Ink (The Haven Series) (32 page)

He knew Callie would want to get cleaned up and, sure enough, she’d headed straight for the shower in the tiny bathroom off his dormroom. But now, seeing her simply stood there under the heat of the spray, head down and hands braced against the wall, Colton knew the girl had to be damn near shell-shocked by what had happened.

She wasn’t used to this life, she wasn’t like him.

She’d already been through a hell of a lot, but not even pulling a bullet out of his side or getting her own head split open came close to having someone die in her arms. Someone younger than even her, who’d been laughing one minute and riddled with bullets the next. Someone whose blood was still spattered over her pale face.

Neither of them spoke.

He simply got into the shower behind her and moved in close until his much larger body was practically cradling hers, his hands rubbing up and down her arms as he pressed a tiny kiss to the top of her head, letting her lean back against him. He held his fingers under the spray before using them to carefully start wiping away the blood and watched her eyes drift closed, as if to block out the memory of it all.

He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he could make her any promises. Sure, he could kill any fucker who tried to hurt her - but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t try. That was the kind of life he led.

One she hadn’t signed up for.

Just as he was wondering if she was in shock or simply trying to be brave in front of him, a stifled little sob escaped despite Callie’s best efforts and Colton’s response was pure instinct – turning her around and holding her close, his hands buried in her hair, as she finally broke down and cried hot tears into his chest.

***

Sinking down heavily on the edge of his unmade bed with his head in his hands, Sam raked his fingers through the messy spikes of his hair before casting a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. Its little red numbers flashed 03:26 and he heaved a sigh.

Four years to make it in Hollywood ...

What had once been nothing but a pipe-dream was no longer even that, he thought as he fished in his cut for his smokes and then patted down his jeans in the usual hunt for a lighter. But a glimmer of pink among the rumpled sheets caught his gaze and he reached instead to investigate, his hand closing around a lighter that could only belong to one person.

The sergeant sparked it and stared into the tiny flickering flame, finally releasing his thumb and letting it extinguish after a long moment. There one second, gone the next.

“Dammit, Ashley ...” he muttered, quickly lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips and then tucking the lighter safely into an inner pocket of his cut. A long drag gave him the nicotine hit he needed, but no other comfort.

Barely twenty-six and that was the only proof she’d ever graced their clubhouse – unless you counted the bloodstains on the floor out by the bar, and the prospects would soon get to work on getting rid of those. Give it a couple of weeks and he’d probably be the only one to remember her name.

“We’ll get the bastards, darlin’ ...” he vowed, exhaling a long stream of smoke. His jaw clenched as the fingers of his free hand curled into a tense fist. “Every last fucking one.”

***

CHAPTER 36

Emerging from the clubhouse into the cool morning air, Callie squinted against the light at first and ran a hand through her sleep-tangled hair. She’d slipped out of bed after just a few hours respite from racing thoughts of how the night had escalated into the worst kind of violence. Her head was still fuzzy from lack of sleep and she hoped being outside might help. It seemed she wasn’t the only one to think so.

She thought twice about joining him, not wanting to impose. But something in the dejected slump of his broad shoulders sent her crossing the yard anyway, knowing the worst she could expect was to be sent packing.

“Hey,” she tried, just a little hesitant in her approach. “Mind if I sit?”

“Free country, doll,” Sam said with a shrug, taking another drag of his cigarette.

Perched on the edge of the bench beside the grim-faced sergeant, Callie snuck little glances at him out of the corner of her eye and inwardly sighed. His eyes were dull with dark circles below them, heavy stubble shading his jaw and his hair raked into messy spikes by his fingers. He smelt like he’d crawled inside a whiskey bottle and looked like he hadn’t even tried to sleep. Not that she could blame him for that.

“I’d ask how you’re doing, but it seems like one of those stupid questions ...”

“I’ll deal. We always fucking deal.”

“Right,” she said wryly, shooting a pointed look at his bruised and bloody knuckles and making him flex his fingers under the scrutiny with a humourless grin.

“You got your ways of dealin’, sugar, and I got mine. Punchbag,” he added, by way of an explanation. “And maybe a wall.”

“Sam ...” Callie started, unsure as to whether she should even say anything. She knew it wasn’t her place. But she also knew what it was like to deal with shit on your own. And to have feelings you knew you probably shouldn’t. “Don’t feel like you’re not allowed to care about shit just because you don’t have a label for it. Ashley--”

“Ashley ain’t mine to worry about,” he said. He’d cut her off bluntly, but judging by the way he diverted his gaze, he seemed to know that he wasn’t fooling anyone with the hard, detached riff.

“Just because you weren’t together doesn’t mean you weren’t connected,” she said gently. “I know I didn’t really know her, but I talked to her, Sam, and I know there was something there. I’m not saying she was in love with you, but she loved being with you. Girl like that, hanging round here ... it’d be easy for that to turn into a bad time. But it didn’t for her, because of you.”

“It got her killed. Seems like a bad fucking time to me.”

“So be angry. For her, for your brothers. Be sad they’re gone,” she said. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t give a damn about her. I know you guys don’t exactly run around with your hearts on your sleeves, but don’t let this eat you up inside, Sam. Don’t bottle it up like this.”

He pitched his cigarette butt to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, turning to Callie as he exhaled a long stream of smoke and let a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a good girl, Cal. But trust me, babe, some things are better left that way.”

***

Left to her own thoughts, Callie tucked her feet up on the bench and laid her head on her knees. It seemed so quiet, so unreal that this could be the same place she’d been left with a girl’s dying body in her arms.

She’d been on the periphery of this world for so long, she’d thought she could handle it. It was only now she realised just how different flitting round the edges was to being at the heart of the club and all that entailed.

And on top of that, she’d half expected Colton to start pulling away already. After all, she’d never quite expected to be allowed so close in the first place.

Even as she’d broken down in his arms, Callie had felt the latent fury at the wrong that had been done to his club coursing through his tense muscles. There had been no whispered words of meaningless comfort, no gentle caresses. But he had held her until the tears subsided and the water of the shower ran just shy of luke-warm.

She’d offered to go home, to get out of the way and let the bikers deal with their losses as they best saw fit. Even though she couldn’t help but wonder how raw anger and grief for fallen brothers might manifest – and couldn’t help but suspect alcohol and nameless women might feature pretty heavily.

It was a thought that made her stomach flip-flop, no matter how much she tried to pretend it didn’t.

But instead, he’d ordered her to stay put.

And even though the night had somehow already stretched towards dawn and he’d left her to go chain-smoke his way through an emergency session with his brothers and down shots in memory of their comrades, it had been her he’d come back to in the end. The sex, when they reached for each other under the covers, was hard and intense – like they both needed proof, reassurance that the other was really there and still in one piece.

“You thinking it could have been you?” Colton had asked, out of nowhere, when they were both collapsed back against the pillows and still getting their breath back. He never had believed in sugar-coating anything and it seemed he wasn’t about to start any time soon either. “Instead of that redhead?”

“Not point in what ifs,” Callie had said softly, knowing that wasn’t her first concern.

“Hey ...” He’d reached out to turn her head towards his and steal a firm kiss. “What’s going on in that head, girl?”

She’d let him pull her closer, slid a hand over his chest to settle just over his heart and gave a contented little sigh when his arm wrapped around her waist. “Never woulda had you pegged as the snuggling type, Greene.”

“You think I’m gonna complain about those perfect tits pushing up on me?” he’d growled, lips grazing her ear. “And quit changing the subject.”

“I’m ... sorry, Colt.”

“Don’t need to be.”

“Not about that,” Callie had said quietly, shifting so she could look down into his dark eyes. “About your brothers. They’re your family. It must be hard. I ... I don’t know what I’d have done if it had been Sketch. Or you.”

The admission had been as close as she’d come to an acceptance of exactly how she felt about him, but she didn’t know if he was ready to hear that. Didn’t know if she was ready to say it either.

“No what ifs, you said.” But he’d reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb caressing her soft skin. The almost tender gesture at odds with the hard set of his jaw though. “Welcome to the life, baby. Had enough yet?”

She’d shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

***

CHAPTER 37

She looked so peaceful as she slept, the covers pooled around her waist and exposing the tan silk of her bare back and shoulders. Her arms were folded below the pillows, one cheek pressed into their softness and that mass of sun-kissed blonde hair tumbling over one shoulder. Badass tattoo or not, she looked too young and somehow too pure to be sharing his bed.

He thought about the tiny, intricate wings he’d put on her and imagined inking them full-size on that most perfect of canvases, from shoulder to hip – turning her into the only angel that could ever hope to redeem the killer he’d long since become.

Reaching across her still sleeping form, he took his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and sat propped against the headboard of the bed as he lit up. A long drag, the first of the day, hit his throat and he tilted his head back to exhale a stream of smoke into the morning air.

A thunderstorm was brewing, he could feel it. Heavy, ominous. The room was darker than it should have been and he could picture the dark clouds rolling outside the window, though the curtains were still closed. It was early, even for him, but sleep somehow felt like a distant memory. The first flash of lightening was quickly followed by a rumble of thunder and he glanced to see if the girl would wake.

It seemed nothing could disturb the worn-out little blonde though, who just hours earlier had wrapped her legs around his hips as he buried himself inside her, and he reached out almost curiously. With the hand that still held his lit cigarette, he let his fingertips drift down her spine, barely touching the soft skin and watching the tiny glow move slowly over her.

Just as slowly, deliberately, he turned his hand knuckles down and let the red-hot ash sear into delicate skin.

The same big gray eyes that had looked up at him hazy with lust flew open, full of shock and pain and confusion. She tried to get up but, all at once, he had her pinned down with his weight and his breath was hot on her ear.

“Welcome to the life, baby. Had enough yet?”

***

Callie woke with a gasp, struggling to breathe and trembling, as sweat cooled on her almost feverish skin. Her eyes darted to the other side of the bed, but found it empty and the covers tugged messily back into place.

“Shit ...” she whispered shakily, closing her eyes and trying to will her raging emotions back under control.

It was the third time in a week that the same nightmare had crept into her subconscious – the first time she’d woken up screaming, the second with tears pouring down her face. This time, she’d managed to avoid either, but she was still glad Colton hadn’t been around to witness the aftermath that still managed to leave her heart hammering in her chest.

Forcing herself out from under the covers, she remembered Colton sliding out of bed naked to find the t-shirt she was wearing. Before she’d drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his inked arms, she’d been vaguely aware of his hand in her hair and thought he’d pressed soft kisses to her temple.

The biker could be rough, but he had never once set out to hurt her and she hated to think of having to tell him what had gotten her so rattled. Ruthless hitman or not, she was fairly sure it would bother him. Especially as she couldn’t even offer any logical explanation as to where the dark thoughts were coming from. After all, in her head she knew she had nothing to fear from him. Maybe it was just a vibe she was getting from being around the shot-up clubhouse, or from the funerals of the those who'd been gunned down ... Either way, she knew she had to find a way to get it the hell out of her system and quick.