Ink (The Haven Series)

  Ink

  The Haven Series

  Book One

  By Torrie McLean

  Ink © 2014 by Torrie McLean.

  The right of Torrie McLean to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  All characters, events and locations herein are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real life incidents or places is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated, with much love, to the Freak Circle - who dare to believe and enable others to do the same.

  CHAPTER 1

  “So ... you hittin’ that?”

  Colton Greene paused in his tracks, but only for a second. He’d been expecting it all day, so he knew exactly what – and who - the question was about. It was just surprising it had taken until now, under the cover of darkness, for the subject to come up. Even if they had been busy.

  Turning to dump another load of dirt at the edge of the hole he was standing in, he leaned his weight on his spade as he jerked his shaven head in the direction of the nearby mound of wrapped plastic. The toe of a man’s shoe protruded from one end. “I’m guessing you don’t mean him.”

  His buddy laughed, one broad shoulder cocked against the trunk of a tree and a lit cigarette butt hanging from his lips. “Hey, whatever lets you get your rocks off, dude,” Sam Lewison said, watching as his brother in all but blood started up again, set on methodically widening and deepening the hole in the hard-baked ground. “So are ya?”

  “She ain’t your type, man.”

  “I’m telling ya, I’d let her lay some ink on me any day. And since when is hot not my type?”

  “Who you trying to kid?” Colton threw his spade out of the hole before climbing out after it and reaching for the body. “Dumb, that’s your type. Or easy, that’s your type too.”

  “Maybe I’m after more of a challenge,” Sam said with a shrug, raking a hand through messy blonde hair that was still damp from his own earlier digging efforts. “Hang on, hang on – I’ll get his feet ...”

  Hoisting the bundle off the ground between them, the two men struggled closer to the hole and dropped him in. Both of them were over six feet tall and well-built, used to staying in relatively good shape and no strangers to hard graft. But the dead weight of their burden was considerable. And maybe from the wrong side of forty, the work wasn’t quite as easy as it had once been. Not that they’d admit it out loud.

  But Sam rotated his shoulders with a groan and Colton bent over to take a deep breath, both hands braced on his knees.

  “Christ! Will’s gotta stop falling out with these fat bastards,” Sam declared. “Ain’t he got any beef with some skinny dudes? Come on, let’s get him filled in and get the fuck outta here. If we get back to the clubhouse sharp enough, we can find a couple of warm bodies to ... work out the kinks, if ya get my drift. Oh, and Colt?”

  “What?”

  “Don't think I don't know you ain’t answered my question yet.”

  Colton made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat that would have sent many a grown man running for cover from the already intimidating biker. But the two of them went way back and knew exactly how far they could push each other, so Sam stood his ground with his eyebrows raised in expectation over knowing blue eyes.

  “I ain’t screwing her,” he growled, shoving the spade into his accomplice’s hand. “Satisfied?”

  “More than you, by the sound of it,” Sam shot back, with a cocky grin. But he seemed to decide to quit while he was ahead and started to shovel dirt back into the hole, whistling to himself as he worked.

  Burying a body and shooting the breeze. Just business as usual for two of Nevada’s Fallen Brothers MC.

  ***

  Pacing the bedroom floor in the darkness, Michael Corsada’s mind was racing. This had never happened to him, not ever. So what if he wasn’t as young as he once was? Fifty was the new forty and not the half-way house to a mortuary slab. He was supposed to be damn near indestructible. They didn’t joke about lawyers selling their souls to the devil for no reason.

  But that didn’t change the fact that he was actually pacing the floor, while soft attempts at soothing his wounded pride fell on deaf ears. Not that there was anything wrong with his hearing. The rest of his body had yet to betray him. He was just frustrated and embarrassed enough without the sympathetic gaze and gentle reassurances of the young woman sat up in his bed, wrapped in sheets that hadn’t even had a chance to be rumpled.

  “Michael ...” she sighed, pushing stray locks of her long blonde hair out of cool gray eyes. “It’s okay, honestly--”

  “The hell it is!” he all but spat, refusing to look in her direction. “This does not fucking happen to me. It just ... it doesn’t.”

  “You’re just tired,” she tried to reason, but once again he was determined to dismiss anything she had to say.

  “Tired,” he scoffed, running his hands over his dark hair. He was suddenly conscious of the salt and pepper streaks at his temples and the slight paunch to his gut that definitely hadn’t been there five years ago. “I’m in bed with a gorgeous, naked woman half my age – tired shouldn’t come into it, Callie.”

  Tilting her head back on her shoulders with a little groan, she slumped back against the pillows in defeat. “I’m not half your age, for a start,” she corrected, as if a few years either way made little difference. “And, right now, you’re not in bed with me either.”

  He slumped down on the edge of the mattress, his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this shit,” he mumbled, as she reached out to lay a comforting hand on his back.

  “Hey, come on,” she said. “I’m tired too – maybe that’s it ...”

  But Michael’s head snapped up at that. “Jesus, Callie, look at you – this definitely isn’t down to you,” he said, disbelief written across his face. “Listen, can we just ... Can we just not fucking talk about this now?”

  Apparently not knowing what else she could say anyway, she simply nodded. And, waiting for him to lie down, she settled beside him – with her back to him, most likely in an attempt to avoid the awkwardness.

  Way to go, asshole, the little voice in his head muttered. Eventually, he moved closer and banded an arm around her slim waist from behind, pulling her up against his chest. “Sorry,” he whispered, his voice gruff and his lips grazing her bare shoulder.

  She was already pretending to be asleep. Maybe it was better that way.

  ***

  Shirtless and still re-buckling the belt of his jeans, Colton’s even blacker than usual gaze never left the decidedly uncomfortable police officer in front of him. Having decided to take Sam’s advice on seeking out one of the many all-too-willing girls who usually graced the Fallen Brothers clubhouse on the dusty outskirts of their tiny town, he didn’t appreciate being interrupted. Not after he’d earned that shit with a hard night’s work and certainly not by some wet-behind-the-ears new recruit who didn’t know the score, for Christ’s sake.

  “The fuck’s going on?” he said, his eyes on the cop but his rough demand aimed squarely at his waiting brothers. The MC president William Whitney was leaning on the bar with an almost amused look on his face and Sam had already emerged from his own room to stand there in his boxers, seemingly without the slightest shred of self-consciousness.

  “You boys tell me,” Will said, raising his eyebrows. “Apparently Officer Jones here’s got his hands on a body.”

  “Had my hands on a pretty sweet little body myself, ‘til a minute ago,” Sam smirked. “So any chance we can wrap this up? Seems rude to leave a lady waiting ...”

  “D
o you men have alibis for between the hours of 10pm and 1am?” the kid blurted out, making the assembled bikers exchange a look.

  “That sounded damn close to a pretty serious accusation,” Colton growled. “We under arrest?”

  “Th-Things would just go a lot better for you if you were seen to cooperate,” Jones said, lifting his chin in an attempt at exerting his authority – even as he fought to keep his voice from wavering. His training hadn’t exactly covered the protocol on what to do when surrounded by intimidating, not to mention half-naked, hard-asses from a one percent MC.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  “Ah, the cavalry,” Will said, with a dangerous smile. “Mornin’, Chief. Hope you’re calling by to rein in the Lone Ranger here. Seems there might be some kinda misunderstanding and it’s a little early for visitors.”

  “Will. Colton. We keepin’ you up, Sam?” the most senior officer for their little town drawled, with a nod of greeting for each of the men. Six missed calls from the over-enthusiastic rookie had woken his wife, the dog, and resulted in him being shoved out of bed to deal with whatever the hell it was that apparently couldn’t wait until sunrise. Steve Sinclair was not in the mood for anyone’s shit. “Officer Jones? A word. Outside.”

  “But--”

  “That ain’t the word. Now, move.”

  And with that, Sinclair frog-marched his officer out of the clubhouse and into the still dark yard. He shot a loaded look in the direction of the three Fallen Brothers as he went, but at least waited until they were out of sight and earshot before shoving the young recruit none too gently in the shoulder. “What the hell are you doing, coming out here at this time?”

  “A man’s dead, Sheriff!”

  “And unless his name’s Lazarus, he’ll still be dead come sunrise. You got any idea the shit you’re creating for yourself coming here? Now, we’re goin’ back in there – see if we can’t smooth this thing over. And you ... You’re gonna keep your trap shut, you hear me?”

  Jones nodded, trailing his superior sulkily as they walked back into the clubhouse to be met by the same steely gazes as before. Just another night in the little corner of Nevada they called, without trace of irony, Haven.

  ***

  CHAPTER 2

  Nearly thirty minutes late, the door of the town’s sole legal tattoo studio opened and its owner straightened up, pointing a finger at the arrival with a sideways tilt of his head. “You shoulda been here a half-hour ago.”

  “Why, what’d I miss?” came the snarky response, as Callie Delaney pushed her shades up into her blonde hair.

  Dropping her over-sized bag by the coat rack in the corner and setting her take-away coffee on the nearest flat surface, she peeled off her leather jacket just a little stiffly. Waking in the early hours of the morning to Michael’s weight on top of her, his laboured breath hot on her neck, had done little for her mood. Her body still ached from when he’d cranked her arms above her head and pushed inside her with little by the way of foreplay.

  She knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her; that he’d just been desperate to prove to her and to himself that he could keep up with her. But, after a long day at work, a thrown-together dinner and the better part of a bottle of wine in front of mindless television, all she’d wanted to do in the first place was crawl into bed. Alone. She’d had enough on her plate without spending yet another night wondering what kept pulling them together, when all they were meant to be was some kind of indulgence of his half-assed attempt at a mid-life crisis and her bid to ... Well, she hadn’t quite figured out what the hell her excuse was yet.

  Speaking of excuses ...

  “Don’t start on me, Sketch. I cover for you all the time,” Callie warned, as she went to check out the appointment book behind the small reception desk.

  “All right, all right! Chill the fuck out, woman.”

  “What’s that shit supposed to mean?”

  But before her boss could even open his mouth to answer, the chimes jangled violently as the door jerked open.

  “You free?” The question that wasn’t really a question was thrown in Callie’s direction, a grim-faced Colton Greene throwing himself down on the recliner at her usual work station without waiting for an answer.

  Glancing from his employee to her client, Sketch groaned and retreated to the office with his hands up. He already had a bad feeling it was going to be another one of those days.

  ***

  “Rough day?”

  Callie had gotten good over the past couple of years at not only reading the biker well, but also at phrasing any questions cleverly. Asking what was wrong was a no-no. That wasn’t her business, especially if there was a chance it had anything to do with his beloved club. Keeping it more casual allowed for his usual style of caginess. And sure enough, she simply got a non-committal grunt that she took as an affirmative.

  Given that he’d planted himself on the recliner and then simply sat there with a glare that would have left most people quaking, not even taking his shirt off so she could get to work, assuming that something was on his mind was the only natural conclusion.

  “Huh, and it’s not even ...” She broke off to glance at the clock on the wall. “... 10am. Guess it must be one of those days. Right, let’s do this then. See if we can’t both turn things around.”

  “Rough one for you too?”

  Callie tried not to stare at him as he finally stood up to shrug off his well-worn leather cut and haul his white t-shirt over his head, a little taken aback by the question. She’d quickly learned there was no point ever waiting for a conversational how are you from him. But if he did ask, he’d want a real answer. Not the automatic fine, regardless of whether you were or not. Colton didn’t ask questions he didn’t want an answer to – but she could only imagine the response if they really got into that.

  “Uh, kinda been one of those weeks,” she said, as he sat back down and she perched on her stool to get her ink and tattoo gun ready. “Long story. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  He didn’t push where others might have and she simply turned her attention to her work, pausing when a livid track in his tanned skin caught her eye. The shallow wound snaked from his back to just above his freshest ink. Had to be from a knife. She wasn’t naive enough to think anything else and she’d seen plenty of scars on the expanse of his torso in the time they’d known each other. Hell, she’d even patched him up once ...

  FLASHBACK

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Callie sang along softly with the radio she’d balanced on top of a dust-sheet covered stool in the middle of the newly refitted studio. Wiping the delicate brush she’d been using on her already paint-spattered ripped jeans, she tucked it behind her ear and then sat back to assess her handiwork. With her legs straightened out in front of her to stretch out her cramped muscles, she propped herself up on her hands and leaned back with a little smile on her face. Sketch was going to fucking love it.

  Sharing his enthusiasm for making the place the best it could possibly be, Callie had helped her boss come up with the designs for the artwork and, once the actual structural work was done, the pair had been working like demons on the decor. But, while Sketch had called it a day early, Callie had been determined to finish her section – only to end up completely losing track of time.

  Sparing a glance at her watch, her eyes widened when she saw just how late it actually was and she lay back on the floor with a little groan. Her cropped t-shirt rode up under her unbuttoned checked shirt as she threw an arm over her eyes and tried to muster the energy to get up, pack up and get home.

  The bang on the glass of the front door came without warning, making her sit bolt upright. Her head whipped round to stare out into the darkness unsurely, just making out a shadowy figure staring back at her. The sight momentarily robbed her of her breath – until she heard the urgent demand for Sketch to open the fuck up.

  Recognising the voice, she clambered to her feet and jogged to unlock the door and throw i
t open with a scowl. “Are you trying to kill me?” she demanded, without thinking. “You scared the absolute shit outta me!”

  But the unexpected caller simply cut her dead. “Where’s Sketch?”

  “Well, he’s not fucking here--” she started, seeing a flicker of something like doubt pass over his face as he glanced over his shoulder into the night. “What’s wrong?”

  She should have known better than ask. He may have allowed her to tattoo him, even been impressed by the results, but she was still a hell of a lot lower down his scant chain of trust than Sketch. And yet, with obvious reluctance, he conceded.

  “Needed a favour,” he sighed, lifting the arm she hadn’t noticed he’d kept clamped around his stomach. His fingers came away from his t-shirt covered side slick with blood.

  “Oh my god, Colton!” Callie gasped, instinctively trying to cover the wound with her own fingers in a bid to stem the bleeding. “We gotta--”

  But she was cut off sharply when he roughly pushed her further inside and to the side of the glass door. “Shut up and don’t move,” he ordered, flicking off the lights and plunging them into darkness, even as he fumbled for the keys in the door and locked it behind them.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she demanded, in a low hiss. He might not like questions, but she figured having her workplace invaded in the middle of the night and his blood staining her skin entitled her to some sort of answer at least. And it seemed even Colton had to agree.

  “Trouble,” he bit out, wincing as he reached to pull his gun from where he’d tucked it into the back of his jeans. “Got fucking jumped outside Reno. Thought I could out-run the bastards, but ...”

  “You were on your own?”

  “You think I’d hole up in here like a chicken-shit little bitch and leave one of my boys out there?”

  She didn’t need to be able to see him to know he was glaring at her through the deep shadows. “Of course not, I just meant ...” But she trailed off with a sigh. Now was hardly the time. “Don’t move - we’ve got a first aid kit in the office.”