Chapter One
Marcie
I’m late. I glance down at my phone as I jog down the street. Terribly late. Ripper is going to give me another one of his lectures about how young and irresponsible I am. And worst of all, he’s going to call me kiddo again.
Ripper has been calling me that awful nickname since I first met him when I was sixteen. I had run away from my mom and our life in Vegas. That is, so far, still the best decision I have ever made in my life.
When I was sixteen, I finally had enough of my mother and her lack of love and parenting. She has spent her life stripping and waitressing in casinos and clubs and other degrading establishments in Vegas. The best term to use when describing my mother is crack whore. She has been an addict for years, making her an easy target for all of her so-called loving boyfriends. They use her for drugs, money, and sex.
I don’t have a single kind memory of my mother. All I remember is seeing her shooting herself up with drugs and her banging whatever scumbag who wanted a piece of her ass. I remember hiding under the sheets on my bed whenever she had a guy over. I spent my entire childhood hiding under my bed sheets. That is, until someone tore my sheets away and stole my safe place.
I knew at that moment I needed to leave and never come back. During one of my dear mother’s drug benders, she informed me all about my loser dad, Earl O’Connor, a cheating scumbag who already had a family in Texas. She also told me he had abandoned that family, leaving his wife and two grown sons behind. No one had heard from him since, so my only option at the time was to look for my brothers and hope they would take pity on me.
My half-brothers were and still are deeply involved with the one-percenter motorcycle club, the Death’s Soldiers MC. However, none of that has ever mattered to me. Back then, at age sixteen, I was lost and desperate. I even hitchhiked from Las Vegas to Lineville, Arizona to locate Liam and Kieran O’Connor, more known by their road names, Cash and Beast. As Vice President and Sergeant-at-Arms of the Death's Soldiers MC, they’re among the most powerful men in the county.
Never have I regretted running away from home. The only painful sting it has caused me is knowing that my mother never once called me or tried to look for me to ensure I was okay and still alive. The bitch has simply never cared.
After some serious explaining, several hours of questioning, and some DNA testing, my brothers, Cash and Beast, believed me. Surprisingly, my brothers took me into the fold and demanded that I change my last name to O’Connor. Their mother knows of my existence but not of my relation to them. She’s not a strong person, and apparently, she has lived a life of hell with their father. All I know is that he treated her horribly and that she was too scared to leave him. Fortunately for her, he left her and hasn’t been seen since.
Speaking of mothers, my own dear mother is the reason why I’m going to be late for work. She had the guts to show up at my apartment and demand money from me.
For the last couple of years, my mother has only shown up in my life when she needs money or a favor. In the beginning, I had a hard time telling her no. I desperately wished she wanted to be a part of my life, but I was always left disappointed.
These days, I find it easy to reject her as long as she doesn’t have a boyfriend or a pimp or whatever you wanna call the men she brings with her. It often gets tricky to say no when she brings backup. However, I’m a tough cookie. I own a gun, and I know how to use it. Not to mention, my family is a biker club that can make shit happen. But I’m unfortunately also stubborn to a fault. I prefer to handle things myself, and that has landed me in some sticky situations before.
My mother’s so-called boyfriends can be violent. It has happened that I’ve gotten a bruise or two during one of their visits. Beast and Cash have hunted down several guys and given them the scare of their lifetime, but a new one always shows up. My mother is a revolving door of men, and one evil is easily replaced by a new one.
Today, my mother came alone, but that didn’t stop her from slapping me across the face when I said no to borrowing her the grand she so desperately needed. Just like the last grand she so desperately needed or the one before that. Whatever money she borrows never finds its way back to me. I’ve learned that the hard way. My cheek still burns from where she slapped me. I’m sure I’ll be spotting a nice red handprint on my face all day.
I rush inside Ripper’s tattoo parlor with the hood of my jacket tucked over my head, shielding my red mark. I say a quick hi to Matt. He’s a freelance tattooist who works here a couple of times a week. Very heavy metal-ish. Long hair, black nails, and most often spotting a band tee.
Matt and Ripper do a lot of work on all the tough guys in the area. The guys got an outstanding reputation. They do a lot of club-related tattoos. A lot of skulls and death and misery. I do that shit too. Hell, I think that shit is pretty. But I tattoo whatever the customer wants. If my customer wants a butterfly, I’ll give them the best butterfly they’ve ever seen.
‘’You’re late,’’ Matt mumbles from his small workstation, his glasses perched on his nose as he draws.
I sigh. ‘’I know.’’
‘’He ain’t gonna be happy,’’ he singsongs as I make my way out back. I’m instantly annoyed and agitated by Matt’s words. Mostly because he’s fucking right. Ripper ain’t gonna be happy. He always comes and goes as it pleases him, but if I’m five minutes late, all hell breaks loose. Perks of being the boss.
I make my way out to the kitchen to get a much-needed cup of coffee. Of course, the man of my wet dreams is standing there, slowly looking at his leatherbound wristwatch, grunting displeasingly at me.
I lick my lips, trying not to look like a lovesick puppy. Ripper has been the starring male in my wet dreams since the first time I laid eyes on him at age sixteen.
‘’Listen, I’m aware that I’m half an hour late,’’ I blurt out before he can reprimand me like a toddler. It fucking breaks my heart every time he does that. Sometimes I wonder if he only does it because he takes pleasure in my pain. ‘’I deeply apologize for my tardiness, boss, but I swear I did everything in my power to be here on time. And I promise it won’t happen again.’’
‘’That’s what you said the last time. And the time before that.’’
‘’I know, and I’m sorry. But it’s not like I have any customers until later, anyway. Not to mention, you’re always late yourself.’’
‘’Well, that’s because I own this fucking joint and you sure as fuck don’t!’’ Ripper growls in my face.
Clearly, someone started off on the wrong foot this morning. I flinch at his stern tone and try hard not to fantasize about him growling at me under different circumstances. Very different, non-platonic circumstances.
It’s just so fucking hard not to be attracted to Ripper. He is dangerous, wild, hot as hell, and way too old for me.
Ripper’s body is covered in tattoos. A walking and breathing piece of art. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black, and his jaw always sets tightly when he gazes at me.
Muscles bulge under Ripper's black tee as he crosses his arms over his chest, examining my appearance from head to toe. I can practically read what is going on in his head: Marcie is so young and irresponsible. She can’t even get to work on time. She changes her hair color more often than people change their underwear. She’s so self-conscious and weak. She can’t even get her personal life and her mother under control.
I stand patiently and wait for him to be done judging me. I refuse to look at him. I hate looking at him. It only reminds me that I’m pathetically in love with him. In love with my boss. In love with a member of the Death’s Soldiers MC. In love with my brothers’ close friend. In love with Ripper.
I spent my teenage years telling myself that what I felt for Ripper was merely a girly crush, but my emotions still haven’t changed. They’ve only grown stronger over the years.
‘’What the fuck is that!’’ Ripper booms, yanking my hoodie down and exposing my face, which I’m guessing by Ripper’s reaction is a nice shade of red by now.
‘’It’s nothing,’’ I argue, moving past him to grab a cup of coffee.
‘’The fuck it is,’’ he grunts, pushing my backside up against the sink, leaving me no room to escape.
Ripper grabs my jaw, holding my face firmly in place as he studies my bruise. His jaw sets tightly while his two obsidian orbs take me in. ‘’What happened? Who did this to ya?’’
He takes my lack of response as defiance. When in fact, it’s the way his entire body presses against mine that makes it impossible for me to think straight, much less speak any rational words. He breathes heavily. I can’t help but notice every single detail about him—the way the big vein in his neck bounces when he is agitated or the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down every time he swallows.
I crave to run my fingers through his short hair, lick every inch of his skin, trace every scar on his sculpted body with my tongue, and study every tattoo on his tanned skin with my hungry eyes. I crave to drive my nails into his flesh every time he thrusts his cock into my heat. I want to leave my marks on him. I crave for him to be mine.
Ripper sighs. ‘’You either tell me, kiddo, or I’ll tell Beast and Cash about it.’’
The way he calls me kiddo and the mention of my brothers' names work like a cold bucket of water. I cough uncomfortably and break eye contact. Ripper has always called me kiddo, and I hate him for it. He just loves to remind me that he sees me like nothing but a little sister.
‘’My mom stopped by this morning,’’ I admit. When his mouth forms into a snarl and his hands twist into fists, I continue. ‘’I dealt with her, and I’m fine. My personal life is none of your business, Ripper, but I do apologize for being late for work,’’ I mutter tersely while shoving him out of my way so I can get to the coffee machine. I do my best not to think about how his jean-clad thigh he had positioned between mine, grazed my core as I made my way past him.
I get myself a nice cup of coffee. Black. I hate how people need to tarnish their coffee with milk and sugar. I like mine strong and unrelenting.
‘’You sure you’re okay?’’ Ripper asks. I stand completely still when I feel his chest pressing up against my backside, his mouth only an inch away from my ear. ‘’Tell me what happened.’’
A moan threatens to spill from my lips, but I catch myself. ‘’She wanted money. I said no, and she got pissed. She managed to get a bitch slap in before I kicked her out, that’s all,’’ I explain, breathing heavily, leaning a tiny bit backward against Ripper’s chest, but not so much that he’ll pull away.
‘’Are you sure she won’t come back, Marcie? I can call Beast and Cash if—’’
‘’Don’t!’’ I exclaim, turning around to face him. ‘’I can take care of myself, Ripper. I don’t need them every time something bad happens. I’m not some little kid who constantly needs people to save her.’’
‘’Whatever you say, kiddo,’’ Ripper says with a smirk, but I know he’ll send them both a text as soon as I leave the room. That’s the downside of being associated with a biker club—no privacy.
‘’Don’t call me that!’’ I grumble sourly in his face before taking my coffee and making my way around him. The bastard only laughs at my antics.
‘’By the way, I like what you’ve done with ya hair, kiddo,’’ Ripper shouts after me.
A middle finger is what I give him in response. He always comments on my hair every time I change it. I’ve added some stripes to it this time, but of course, Ripper has to notice it and comment on it, making my crush burst back to life.
I walk up to my station. A tattoo booth and a little desk where I can work on my designs. The only thing I’ve ever been obsessed with is art. It doesn’t matter if it’s landscape paintings or graffiti on street walls. I find all forms of art to be incredibly beautiful.
One of my greatest passions is tattooing. Some people would claim tattooing isn’t art, but screw those people.
Tattooing is so much more than drawing a picture or writing a saying on some idiot’s body. Tattooing is about creating. It’s about creating new pieces. It’s about creating anything you want. A butterfly, a picture of a famous singer, a snake, or a skeleton. You can create whatever you desire. It doesn’t matter if it’s a crow, a cross, or some MC’s club colors. Sure, you need money to pay the bills, and you have to tattoo what your customers want, but you can still create new things or new versions of things you’ve sketched before.
The clientele goes from club members to business folks to girls who want to get the usual flower or saying tattooed forever on their skin. Most of the girls only come in to ogle Ripper. Trust me, I have noticed. Ripper is a chick magnet. At least some of the chicks have the decency to get a tattoo or a piercing when they’ve wasted our time long enough.
However, it’s not just tattooing I love. I love painting and taking pictures. I’ve even considered applying to some of the art competitions in Yuma and Phoenix.
‘’On a scale from one to ten, how mad was he?’’ Matt asks, his eyes crinkling with delight.
Matt thinks it’s cute and sibling-like that me and Ripper bicker. If only he knew what Ripper and I have done to each other in the past. Nothing cute or sibling-like about it.
‘’I’d say a hard six. It could have been a lot worse. At least he hasn’t fired my ass yet,’’ I retort casually.
‘’He means well, sweetheart. He just worries when you’re not here on time. Normally, you’re always early, and the coffee is always made when he shows his ugly ass here.’’
‘’That reminds me, I should ask him for a pay raise one of these days,’’ I joke, which earns me a loud laugh from Matt.
‘’Don’t you two got some work to do?’’ Ripper asks in a sour growl, sending Matt the stink eye.
I roll my eyes at Ripper’s behavior. Occasionally, when I lie alone in bed at night, I indulge myself and picture moments like this as Ripper being jealous and not annoyed. It’s childish and stupid of me, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Ripper sees me as his little sister, and I know it’s about time I come to terms with it. I can’t forget the night I turned eighteen, even though it’s been a few years. That night will haunt me for the rest of my life because that night, Ripper didn’t call me kiddo. Instead, he offered me a job at his tattoo parlor and said I was the most talented artist he had ever seen. That night, he let me tattoo him. That night, he took something I have never gotten back.
My heart and my sanity.