19. Riley

nineteen

Riley

“You sure about this?” Dylan stopped me on the sidewalk.

Downtown Dry Valley was busy, the weather nice, and people were outside on restaurant patios. In the distance, live music hummed.

It had taken several people to help me pull off a few hours to myself. Since the Desert Lights incident, Cam had stayed close. No backing out now.

“Absolutely.”

“It’s permanent.” She prodded me again.

“I know.” I stopped short of stomping my foot and rolling my eyes.

A smile blossomed on her pretty face. “Then, let’s do this.” She pulled open the door and the chimes tinkled.

Whatever I’d imagined a tattoo shop owned by an outlaw biker to look like inside, this wasn’t it. The walls were painted a slate gray, framed original art dotted the walls with neon signs that were more coffee shop hipster than beer drinking biker. The floors were a dark stained wood, with a glossy finish, and the furniture in the waiting area was new and comfortable looking.

A large wooden counter with a glass front displaying piercing jewelry separated the front area from the four workstations behind it. A large, metal sign reading TATTOO hung on the wall behind a pretty bleach blonde covered in tattoos.

“Hey, Dylan, what can I do for you?”

“She’s got an appointment with Puck.”

“Cool, he’s ready.” She gestured past the empty chairs.

“They don’t technically open until later,” Dylan pointed out when she saw me checking out the place.

“Cam’s girl gets special attention.” Puck stood in a doorway at the back, a large mirror to his left.

My cheeks heated. “Thanks.” into a private room, bigger than the others. The mirror wasn’t a mirror at all, but rather two-way glass. One side of the room was a tidy office, the other side a clinical station.

He gestured for me to hop up on the tattoo chair. “Know what you want?”

“Sort of…” I explained while Dylan flipped through sketches on his desk.

“What if I do the letters like this…” He grabbed a pad, sketched out the word, then a snake sliding through a vine of pretty, rose-like flowers.

When I smiled, he continued until he’d shaded it in and was holding a beautiful piece of art in his large hands. The part that amazed me wasn’t the speed at which he’d drawn it, but rather the intuitive way he seemed to know exactly what I wanted.

I leaned on my side in the chair, lifting my shirt so he could measure the length of my rib cage. Then he scanned the image, changed the shades on his laptop, the size, and printed it out on transfer paper. He was pressing the printed image on my side when Dylan came back from a trip out for snacks.

On the other side of the glass, his employees came in, a motley crew of cool. A tall, slender, light-skinned Black man with a gorgeous sleeve of intricate designs. A white girl, with bright red hair and more color on her arms than any I’d ever seen, and piercings galore. And a white guy, in a polo shirt and khakis, with a preppy boy haircut, who looked ready to play golf, were it not for the huge gauges in his ears and the tattoos on his throat.

Clients came, too, making it easy to lose myself in the business of it as Puck slipped on latex gloves and set to work.

I didn’t shout or make any sounds, but it stung until I got used to the discomfort. It felt more like a steady hum of dozens of bees stinging my side. Several hours later, I was standing in front of a full-length mirror on the back of his door admiring the handy work.

“This is…amazing.”

The pride was obvious on his face. “It was my honor, Riley.” Then he went through the aftercare process and covered it in clear plastic that stuck to my skin. “If you have any questions, give me a call. Savage knows what to do, though.”

I turned and kissed him on the cheek, which left him blushing. “You’re a badass, talented artist, Puck.”

“He’s not too shabby.” Dylan tugged his beard before walking out.

“How much do I owe you?” I grabbed my purse and fished bills out of my wallet.

“Nothing.” He waved me off, then gestured to his staff. “If you want to compensate, drop something in each of their tip jars. But I can’t charge you.”

“Well, thanks. This means a lot.”

His amused smile followed me all the way out of the shop.

“I have something you need to wear tonight,” Dylan said, driving me to her house rather than home.

The breezy shirt was white, with slits all the way up each side to my breasts, leaving my ribcage bare, and diving deep into my cleavage. Which I was glad to see I had again after several weeks of steady meals. I wore jeans and a pair of Dylan’s brown, flat-bottomed cowboy boots.

I looked like a hot ass biker chick, tattoo and all. Like a kid with a new pair of shoes or checking out my hair after the first new color, I kept turning in the mirror to examine Puck’s handiwork.

Cam’s last name now ran the length of my side. A vine of rosettes and thorns intricately ran through each letter in one direction, a gold and black desert cobra in the other. To me, the perfect reflection of my time with him that showed exactly where I belonged.

“All good?” Dylan came into her bedroom.

After weeks of being surrounded by testosterone and Harleys, her little house was a breath of fresh, feminine air.

“Yeah, but if we don’t get down to the clubhouse soon, Cam will probably come looking for me.” He was getting restless. His tone when I’d spoken to him was resigned annoyance.

“I’m ready when you are.” She snatched up her keys.

“What if he hates it?” Second thoughts rushed in as I followed her out.

“Then he’s an asshole.” In the Jeep, she continued. “But he’s not, so he won’t. To be honest, I think he’s going to flip out in a good way.”

As the sun set, she smiled. “With you, he’s different. In a good way.”

“Last time we went for a ride and talked about Cam, it didn’t go so well,” I reminded her.

Dylan laughed. “Then, let’s not.” She cranked up the radio as we drove.

My life could be like this all the time. I wasn’t a bad person for wanting it, for refusing to let go of the happiness I’d found in Dry Valley with Cam.

The clubhouse was rocking, everyone milling about, readying to head to the fight—which wouldn’t happen until later.

“Where will we be going?” I asked Dylan as we walked in.

“Out near Vegas, the Soletskys own a big warehouse out there that they’ve turned into a makeshift arena sort of deal.”

Sounded like something the mafia would do. Because that’s what they were, I’d realized. Just like in the old movies. The only thing they lacked was the Italian accent.

I looked for Cam immediately. He was by the pool tables, hip hitched on one of them, with a beer bottle hanging loosely in his right hand. Watching him from a distance, in his natural element, always gave me a little thrill. The patch bunnies hovered, but he paid them no attention. Instead, he chatted and laughed with Jester and his little brother.

Which, could be why the groupies were really hovering. The Vaughn brothers before a big fight were a hot commodity, apparently.

Cam turned in my direction, caught my gaze, and smiled. I beelined for him, kissing him as he wrapped a hand around my side. I dodged his fingers, moving them lower on my hip to keep him from touching the covering on my new ink.

He gave me a flirty look but continued his conversation.

Jester noticed the first. “Nice, sister.” He tossed his chin over to Puck. “Well done!”

Cam, confused pulled away from me, taking my arm and spinning me like a dancer. I could tell the moment he saw the tattoo, because he stopped my spin and held me there, my arm in the air.

“Fuck”—He dropped my arm to pull the wispy white fabric away—“Me.”

“You do this?” Still not addressing me, he shouted over the music to Puck, who grinned in response.

“Like I’d let anyone else.” I jabbed his side with my fingers. “Like it?”

He pulled me against him, slid his hand down the center of my ass the way he’d done at Desert Lights, and massaged between my thighs. The press of his fingers on my most intimate spot, in front of all these people, sent a thrill up my spine.

“I fucking love it.” And he kissed me, full of the heated promise of what would happen when we were alone.