Valley Trailer Park. He couldn’t live alone anymore, the chipper voice on the other end announced. I should have noticed this before but our interactions had been limited to my monthly rides out to his neck of the woods, a little barbecue and a little shooting the breeze. Had to confiscate the keys to his bike, too.

  Life’s problems have three sure fixes: money, kisses or muscle. Options B and C haven’t worked out so well in the taking-care-of-Dad department. And while I have enough green stuff to make sure my old man never goes without, money’s not all dear old Dad wants. Dad wants to see me settled. Happy. Set for life. The fuck?

  Sure enough, my old man launches into his favorite song.

  “You meet anyone last night?”

  Seriously, does he think an MC party is Tinder central? Harper came out, I danced and a good time was had by all, but no, I’m not dating anyone.