by Nia Farrell
Sara started the engine and adjusted the air conditioning, but she didn’t put the car into gear. Flicking a glance at him, she slid a thumb under her shoulder strap and adjusted it over her top.
It took him a second to get it. “Seatbelt. Right.”
He found the end of the retracted harness and pulled it across his chest. It took longer than he liked to line it up with the buckle, but he finally managed to snap it into place.
Sara was a good driver. A cautious, by-the-rules person, from what he saw. She was also sensitive to his body’s needs, braking gently, easing into turns, and slowly accelerating to jostle him the least.
The ibuprofen was starting to kick in by the time they were seated. The Taproom was busy on any given night, but especially when the St. Louis Cardinals were playing. A few months from now, Saluki basketball games would be drawing people in. Tonight, he was less set on watching baseball and more into learning what made Sara Davies tick.
Since his GED seemed to interest her, he started with that. “I was born near here, but I grew up in Oregon,” he told her. “I stayed with my dad when my parents got divorced. I always wanted to be an artist. My dream was to work for Spielberg on set decoration and special effects. I went to a school that was geared for careers in the arts. When funding was cut and my high school closed, I was mainstreamed into the system. I didn’t fit in. I got bullied. I learned enough boxing to defend myself, but, hell. The first time someone picked a fight that I could finish, I ended up in as much trouble as he did.
“Academically, I wasn’t prepared. I was already behind. Being dyslexic, there’s no way that I could catch up, so I dropped out. Dad was pissed enough, he refused to have anything more to do with me and sent me back to my mother. I knew, whatever I did, I needed that piece of paper. I worked odd jobs. Mowed yards. Detailed cars. Delivered pizzas. When I wasn’t working, I studied. I took classes. As soon as I felt ready, I tested for my GED. I passed it, thank fuck.”
Sara sat, wordless, but the play of emotions across her face spoke volumes. He saw empathy for the learning-challenged teen he’d been. Anger towards the father who to this day disowned him. Relief that his mother had welcomed him back. She’d given him a roof over his head and the support that he needed to succeed.
“How did you get into tattoos?”
Flynn took a drink of his beer, willing his throat to loosen. It had been long enough, it shouldn’t affect him like this, but try telling that to his heart.
“About a month after I got my GED, I got a call at work. My mom had been playing cards with her friends and just dropped her head on the table. She was already dead. A brain aneurysm. I wanted to get a memorial tattoo for her and wound up at Angel Ink. Looking through their designs, seeing what they did, I thought, I could do that. When Old Man Wiley saw the drawing I’d brought, he thought the same thing, too. He did my tat, then started training me. It wasn’t long before I was almost as good as he was. He introduced me to the Avenging Angels and got me on as a prospect. By the time he retired, I was a patched member and the best ink man they had. I took over the business. I’ve been running it ever since.”
He sipped his beer and tipped the bottle at Sara. “Your turn, lady. What brought you to Angel Ink? Why do you want a tat on that virgin skin of yours, hmm? Why now?”
She fiddled with her straw. Behind her blue eyes, her mind was racing. “I just…shit.” She huffed a breath, clearly struggling.
Flynn regretted asking. “Don’t answer that unless you want to,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
She forced a semblance of a smile and sighed heavily. “I know. It’s just—it’s hard to talk about it, but three years ago, something happened that I’m still dealing with. I came to Angel Ink because of Isabella. We’re in the same Wednesday night therapy group.”
Fuck.
That group was for women with PTSD. Many were survivors of rape and sexual assault.
Holy shit.
He’d wanted to know more about Sara. What sounded so simple was morphing into something much more complex. He wasn’t sure that either of them was ready to go there.
If she felt comfortable enough to share, he’d listen, but he wasn’t going to push it. Not yet, anyway. Still, he needed to know what he was dealing with before he would consider touching her, for ink or anything else.
He angled his head and narrowed his eyes. “You don’t do, like, Krav Maga or anything I need to watch out for?”
Sara shook her head, making her blonde tresses dance. “I wish. I’ve taken a basic self-defense class, but I decided early on that my best defense is mindfulness. Being aware of my surroundings. Avoiding unnecessary risk. That kind of thing. Common sense stuff, really.”
He crooked a grin. “Yet here you sit…in a bar with a badass tattooed biker.”
She bit her lip and eyed him like she was trying to decide if he was kidding or not. “You can’t be too badass if you’re an Avenging Angel,” she decided. “I mean, you’re the good guys in all this, right?”
“I suppose,” he said. She didn’t need to know that club business wasn’t always legal. Compared to the Blackwater Demons, they were fucking saints.
There was an awkward pause that neither of them felt compelled to fill. Instead, they focused on food. If they said anything while they ate, it was to comment on the disappointing performance of the Cardinals.
He ordered a second beer since Sara was driving. She finished her soda and switched to water. She managed to eat a third of her burger before she called it quits.
“That’s it?” he asked, arching a brow. “No happy plate?” Sure, they were big burgers, but she’d barely touched the side of slaw that she’d gotten instead of fries.
“Yes,” she said firmly, letting him know that it wasn’t up for discussion. “I don’t need that much this late.”
She looked so prim. So proper. So fucking innocent, despite what she’d lived through. Wanting to mess with her a bit, he snared her gaze and refused to let it go. Leaning closer, he murmured, “That depends on how many calories you burn, doesn’t it?”
He sat back. Keeping his eyes on her, he snagged one of his fries, bit off the end, and chewed it while he watched her study him, trying to decide if he was safe. If she’d taken on more than she could handle. She didn’t have to worry in that regard. He was a Dominant. Nothing was going to happen unless she was willing.
“What have you heard about our club?” he asked.
Sara released the breath that she’d been holding and took a long drink of water before answering. “That you’re the reason the Blackwater Demons disappeared. That the town is safer, thanks to you.”
“Anything else?”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth but released it to answer him. “Rumor has it that your parties get kind of wild. That a lot of girls want to go, but only a few actually do.”
He nodded sagely. “There are requirements that have to be met. We’re picky about who we let in the gate. We have to be. What we do…well, it’s not for everyone.”
She fiddled with her straw and thought twice before asking, “What exactly is it that you do?”
Chapter Five
“What do we do?”
They’d come to another crossroads in their conversation. He could either dodge the question or go for broke. If he didn’t scare her off, things could get interesting.
“Kink,” Flynn said simply. “BDSM.” He watched her face as she took it in. He expected her to look shocked. She wasn’t. Either she’d talked to Isabella or had heard enough that it didn’t surprise her. Sara schooled her features, but her eyes revealed curiosity and maybe something more. Was it possible that the idea of kink turned her on? If she had PTSD, giving up control was a huge step in learning to trust again.
“Every member of the Avenging Angels is a Dominant.”
She looked at his cut. “Then you’re a Dominant, too.” She sounded like she didn’t know what to do with that.
“So if I take you there,” she said slowly, “and go inside, I can expect to see something?”
“I can’t imagine you not getting an eyeful with as many members, prospects, old ladies, mamas, and sweetbutts as we have. I can see those questions swirling in your eyes. You’re curious. Maybe more than curious. Say the word, and I’ll see that you get a first-hand look. It’s the least that I can do.”
Their waitress chose that moment to slip the guest check on the table. Flynn snagged it before Sara had a chance to. “I got this,” he told her. “You’re driving. I’m buying. Energy exchange.”
He’d rather be making a power exchange with her, but that would have to wait. He wanted to see how she reacted to the clubhouse lounge. What caught her attention. What made her cringe. What made her breath catch and her panties get wet.
Fuck, yeah.
He had Sara back in next to one of the club’s cages that were angled along the side of the clubhouse parking lot. An independent woman used to doing things on her own, she was out of the car before he had a chance to open her door for her. She didn’t object to the hand that he placed at the small of her back, though, guiding her to the front door of the club and into the foyer.
The staircase was straight ahead of them, leading to the second-floor bedrooms and the President’s suite where Papa Bear and Mama Mare had raised five children. The kitchen was to the left. The lounge was to the right, with seating up close and a bar in the back.
He headed for the bar first.
Jack Daniels was sitting in his usual spot, staring into his drink while the barkeep Carly stole wistful looks at him. Whether Jack was oblivious or deliberately ignored her, Flynn didn’t know. He suspected it was the latter. One word from Papa Jack and he’d be Daddy Domming little Carly’s fine as fuck ass.
Jack had settled for two fingers of whiskey instead.
Sara was rooted in place, trying to take everything in without staring. An impossible feat, with Lil’ Britches’ nude body getting flogged on the St. Andrew’s cross and a moresome going on.
Cassidy was handling four men while two more waited their turn. That wasn’t counting the other members getting some. The air was thick with the pungent scents of weed, tobacco smoke, and sex. Classic rock with throbbing bass was playing through the speakers, making it a challenge to hear.
Flynn sidled up next to Jack, close to his ear. “Hey, Papa Jack? You got my keys?”
Jack didn’t say a word. He laid the set on the bar top and slid them over to Flynn.
“Thanks, man.” Scooping them up, Flynn tucked them in his pocket and turned back to Sara.
“I’m sorry. This music isn’t doing my head any favors. We can stay down here if you like, or we can go to my room.”
She bit her lip, looking torn. He sensed that she was the kind of person who’d put his well-being first, but she wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of being alone with him.
He gave her a third option. “Or you can leave. Do you want to leave?”
Her blue gaze slid up to meet his. “No,” she whispered. The blush on her face deepened.
He nodded. “Good. Come on, then.”
Flynn caught her hand and pulled her after him, up the stairs and down the hall. Unlocking his door and opening it wide, he stepped back, held his breath, and waited to see if she was brave enough to go in or if she’d chicken out and ask to leave.
Sara hiked up her purse and stepped inside.
Thank fuck, he’d made his bed. His dad could have cared less, but his mom had insisted. She said that if you made your bed in the morning, accomplishing one thing would set you up for the next thing, and the next. But it was the artwork on the walls that drew her in. He watched as she studied the pieces that he’d framed.
“These are yours.” Her voice was breathy with awe. Her eyes were filled with wonder.
“Yes,” he said. “Remember what I wanted to do?”
He’d never work for Spielberg but that hadn’t stopped his visions of alien landscapes and futuristic scenes. His paintings revealed the worlds that his mind’s eye could see as clearly as images projected on a movie screen.
“Have you done anything with them?” She looked around the room again. “Had a gallery showing or offered prints for sale online or licensed images as cover art for books?”
“No. I’ve thought about the gallery thing. The coffeehouses here and in Carbondale feature local artists. Diamond Springs is close enough to qualify, I guess. Look, I’m gonna take some more ibuprofen. Feel free to look around, or have a seat.” He motioned to the sturdy chrome-legged kitchen chair with its vintage 1960s padded vinyl seat and back. “I’ll be in the bathroom. It’s shared, so if you need to use it, make sure to lock and unlock the other door, too.”
He didn’t bother, where it was just analgesics. A mirrored medicine cabinet hung over the sink on his side of the twin vanity. He grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen out of it, popped four tablets in his mouth, and chased them down with tap water. Done, he went back into his room and found Sara standing in front of a more traditional-looking piece. Painted in the style of Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai, it featured a five-toed dragon wreathed in clouds, hovering over a mountain lake that was brimming with koi and surrounded by a profusion of flowers and trees.
“That’s on my back,” he told her. “Kaylee did a good job turning it into a tat.”
She turned her head and eyed him speculatively. “Really? I figured you guy all had wings on your backs, or swords or something. Avenging Angels and all that.”
Flynn gave her brownie points for not asking to see it. If his shirt came off, then he’d want the same from her. Alone up here… clothes coming off… with this fucked up head of his, he couldn’t swear that he’d be able to stop with just looking at that virgin skin of hers.
“It’s a natural assumption. Club logo goes on the left arm.” He pulled up his sleeve and showed her his biceps. “Where were you thinking about getting inked?”
“My thigh.”
She didn’t hesitate when answering. Clearly, she’d given it some thought.
“What were you thinking of getting?”
“A flower,” she said, smoothing the side of her hair and tucking it behind one ear. “Not a rose, though. Something different, like an Asiatic lily or a Rembrandt tulip, with a date worked into the design.”
“Sounds simple enough,” he said. “Of course, if you wanted it as part of a larger piece that goes up your side, we could draft the whole thing and start with just the flower. You should see how well you handle the pain before you commit.”
She met his gaze and looked at him, unerring. Her expression was as serious as her voice. “I don’t see pain as a problem.”
Holy crap. The way that she said it, the kindergarten teacher made it sound like she was a masochist.
The possibility gave him an instant boner.
“Fuck, Sara,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me that shit. Not unless you’re asking for it.”
She shifted her feet, but she didn’t so much as blink when she slowly, deliberately repeated herself. “I. Don’t. See. Pain. As a. Problem.”
God, could she be any more tempting? She stood there, unmoving, waiting for him to react. He’d tried to warn her off, but she’d insisted on teasing the beast in him. She wasn’t dumb. She should have known better. That she did it anyway pissed him off.
Something inside him snapped.
He wanted to fist her hair, back her against the wall, tear off her panties, and fuck some sense into her. It took every bit of willpower he possessed to
stay where he was.
He rubbed his face and cursed his mother’s voice in his head, telling him to do the right thing. “Sara, I have a splitting headache and a raging hard-on. With this messed-up head of mine…shit. I’m sorry, but you need to leave before I start acting stupid and something happens that we’ll both regret.”
Sara wrapped her arms around herself and tightened them—a protective pose that he’d seen way too many times when a woman had been hurt. “Look, I’ll go, but before I do, there’s something you should know. I need you to listen, okay? Listen and not judge. Please?”
He looked at her. She didn’t move. She was barely breathing.
Fuck.
As much as he’d rather wait to have this conversation, his gut instinct said that if she was willing to talk, he needed to hear her out. “Okay.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before speaking again. “Do you remember three years ago in 2011 when the Blackwater Demons were still around? Four of them were killed one night. The next morning, the police were about to tow the van they’d driven. They found a woman inside. It was Sunday, July 17th, and that girl,” she said, “was me.”
Flynn sat on the bed, bombarded with memories of his own. Rose being kidnapped. The rescue of her and Krissy Castellari from a farmhouse used by the Demons. The shootout at Paradise Found. The attack on the Angels’ clubhouse while they were gone when three of their own were killed and Mama Mare was taken. The final raid to recover Mama Mare…only the Demons’ President Reaper had escaped. He had lived to strike again, taking Krissy’s sister Isabella this time. Did Sara know that Reaper was still out there somewhere? Should he tell her?
No, he thought. No. Her kidnapping hadn’t gotten that far. From what he’d heard, she’d been taken but she hadn’t been touched. Even without rape, the experience was harrowing enough to have given her PTSD.
“By the time they got me to the hospital, I was so dehydrated I was almost at the point of hypovolemic shock. That’s when the heart doesn’t pump enough blood and the organs start shutting down. The shape I was in…I lost a baby,” she said, her face haunted, her voice cracking. “It was early enough, I don’t even know what it might have been. Did you know that we’re all girls to start? I didn’t until the nun asked me what I wanted to name her.”