Ink (The Haven Series) (40 page)

Because Callie had finally decided to allow herself the happiness that came with knowing that, whatever kind of connection she had inadvertently cultivated with Colton, it was – at the very least – real and, perhaps more importantly, reciprocated. There were no convenient labels for what was going on between them, but that was okay too. Neither of them needed that.

Whatever they were, for however long it was meant to last, she would embrace it.

That didn’t mean that the thought of being a source of conflict within the club wouldn’t sit heavily on her mind, if she let it. But as long as Colton knew she wasn’t out to rock the boat ... Well, that would have to be enough for now. It wasn’t within her power to change anyone else’s opinion of her and anyway, that was only something she was concerned with in so far as it threatened to blow back on the one man whose opinion did matter.

Besides
, it wasn’t like over-thinking was really getting her anywhere ...

Mentally giving herself a little shake, she dropped her pencil and headed for the still dawdling customer she’d been all but ignoring, finally offering him a bright smile.

“Can I maybe help at all?” she offered, eyeing him as he just kept flipping through page after page of sketches and photos. Something about him - the air of near desperation as he kept looking - was quickly unsettling. “If you don’t see what you’re after, almost all our stuff is custom designed …”

“You do that? Or do you just ... I dunno, run the place?”

“I’m one of the resident tattooists,” Callie said. “I’m--”

“It has to be right,” the man continued, almost like she hadn’t spoken. His tone was sharp, too sharp. “If it’s ... If it’s all I can do, it’s gotta be exactly
right
.”

Taking in the shake of his hands, the pain etched on his haggard face, the pieces slowly started to slip into place and Callie wondered how she hadn’t
noticed sooner, kicking herself for being so wrapped up in her own world. She’d seen it before. Someone struggling to cope with a loss running to an ink joint while the pain was still raw, feeling like they needed that reminder. As if they were terrified they’d start to forget, even when they hadn’t yet had a second’s respite from the crushing grief.

She didn’t know who, but she didn’t have to – the feelings were the same. And she understood the pressure of trying to find that perfect tribute, when every inch of you must wish you didn’t have to be making a decision like that in the first place.

Gently, Callie took the scrapbook from his hands and set it aside with a shake of her head. “Your tatt isn’t in here,” she said softly when he moved to protest, tapping a gentle finger on his chest. “It’s in there and we just have to find it, that’s all.”

For a long moment, he just stood in front of her with his head bowed and obviously struggling to get a hold on his emotions. She didn’t push him, just waited.

“You ... You must be wanting to close up,” he said finally, not looking at her.

“Nah,” she said, managing a little smile. “I owe the boss some over-time. Come on, grab a seat and I’ll make coffee. Tea, if you prefer.”

“I ... Thank you,” he mumbled. “It’s for my ... my son ...”

Something twisted in Callie’s stomach. The guy himself couldn’t have been much older than her and the realisation of just what he must have lost pained her. Not that any loss was easy, but still ...

“Okay,” she said simply. “We’ll get it right.”

***

Get it right. Don’t fuck this up.

His boss’s last words to him echoed in his head as he’d headed to the ink joint where the girl worked. His orders were very explicit. Put the fear of God in the little blonde gash. Hurt her if that’s what it takes, but keep the bloodshed to a minimum. For now at least.

They still weren’t certain of the depth of the connection between her and the Fallen's hitman, but sending a message was one thing. They didn’t want to risk finding out the hard way what he might do if they killed the bitch. Not yet.

But he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The girl was, at the very least, used to the company of known killers. Ruthless ones at that. He couldn’t imagine she scared too easy.

Let her know you fucking mean it.

That was all well and good for his boss to say, when he wasn’t the one putting himself on the line. But he wouldn’t fuck up. That would be more than his life was worth. So he’d ditched his gun and traded it for a lethal Bowie knife. Surely even the toughest of bitches would crumble with that razor-sharp blade pressed to their throat. As he pulled a ski mask from the back pocket of his jeans, he sure hoped it would be more than enough.

Because that was all the leverage he had.

***

“He’s just giving you shit ‘cause he ain’t keen on being seen to back down. You know this, bro,” Sam insisted, steering a grim-faced Colton across the SAMTAC yard towards his bike. “Get outta here, clear your head if you have to, then go be with Callie. Life’s too fucking short for this unnecessary bullshit.”

“You pulling rank – giving me orders, man?”

“If it gets your ass gone without starting shit you’ll regret, then hell yeah,” the blonde sergeant nodded. “Just give Will a wide berth for a while. Let him cool down and this’ll all be forgotten. He’s still the top dog and you know I ain’t gonna disrespect that, but I got your back, Colt. You better know that too.”

And because he did know, Colton pulled him into a brief brotherly hug, slapped him on the back and got on his bike. Talk was cheap and Sam was right – it was fucking pointless when Will really got an idea in his head. So, roaring his Harley to life, he decided he was actually going to do the smart thing.

Yeah, he’d skip the inevitable row that would probably end in the fucking ring, given the mood the president had been stewing in lately, and head straight to the studio to damn well get his girl. Maybe even see how she felt about some more ink …

***

Left to take in the fresh ink etched over his heart, in a considerate move by the young tattooist who had seemed to understand his reluctance to break down in front of anyone, Dante Zavala took a deep breath and tilted his head back against the recliner before finally summoning the strength to take a proper look.

And even through the tears that burned fiercely, he could see the girl had done a good job. Better than good.

The large hand reaching down to hold a tiny one was better than anything he could have come up with, even if he’d had all the time in the world. But she’d just let him talk, faltering at first and then the whole story coming tumbling out, listening intently despite the pencil moving lightly across a sketch pad. And when there was nothing more to say, there it was. Her idea, somehow inspired by his words and brought to life by her hand. He hadn’t even considered the process, just the end result, and yet he knew now that it had helped. Just talking to someone he didn’t have to be strong for. To a stranger.

She’d said she would give him a couple of minutes, then come and cover the tattoo for him. That had been at least ten minutes ago though and, wiping his hands over his face, Dante guessed she’d just been held up by whoever had showed up out front in the meantime. He’d vaguely been aware of the sound of door chimes.

The raised voices in the next second made him raise an eyebrow despite himself. The girl didn’t seem the type for a stand-up row in the place where she worked and, even preoccupied as he was, he couldn’t help wondering what had happened. Unhappy customer? Maybe a boyfriend she was late for ... Shit, he hoped that wasn’t it.

He was still wondering if he should go explain that it was his fault she’d ended up working so late when he heard the crash that had him sitting bolt upright in an instant, then the choked scream that sent him to his feet.

Questioning the wisdom of getting involved held him only for a second and then, his mind full of everything she had done for him without even seeming to realise, he was tugging on his shirt and running to investigate. But he was too late to do anything but watch as a figure fled through the front door. There was no sign of the tattooist.

“Miss?” Dante tried, cursing himself for not even knowing her name.

A sound caught his attention and he whirled at once, his heart sinking as he realised he had found the little blonde. The crash, it seemed, had been the sound of everything on the front desk hitting the floor. And there amid the wreckage lay the girl who’d inked him.

Ashen and struggling to breathe, her eyes wide with terror, with a knife buried almost to the hilt in her chest.

***

CHAPTER 47

If all his years with the Fallen Brothers had taught Colton one thing, it was that life was constantly balanced on a knife edge.

The life that came with the patch, the life he and his brothers had freely chosen for themselves, may have seemed like one big show of strength. But really, it was a daily lesson in fragility. They knew that no one was indestructible, no plan was ever bulletproof, and there was no situation that couldn’t get fucked up in a heartbeat.

It didn’t matter though. None of that knowledge had prepared him for that long, frozen second when all he could hear was blood rushing in his ears and all he could feel was his heart seeming to lurch into his throat. Everything they’d been through, everything she’d been through because of him, flashed through his stunned mind.

Her fingers under his, slick with blood from his gunshot wound ... Forcing herself to fall into his arms, trusting him to catch her as shots rang out behind them ... The softness of her lips the first time they kissed ...

She couldn’t be the one to suffer for the choices he had made. She shouldn’t be the one crumpled on the floor with a blade in her chest.

The hum of her needle as she guided it over his abdomen ... Her gaze on him as he inked the delicate underside of her wrist ... The smiles that reached those sparkling eye
s ... The heat of her tears as she confided in him …

It may have been her name on his lips, but the rage-twisted snarl was indecipherable as he crossed the studio without even stopping to think – simply grabbing the bastard leaning over his girl and propelling his bulk into the opposite wall with enough force to bring the framed artwork crashing down. Reaching for his gun or his knife wasn’t even in his mind. He was more than capable of beating the fucker to death with his bare hands.

And, despite the struggling and the babbled protests that were falling on deaf ears, he would have done it too – but for the only sound to cut through the red haze. One strangled little gasp of his name had his head snapping round, even as he kept his target pinned against the wall by his throat.

“N-Not ... h-him ...” Callie managed, trying to sit up but only ending up crying out in agony as she collapsed back onto the floor, choking for air as blood bubbled at her lips and every breath only seemed to hurt her more.

The faint words were enough for Colton though and he released his hold without further question or thought of an apology to be by her side. Of all the things he’d seen, all the things he’d done, nothing had ever filled him with such horror and he dropped heavily to his knees.

The feel of her soft skin as she lay in his arms ... The sight of her cradling a dead girl on the clubhouse floor ... The persistent, terrible thought that the next time he held her might be as she slipped away ...

“Callie,” he tried, his voice harsh as he desperately tried to work out what to do for the best, scared as he was to even touch her. “Jesus Christ ...”

“I ... I didn’t know what to do,” his former target offered, from where he’d slumped in the corner rubbing his throat uncomfortably. “But I called 911 ...”

She had been the one to step up for him when he needed it and, although the sight of that blade lodged in her chest was already going to haunt him, Colton still knew better than to try removing it. Instead, hating the unfamiliar feeling of helplessness with a passion, he wrestled his cut off and then his hoody to tuck the latter around her as carefully as he could. Pale and trembling as she was, he realised she was going into shock.

“So where the hell’s that ambulance?” he turned to roar in frustration, sending the younger man scrambling for the door to go check. But when he turned back, her eyes were already drifting closed. “No!” he snapped. “Don’t you fucking dare - you stay with me, you hear me? You fucking
stay
with me, Callie!”

Her lashes fluttered opened again and she gazed up at him, her lips moving soundlessly. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and the heart Colton knew many suspected he didn’t have all but broke at the sight, his features twisting with the effort of keeping his own emotions in check. He could see what she was thinking and, in that second, he would have given anything he had to trade places with her. His life, his soul ... his goddamn patch, if that was what it took.

He’d made deals with the devil over a hell of a lot less. For her, right then, he’d have agreed to anything.

“Gonna ... Gonna be okay, baby,” he said roughly, his fingers brushing the tear from her cheek with rare tenderness and then seeking out her hand to hold it tight. “I got ya and it’s gonna be okay. Gotta be, ‘c
ause I sure as shit ain’t losing you, little girl. Not now and ... Jesus, Callie, not like
this
...”