Ink (The Haven Series)

by Torrie McLean

  She’d said she would give him a couple of minutes, then come and cover the tattoo for him. That had been at least ten minutes ago though and, wiping his hands over his face, Dante guessed she’d just been held up by whoever had showed up out front in the meantime. He’d vaguely been aware of the sound of door chimes.

  The raised voices in the next second made him raise an eyebrow despite himself. The girl didn’t seem the type for a stand-up row in the place where she worked and, even preoccupied as he was, he couldn’t help wondering what had happened. Unhappy customer? Maybe a boyfriend she was late for ... Shit, he hoped that wasn’t it.

  He was still wondering if he should go explain that it was his fault she’d ended up working so late when he heard the crash that had him sitting bolt upright in an instant, then the choked scream that sent him to his feet.

  Questioning the wisdom of getting involved held him only for a second and then, his mind full of everything she had done for him without even seeming to realise, he was tugging on his shirt and running to investigate. But he was too late to do anything but watch as a figure fled through the front door. There was no sign of the tattooist.

  “Miss?” Dante tried, cursing himself for not even knowing her name.

  A sound caught his attention and he whirled at once, his heart sinking as he realised he had found the little blonde. The crash, it seemed, had been the sound of everything on the front desk hitting the floor. And there amid the wreckage lay the girl who’d inked him.

  Ashen and struggling to breathe, her eyes wide with terror, with a knife buried almost to the hilt in her chest.

  ***

  CHAPTER 47

  If all his years with the Fallen Brothers had taught Colton one thing, it was that life was constantly balanced on a knife edge.

  The life that came with the patch, the life he and his brothers had freely chosen for themselves, may have seemed like one big show of strength. But really, it was a daily lesson in fragility. They knew that no one was indestructible, no plan was ever bulletproof, and there was no situation that couldn’t get fucked up in a heartbeat.

  It didn’t matter though. None of that knowledge had prepared him for that long, frozen second when all he could hear was blood rushing in his ears and all he could feel was his heart seeming to lurch into his throat. Everything they’d been through, everything she’d been through because of him, flashed through his stunned mind.

  Her fingers under his, slick with blood from his gunshot wound ... Forcing herself to fall into his arms, trusting him to catch her as shots rang out behind them ... The softness of her lips the first time they kissed ...

  She couldn’t be the one to suffer for the choices he had made. She shouldn’t be the one crumpled on the floor with a blade in her chest.

  The hum of her needle as she guided it over his abdomen ... Her gaze on him as he inked the delicate underside of her wrist ... The smiles that reached those sparkling eyes ... The heat of her tears as she confided in him …

  It may have been her name on his lips, but the rage-twisted snarl was indecipherable as he crossed the studio without even stopping to think – simply grabbing the bastard leaning over his girl and propelling his bulk into the opposite wall with enough force to bring the framed artwork crashing down. Reaching for his gun or his knife wasn’t even in his mind. He was more than capable of beating the fucker to death with his bare hands.

  And, despite the struggling and the babbled protests that were falling on deaf ears, he would have done it too – but for the only sound to cut through the red haze. One strangled little gasp of his name had his head snapping round, even as he kept his target pinned against the wall by his throat.

  “N-Not ... h-him ...” Callie managed, trying to sit up but only ending up crying out in agony as she collapsed back onto the floor, choking for air as blood bubbled at her lips and every breath only seemed to hurt her more.

  The faint words were enough for Colton though and he released his hold without further question or thought of an apology to be by her side. Of all the things he’d seen, all the things he’d done, nothing had ever filled him with such horror and he dropped heavily to his knees.

  The feel of her soft skin as she lay in his arms ... The sight of her cradling a dead girl on the clubhouse floor ... The persistent, terrible thought that the next time he held her might be as she slipped away ...

  “Callie,” he tried, his voice harsh as he desperately tried to work out what to do for the best, scared as he was to even touch her. “Jesus Christ ...”

  “I ... I didn’t know what to do,” his former target offered, from where he’d slumped in the corner rubbing his throat uncomfortably. “But I called 911 ...”

  She had been the one to step up for him when he needed it and, although the sight of that blade lodged in her chest was already going to haunt him, Colton still knew better than to try removing it. Instead, hating the unfamiliar feeling of helplessness with a passion, he wrestled his cut off and then his hoody to tuck the latter around her as carefully as he could. Pale and trembling as she was, he realised she was going into shock.

  “So where the hell’s that ambulance?” he turned to roar in frustration, sending the younger man scrambling for the door to go check. But when he turned back, her eyes were already drifting closed. “No!” he snapped. “Don’t you fucking dare - you stay with me, you hear me? You fucking stay with me, Callie!”

  Her lashes fluttered opened again and she gazed up at him, her lips moving soundlessly. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and the heart Colton knew many suspected he didn’t have all but broke at the sight, his features twisting with the effort of keeping his own emotions in check. He could see what she was thinking and, in that second, he would have given anything he had to trade places with her. His life, his soul ... his goddamn patch, if that was what it took.

  He’d made deals with the devil over a hell of a lot less. For her, right then, he’d have agreed to anything.

  “Gonna ... Gonna be okay, baby,” he said roughly, his fingers brushing the tear from her cheek with rare tenderness and then seeking out her hand to hold it tight. “I got ya and it’s gonna be okay. Gotta be, ‘cause I sure as shit ain’t losing you, little girl. Not now and ... Jesus, Callie, not like this ...”

  ***

  He’d fucked up ... He’d fucked up so goddamn bad ...

  His heart was pounding in his chest, hard enough and loud enough for it to seem to him like it might even drown out the distinctive sound of the Harley pulling up in front of the studio. He was crouched behind a dumpster round the back, panting for breath and sweating so much he just had to pull off the ski mask. But the cooler air on his flushed face brought little comfort.

  Racking a hand through his dishevelled hair, he winced and set about peeling off the glove on his right hand to assess the damage. He examined the deep, livid wound in the centre of his palm and had to bite his lip to keep from crying out when he clenched his fist anyway. In his mind, he deserved the pain - both for fucking up and for having ever let himself get caught up in this insanity.

  Knowing he was dealing with a strong little bitch was one thing, he still hadn’t been prepared for her stabbing him with a fucking pencil of all things. Just like he hadn’t planned on losing his cool when things started to crumble. He’d panicked. He’d been out to prove himself and now one moment of recklessness was going to end up costing him everything.

  He didn’t know what terrified him more - news of his screw-up getting back to the man calling the shots, or the Fallen killer coming after him. Not that the end result was likely to be too different either way.

  The moment that knife sank into the girl’s chest had sealed his fate. Nothing could ever take that back.

  ***

  “Blowing up in his face ain’t exactly gonna help the situation,” Sam sighed as he watched his even more stoic than usual brother simply turn on his heel and walk off, putting himself between the retreating figure and the hot-headed tattoo
ist.

  “You think I don’t fucking know that?” Sketch rounded furiously on the well-meaning biker - despite seeming to know, probably only too well, that his anger was being misdirected. But just as quickly, he’d turned his back on him again and lashed out, punching the nearest wall in his frustration.

  Eyeing the security guard who was not so discreetly turning his attention to them, Sam shook his head once in his direction and clapped a hand on Sketch’s shoulder to steer him firmly towards a chair. “Sit your ass down, man. You’re making the natives restless.”

  According to the paramedics, beyond yelling at them to help the girl when they arrived at the scene – no doubt in more colourful language than they’d recalled – Colton, in contrast to Sketch’s current state, had given them no trouble. Although it sounded like the intensity of his vigil, as they worked to stabilise Callie for the urgent ride to the nearest hospital, had been more than enough on its own to leave them distinctly intimidated by the dangerously hard-faced biker.

  Apparently he hadn’t spoken on the way, at least not beyond one brusque question on how she was doing. Instead, he’d just held her hand tightly and watched everything that was being done to try to help her. And now, faced with a tirade from Sketch the second they clapped eyes on each other in the middle of the ER waiting room, he’d borne it without reply.

  To be honest, Sam had half feared that Colton was brewing to just quietly and without fuss slice someone’s head off. And that, in that moment, maybe Sketch would have seemed as good a target as any. Friend or not.

  “That’s twice I’ve had to haul ass to this goddamn hospital this month, not knowing what the fuck I’m gonna find when I get here. That girl ... She gets shot at, her head split open, and now stabbed – stabbed, for fuck’s sake!”

  “Shot at?” The long-suffering sergeant looked puzzled for a second, before it dawned on him and he shook his head. “Jesus, Sketch, that was a lifetime ago! Build a bridge and get the fuck over it already. In case you ain’t noticed, we got more pressing concerns right now ...”

  “Don’t pull that cute crap with me, blondie,” the near seething tattooist warned, raking his fingers through his short dreads in his agitation. “I ain’t some clubhouse bimbo.”

  “No shit,” Sam sighed, dropping into another of the uncomfortable plastic chairs opposite him. “Come on, dude, I get that you’re upset, but there ain’t any point taking it out on Colt. You know he never woulda wanted this.”

  “Didn’t stop him though. Dragging her into his shit. That fucking club ...”

  “Hang on, you don’t know this is connected to the club. Could be anything. Could be a good ole fashioned break-in gone wrong. Beyond inking the guys, Callie ain’t involved in anything to do with the club – it ain’t like she’s an old lady, so there’s no disclosure and she ain’t gonna be on anyone’s radar.”

  “Well, it sure looks like she’s on someone’s fucking radar to me!” Sketch snapped, quickly getting wound up again, only for Sam to reach across and push him back down in his seat.

  “Are you trying to get us kicked outta here?” he demanded. “Christ ... Look, I know she’s like family to you and I get it. But she’s my friend too, okay? You think I like seeing her hurt like that? All I’m saying is ... ease up on Colton. You gotta know by now how he feels about her – even if he doesn’t. This is really killing him, bro ...”

  Seeming to deflate in front of his eyes, Sketch wiped his hands over his face and forced himself to take a deep breath. When he looked up, the anger was gone to be replaced by something else. Something scared, but almost resigned. “There’s only one person this is killing,” he said bluntly. “And that’s Callie.”

  Caught off-guard, Sam could only stare back at him in dismay before setting his jaw and shaking his head as he got to his feet again. “You can’t talk like that, man,” he said tightly, jabbing an accusing finger in Sketch’s direction. “You can’t give up on her like that!”

  The tension was palpable and the guard was looking their way again, but the tattooist didn’t move from his seat.

  “You should probably go check Colt ain’t terrorising the doctors,” came the flat response, after a long pause.

  And, not knowing what else he could say, Sam went.

  ***

  At the sound of boots behind him, Colton turned sharply from where he’d been staring out across the ambulance bay, his hands clenched into fists as they gripped the railing he was leaning on. He may have needed to walk away or risk planting a fist in Sketch’s big mouth, but he damn sure wasn’t going to let that shit get in the way of any news ...

  “No news,” Sam said quickly, seeming to read his mind as he approached. “Not yet. How you holding up, bro?”

  Colton shrugged. For once, he wasn’t even thinking about playing his cards close to his chest – he just didn’t know what the hell there was to say.

  “You know Sketch is just freaking ‘cause he’s worried. His way of dealing.”

  They’d been here before, albeit when the stakes were significantly less high, so he did know. But just like he knew it only hit a nerve because he feared there was more than a grain of truth in what had been said, whether in the heat of the moment or not. He’d been there. He’d been too late, but he’d still been there and it hadn’t looked like the botched robbery Sam kept trying to suggest. Nothing looked to be missing, the cash register hadn’t been touched, and it just felt ... personal. One way or another, he would find out the whole story though. Because he was going to track down the bastard who’d done this and he was going to make him sing like a little bird.

  Right before he ripped his wings off. In a manner of speaking.

  “I should be out there finding the prick,” he growled.

  “Nuh-uh,” Sam shook his head, a serious look in his eyes. “You gotta be right here, dude. You gotta be here for Callie ...”

  “Ain’t that the exact opposite of the truth,” Colton snorted bitterly. “Look, if this is supposed to be those goddamn gangbangers tryin’ to send some bullshit message to the club, we need--”

  “Colt, for fuck’s sake, that girl’s in there fighting for her life!” Sam finally snapped, gesturing wildly as his voice got louder and louder and his tone got angrier and angrier. “Man the fuck up and get your ass in there! The club comes first – you think anyone knows that more than me? But it’ll deal, it always does. And it’s got me and Will, and Johnny and Jake, and a whole shitting clubhouse full of guys to make sure it does. Callie? She’s got Sketch climbing the walls in there and you stewing out here – she needs you, you asshole!”

  For a long moment, Colton didn’t speak. But his dark eyes had widened barely perceptibly, taken aback as he was by the outburst from the usually easy-going sergeant. He’d never underestimate his brother’s deadly capabilities, he just wasn’t used to the show of temper. “You done?”

  Seemingly defeated, Sam took a deep calming breath and nodded.

  “Then go find that Dante guy and make sure he told us everything. I’m gonna go talk to a doctor – find out what the hell’s taking so long.”

  A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his brother’s mouth. “You got it, bro.”

  ***

  At the exact same time that Colton was brushing a gentle kiss against Callie’s temple without caring who saw, as she was about to be wheeled unconscious into an elevator and taken for surgery, Sam was parking up his bike in the club's yard.

  It had been a hell of a long night and, in the early morning light, he knew that crashing for even a couple of hours would have felt pretty damn amazing. But he had a job to do – as, by the looks of it, did the prospects who were already opening up the garage workshops.

  “Bit early, ain’t it?” he commented, as he strode past on his way to the main clubhouse.

  “Gotta take a look at the Vegas bikes before they head out,” Dozer, who actually looked the most awake of any of them, filled in.

  Sam stopped in his tracks. “They heading back?�
��

  “Think they're needed at home,” Dozer shrugged. “Can’t have them breakin’ down on the way, ‘specially with just the two of them.”

  “Damn straight,” the sergeant nodded, scanning his eye over the little rag-tag workforce. “So no half-assed job, you hear me? And I need to see Chip before they go, so if any of you lot see him in here, you get him to check in with me before you let his ass on a bike. You all got that?”

  “Got it, sarge!” Dozer answered for all of them, snapping off a jaunty little salute before tossing a wrench to one of the hangarounds focused on tidying away discarded tools in the corner. “Here, catch – hey, watch it, shithead!”

  The latter came as the wrench clattered loudly to the floor, making Sam wince and the others swear as the cringing guy it had been intended for stuck his bandaged right hand under his arm.

  “Nice work, Dozy - throw shit at the fucking cripple,” Sam sighed wryly. “What happened to you anyway?”

  “Caught it with a chisel,” came the mumbled reply.

  “Do I even want to know what you were doing with a chisel? No, don’t even start telling me - I ain’t got time for this crap. Just don’t forget - you see Chip, you give him my message.” And with that, Sam was on his way again. Only something was already whirring in his brain.

  Guy grabs for shit with his right hand ... Guy’s right handed ... Wouldn’t use a chisel with his left ... Or would he ...

  It seemed like nothing. It probably was nothing. Except for that mumbled response, an uneasy look and a gut feeling. And one tiny detail that had grabbed him, even among the shock of the night’s events.

  The pencil. They’d found it on the studio floor, gore over the sharp point. It had to be the pencil that the stunned customer who’d found Callie had blurted out that she’d apparently used to try to defend herself – by jamming it into her attacker’s hand.

  His mind reeling, Sam forced himself to keep walking.

  ***

  CHAPTER 48

  It had been a helluva night, but the early morning light brought no reprieve. For anyone.