Colton glanced coolly at the lawyer, noting without comment or reaction that he didn’t seem to be exactly what could be called forthcoming with a swift response to wipe the smug look off that bitch’s face.
“So, since you’re the expert, Michael,” Hunt smiled. “Why don’t you tell your client here what charge prosecutors will be pushing for? Or perhaps you’d like me to?”
Michael shook his head in disbelief, pushing his chair out from the table to stand with his back to them and a hand raking through his hair. His poker face had failed him for a split second, but he pulled it back to turn and clap a consoling hand on Colton’s shoulder.
“Agent Hunt here’s forgetting that whole pesky part about evidence and not having yet charged you with anything, not to mention a trial if it comes to that and that thing where you’ll be found innocent,” he shrugged, not quite pulling off the casualness the gesture needed to be convincing.
“Michael ...”
“Aggravated first degree murder, okay?” he snapped. “They’ll push for aggravated murder and it still carries the death penalty in this state. Now fuck off, Vee, while I talk with my client in private – or do you still think you’re running some kind of Gitmo set-up here?”
But having gotten what she wanted, Agent Hunt excused herself with a little pseudo-sympathetic smile for Colton and an infuriating wink for Michael. He waited until she’d closed the door and then slammed his fist down on the table.
He should have known by now how dangerous a scorned woman could be.
***
CHAPTER 14
Agent Hunt was perched on the edge of the desk in front of the bored-looking blonde biker when Michael finished up with one client and made to check in with the second. Still trying to push for a deal, he didn’t doubt.
Not that he was worried about Sam knowing how to handle her. She had the capacity to act barely human at times, but she was still female. And if there was one thing the MC’s resident pin-up knew all about it was women.
“Laying it all on the table, is she, Sam?” the lawyer rolled his eyes as he strode through the door. “Jesus, Vee, can’t you try internet dating or something?”
“Hey, I dunno what you need me for anyway, darlin’,” Sam shrugged, a wicked little grin on his handsome face. “You already got that stick up your ass ...”
“Well, you can’t say he hasn’t got your number,” Michael said, trying for an innocent smile.
“It was good enough for you, Michael,” Hunt hissed. “Or had you forgotten about that?”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up and he cast his legal representation a disapproving look, getting a rueful what-can-you-do response. “Duuuude ... seriously? Holy shit, is this why she’s all up in our business? You fucked her, chucked her and what - you ain’t got a bunny she can boil?”
“Oh please,” Hunt laughed, an irritating tinkle as fake as the smiles that never reached her eyes. “As if I’d waste my time.”
“This ...” Michael growled at her, blue eyes colder than usual and his tone getting even Sam’s attention. “... is your idea of keeping your fucking mouth shut? I suppose it’s what I should have expected – given your inability to keep your legs shut.”
“What’s the matter, Michael? Scared of your little trophy girl finding out?” she shot back. But even her cool exterior cracked just a little at the unexpected venom in his voice, their usual heated sparring having moved well beyond simple tension.
She’d exposed his secret, threatened his status quo. And one way or another, he’d make sure Callie never heard the truth.
***
Maybe it was her conscience keeping her awake.
Having the comfortable expanse of Colton’s bed to herself only meant more room for Callie to toss and turn, nothing more than brief and fitful sleep gracing her tired form, leaving her to simply stare upwards into the dark.
With the Dutch courage wearing off and - probably more significantly - without those dark eyes trained on her, all the creeping doubts in the back of her mind were rising to the surface again. She wasn’t usually the type to over-think things but, left to her own devices, her mind was racing. The wisdom, or otherwise, of her actions was now proving all too easy to call into question.
Michael loved her. Thought he did anyway and she didn’t know what was worse. True love or delusion.
Yet, despite everything he could offer her – everything he had already offered her – here she was in another man’s bed. And not just any man. A ruthless outlaw, whose full capabilities she could only imagine.
Although, when it came to what he could be capable of with her, her imagination had admittedly been running wild. No doubt a by-product of his hands roaming her body like he owned it; of the intimacy of his tongue exploring her mouth ...
The heat of that memory flushed her skin, then sent a shiver running down Callie’s spine as she thought about how the tables had turned since Colton had first turned her own needle on her.
She knew how significant tattoos were in his life and what it was like to be the one charged with inking him. His toned arms, that hard chest and chiselled stomach. Trying to deny the sparks they both knew flew between them, as her fingers grazed tan skin under his watchful gaze.
Now she knew what it was like from the other side. How hard it was not to react to his touch as he inked her, yet how utterly absorbing it was to watch the concentration on his face. Feeling her stomach flip at the realisation that, at least for as long as he spent working on her, she was the centre of his world.
It wasn’t just the ink though.
Callie had been a tattoo artist for long enough to know that not everyone cared about the art as much as she did. As much as Colton did. Or Sketch. She’d served her time etching tramp stamps on the small of many a fake-tanned back. Creating generic hearts and flowers and crosses. Inscribing true love’s names and sayings too glib to be sincere. Covering up afore-mentioned names when Romeo found out good ole Jules had been one too many times round the block.
When it was real though, there was an inevitable connection. Flesh and blood out there in the world, holding you responsible for creating something so personal and marking it in someone’s skin. Making it a part of them. Forever.
Everyone was different.
Take Cherry. Her ink had become part of who she was, the part she shared with the world, as unique and instantly recognisable as her voice. She’d come a long way from being plain old Cheryl, swapping Haven for the bright lights of LA. But she’d been happy to remember her roots, still choosing the sanctuary of Sketch’s small studio over any other.
And when she’d posed for those now infamous pictures in Rolling Stone, that beautiful cascade of cherry blossoms and music notes laid bare for all to see, it had been Callie they’d interviewed about the stunning work of art. Her big moment.
Sketch still had a framed copy of the spread on the wall.
Colton’s tattoos were equally a part of who he was, but he bore them like a soldier bore the scars of war. Every battle, good and bad, marked indelibly on his body. Reminders of what he was a part of and what was at stake.
From the hugely detailed compass spread over his back to the twin sleeves that darkened his arms, the soaring eagle dominating his chest, and the freshly crossed guns low on his stomach, he was who he was – through and through. His particular calling was one he lived with and, unlike some of his brothers, it wasn’t something he ever set aside. There was no real time off for good behaviour in his world.
Callie had forged connections with both of them and with others. It just so happened that her bond with the stoic biker went way beyond the surface. Held by something stronger than ink and reinforced by his blood on her hands.
And now he had marked her in return.
It may have been a couple of years too late, but the little blonde had no doubts from the moment she laid eyes on her new tattoo what it meant - even if the explanation behind the incredibly intricate angel wings, unfurling gracefully to stretch
out over the delicate underside of her wrist, went unsaid.
He wasn’t the type to declare her his guardian angel. But he’d marked her with a symbol of what she’d done for him, what he would always be grateful for, and had forever branded their connection on her skin as surely as if he’d scrawled his name across her body. An outward sign of what they knew already ran so much deeper.
Her tattoos had somehow, unintentionally, come to serve as her story. One of evolution, she supposed.
The large star she’d etched on her own foot with a needle and a leaky pen, while bunking off school as a teenager, had been the first sign of rebellion. Her first glimpse of a way out – though one few would have expected of the withdrawn girl in the hand-me-down clothes and, more often than not, clutching a sketchpad.
Art class had been her only solace, but the support and financial backing of a loving family were luxuries Callie had never known and so instead of Cooper Union, her skills were honed by one Casey Devine.
Her first mentor, the artist behind her quarter-sleeve’s original design and a man who would always hold as much of a place in her heart as Sketch. A man who had, in fact, introduced and then more or less handed her over to her current boss.
Now the owner of the renowned Addiction chain of tattoo bars across LA, New York, Madrid, London, Belfast and Dublin, Casey had upped sticks and moved to Ireland with his Sligo-native wife. Proud daddy of two and with another on the way, last Callie had heard.
Back in the day, he’d been the rebellious older brother of a classmate. One who, in a movie-worthy moment of coincidence, plucked one of the then-schoolgirl’s fallen notebooks from a puddle beside his car as she ran to catch the bus home after class only to be blown away by the dark emotion of the sketches within its pages.
At barely fifteen, she had ignited a spark of curiosity that had the twenty-four-year-old hooked, despite the fact that – with all the confidence of his own relative youth and visions of the world at his feet - he barely had time for his own kid sister.
It was a connection, bridging a nine-year age gap, that should have at least raised eyebrows - had Callie had anyone to even notice. But, while she’d kept their dealings to herself, it hadn’t been like that anyway. And while Casey’s initial motives were admittedly self-serving, he was at least up-front with her. More than could be said for most people in her life back then.
Despite her obvious distrust of him – of anyone really - he’d kept on her case until she heard him out, albeit with a resigned and world-weary cynicism someone of her scant years should have had no business possessing.
He simply dreamed of running a tattoo studio and she could sketch like no one else he knew, bar him. She was too young to work for him properly, but she could provide designs. Help keep shop. A part-time job, if you like. Nothing more.
And so it had began. Her escape.
Sometimes it felt like she’d spent her whole life running and now here she was. But just when she’d thought she could settle down, she was about to throw it all away.
***
“Home sweet home, huh, guys?”
But with neither biker feeling much like observing niceties at just gone 3am, Colton and Sam simply exchanged a look and pushed past the lawyer to head for the clubhouse door.
Though held for a hefty ransom, they’d both finally been bailed – admittedly thanks to some fairly fast talking from Michael. Both men had enough experience with the law to know that was quite the coup, given the murder rap they were facing. But it had been a long night and any good graces were long gone.
“You boys took your damn time.”
Gruff words aside, Will was still waiting for them by the bar with back-slapping hugs and dark shadows under his eyes, embracing his right-hand men like they were sons rather than brothers.
“Will, man, we gotta talk about--”
But the older man cut Sam off with a wave of his hand. “It can wait. I’m serious, Sam. Michael here’s gonna give me the thirty-second version, so he can get the hell off the clock and get his ass home where I ain’t paying for it and you two are calling it a night, you hear me?”
“But--”
“No buts, Colt. We need clear heads for this shit. So hit the shower, the booze, hit ... whatever lets you get your head down. Just get some goddamn shut-eye.”
They may have had to be told twice but, with warm beds waiting for them, they weren’t going to argue after that.
***
Footsteps sounded in the darkness, a glimmer of light thrown across the bed as the door opened slowly and then closed with a soft thump. The dark figure moved stealthily given the lateness of the hour, pausing to note the clothes dropped on the floor by the bed and just making out the blonde hair on the pillows in the near-darkness.
The clink of a belt buckle preceded shoes kicked off, pants shucked to the floor and a shirt joining them, before the covers rustled and the mattress dipped under added weight.
Tempting as it was, he hadn’t really planned on waking her. Hell, he hadn’t even been sure she’d be there. But it was too late to be considerate. She was already turning to face him in the darkness, her surprise tempered by tiredness. She was still half asleep as she tried to force a soft smile for him.
“Hi,” she whispered unsurely, the way she bit her lip quirking the corner of his own mouth upwards.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Michael smiled, more determined than ever to find a way to keep her.
***
Sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, Colton’s face hardened as he reached for the folded t-shirt on his pillow. She’d been here. In his room; in his bed. He could smell the faint trace of her perfume on his shirt, on his sheets.
But now she was gone and he had no idea why.
If seeing him hauled off in cuffs had sent her running, he’d have understood. But to tuck herself up in his bed, especially after the way she’d wrapped herself around him outside, and then just take off in the early hours ...
Something wasn’t right. And he’d had enough of bitches and their games for one night.
***
CHAPTER 15
Mid-mornings at the clubhouse were a world away from what usually passed for normality within its walls. Without the raucousness of liquor-soaked nights or the endless traipsing out of skanks during mornings-after, now was the time something closest to peace could descend. Relatively speaking.
The quiet was marred only by the occasional roar of an engine out in the yard or a burst of music drifting in through an open window; shouts between his brothers as they came and went. Nothing he couldn’t filter out though, as he focused on the dull thump of his wrapped fists on the well-worn leather of the punchbag.
A word in the ear of one of the prospects had ensured he had the club’s makeshift gym to himself and now that steely glare was focused on the target, grim with determination. A sheen of sweat glistening on his inked skin and soaking through the light cotton of his wifebeater as he worked the bag over like it had dared insult his mother.
His shoulders ached from the force of his punches, his knuckles long since numbed. But still he kept going.
It had been a long and frustrating weekend. Will being holed up in the office with their lawyer was not what he called handling things. He was a man of action, not words and his version of handling things would have involved a lot less talking and a hell of a lot more shooting.
He wasn’t stupid though. He knew and supported the club’s think-first-shoot-later stance – even though he was usually first port of call when the latter became the necessary course of action. But, as it was, the pent-up tension drove his fists harder and harder into the bag. And the relentless blows found their target every time.
“Jeez, dude, get laid already!”
Sam was probably the only guy on the planet who could make a crack like that at that very moment and live to tell the tale – which was okay, because he was probably the only one besides Will who’d dare in the first place.
And becaus
e he had a point.
Instead of throwing a punch in the sergeant’s direction, Colton finally grabbed the bag to steady it on its chains. His breathing was heavy, but not out of control, as he rested his forehead against it. “Any news?” he demanded, sparing his brother a sideways glance before straightening up and towelling the sweat from his face. He rolled his shoulders experimentally and felt the muscles protest only a little. Not bad for a guy in his forties.
“Nada,” Sam grimaced. “And this playing-the-waiting-game shit’s driving me up the fucking walls. I still think Will should let us head out. Retrace our steps, if you know what I mean.”
Colton both knew and inwardly agreed. But he also knew how it would go if that blew up in their faces – witness intimidation, show of guilt ... And with their current run of luck, that would be a hell of a gamble.
“But you got the right idea, man. I could do with some kinda distraction myself,” Sam was continuing as he ambled around the gym, a twinkle creeping into those sharp blue eyes. “Didn’t figure this would be your first choice though.”
“Oh yeah?” Colton drawled, though he was pretty sure even a blind man could see where this was going. “And what ya got figured as my first choice?”
“Oh, I dunno ... blonde, ‘bout yea high?” came the grin, Sam holding a hand at just about shoulder height. “Sweet little ass, great rack, looks like she could distract the hell outta anyone ... Damn, Colt – why the fuck aren’t you tappin’ that?”
Why indeed.
But while Colton didn’t really have an answer for him anyway, they were interrupted by the low ring of a cell phone. The spiky-haired biker reached for his brother’s cut to fish it from an inner pocket for him and lob it easily across the room.
“Sketch - oh, tell him he’s welcome, by the way,” Sam grinned, having glanced at the caller id first and then at Colton’s blank face. “Friday night? Hooked him up with the lovely Sasha. That broad could suck ice-cubes through a straw.”
Colton snorted at that. “Hooked him up? Palmed her off more like.”
Ink (The Haven Series) Page 9