Ink (The Haven Series)

by Torrie McLean

  The room was ... lived in. She vaguely knew Colton had sold his apartment to help fund his elderly mom’s rent and that he hadn’t really considered it a necessity anyway. For someone on the wrong side of forty, he hadn’t exactly accumulated a lot of belongings. As she’d noticed before, there were few non-essentials. No photographs. She could both relate and still feel a pang of something close to sadness for him, recognising it wasn’t how most people lived their lives – even if she’d spent a fair few years the exact same way.

  A few items of clothing were scattered around the room, jeans on the floor, t-shirts over the back of a chair. Motorcycle magazines on the desk beside a tiny television. The closest thing to cluttered was the nightstand – home to everything from a coffee mug, cigarettes and mints, to a handful of cash, a penknife and a sketchpad.

  Feeling like an intruder, Callie perched on the very edge of the bed and looked around again. Of all the ways she’d expected this night to end, alone in Colton’s room certainly wasn’t one of them – although the location itself was accurate enough. To her endless shame.

  She could still taste him on her lips. Whisky, cigarettes and something that was just him. If she closed her eyes, she could practically feel him. The heat of his body pressed against hers, the urgency that seemed to surge through him and into her.

  If the cops hadn’t shown up, if Will hadn’t called for him ... She’d still have ended up in the same place. Just not alone.

  ***

  It had been a long week, all things considered. Nothing new there though. You just knuckled down, got through it. Tried to make the most of it even. No point living for the weekend – that was just wishing your life away and he’d been all too conscious of his ticking clock since turning the big five-oh.

  Glancing at the clock again, Michael sighed and drained the last of his beer, setting the bottle on the floor beside his favourite armchair. Inwardly wincing at the thought of having such a piece of furniture and thanking god he didn’t yet have the pipe and slippers to go with it. 11:47pm.

  He was half-expecting Callie to appear at his door any time soon. Tipsy perhaps from her night out, her smile just a little too wide, those eyes just a shade too bright. Not that he’d mind. Or maybe she’d call, see if he’d come play taxi-driver. He didn’t mind that either, not when he could claim his fare from her once he got her home.

  He’d stuck to just the one beer as he channel-surfed for that very reason. But so far, there hadn’t been so much as a text message.

  Not that he was trying to keep tabs on her. She wasn’t the clingy type and he’d always been conscious of not smothering her. Maybe it was fear of coming across as some kind of father-figure. The last thing he wanted was his girlfriend feeling like he was imposing a curfew on her. 11:54pm.

  It was still early really. Not for him, but for a night out. A Friday night out. Although her plans hadn’t sounded like just some crazy night out with friends. She hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the details, but something had just made him assume it was work-related. He knew she and Sketch both worked outside normal hours sometimes, attending conventions, promoting the studio ...

  His ringing cell phone made him jump just a little as it cut through his thoughts and made him grin. 12:03am.

  “Hi, baby ...”

  “Hey, sugar,” came a gruff voice, wry even under obvious tension. “What say we cut the sweet talk and you get your fine ass down the cop shop pronto? Fix this fuck-up and I might even put out ...”

  Will.

  ***

  Leaning back in his chair, Colton’s bored expression didn’t so much as flicker when the door to the interrogation room opened and another fed walked in. Inwardly though, it was a different story – his lip wanting to curl in distaste and his eyes narrow at the sight of her.

  Veronica Hunt. Just one letter away from the most apt surname ever.

  He’d encountered the bitch before and didn’t exactly come away with a favourable impression, having quickly decided she put even her predecessor in the shade when it came to fucking people over.

  Personality bypass aside, the two had little in common though. While Lydia Brown had been a prime example of a woman trying to get in on ATF’s biggest-dick contest and resenting every second of lacking the goods, Hunt just revelled in making the most of what the good Lord gave her.

  And even Colton had to admit, she hadn’t been at the back of the queue when the looks were being handed out. She had to be 5’10 if she was an inch, with sleek dark hair and a hell of a rack. No trouser suits for this bitch, no playing down the make-up in a bid to be taken seriously, and definitely no sensible shoes when stilettos were just as effective when it came to walking all over anyone who got in her way.

  Shooting him what he supposed was meant to be a disarming smile over the table, the agent crossed long legs, adjusted the hem of her above-the-knee skirt and steepled her fingers together. “Now ...” she beamed. “How are we playing this?”

  He said nothing. Simply cocked his head and considered the glossy brunette blankly, wondering if anyone ever really fell for her shit. She was like a fucking shark with that fake smile, all white teeth and just hell-bent on eating you for breakfast.

  “The hard way it is then,” Hunt answered her own question, the smile never faltering.

  ***

  Trying to relax in the knowledge that Colton had wanted her there, that even as he was dragged off by the cops he’d remembered her waiting for him, Callie forced herself to accept her lot for the night.

  Kicking off her heels and running a hand through her hair, she wandered over to the chair and poked through the t-shirts thrown on it, picking out a clean white one with FALLEN stamped on the front. Quickly shimmying out of her shorts and top, she pulled the soft material over her head and inhaled the faint scent of its owner underneath the fresh laundry smell, before padding to the tiny ensuite bathroom to rinse off her make-up and then returning to the huge double bed.

  Clean sheets. Thank god.

  Curling up beneath the covers, she closed her eyes and tried not to wonder how many other women had been there before her. Even though she had in fact been there once before herself – passed out from the sight of blood didn’t count.

  She didn’t know why it even bothered her. She knew what the club guys were like, how it worked. Maybe that was the trade-off – you risked your life on a fairly regular basis, so you got to sleep your way through the town’s female population ...

  It wasn’t like she was expecting anything from Colton. So she was attracted to him – she was attracted to Johnny Depp too and she wasn’t looking to marry him. That said, she did realise Mr Depp hadn’t been the one to curl a finger through the belt-loop of her shorts and tug her into a mind-blowing kiss that somehow turned into a full-on make-out session against the wall of the clubhouse ... No, sir.

  Colton had obviously just decided that he’d gotten bored of club skanks and what was that old saying? A change is as good as a rest? Bored he might have been, but he wasn’t ultimately going to turn his back on a plentiful supply of pussy for the sake of the chick who usually inked him.

  And for her to give up stability, a man who - much as it pained her – loved her, all for an outlaw biker with no intention of ever settling down, would just be ridiculous. Crazy to even think of.

  But if she knew all that ... then why did Callie still get a shiver down her spine at the thought of him returning?

  She could feel all the guilt she wanted when Michael crossed her mind, it didn’t change the fact that all she really longed for was to be back in Colton’s arms. Knowing if he slid into bed right now and kissed her again, everything else would just … disappear.

  ***

  “This really isn’t getting us anywhere ...” the agent said brightly, but between gritted teeth. The cracks beginning to show. So much for her plan to get the jump on him before the club’s latest snake of a lawyer arrived to wriggle the pair of biker bastards right off her hook. “If you were
to co-operate, you see, we could come to some kind of ... arrangement ...”

  The tip of her impossibly high-heeled patent leather shoe grazed his leg and he arched an eyebrow in response.

  “Your blonde friend was much more receptive, I have to say,” Hunt said casually, that same air of suggestion lingering over her words. She wasn’t going to tell him Sam’s receptiveness had extended to kicking his boots up on the edge of the table and challenging her to blow him, all with a cocky arrogance that got right under her skin. As he had no doubt intended.

  But to her irritation, the smirk on Colton’s face made it fairly probable he already knew exactly how his brother would handle her approach to things.

  “Ah, Veronica,” came the sudden interruption, as the door flew open. One suited and booted man entered, swiftly followed by two protesting cops. “Keeping it in your pants, I hope? Nice try, by the way – trying to have me delayed while you work whatever voodoo you’re calling an investigation these days.”

  “He just barged through!” an officer stammered in apology, seeing Agent Hunt’s eyes narrow dangerously.

  “Michael, always a pleasure,” she said tightly, turning that smile back on and aiming it at the lawyer.

  “Ain’t she a sweetheart?” Michael deadpanned, nudging a bemused Colton companionably with his elbow as he slammed his briefcase down on the table and loosened his tie. “Aww, Vee – what, no coffee? Jesus, standards are really slipping in this joint ... Be a doll and stick the pot on, will ya? I got a man to get back to his buddies here!”

  “Cut the shit, Corsada,” she hissed, hands on the table as she leaned in angrily.

  “Careful, Vee,” he smiled. “Mask’s slipping ...”

  ***

  CHAPTER 13

  “Seriously, Agent Hunt?” the lawyer drew out the full title of his nemesis in a long insolent drawl, tipped his chair back on two legs and looked her up and down with a smile that was teasing in its disapproval. “How long are we gonna keep up this charade? If you had grounds to charge my clients, you’d have done it by now. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  To Colton’s mind, satisfying as it was to see Hunt fume, it was pretty much like watching a cocky teenager front it out over some chick he wanted to nail. Not a tactic the biker had seen fit to resort to since he started prospecting for the Fallen Brothers.

  It did make him wonder though. If their hotshot legal advisor had been dipping his dick in federal pussy ... Mikey-boy was game if that was the case. Bitches like that get their claws in you, they don’t let go ‘til they got you bled dry.

  Watching the pair sparring verbally had kept Colton’s attention for all of five minutes before it started to get seriously stale. When it came to the club, his attention didn’t wander. Ever. But this was not his area of expertise. Give him something to shoot and he’d be all business – start talking legal shit and you could forget it.

  All he wanted was to get back to his brothers, safe in the knowledge nothing was going to blow back on the club first and him and Sam second. Both men knew they’d take a personal hit for the greater good in a second, but nine times out of ten it didn’t come to that. And if it did ...

  The dark look in his eyes blackened at the thought of jail time, his jaw clenching imperceptibly.

  Banged up for years with only Sam to have his back was not a happy prospect. Especially with the amount of enemies and the lack of protection they could expect to face on the inside, all things being what they were. No bike, no booze, no broads. And that was leaving aside the anger at the thought of leaving their club short-handed.

  It had been a long time since Colton had been handed what he considered a serious prison sentence and he’d grown fond of his freedom. Visiting his mom when he could, riding out with the club, even just shooting the shit with his brothers. With Sketch.

  Something twisted in his gut at the thought of the tattoo studio and the little blonde bitch he’d found there. Those damn doe eyes had him thrown for a loop and he hadn’t seen it coming. Now she was under his skin. Maybe even in his bed ...

  FLASHBACK

  “Hey, Colt, you got a sec?”

  It hadn’t taken much to get his attention – he’d had one eye on the girl since she’d arrived anyway, telling himself it was all about looking out for the guest. Nothing to do with those long tan legs or that tight little ass ...

  He’d played it cool though as he got up from his seat near the bar, taking his glass of whiskey with him and leaving Will and Sam to exchange knowing looks they wrongly thought he didn’t see before continuing their conversation.

  “Problem?” he asked, with a dark glare for the club’s newest patch and his girl.

  “Nah, nothin’ like that,” Callie assured him hastily. He could feel her hand on his wrist to get his attention. One deft move on his part would be all it would take for those slim fingers to slip down to lace through his ... “Just need you to do a tatt.”

  He turned his gaze on her at that, almost suspiciously. Didn’t know who he thought he was kidding though – if she asked him, he’d have a fucking hard time saying no to much with those soft eyes looking up at him. “Huh? Thought that was your job? I don’t do first-timers.”

  “I know – that’s why you’re gonna do me.”

  Shit, she had to know how that sounded. Gray eyes sparkling mischievously, hint of a smile. Oh, smart little bitch knew all right.

  “What’s the matter, Colt? Don’t reckon you’re up to it?”

  But the suggestion of a challenge just brought a smirk to his lips and he threw back the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, slamming the empty glass down on the nearest table. “Let’s do this ...”

  She wasn’t making it easy for him though, leaving all the decisions in his hands. Literally. It was a hell of a leap of faith, but then they’d been there before and when the stakes had been considerably higher. He liked that - his control; her trust.

  And regardless of the design - though he did already have something in mind - when it came to the placement, the possibilities were endless, if hampered a little by their surroundings. Tempting as it was to have that smooth golden skin laid out under his hands like the perfect blank canvas, no way was he having her strip in the middle of the clubhouse like some damn skank. Maybe if he didn’t screw this up, she’d let him ink her again. In private.

  “Gimme your hands,” he ordered, once she was settled on the recliner that had been set up and he had all her equipment at his disposal. With both her hands in his, palm side down, he wondered if she paid this much attention to every detail of him when their roles were reversed.

  “Gonna read my fortune?” she teased, making him first grin and then inwardly groan at the corny retort that had almost slipped from his lips. Had he really been about to make a tall, dark, stranger crack? Fucking hell.

  But luckily he had instead silently assessed the slim fingers and the short pale pink nails, taking in the slim silver band on her right index finger and the chunkier thumb ring on her opposite hand. He turned her hands over in his and continued his appraisal, noting the thick leather strap of her cuff-style watch before letting go of her left hand. And tracing his fingers over the pulse point on her right wrist, he looked up at her for any sign of non-consent.

  Callie simply shrugged and relaxed in her seat as he reached for a pair of thin latex gloves and got started.

  And judging by the glances he spared her, while she kept up a quiet running commentary for the benefit of her wide-eyed would-be client, her own eyes never left his face. She seemed content to both let him get on with it and on not looking until her tattoo was finished.

  “Does it ... hurt?” Lorena piped up anxiously.

  “Nah,” Callie assured her, before allowing herself a little grin. “Well, only in a good way ...”

  Damn, was she trying to kill him?

  ***

  “Oh, come on, Michael,” Hunt was sighing when Colton snapped back to attention, with just the right air of melodrama in her attitude. �
��Humour me and pretend for a second you’re capable of wearing the big boy pants here. In case I need to spell it out for you, your clients haven’t exactly been hauled in for stealing cookies from girl scouts. We are dealing with a class A felony. If these two are found guilty, they’ll get life in--”

  “Life in prison. Yeah, yeah.” It was Michael’s turn to roll his eyes. “Thanks for the Law 101 update, darlin’. But you see that little if you had in there? Little word, big impact.”

  The brunette actually smiled and sat down again at the table, leaning forward invitingly as she adopted a conspiratorial air.

  “See, you should have let me finish ... darlin’,” she said, her voice sweet even as it turned mocking in tone. “If your clients are found guilty, they’re going down for life – found guilty of first degree murder, that is. But I’m afraid the state prosecutor may not settle for that charge.”

  “The hell are you talking about?”

  “Don’t tell me the big bad lawyer didn’t do his homework before he came charged in here calling the shots? Tell me, Michael, did you at least get the name of your clients’ victim?”

  “Alleged victim,” he spat, patience obviously running out. “Or are you playing judge and jury as usual, Vee? How ‘bout you get to the goddamn point here? You know your so-called team pissed me about, hoping to catch me out. So if you’ve got some fucking ace up your sleeve, I suggest you just damn well play it.”

  “Temper, temper,” she tutted brightly. But she knew when to push it, when to pull back. Lifting a file from the table to flick through it casually, she found what she was looking for and carefully placed it face up on the scuffed surface. One frosted pink nail tapped a photo of a dead man’s face. “Not looking his best, sadly,” she said. “This is Alex Kane. Elected government official – and former mayor, actually – Alex Kane.”