Torched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  With others, I see their scars and imagine the accidents they’ve been in or the personal battles they’ve fought. Sometimes their skin will prickle and I’ll wonder why they’re sensitive. Newbies cry, especially when they pick hard places to tattoo. But most of them grit their teeth and push through the pain. Some of them even enjoy it, and Lord knows what stories I could imagine up for those kinds of people.

  But today, I can’t focus on Pedro or his damn artistic daughter. Today, I’m thinking about my own self and getting the hell out of here. I look up at the clock. It’s past ten p.m. I’ve only got about two hours left of my shift, and unless someone walks through that door in about fifteen minutes, I’m free to go home. We don’t do last minute walk-ins unless they’ve booked in advance or are bringing in enough cash to bribe me to ignore city ordinances on business hours.

  Plus, by ten o’clock, Riley gets off work at the oil fields. I know his routine. He’ll head to one of the bars down the block from here, probably Dark Star, and get himself good and drunk. With that liquid courage, he’ll plant himself on the hood of my car and wait for me to shuffle out of here alone. With no other choice, I’ll either have to call the police, stay the night in the shop—it’s happened—or make a mad dash to the car and hope I can make it back to my mom’s.

  It’s been almost three weeks since I last went home to my own apartment. That night, Ian went with me and guarded the door while I grabbed everything I could and threw it in a bag. He and his wife followed my car all the way to my mom’s in Lemont, just outside city limits, and watched as I called a police officer who walked me through the steps of getting a restraining order.

  It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life to ask my boss to do that for me, but there was no one else I could trust or turn to. After I put the paperwork in, I swore to God that I would never ask Ian to help me like that again. My problems were my own, and I wouldn’t get anyone else involved in the mess I’d created.

  But, the longer I stay working here, the more of a chance I have of Riley finding me and cornering me in the shop.

  Of course, just as this thought pops into my head, I hear the ring from the security door. Ian installed it after the whole Riley thing so we could monitor who comes and in out of the shop at all time. Ian strolls over casually and peers at the small TV mounted in his office. The camera points at a man I don’t recognize at all. He rocks his weight back and forth on his heels and toes with his hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans.

  Ian presses a button and yells into the microphone. “You got an appointment, fella?”

  All three of us watch from our chairs as he nervously rubs the back of his neck and then stammers, “No… no… just want a tat done tonight. Can y’all fit me in?”

  “Were you looking for a particular artist? There’s only one here tonight, and she’s about to walk out the door in a half hour.”

  The man stares up at the camera directly as if Ian just said the magic words. “Is it Anna Fox? That’s who I’m looking for. I’m a fan of hers.”

  Ian spins quickly to look at me as I stare up at the clock. I mouth the words, “Please… I can’t…” But he pretends to not understand and presses the button to let the stranger in. The mood in the room completely shifts from where it was minutes ago. I can tell Pedro, the customer still in my chair, feels my unease as well. I quickly wipe the remaining ink off of his arm and bandage him up. As he stands and hands me my cash tip, he holds my hand just a bit longer as if to say it would be alright. I wonder how much he knows about Riley or the reason for the new security system.

  I ring up Pedro for the rest of the work while I try to keep an ear on Ian chatting with the customer. There’s something about finding my work on the internet and just wanting something simple—a symbol for his club. He shows Ian the artwork, hand drawn on some printer paper.

  He stares at it for a second before eying the guy again. After a pause, he shows the man into my booth and drops the paper at the checkout boot. “Nothing that won’t take you all of twenty minutes to do, kid. Just do the minimum and get him out of here. You need the money anyways.” Before I can argue, his coat and hat are on and he’s heading out the back exit with his hand raised in the air as a silent goodbye.

  Before heading in, I look at the image on the paper. Ian’s right. It’s nothing to be too pissed about. It’s just a black circle with three crisscrossing lines meeting at the center. I quickly recreate it on the office computer, print it on some vellum, and head back towards the booth where the man is already sitting, staring at the doorway.

  “Hey. I’m—”

  “Anna Fox. I know. I saw your designs online. I was hoping you could do that up for me.” I give the man with the brutish voice a lookover. He’s obviously a club guy. Fantastic. I hated those assholes. They come in drugged up or drunk and are always so freaking demanding. Plus, I knew tattooing the wrong thing on the wrong guy could get you labeled real fast as a club marker, and Ian was adamant about not wanting his shop to become that. But I don’t recognize this mark from all the rest, and at least this guy looks sober enough to stand up straight.

  Still, I ask him his name. He stutters quickly, murmuring under his breath. I think I catch an “Andre,” but who knows. It doesn’t matter anyways. I just crank up the music and get to work. The faster I can get this over with, the better I’ll feel.

  I’m just about done with the circle when I hear that damn exit door opening. It’s probably Ian, but I still jump from the whoosh of early Autumn wind and the smell of cigarettes. I put down the tattoo gun on the tray and apologize as I head towards the office. I call out, “What did you forget, Ian?”

  As I turn to look down the hallway, I smack into the body of a completely unfamiliar man. I pop backwards, falling against the thin walls of the next booth. An arm grabs me by the waist as I try to wrestle away. In a whisper, barely audible over the music, the man says, “Woah. Woah. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m looking for Ian Hull. Is he around?”

  I wrestle my way out of his grip, feeling the rough palms of his hands brush up against my bare stomach and hips. I brush the blond strands of hair from my ponytail away as I nervously answer, “No. He left about ten minutes ago. Who are you?”

  He looks past me as he responds. “A friend. Who’s here with you?”

  “A customer. It’s my last of the night, so if you’re looking for a tat you’re gonna have to come back tomorrow…”

  The man is already halfway down the hallway before I can finish. He leans his body up against the wall of the booth before peeking over his shoulder. With a hand to his mouth, he looks back at me with a shocked, almost pained expression. The look on his face sucks the air out of the room and I watch, frozen in place, as he takes a deep breath and then reaches under his belt. There’s a flash of a black handgun before he spins towards the doorway.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” He squares his shoulders directly at my customer, the barrel of the gun pointed straight towards him. “Take your shit and get out. NOW! Don’t you fucking come back here ever again or I will shoot you dead.”

  I don’t know what to do but to run myself. My legs buckle underneath me as I struggle to hold myself up. I grab my leather jacket from the coat rack by the exit as I try to shut everything out. The men shout back and forth incoherently, and I just pray I can get out before a gunshot. I open the exit, but it falls back on me. A hand shoots up just above my head, forcing it closed.

  “Don’t go out there. You can’t leave here.” The man with the gun forces me back in, tugging at my hips. “Don’t fight me! I’m trying to save your life!”

  “By trying to kill me?” I scream as I thrash up against him. I curse myself for not listening to those self-defense classes my mom always took me to as a high schooler.

  “No! Listen!” He spins me around to face him, dropping the gun back into his pants pocket. He lifts his hands, palms out, to show me he was serious. “Do you know who that man was or what he wanted? Have you s
een him before?”

  I walk backwards towards the employee’s lounge, feeling my way for the couch. My heels find the front of the leather sofa before I fall backwards. The noise from the music still blasts from my booth. But all I can hear is deafening silence. I try to focus on the customer’s face, but there’s nothing. I’ve never seen him before. I know that. I answer the man slowly, “No. I don’t know him. He said he knew me from my portfolio online. Or maybe he saw my pictures on social media. I don’t know. He just walked in before closing and wanted that tattoo done. I don’t ask any goddamn questions.”

  “Can I see the picture? What was the tattoo he wanted done?”

  I stand and walk back towards the booth. I don’t know why I tiptoe in there expecting to still see the customer waiting for me to finish. But there’s nothing, not even a sign that he was ever there. Maybe I’m imagining all this—the stress from Riley is getting to me. I will close my eyes and everything will just disappear…

  “Is that it?” Nope. Still my fucked up reality. The man with the gun has followed me back to the booth. He hovers in the doorway as I hand him the original drawing with shaking hands. For what feels like forever, he stares at that nonsensical image as if it was a novel with a million things to say. But when he’s ready to talk, all he can say is, “This is not good.”

  “What?” I ask in complete disbelief. “What the hell does that mean? You come in here, pull out a gun, kick out my paying client, and then order me around?”

  He folds the drawing and places it in his back pocket. “That front door locks, right? And you’ve got security cameras in the area?” I nod slowly. “Good. Then don’t fucking go anywhere.”

  “I have to go home. My shift is over in a half hour and my mom is expecting me. Plus, I have a psycho ex out looking for me too, and he’ll start here.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about your ex. What you need to worry about is this tattoo. The people who tattoo this design don’t live more than few days. You’re marked for death, and that guy you were just working on is going to be your killer.”

  “What? I don—” My mouth goes completely dry and I feel myself falling backwards into the tattoo chair. I hold on to the armrests for support as I stare back up at him.

  “You marked him as a killer, and the rule is that the first kill has to be the tattoo artist who gave it to you. There were some… rumors… that they were striking again. That’s why I am here. I know Ian from a call of duty. I wanted to make sure he was safe and knew about it. It’s a good thing I found you because no one would have seen you alive.”

  I don’t know how to answer to that. Should I thank him? Should I hug him? All I can do is look at my feet and pray that I am not hearing him right. “Will he come back?”

  “Yeah. Now that I got involved, he’ll want to finish the job so you don’t run to the cops. He’ll come for me too. That’s why you need to stay here until I get Mack involved.”

  “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, wh
o 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.”