Dammit.
My eyes are blurry and I’m not sure I can drive like this.
So, instead, I grab my purse, checking I have money and sliding in my cell phone before stepping closer to the window. Opening the window as wide as it will go, I step onto the windowsill, glancing down to see how far below the roof is. Trembling, I have to remind myself that I can do this. Of course I can do this. I’m Tara Mellano.
Pushing back my shoulders, I grip onto the frame of the window, turning my body and allowing my legs to drop down. My grip weakens and I instinctively close my eyes as I can no longer hold on. I drop onto my ass, hitting the flat roof. “Ouch.” I whisper my grumble, using my hand to rub the part of my ass that took the brunt of the fall. Standing, I look up at the window I just climbed from, realizing that it wasn’t that big of a drop. Chuckling to myself, I step closer to the edge, looking at the ground below, only to stumble back when the view below seems to spin. Resting my hand on my forehead, I give myself a mental slap as I try to pull it together. Breathing, I check the other side, wondering if there is anything below I can drop onto, making it less of a fall. As I glance over the side, I see a huge black truck below. I’m not sure why it’s there, but it is and I’m taking full advantage of it. Sitting on the edge of the roof, I slowly lower myself down until my feet reach the roof of the truck. Despite the wobble, I manage to steady myself. With a quick look around, the coast seems clear before I step onto the hood of the truck and finally my feet meet with the ground. Slowly, I creep around the vehicle in search of the best way to get out of here unnoticed. Making my way to the side of the house, distant voices become clearer and louder as I do. Resting my back flat against the brick wall, I peer around the building. The men I saw earlier are still standing around smoking and chatting.
Shit.
Resting my head back, I use my fingers to nervously tap the skin above my lip. Think, Tara. Think. There’s no way I’m getting out of the main gate, so I have to make it out some other way. As I look straight in front of me I know the answer is staring me in the face. The field beside me with small shrubs and trees leads to the main road where Isabelle’s mom’s house used to be. If I can get over the fence and walk far enough, it will eventually bring me out at the road.
And that’s exactly what I do. I climb over the fence, dropping down at the other side and tiptoe through the dense grass. I’m not sure how long it takes or how far I walk, but eventually I make it out to the road. Pulling out my phone, I call for a cab as I continue down the road, staying close to the edge. Telling them where I am and asking them to hurry, I drop the phone back into my purse and charge forward. The last thing I want is for them to realize I’m gone and send out a search party.
Not long after I called the cab, I notice lights approaching. Covering my eyes with my arm, I try to focus, despite the brightness of the oncoming lights. A lump forms in my throat as I hope this is the cab and no one else. The vehicle slows and as it stops beside me, the yellow cab comes into focus.
Thank God.
I let out a huge breath, grabbing the handle and yanking open the door. I drop into the back seat and look between the chairs to the driver.
“Little late to be out here on your own, ain’t it?”
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” I say, taking hold of the seatbelt and pulling it across my chest. I fumble with the buckle, trying to get it to clip in. My coordination seems to have gone to shit, and I can’t match the buckle to the clip.
“Shit,” I grumble, letting out a growl of frustration.
I hear the cab driver chuckle, and I look up, glaring at him.
“Do you need a hand?” he asks sarcastically.
“No,” I snap. “I’m fine, absolutely fine.”
“Sure,” he drawls.
“Listen, mister. Just drive the damn cab already,” I say, shaking my head, then finally managing to get it fastened.
“Where to?”
“Drop me at the end of Creek Road.”
“The motorcycle club?” The guy’s face contorts and his eyes bulge a little. “You don’t look like the kind to go to a place like that.”
“I wouldn’t be going there unless I had to.”
“Me either,” the guy says with a lift of his brow. Putting the car in drive, we set off from the side of the road, making our way to the clubhouse. I can’t quite believe I’m doing this, but there’s no turning back now. Nate is my ride or die, and tonight, I’m going to let him know that we can get through this together.
Nate
Walking through the clubhouse and down to the studio, Emily chats away and I can’t help really liking her. For the first time in days, weeks even, I’ve found a distraction. Something to take away the dark thoughts, even if only temporarily.
Unlocking the door, I hold it open, flicking on the light. The light flickers above and her gasps fill my senses.
“Wow, so you really are an artist?” Her eyes scan the walls, my drawings framed and lining the wall. She steps down, eyes fixed on the wall full of art. She stops in front of a huge board with images of some of my finest designs and tattoos.
“Yep, and those are all mine too.” I point to the photographs pinned on the board in front of her, sliding down and resting on the couch. I reach in my pocket, pulling out my smokes. Tipping the packet, I grab one with my teeth. “Smoke?” I offer, holding them out in front of her.
“Thanks.” She turns, taking one and resting it against her lips. Getting up from the couch, I push my hand into my back pocket, retrieving my lighter. Flicking back the lid, I thrust my thumb over the wheel until the flame meets the end of my cigarette. Taking a quick drag, I hold it in my mouth while offering the flame to Emily. Leaning forward she lights her own cigarette and turns her back on me, her attention back on the images.
“I don’t have a single tattoo,” she informs me. “Not that I don’t like them, I’ve just never gotten around to getting one.”
I nod, watching as her focus flits between me and pictures on the wall.
“I’m so grateful for what you are doing for me,” she murmurs. Her thumb works over her lip while she clutches the cigarette between her fingers. “Don’t know what I’d do right now if it wasn’t for you.”
“You’d be screwing one of those fuckers back in there,” I say with a jab of my thumb.
“True.” She lifts her brows, a shudder visible.
“What happened to you, Emily? What happened in your life to make you think the MC lifestyle was for you? Don’t you have family? Friends?”
“I’m a traveler. Born and raised. My parents and I would move around from state to state, and I never settled long enough to make friends. My ma would homeschool me the best she could, but I never really did the high school thing. I’d make friends occasionally when we would stay in the same place for a few weeks, but we never stayed anywhere for very long.”
“Where are your parents now?” I ask, taking a drag of my cigarette.
“They’re dead,” she replies quietly and I almost drop the grip on my smoke.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I rush out, furrowing my brow.
“Road traffic accident. Lost 'em both when I was just fifteen. And I had nobody. No options. Even the damn trailer was a wreck. I had no choice but to sleep on the streets, working odd jobs to keep food in my belly and the occasional night staying somewhere warm and dry.”
I study her for a second, suddenly understanding why this is all so attractive to her. She literally has nothing and no one.
“Makes sense.”
“What does?” she questions.
“Why this dump seems so attractive to you.”
“Ozzie promised me somewhere to live. Told me that you guys would accept me with open arms and help me out. I guess you could say I sold out to the devil.”
“He brought you here under false pretenses. Shame on him.” I make a mental note to speak to the fucker. My father may have very few morals, but that shit doesn’t wash with me.
/> “I’m scared, Nate,” she chokes out. I walk over to the small door beside the garage door, unlocking it and tossing out my smoke.
I shake my head. “Don’t be. We stick together and I think we’ll be okay.”
She reaches out, squeezing my hand once as if to show her agreement. I nod lightly, dropping back on the couch. Emily walks over to the door, throwing her cigarette out of the door too.
“So…” she states with a clap of her hands. “What does it take to get a tattoo from the great Nate Jeffries, huh?” Hands together she tilts her head, eyes hard and focused on me. “Because you know I have no money, right?” A thin smile dresses her lips and her expectant eyes wait for my answer.
“You have an idea of what you want?” I get up from the couch and stalk over to my desk, pulling open the drawer. Pulling out my tattoo gun I place it on the desk. I reach for my sketchbook and make my way back over to her. “You tell me, and I’ll draw it up for you.”
“What, now?” she gasps with excitement.
“Sure,” I say with a loose lift of my shoulders.
“That one,” she says animatedly. “I want that one.”
My eyes focus on the sketch she points to. “It’s so beautiful,” she says with a clap of her hands. Excitement radiates from her and I can’t help the smile that twitches at the corner of my mouth. I reach up, grabbing the frame. I quickly remove the sketch and start to trace over it.
“Good choice,” I remark as I work the image onto the transfer paper.
“She is so beautiful.”
I nod in agreement. Even though the sketch of this woman depicts her crying, she is beyond beautiful. Roses surround the woman in the image, her hair long, cascading down the side of her face. The top of her hair shows a braid with woven flowers.
“What drew you to this image?” I ask out of morbid curiosity.
“Reminds me of myself. She looks broken, but like she won’t give up. Just like me, I guess.”
Lifting my eyes, I flash her a smile.
“What made you draw this? Is it based on someone you know?”
“Not at all,” I mumble. “Created from in here.” I use my finger to point to my head.
“Impressive,” she says with pursed lips.
“So, where’s it going?” I ask, continuing to trace over the outline of the image onto the carbon paper.
I hear the rustle of clothes and flick my gaze to her. She’s removed her top completely and stands with her hands on her hips wearing nothing but her bra. “Just here I thought.” She points to the area just under arm and down to her waist.
“Sure, if that’s where you want it,” I say, turning my attention back to the transfer.
It only takes about twenty minutes before I’m ready to get started. Positioning her on the couch, I pull on my gloves, using disinfectant across the area she has chosen for her tattoo. Grabbing the sterile packets from the cabinet, I take out the new ink cups, filling them with the colors needed for the image. I unwrap the sterile needle, attaching it to Dora. Dora is the name I gave to my machine when I got it.
“Are you ready?” I ask as she lies on the couch and I slowly place the transfer against her skin. I press down gently, rubbing over and over. Peeling back the paper, I inspect the placement.
“Stand,” I order, wanting to make sure the position is exactly right. “Go check in the mirror,” I tell her with a flick of my head.
“It’s fine.”
“Go look,” I say authoritatively. “I ain’t doing it until you have looked and are a hundred percent happy with it.”
“You always this bossy?”
“Maybe,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
Darting her tongue out at me, she turns and steps toward the full-length mirror just beside the door.
“Oh, Nate. I love it already,” she coos, stepping back over to me.
“Good, now take off the bra.”
“What? Like for real?”
“For real, babe. It’s going to get in the way.”
“Shit,” she mutters, her eyes looking a little nervous. “No peeking then,” she warns with a waggle of her finger.
“I’ve seen enough tits to last me a lifetime. I ain’t looking, believe me.”
“Good,” she replies, reaching behind her back and flicking the clasp. Her arm covers her tits while she removes the bra, dropping it on the chair with the rest of her things. Sliding back on the couch, she lies on her side.
“Arm up.” I grab it, guiding it above her head.
“No peeking I said,” she taunts playfully making sure her other hand covers the side of the breast closest to my face.
“Just relax, this might sting a bit.”
Dipping the tip of the needle into the pot, I stretch the skin with my other hand and start to work over the outline. Emily lies there, not making a sound. It’s funny watching how some react to the pain of getting a tattoo. I was sure she would be a screamer.
“You doing okay there?” I ask, peering over, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. “You haven’t made a sound.”
“It’s kind of therapeutic,” she replies as I swipe over her skin. “How long should this take?”
“A few hours at least. It’s kind of a big tattoo you chose.”
“Hours,” she gasps. “I’m desperately trying to be brave but I’m not sure I’ll last for hours.”
“We can break. Anytime it’s getting too much, just let me know.”
She nods and I hear her gulp. With a shake of my head, I chuckle, continuing to scribe the image into her skin. Zoning out, I concentrate, making sure every line is perfect, and every contact is in the correct spot. The buzz of the tattoo gun is the same comfort as the buzz I get from the bike. Similar noise, familiar comforting feeling.
* * *
After about forty-five minutes, I can tell that Emily needs to break. She’s wiggling like a goddamn eel.
“Shall we break? Get a drink or have a smoke or something?” I suggest, wiping over and over what I’ve already done.
“Fuck! Yes, please,” she chuckles. “Thought you’d never ask, you… you… sadomasochist.”
I can’t help but laugh, “You have no idea, darlin’.” Pushing back the swivel chair I’m sitting on, I hold out my arm, indicating that Emily should get off the couch.
“Shit,” she grumbles, “I can barely move. This beautiful piece of art stings like a bitch.”
“Anything worth having hurts.”
“Really?” She lifts her brow, shooting me a sarcastic glare. “I don’t know how you expect me to cover my modesty and get up from this damn couch at the same time.”
Stepping over to my desk, I drop down the tattoo gun, and remove my gloves. “Let me help you,” I say, offering her my hand.
“Quite the gentleman,” she quips, taking it and allowing me to sit up on the couch. I reach behind, grabbing her top from the chair and handing it to her.
“Don’t put it on, but you can use this to cover yourself.”
With a subtle nod she takes it, only her body jerks at the loud rasping sound at the door that joins the studio to the clubhouse.
“Nate, man. Hurry up.”
Furrowing my brows, I race over to the door, opening it just enough to see a drunk Zane and Jarvis.
“What’s wrong, brothers?” I ask with a quick lift of my chin.
“Whatchya doin?” They both giggle like a pair of damn schoolkids.
“I’m tatting the newest chick.”
“What you tatting? Nate’s pussy?” Jarvis jokes.
“Guys,” I say in a raised voice. “What is it you want?”
“To hang out. Your old man has gone fucking crazy again. We just wanted to get out of the way,” Zane replies.
“It’s one of those nights where you know some shit is gonna go down, ya know?”
I grimace a little, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.” I duck my head back inside and find Emily at the door.
“You okay with a
few visitors?”
Her eyes move downward to the material barely covering her chest. “I dunno,” she answers tentatively.
“They’re good guys. Promise…”
With wide eyes and a lift of her shoulders, I take that as an okay.
“Listen, by all means, come hang in here. But don’t for one second make the girl feel uncomfortable. You know how I take this shit seriously.”
Zane steps forward, giving the top of my arm a light slap. He leans in, whispering into my ear, the smell of alcohol potent. “What’s the deal with the chick? She got all the guys talking.”
“Not surprised,” I mutter with a fleeting look in her direction.
“Only, the guys aren’t sure if you still dig that Tara chick or whether you’re moving onto some fresh pussy.”
“Talk about getting deep.”
“The guys know what happened to you. They reckon your old man is out of order.”
I glance over his shoulder, wary of someone overhearing. “Come in, let’s talk inside.” I beckon him with a flick of my head and the guys step inside the studio.
“Hey,” Emily introduces herself with a wave.
The guys say a quick hello, sliding down on my desk, eyes boring into me.
“So, what’s the deal?” Zane asks. “Why has your old man got an issue with which pussy you fuck?”
Shaking my head, I allow my eyes to fall to the floor. I’ve known these brothers for years, but it still doesn’t stop me from wondering whether I can trust them or not. My father is under everyone’s skin. So much so that I have no idea who in my own club I can actually trust.
“Depends what you know,” I reply, lifting and sagging my shoulders.
“Shit, just spit it out, man.” Jarvis, the older of the two guys looks at me with anticipation.
“This is so fucked up.” I blow out an exaggerated breath. “I have absolutely no idea who I can trust anymore.”
Jarvis and Zane look at each other, confusion written all over their faces.
“Seriously? You think you can’t trust us? We’re your brothers. We wear the same cut, and for most around here, you’re the heir to this whole goddamn MC.”
The complete scars series: Books one-four Page 53