Torched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  It clicks as he says the name of the club we destroyed over twenty years ago. I was just barely sixteen when that war started and ended. I thought they’d never come back or at least never try to mess with our territory, but if what Jimmy is saying is even remotely true, we have some real shit on our hands. I stare at him as I ask, “How do you know?”

  “I heard the rumor from a dealer friend so I went to see a tattoo owner of mine to give him a heads up. He wasn’t there, but a girl was and she was tattooing a guy with the circle. I pulled my gun and kicked him out. He ran before I could get an ID.”

  I drop the papers onto the floor before running past Jimmy. He follows at my heels out towards the parking garage attached to our building. I call back to him, “What’s the shop? The girl’s name?”

  “It’s the Crazy 8’s on Vine. Girl’s name is Anna Fox. I told her to lock herself in the shop and not open for anyone but you.” Smart. “You going to help her?”

  “Anyone with info on that tattoo or the guy is someone worth saving,” I reply before I spot my jet black cycle in the row of other bikes. I start on and head out into the night, leaving Jimmy standing with his hands resting heavily on the top of his head.

  I don’t have a second to spare so it’s all back alleys and side streets for me. Though I’ve got the police in this town wrapped around my finger, I’m not risking being spotted by someone who shouldn’t be seeing me. It’s a good thing I’m familiar with the neighborhood. My old condo is just a few blocks from here. When I became President, I traded it in for a studio apartment on the top floor of headquarters. It was convenient, but damn do I miss living out among civilians.

  I use my old parking lot to make it to the back end of the business center where I guess Crazy 8’s to be. I spot the old, flickering neon sign of the mermaid with the 8 tattooed on her arm and park in the employee spaces. There’s only a white beater in the other spaces, and my heart beat settles. Could it be that Jimmy got this whole thing wrong? Why wouldn’t they be coming for her by now if she marked the guy?

  I bang hard on the back of the metal door, kicking at the rusted over spots. “Anna Fox! It’s Mack Steel. Open the door.” I stand back, but nothing happens. There’s no sound, no turn of the locked doorknob. I call out again, “Jimmy sent me about that tattoo you gave. If you let me in, I can help you.”

  A small, terrified voice finally replies. “How do I know you’re not with that gang or club?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this. He told you I was coming, right?” I try to take out the meat of my voice—the low, gruff sound I use when I try to speak with the rest of the guys. No doubt Jimmy had scared the shit out of this girl and trying to be some kind of beast isn’t going to get her to open this damn door any faster.

  To my surprise, it works. The door opens just slightly, creaking as it lets out the light and sound from the tattoo parlor. Steady, fast drumbeats from a heavy metal rock song I’ve heard before blare from a speaker in the front of the building, but there’s no sight of the girl. I turn quickly in time to see the flash of something metal shining in the light. With seconds to react, I grab at the body, pushing it into the wall until the metal pail drops to her side.

  I press my entire weight into the woman’s thin body. I’m more than a foot taller than her and as I look down, all I can see is a crown of golden straight hair and bare shoulders covered in red, blue, and green rose tattoos. She lets out a muffled yell and I feel her struggle to push me away. “Drop the pail!” I scream back. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  There’s a moment where I can tell she has no clue what to do. Her arms shiver and quake and her head turns from side to side under my arms. I push even closer up to her. The outline of her curves rubs up against me, and I need to remind myself of the word of the night: control.

  Finally, the pail drops, falling with a crash to the tile floor. I pull away, taking it with me, as I give her space. She nearly falls into a lounge chair that seems to belong to an employee’s breakroom. I take a seat across from her on an old leather tattoo chair. After a long second to let her catch her breath, I ask, “You’re Anna, I’m guessing?”

  “Yeah. You’re Mack?”

  “The one and only.” I grin widely, spreading my hands out to the sides, as if announcing royalty. “I hear you did a tattoo you shouldn’t have tonight.”

  “I don’t do club tattoos. I don’t brand anyone, so I didn’t know.” There’s some strength in that panic that I have to admire. Despite all the odds, she seems like she’s still got some bones in that tiny, perky little body of hers. I wonder if the Knights picked her because of her looks. Sadistic killers like them could certainly do a number with a gritty girl like her.

  “You don’t have to get defensive with me, missy. I don’t give a fuck who you tattoo or what little, girly image you put on their body. That’s not why I’m here.”

  She shoots me a hard, cold look. Already I can see the anger boiling deep inside of her. She’s used to men like me questioning her work. Anna places her hands on her lap and stands up quickly. She throws me a black leather photo binder full of images of body parts with her drawings. “You look through those and tell me that my work is ‘girly?’ I don’t do girl’s tattoos. I do real art.”

  Anna isn’t kidding. As I thumb through the images, I’m completely blown away. Most pisspoor tattoo artists I know are just tracers. They get some stock photo off the internet and pretend like they designed the tat themselves when all they’re doing is just following some lines and coloring it in. Her stuff is actual, honest to goodness, art. Still, I try not to register any shock or approval on my face. I toss the book to the side and go back to my original request. “Where’s the image of the tattoo the guy wanted?”

  Her thin, sculpted arms reach down the collar of her black cut-off tank top to fish out a folded piece of paper. With her waving hips, she walks slowly towards me before outstretching her arm. The sly, slightly perplexed smile leaves my face when I see the image. Clear as can be—it’s the mark. I recognize it from the crime scene photos my detective pals passed on to me. That was years ago, but the mutilated bodies with a paper similar to this lying next to their outstretched arms is seared within my memories.

  You can’t forget something like that, even when you’re in my line of work. Deaths were work hazards, part of the job you agree to take on when you get initiated in. My dad drilled that into my head before he was shot down by a Knight about ten years ago. “You’re going to have to make amends with your own death and mine. The more you hold on to life, the harder it will be to do this.” When he was killed by a Knight during our turf wars, I was the first one to see the body. I was numb then. I’m still numb now.

  In my mind’s eye, I can see this little girl looking just the way those other tattoo artists looked. Open eyes, open mouth, hands curled out in front of her as they reach for an escape. Most were shots to the head. But some were far more brutal. A girl like her would probably get the worst of it…

  “What? What are you thinking? Am I fucked? I’m fucked, right?” Anna sits down next to me, her head falling into her hands as she mumbles something to herself. I’m tempted to reach out and touch her, to put an arm out for her. But that’s not me.

  Instead, I reply dimly, “You’re fucked. This,” I explain as I hand back the paper, “is not good. This image has been around for more than twenty years now. The guy who marked you is probably out doing his hit now, and then he’s going to come back for you to tie up the loose ends. Since he knows you know about the tattoo and you may have protection, I have no doubt in my mind he’s going to come for you with even more force, might even bring the whole club with him for added security. Do you know why you were targeted?”

  “I have no idea. I’m dealing with this other shit with my ex-boyfriend so I don—”

  “I don’t really give a crap about your love life, Anna. If I remember right, they usually target places randomly, find the most vulnerable person they can to get that
tattoo done. You were probably just someone this dick picked out of a lineup of possible artists.”

  I stand up and walk back towards the rest of the tattoo parlor. Even with the music blaring, I can practically hear the eerie, otherworldly emptiness. I spot the office with the security camera TVs still broadcasting the feed from the front door. With Anna right behind me, I ask, “You know how to get the tape off of this?”

  “Yeah, I can download the day and send it via email.” She sits down and begins typing on the computer all while keeping an eye on the televisions. I’m guessing she spent most of her time waiting for me in a similar position. I wouldn’t blame her.

  My phone pings. The file makes its way to my inbox and I forward it on to Jimmy who will confirm it for me. But, in the meantime, I’m getting anxious here. This girl has a black spot on her and this place is just containing her for now. Who knows what those a-holes will do to get to her, and if they knew I was part of the deal, they’d fire bomb this place until we were locked in our own smoke box.

  “You got some place to go, some place completely safe?” I ask her. “I’m talking about a place where no one in the world would know your address. If they know your name, they could target anyone related to you to find out where you would hide.”

  She stammers to herself, biting that pink painted lip. “No… I was staying with my mom outside of town, but I don’t think I should go back there tonight.”

  “Then I guess you’re with me.”

  “What?” she asks, dumbfounded.

  “You’re staying with me until we can figure this shit out. And while my guys work on the video, we can get some food because I’m starving.”

  “I need to go home. I need to grab my stuff. I have to tell my mom…” She begins to panic, her hands shaking as she runs back towards the lounge area again.

  I charge after her, grabbing her by her hips. With one quick motion, I open the door and push her through. She thrashes under my grip as I whisper to her, “Leave your car here. I’ll have someone pick it up. In the meantime, we’re going to dinner.”

  Anna stops in her place right before the cycle. Despite the darkened night skies and the only light coming from the flickering lamp post, I can see just how upset this simple command is for her. I smirk, hoisting her up on the back of my bike. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay this time.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I’ve ridden on motorcycles before. Riley, my ex-boyfriend, fell in love with them when we dated. But I don’t think ‘love’ is a strong enough word. It’s more that it became this obsession for him that he couldn’t ignore. Life revolved around going to the bike stores, scanning their inventory, dreaming out loud about rides he would take and festivals he would visit. When we talked about marriage, it became a motorcycle marriage. I thought it was just a quarter-life crisis, but it never stopped. It just got worse.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t see the point. Motorcycles are dirty bikes that old, scraggly guys ride around to prove that they’re still men. It’s like overcompensating with a death machine. I just couldn’t get past all those horror stories about men flipping over on their bikes or them causing car accidents on the highway. Just hearing them sent frantic shivers down my spine.

  My anxiety only got worse when the stalking started. The first few nights, I ignored the sound of motorcycles outside of my apartment. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. Motorcycles are very popular in this town and I wasn’t living too far from the highway. But then the brick hit my window, shattering that sense of security. I still can’t shake the sound of the tires squealing on the black pavement outside my garage.

  That sound repeated itself over and over and over again until it became clear that those attacks weren’t random. They belonged to the one person I thought I could trust, the one person I knew would use his cycle as a sick form of torture to get to me. Even though I know that the person I’m holding on to tightly as we round the corner towards the main center of town isn’t Riley, I can still feel his body under my grip and hear his sickly, delighted laugh over the muffled noise of the road.

  “You okay back there?” Mack asks, sensing something off. I try to hold on a little less tightly to his chiseled waist. I can’t let him see me sweat over this. Already, I must look like some damsel in distress to him, and that makes me even more irritated than the whole getting chased down by some unknown biker murderer…

  “I’m fine. I’m just… cold. You didn’t give me a chance to grab my coat.” I shout. Though really, the wind whipping against my bare skin, the slick feel of his leather jacket up against my body, my thighs pressed firmly to his, actually makes me feel more alive and present than I have been all night. Whatever this sensation is, I feel more in control, despite the circumstances.

  “We’re almost there. Just hold on. We’re going through the old Knight territory. If they’re around, I don’t want them to spot you on the back of my bike.” He emphasizes the words “my bike” like I should know why he is a risk factor. Maybe he’s on the wrong side? Or the right side? Who knows. To me, all this club stuff is the wrong side. There’s no way to pass off motorcycle clubs as something I could think of as good.

  Still, I close my eyes the rest of the drive into Portland. I can’t bear to see another road sign fly by or the glint of a motorcycle in the distance. One shaking headlight coming from the opposite direction would probably set me into a complete tailspin. I just need to get wherever this guy is taking me.

  The engine quiets and the sound of the streets become louder around me. Against my legs, I feel Mack tense to come to a slow stop. One of his long, muscular legs drops to the ground and plants itself in a parking lot of a restaurant that I don’t recognize. Really, nothing looks familiar to me this side of Portland. We called this area “Affluenza Town.” It’s where all those black suit businessmen did their luncheons while their wives shopped at stores with French names.

  “I’m not exactly dressed for a place like this,” I whisper up towards Mack as I eye the customers coming in. No one’s in beat-up, holey jeans like me. There’s not even a woman in pants. They all seem to stare at me with equal fascination, wondering if I know better.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not dining with them. I know the chef.” Mack dismounts first and then offers his hand. It’s a strange gesture for a guy like him to make. I almost feel like Cinderella with her rat as a coachman. I try to slide off gracefully, like I know what I’m doing, but I end up squatting to keep my balance. Being just five-feet tall is a real disadvantage when trying to keep up with a living, breathing giant.

  But Mack doesn’t laugh like I think he should. Instead, he grabs me by the arm, roughly, and stands me to my feet. Without letting go, he leads the way away from the line of people idling outside as they wait for a table and towards the back entrance. Three men in white coats lean up against the big brick windows smoking cigarellos. They hardly register me, but their eyes practically light up when they see Mack. They come to attention, their smokes on the ground, their faces straight forward; they even stand a bit taller when he passes them by.

  The metal door to the kitchen opens a crack, and then, with a burst, flies open in an explosion of music, loud shouts, and orders being read. And the smells… I didn’t know just how hungry I was until I got the first whiff of the fresh lobster and butter sauce. I stand just in view of a man salting a fish he’s about to bake, while his partner sets out a place of mussels and frites. Thank goodness for the music keeping the growl of my stomach relatively hidden.

  “You hungry, Anna?” Mack looks down at me with a crack of a smile. I shut my gaping mouth and close my eyes, reminding myself that I need to not show him any bit of emotion. I’m a tough girl who can get through this on her own.

  I stick my tongue to the side of my teeth as I let out a passive, “Yeah. I could eat.”

  “Great.” Mack’s hand envelopes mine, pulling me straight past the metal tables and burners, the chefs with the different paper hats, and the waiters buzz
ing in and out like flies to lights. Just out of the commotion, but still in the kitchen, he brings me to a table just out of view of everyone else. The Chef’s Table. I’ve heard of this before. It’s supposed to be an honor to sit at a table like this and to be so close to the action. But a guy like Mack doesn’t look like the type to be pulling strings in the culinary world.

  As I go to sit, a woman about my age runs up to him, her arms spread wide for him. “Mack! You came! I haven’t seen you in ages!” I study her up and down—this frail little woman with black hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head. A few beads of sweat stick to the top of her forehead where her hat is, but she wipes them away with the corner of her white smock. Two green eyes meet another pair of green eyes as I realize the connection.

  “Kimmy, meet Anna. She’s a client of mine. I’m… bodyguarding her for the time being. Anna, this is Kimmy. She’s my little sister and the owner of the restaurant.” Everything clicks into place. Of course this is the only way a guy like him could get into a place like this. We shake hands and smile demurely at the other, each focused on the man between us. He pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit while quickly telling Kimmy, “Just a bottle of whatever for us and two specials—the good stuff you all eat back here, not that shit you put out for those snobby bastards up front.”