by JA Huss
“Ha!” I pull the phone away from my ear and find the voice memos, then push play on the one dated New Year’s.
“Ohhhh, Spencer!” Veronica wails in the recording. “Baby, yes!”
My phone does the three-beep thing that says the call ended. I laugh and call her back. It rings through again. “Ronnie, come on! It was funny, you know it was. Since when does this shit piss you off?” I stop talking. And wait. I’m not sure why, it’s a fucking voicemail, she’s not gonna respond. I frown and let out a sigh. “Well, fuck. You’re mad, I guess. Sorry, Rons. Seriously. Call me back, OK?”
I end the call and slump back against the couch. It hasn’t been that long since I saw her, has it? I know we were pretty drunk on New Year’s but I spent the night with her down in Rook’s old garden apartment. What more does she want? She knows I’m busy and I’ve got shit going on. I can’t have her hanging around too much or people will think we’re together.
I can’t have people thinking we’re together.
My phone buzzes in my hand again and I look at the screen with some hope. “Arrrgh. Fucking Ford.” I press his ugly mug to answer the call. “Yeah?”
“Meet me tonight at midnight so we can take the van back over to Fonzie’s and reposition.”
“I don’t wanna go out at midnight. Can’t you just do it?”
“Spencer,” Ford says in that new parenting voice he has. “You’re worse than Kate. You’re the driver in this scheme, so drop your balls and do your job. Pick me up at my place at midnight.”
I get triple beeps again.
“God!” I slam my fist down on the coffee table. I’m just the guy everyone gets to shit on tonight. And I’m starving. I pocket Carson’s ID and get back up, grab my keys, and head outside to my Shrike Bikes truck. Might as well go into town and get something to eat. Then I can stop by Ronnie’s and sweeten her up with some love. She’s so damn excitable. She’s always been like that, from the first moment I saw her.
Not met her. Saw her. Because I saw her weeks before I finally made my move.
I had just started up fall semester at Colorado State after transferring from University of Denver to get away from Ronin senior year. This was after all that shit went down with Mardee and the Boulder asshole ended up dead. Our team was in desperate need of a break. And I was walking by the CSU bookstore heading into Engineering for my mandatory science class, and there she was.
Throwing a fit.
“Who the hell died and made you king?” the bombshell blonde screams at a huge mother all tatted up with dragons down his arms. She pushes him in the chest, straining to make the mountain of a man move. He folds his arms and yawns.
I figure this is her boyfriend so I stop dead in my tracks to see if the guy makes a move to hit her back. She’s irate, he’s calm. No one’s paying any attention to them whatsoever. In fact, even though it’s between classes and there are probably more than a hundred people walking the path with me, these two have a nice big circle of space around them.
And being the smart motherfucker that I am, I deduce that’s because these two have a reputation.
So I cop a seat on a cement planter and pull out a smoke. She pushes him at least a half dozen more times, she yells at him. Some professor comes over and tries to intervene and the bombshell whirls around so fast the poor nerd has to step back from her fury.
The campus police show up after that and break it up, but then Bomb and Tat guy walk away—together, how ridiculous is that after all her stomping—and I notice they have the same logo on the backs of their shirts.
Sick Boyz Inc.
A tattoo shop on College in downtown Fort Collins.
I had one tattoo back then. And it was fucked up. I told Bobby Choo down at Choo’s Tattoos in Capitol Hill in Denver I wanted a raven on my back. He gave me a hula girl.
I beat the everliving shit out of Bobby Choo. I tattooed his eyes up black and blue.
Hey, I rhymed.
So I was looking for an artist and I figured that if this bombshell worked at Sick Boyz, I needed to check that out because I could certainly enjoy her hands all over my back a helluva lot more than fucking Bobby Black and Blue Eyes. I stalked her good. I’m an accomplished stalker. Recon is part of my team job. Ford does the virtual things, but I’m the guy on the ground.
So I reconned Bombshell. She was an art major, senior year like me. She had four brothers, all of whom worked at Sick Boyz, and she had just started out there as well. I learned that from the website. They have a bio on all the artists online and a fifty-year history of the shop from the time her gramps started it in the sixties.
And the website gave me another vital piece of information. That guy she was yelling at was her brother.
Game on.
I liked the Bombshell immediately. Her hair was long, so blonde it was almost golden, and her eyes were big and blue. She did wear a lot of make-up, but I’m not one of those guys who thinks that’s a bad thing. I like fuck-me eyes and her lips could be green for all I cared back then. And the Spencer Shrike of today knows damn well those lips are magical.
And from the second I walked into Sick Boyz to check her out in person, I knew.
I wanted her. Bad.
Chapter Three
Sick Boys Inc., Three years ago
The Stray Cats blares out of hidden speakers as I push through the entrance to Sick Boyz and the sounds of downtown Fort Collins are muffled once the door swings closed behind me. Bombshell is at the register, ringing up some guy who has a small square of red-speckled white gauze covering the top of his left wrist. He’s got full sleeves, so this is acceptable in my opinion. The wrist is not something you do alone if you’re a guy.
The guy pays, tips, flirts, and leaves as I peruse the art on the wall. There’s a lot of pictures of Bombshell in here too. Starting with her in bouncy blonde pigtails looking to be about six. I laugh a little just as the music is turned off.
“Something funny?” Bombshell asks from behind the register.
I turn and watch her shuffle though the day’s receipts. It’s late, just about closing time, so I’m not here for a tattoo. I’m here for a date. Otherwise known as an appointment.
“This you in the picture?” I ask, using my polite Catholic-school manners.
“Yeah,” she replies, not looking up at me. “That’s me. All twenty-seven pictures of the little blonde girl on that wall are me. Can I help you with something? I’m just about to lock up.”
I walk over to her and lean down on the glass counter, checking out the aftercare products they have for sale. “I’ve got some fucked-up work I need fixed.” I stand up straight and look down at her. She’s not short—average height, really. Maybe five six or seven. But I’m tall, so I tower over her. She looks up at me and this makes her big blues look even bigger. God, this girl is like a pin-up from the good ol’ days. Her tits are like melons. Big, round melons that are practically begging for my giant hands to manhandle them.
“Eyes up, perv,” she says dryly as she traces a line from her cleavage to her chin. “I’m up here, big boy.”
I grab the hem of my t-shirt and slowly drag it up my body, exposing my chest, then pull it forward over my head.
Her eyes are plastered to my abs. Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re darting back and forth between the v line and the happy trail.
“Hey, Bombshell,” I say. She swallows and looks up at me. “You can look at me all night long. Fuck me with your eyes for all I care.”
She recoils a little, like I might’ve insulted her. But surely a girl who is not only a tattoo artist in a college town, but also grew up with four brothers, could not be that easily offended.
“Watch your mouth, asshole. Or I’ll stuff my fist through your teeth,” she snarls.
Or maybe she is. I hold my hands up in an I surrender gesture and turn around so she can see my back.
“What the fuck is that?” She snickers down a laugh and I roll my eyes and sigh.
“A mistake
, hence the need for a fix. Can you make anything out of this?” I jolt a little when her fingers touch my left shoulder blade, and then trace down what I think is the hula girl’s leg.
“God, I’ve never seen an uglier tattoo.”
I look over my shoulder at her, kinda irritated. “Can you fucking fix it or not?”
She smirks at me and then traces it again, making me shudder. “I can,” she whispers, and then clears her throat. “But my brother Vic is probably your best bet.”
I turn around and her fingertips drag along my arm and stop on my chest. “What if I don’t want your brother to do it? What if I came in here specifically to get you to do it?”
She stares up at me, her chest heaving a little, making her tits expand. As if that was even necessary. Her tits are spectacularly large. She blinks at me a few times, like she’s coming to some kind of realization. Like she’s deciding I might be hot.
“My brothers will beat the shit out of you if you think you can come in here and flirt your way into an appointment with me. I’m not on the books for new appointments. I only see regulars. So, if you’d like me to set up a consult with Vic, I’ll be more than happy to do that for you. Otherwise, get the hell out of the shop. It’s eleven o’clock and we’re closed.”
“Well…” I stretch my neck a little as I lean over the glass case, clasp my hands together, and get comfortable. “I can see I’m gonna have to unleash the charm on you.”
Her hand is a blur of motion and the next thing I know, the blunt end of a pink .38 Special is pressed up against my skin. And yeah, she’s got a gun against my head but the only thing I can think about is how her tits are being squished against the glass in front of me as she leans over.
“Fuck, Bombshell, that is the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.” And it is. I’m hard right now as I play that move back in my head. I laugh.
“It’s not hot or funny,” she growls at me. “I’m dead serious. Get the fuck out of the shop.”
I grab her wrist and twist until she drops the gun. It clatters to the ground as I pull her over the case, swing her over my shoulder, and then twirl her around and set her ass back down on the glass. I hold her wrists for a few seconds and then step back and take in her reaction.
She screams.
I slap my hand over her mouth and laugh. “Shit! Stop already. I’m not gonna hurt ya, Bomb, I’m playing.” Her muffled screams have made my palm moist and this is weirdly erotic to me.
She stops screaming and just stares at me.
“You OK?”
She nods her head.
“I can remove the gag order and you’ll be calm?”
She shrugs.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I remove my hand and she stays quiet, so I lean down to pick up the little pink gun and get the feel of it. “Now, you care to explain to me why you’re pulling out a gun that’s not loaded?”
“It’s loaded,” she retorts, scowling.
“Nah,” I say back as I twirl the little pink gun on my finger. “I know what a loaded .38 Special feels like, and this isn’t it, sweetheart. If you’re gonna threaten someone with a gun, might as well keep the bullets where they belong.” I offer her the gun but as soon as reaches for it, I pull it back. “Let’s make a deal, how about that?”
She snatches the gun away from me and scoffs. “You’re in no position to make any deals, buddy. My brothers are gonna kick your ass.”
I smile and study her intently. “Is that right? Because the way I see it, all I gotta do is tell them how easily you were overtaken tonight and your ass will be banned from any alone time at the shop for good.” She gasps and looks shocked. “So let’s make a deal and you can get some shop-time freedom and I can get your talented hands on my back, fixing that ugly-ass tattoo.”
Her hands come up at the same time and she shoves me hard on the shoulders, trying to get me to back up and give her space. I don’t even move an inch. Instead, I grab each of her knees and open up her legs so I can slide right between them.
“Back off!” she growls.
I press my palms on either side of her faded-jean-covered thighs and lean in until we’re face to face, her blue eyes looking up at me in surprise. “No. I want an appointment with you. Give me one.”
She kicks out and struggles, then tries to scoot back across the glass and escape that way, but I grab her calves and slip my hands behind her knees and squeeze until she squirms, stifling down a tickle laugh.
“Don’t,” she says through her squealing. “Stop it!” She laughs.
I ease up so she can stop wiggling against my grip. “Give me what I want, Bombshell. And I’ll walk out of here and I won’t come back until our date.”
“Date?” she scoffs. “An appointment is not a date. There’s no fucking way I’m dating an asshole like you. You think you can come in here, manhandle me, threaten me, and get—”
I kiss her. I crush her mouth silent, slip in my tongue, slide my hands up to her tits, squeeze hard enough to make her moan, and then grab her hair and keep her there.
She kisses me back, her pouty red lips pressing against mine. She’s panting hard as I pull us apart and she actually moans.
Fuck yeah.
“I want a tattoo appointment, Veronica Vaughn. Give me a date and a time, right the fuck now.”
“Tomorrow at four,” she breathes, her spectacular chest once again heaving.
I shoot her with my finger and wink. “I’ll see you then, Bombshell. Be ready for me.” And then I turn and walk away.
“Wait!” she calls. “What’s your name? And how do you know my name?”
I don’t turn, just open the door and call out, “You’ll know my name soon enough. And the rest is recon, baby. It’s my job to know.”
Chapter Four
I chuckle to myself as I live that memory over again in my mind. I had her. Man, I so, so had her the minute I walked into that place. She was feisty with her little pink .38 Special, but my lips are irresistible. They call to her, they suck her in places she’s never dreamed of, they whisper dirty things in her ear and make her blush, tremble, and come all at the same time.
But her lips. Fuck. My bombshell’s lips make me explode every single time. She’s got a pucker that won’t quit. She’s got a tongue that can swirl a pattern in my mouth so erotic, I just want to throw her down on the ground and fuck the life out of her. She uses her teeth with such skill, it makes me hard just thinking about them. And when you combine all of those things with the wetness of her mouth and the heat of her breath…
Fuck. I need her right now. Why the hell did I leave her alone so long? The commotion leftover from the human trafficking shit in Chicago died down months ago. Veronica was not pestered once during the whole debacle, I made sure of it. She’s right about New Year’s. She was pretty fucked up, but we still had a good time. We always have a good time, I just need to remind her how good it gets.
I press on the accelerator of the Shrike truck and speed towards Highway 14 that will take me into FoCo, then ease on into downtown and strain my neck looking down the street to see if her Mini Cooper is outside Sick Boyz. I hold out hope until I’ve passed it. That damn deathtrap always hides out among the trucks everyone else drives around here.
But no. I see her oldest brother Vic’s bike, her father Vern’s bike, her twin middle brothers Vinn and Vonn’s bikes, and her baby brother Vann’s Vespa.
I laugh at that. Poor Vann. The Vaughns are ruled by traditions. Everything they do has precedent. And in that family you cannot get a motorcycle until you build it yourself. Vann is only seventeen, and tradition also says you can’t build your bike until you’re eighteen. So the dirty, primer-covered classic Vespa is all he’s allowed.
Sick Boyz must be going off tonight if the entire family is working at the same time, so it’s interesting that Veronica isn’t there to help. I swing a right on Mountain and head over to her house. She still lives at home. I pull up along their old brick monstrosity and scowl to myself. No M
ini Cooper.
Gramps opens the door and waves at me to come inside.
Fuck. You don’t say no to Gramps. He might be nine hundred years old, but he’s got a mean streak. A sneaky mean streak. I park the truck in front, get out, and walk up to the open door. “Yo, Gramps! I’m looking for Ronnie, ya seen her?”
He comes out of the kitchen wearing a red-checkered apron around his waist, no shirt on, and flashing his five-hundred-year-old tattoos.
“Ahhhh, put some clothes on, ya old fart! No one wants to see your saggy shit.”
He holds up a spoonful of pasta sauce and shoves it to my mouth. “Taste,” he demands.
I slurp it and nod. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s always good. Tastes the same as last time. Ya seen Ronnie? I’m looking for her.”
“At work,” he barks as he goes back into the kitchen.
“No,” I call out, walking after him. “I went by there, her car’s not there.”
“She walks now. Gonna sell it, so she parks it and walks.”
“What?” She loves that car. “Since when? I just saw her in it like two hours ago.” Gramps is busy stirring the pot on the stove. The whole place smells like an Italian restaurant. “Gramps,” I try again. “Why does she want to sell her car?”
He looks over his shoulder. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”
“What? Why the fuck not?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that either. Go ask her, she’s at the shop. And tell that son of mine to bring me some smokes on his way home.”
“You quit smoking forty years ago, Gramps.”
“Not for me, I have a date tonight, dumbass. Who you think I’m cooking for?”
I let out a long breath and feel a little sorry for myself as I walk out and get back in my truck. Ronnie’s got secrets. Lots of them. She’s having dinner with guys who are not me, she’s selling her car, and she’s slapped a gag order on Gramps.
This is adding up to something.