Inked & Dangerous

by Evelyn Glass

  He bites his lip, defeated. Then his beady eyes open wide, a eureka moment if I ever saw one. Licking his lips, he grunts with satisfaction. “Let me tell you something, Hope. Let me tell you something I am deadly serious about. I swear on my life, I mean this.” A sick leer twists his lips. He is all gums, like a snake. “I will never, ever let you use my kitchen to practice your sad, pointless dream. As long as I own this building, you will never touch a single piece of equipment in there. Don't think I don't know it means something to you. You've begged me enough times. But you won't pay for it, will you!”

  “Pay for it . . .” I can't hide the bitterness in my words. “Let you molest me, you mean?”

  “Pay for it!” he cries. “I say what I mean! I say what I mean, woman!”

  When he takes the kitchen from me—the kitchen, the chef's paintbrush—I feel a cold stab in my chest. There’s no reason to deny it to me except for his pride.

  I truly despise him.

  Standing up, I say: “Lily must be very stressed. I should go and help her.”

  “Yes, yes, fine.” He waves a hand at me, a master dismissing a servant. “Go and be a waitress, then, because that's all you'll ever be.”

  I bite back a hundred acidic retorts, turn away from him, and pace from the office.

  If Killian was here . . .

  I want him now . . .

  Can I really miss him already . . .

  But I can't afford to think soppy like that. There are dozens of angry patrons waiting impatiently for their smiling, polite waitress.

  “I'm so, so sorry about the wait,” I say, my voice sweet, my smile plastered onto my face. “Can I get you some drinks?”

  Chapter Eight

  Killian

  Anyone who thinks that being the boss of a motorcycle club means that your life is a nonstop joyride has never sat in a boss’s office on a boring morning of paperwork. The paperwork is different from the kind done in a usual office, of course. I sort out which of my men will be assigned to which jobs, the pay scale, all that fun stuff. My office is in the same room as the bed in which I slept last night. I sit behind a small desk. Behind me, the first Numb leather hangs on the wall, frayed at the wrists from where Giant Steve fell from his bike and slid one hundred and twenty yards over tarmac.

  I’m just finishing up assigning the men to a job early next week when somebody knocks on my door.

  “Yeah,” I grunt.

  Patrick walks in, his mouth a set line. Last night at the restaurant, he looked like a drunken mess. His features were all squashed and tight from the alcohol, and his hair was greasy and damp-looking. He was bloated from excessive eating and it made him look fatter. This morning he has clearly showered. His hair is more like mine, blonde and clean. His face is open. And now he does not appear fat, but muscular, well-built. He’s stocky instead of squat. Looking at him now, I can see why people say we look alike.

  “Brother,” he says, closing the door behind him.

  “Brother,” I reply.

  He walks to the desk and drops into the chair opposite me.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds. So much hangs in the air between us it’s oppressive, weighing down every exchange. Every time he looks at me, it’s like he’s accusing me of something. Maybe if we weren’t in the Satan’s Martyrs, maybe if we were just brothers, I would apologize to him, be lenient on him. But I am the boss. I can’t afford that. No, I have to make him see his place. I have to squash this before it gets out of hand.

  He lets out a long sigh. “I need some work,” he says after around a minute of silence.

  “Work? We’ve got a job in a couple of days.”

  “No, I want some work now.”

  He clenches and unclenches his hands, making fists over and over. His eyes—the same blue as mine—have a faraway look in them, like he’s not in this room at all, but still in prison.

  “There is no work now,” I tell him.

  “I need action!” he snaps. “I spent years sitting around in a cage, and now you expect me to sit around here like I’m still in one. It’s boring. I’m going out of my mind. I need to hit something. I need to do something.”

  “Hit something, do something.” I speak through gritted teeth. I want to remain calm, but Patrick is making that incredibly difficult. “That’s not how it works. You know that. You want to hit something, fine, go and do it on your own damn time. This is a business, not a place for you to relieve yourself.”

  Patrick clenches his fists and lays them on the table. For a second I think he’s going to upturn it, or throw himself at me, but then he just smiles. “I’m the one who got you into this club, remember, little brother?”

  “I remember.”

  “And I’m the one who did that time, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And you can’t do this one thing for—”

  “Oh, I can. But I won’t. It’d put the whole club in danger. All the men in danger because you want to feel like an outlaw? Not on my dead body, Patrick. No.”

  “How the hell would it put them in danger? Just give me something I can do on my own. Do we have any bounty contracts? I’ll go and get us some cash right now.”

  I shake my head. “You’re not hearing me. The answer is no. Don’t make me keep telling you, big brother.”

  “Oh, or you’ll hit me again?”

  “You were putting the whole goddamn mission in danger that night, and you know it.”

  “I was just thinking one step—”

  “That’s my fucking job!” I growl, pounding my fist on the table.

  Patrick leaps back in his chair, shrinking away from me.

  I let out a slow breath, calming myself down. “Look, I get it. You’re bored. You want to do something. Fine, but I won’t give you a job right now.”

  “If I was leader, and you came to me with this, I would never say no,” Patrick mutters.

  “I know that. But you’re not the leader.”

  Patrick puffs up his cheeks and then brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes. “Ah,” he sighs. “Sitting around here . . . you don’t know what it’s like, do you? You’ve never been inside. It’s torture. Sitting there, bored out of your skull, surrounded by idiot criminals. Not outlaws, but just criminals. Morons who robbed drugstores in the middle of the day. And all of them bragging, going on and on and on about all the cool shit they did. Pathetic. I just need one job, something small. Don’t we need to intimidate anybody. I can do that—”

  “Not now, not on your own.”

  “Before I went to prison, you never would have said no to me about something like this.”

  He looks up at me and for a second it’s like I’m ten again and Dad has just died, and he’s looking down at me instead of up, telling me: “I’ll take care of you, little brother. I’ll always take care of you. Nobody will ever hurt you when I’m around. I’d go to prison for you.” And he stuck by his word.

  But I can’t let my love for him cloud my judgment. I can’t let it jeopardize the entire club.

  I try and think what I would do if Patrick was just any other member and he came to me like this, demanding something from the boss. And then Hope comes into my mind, burning bright like she was in the dream, burning bright like she does every time I think of her. I want to let her know she’s on my mind, and Patrick wants something to do. Yes, that’s how I’d deal with it. Let him know who the hell is in charge.

  “Fine,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows and narrowing my eyes at him, “you want something to do? I’ve got a job for you.”

  “What is it?” Patrick asks, his voice eager. “What is it, brother?”

  I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do. But then I think of Hope’s smiling face, and I don’t feel bad at all.

  “Last night, I took a ride with Hope. She works at the Gourmet on Main Street.”

  “The one you gave the envelope to. Yeah, I know her.”

  “Good.” I nod. “I want you to go to t
he flower shop in town and get her a huge bunch of flowers. A really big bunch. Something nice. Don’t choose them yourself. Ask the florist what a good bunch is and follow his advice. After that, go and get her a fancy set of carving knives. She wants to be a chef, so make sure they’re expensive.” I open the desk drawer, take out around $1,500, and place it in the center of the desk. “This should be enough. Keep the change as your pay.”

  Patrick laughs, a laugh of complete disbelief. “You’re joking,” he says, staring down at the money. “This is a joke, right, Killian? You’re not really going to send me to buy some random girl flowers.”

  “I’m not joking. This is an order. Maybe you’ve forgotten how to take orders. Now it’s time to learn.”

  “This is crazy,” Patrick mutters, shaking his head. “This is really crazy. I don’t want to be an errand boy. Send one of the new kids. I’m a patched member. I don’t need this shit.”

  “You’ll do it,” I say simply.

  “This isn’t what I had in mind!” he hisses.

  “It doesn’t matter. This is what I am telling you to do.”

  Patrick shakes his head. “You in love with this girl or something? Never known you to buy flowers before.”

  I clench my teeth. “Asking questions isn’t part of your job, big brother. Buy the flowers, buy the knives, and then take them to the restaurant and give them to her. Simple.”

  Patrick scowls across the desk at me. Sometimes when I look at him, I feel like I’m looking into one of those distorting mirrors they had at the amusement park. When I scowl, I don’t look so different to how Patrick does now.

  “Flowers and knives.” Patrick continues to stare down at the money. He’s looking at it like it’s a brown paper bag full of dog shit he’s just found on his doorstep. “Haven’t you got something else?”

  “This is your job, brother,” I say. “Are you refusing to do it?”

  He lets out a long groan and throws his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath. “I had more excitement in the cage.” He lowers his head, gazing at me. “I’m not saying no. You’re the boss, after all.”

  He scoops the money off the desk and drops it into his jacket pocket.

  “I gave years of my life for you, brother,” Patrick says quietly.

  “I know,” I reply, my voice as hushed as Patrick’s. “In a different life, brother, I’d let you do any damn thing you wanted. But this is our life and I have to take care of the club.”

  “I understand,” Patrick says. “I’m not happy about it, but I understand. I’ll do your errand.”

  “Good.”

  I turn back to my paperwork, but Patrick doesn’t move.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “There’s something else you need to know about.”

  “What?”

  “I saw Lindsey at the restaurant last night.”

  Before Patrick has even finished the sentence, I’m gripping the edge of the desk so hard my fingers turn blood-red.

  “This is a joke,” I say, with more than a little hope in my voice.

  “Afraid not,” Patrick says. “It was after you left. I thought you’d be back sooner than you were, but you didn’t come back. I was going to tell you then. Anyway, she came in about ten minutes after you left. She was looking bad, brother, I have to say. When you dated her she was pretty fine, but now she looks . . . She looks like somebody on the brink. That’s probably the best way to put it. She was all messy, all crazy-eyed. She had that look I recognize from prison, right before somebody goes crazy and starts shanking someone for no reason.”

  “I thought she was still in the mental hospital,” I mutter, more to myself than to Patrick. How is she out?

  “Not anymore,” Patrick says. “She didn’t say anything. Just came in, looked around, and then left. She didn’t even say hello. I think she was looking for you.”

  “This is the last thing I need.” I let go of the table and try to calm myself. But my heart is like a bike engine in my chest, rumbling, growling. My throat feels tight. My knuckles tingle like they want to hit something. “This is the last goddamn thing I need right now.”

  Patrick shrugs. “I know, but it doesn’t change the fact she was there.”

  “Who else saw her?”

  “You calling me a liar?” Patrick snaps.

  “Who else saw her?” I repeat.

  Patrick sighs. “Gunny and Craig. Maybe others, but I know they did for sure.”

  “Get them.”

  “I’m telling the—”

  “Get them,” I snap. “Get them and then get on with your job.”

  Patrick tilts his head at me like maybe he’s going to argue, but I must have that crazy look about me, because he backs down straightaway. He marches from the office. About a minute later, Gunny shuffles into the room. He has a sheepish look on his face.

  “Is it true?” I say, as soon as he’s in the office. “Tell me he’s lying.”

  “It’s true, boss,” Gunny says, eyes downcast. “She was there.”

  “Goddamn it!” I roar, smashing the desk with my fists.

  Gunny flinches and takes a step back.

  “You can go,” I say.

  He nods and runs from the office, eyes filled with fear of me.

  When I’m alone, I close my eyes and slowly count back from ten, trying to make myself calm. Lindsey, a failed girlfriend experiment if ever there was one. Lindsey, who is completely insane.

  Lindsey, who I thought was gone from my life forever.

  I broke up with Lindsey the morning after she burned down our house. We were sort of living together. I owned the house and she was crashing with me because she had nowhere else to go. The argument was the sort of crap I can’t stand. She was crying at me because I didn’t want to go out to a restaurant. I had just got back from a tough job and I was tired, that bone-tiredness you get after fighting and riding.

  I remember laying on my back in bed, watching as she paced up and down at the foot of the bed, her arms waving wildly. “You never take me anywhere!” she was hissing. “You never take me anywhere! What am I to you? Nothing! Nothing! I’m just some whore to you, aren’t I? I’m just something to put your fucking worm in!”

  “I don’t want to put my worm in you tonight,” I yawned. “I just want sleep.”

  “Sleep! Sleep!” She turned to the door as though a crowd of people sat there, watching her. She addressed this fake crowd with indignation. “He just wants sleep! I’m here on my own all day and he just wants sleep! What a good man! What a good boyfriend!”

  I ignored her, tuned out her voice. I need to leave this woman, I thought, just before sleep took me.

  When I woke up, I was coughing. Smoke filled the bedroom and sifted down my lungs. My eyes stung and my head was light from it. I rolled out of bed and sprinted at the door, smashed it open, and was met with a wall of flames, flickering red demons which spat at me from the top of the stairs.

  Cursing, I ran back into the bedroom, went to the window, and smashed the glass with my fist. Then I threw myself out of it to the garden below. I landed in a roll on the floor and then sprinted away from the house. When I turned back, it was like a monster was eating the building. The flames ate at it from the center, pulling down the supports until it crashed in upon itself.

  Then Lindsey sprang up next to me. “Now we have to go out!” she cackled triumphantly.

  I broke it off with her.

  A week later, I heard that she had tried to kill herself by swallowing a load of pills. She was found in a motel room by the maid and taken to hospital. I sent one of the men down there to scout. The doctors came to the conclusion that she was crazy and sent her to a nuthouse.

  I thought she was still there.

  But she’s back in the Cove. The crazy bitch is back in the Cove!

  I know this can only mean trouble. The only solace I have is that she hasn’t contacted me yet. She knows where the club is. If she really wanted
me, she’d come here.

  But that doesn’t make the thought of that house-burning, suicidal, nothing-to-lose woman roaming Rocky Cove much easier to bear.

  Chapter Nine

  Hope

  At around two o’clock, Dawn comes into the restaurant. The place is quiet now, and will most likely be quiet until around five o’clock, when the dinner rush starts. Lucca is in the back when Dawn enters, which I’m thankful for. The last thing this day needs is an Dawn-Lucca matchup. She wears a long flowing dress and looks absolutely gorgeous with her cute freckled face and pensive expression.