Inked Fighter: Book One (BBW New Adult Romance) (4 page)

“I’ll have to check that out.” I felt him staring at me. Compelled to feel less frumpy, I pulled my sweatshirt over my head. Underneath, I wore a tight-fitting tank top that I’d had since before the baby. My boobs were much larger than they used to be, and they strained against the shirt. I tied my long chestnut hair up in a messy bun, revealing my neck and shoulders.

The look on his face told me he liked what he saw. He seemed almost stunned by my sudden skin reveal and had to yank his gaze away from my chest. He dipped his head and then smiled up at me through his thick, dark lashes. I could do the seduction thing. I wasn’t that out of practice. That was, if I really wanted to. And I didn’t.

Zoe walked over with an order pad in her hands. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, making a little O with her mouth. I glared at her and pleaded with my eyes not to make a big deal out of me and Damien.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked in a professional tone. I was glad she took the hint. Zoe was a good sister, and a better friend.

“Yes,” said Damien. “I am if you are, Claire.”

“Sure, I’ll have a turkey melt with fries, a diet Coke, and some apple sauce for Rose.”

Damien ordered a burger with fries. Zoe hurried away and came back a few moments later with our drinks. She set them on the table and gave me a private grin behind her order pad. I bared my teeth at her. She giggled and walked away. I shoved my straw in my soda and took a long drink, looking down at the fake wood table.

“What brings you to town, Damien?” I asked, trying to make conversation. My mind was going crazy with the kind of fantasies a girl who has only had sex once shouldn’t have. I didn’t even want a boyfriend. What was wrong with me?

“Some high-paying clients up here commissioned me to do tattoos, so I came to stay for a while.”

“Oh, you’re a tattoo artist. Cool. I’ve always thought about getting a tattoo, but I’ve never really have the money.”

“What kind of tattoo were you thinking of getting?”

“I hadn’t really given it much thought. Maybe something on the back of my neck, like a dragon like you have on your arm, but more of a circle.”

“I could do one for you for free.”

“I couldn’t accept that,” I said, almost squirting soda through my nose. Why was he being so nice? It was freaking me out. 

Zoe came back with our food. She set it on the table and stood there staring at me. When I didn’t say anything, she rolled her eyes and reached out to Damien.

“I’m Zoe Parker, by the way. Claire’s sister.”

His eyes widened and he put down his soda to shake her hand. “I see the family resemblance. You’re both beautiful, and you have the same eyes.”

Zoe puckered her lips at me in a silly smile. “He’s a keeper, Claire,” she said, nudging his shoulder. I wished I had Zoe’s confidence. She bounced back after Mom’s death with her self-esteem intact.

Zoe walked behind the counter to tend to another customer. I smiled weakly. He seemed unfazed by Zoe’s comment and popped a fry into his mouth.

“Really, I can draw you a dragon if you want. I’d love to do it.”

“Why?”

“I usually like to do nice things for girls I’m interested in.” He looked straight into my eyes to make sure I heard him. My face burned. Was this really happening or was it a dream? I pinched my thigh under the table and winced.

“Interested in me, huh? You realize I’m a teen mother?”

“You’re still a teenager?”

“Well, technically no, I’m twenty.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I struggled for words. My throat was tight, and I couldn’t keep myself from blushing. The burning went from my face, into my chest, and down my cleavage.

“No one has been interested in me for years.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“I know, hard to believe guys aren’t tripping over themselves for a chance with all this.” I waved my hands over my body and Rose as if I were Vanna White on “Wheel of Fortune.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He sipped his soda and stared a second too long at the breasts I’d just offered up as a game show prize. I growled inwardly at myself for doing that. It wasn’t what I meant at all. “I can tell you are a nice girl. I like nice girls. You are also really pretty.”

“Okay, okay, enough with the compliments. I can’t take it anymore. All the blood is rushing to my ego. I’m about to pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain.”

He chuckled at me and shoved another fry in his mouth. “So how about that tattoo?”

“Fine, I’ll let you tattoo me if you’re throwing around free stuff. Jeez.”

“You think you want a dragon? I can sketch one for you.”

“Yeah. But make it pretty, with flowers around it.” Hey, why not take the offer? He was an awesome artist. It couldn’t hurt, right?

“You want something for the base of your neck, right where the shirt line starts?”

“About there. Might as well let the old ladies think I’m fast
and
tattooed.”

He burst out laughing again. “You’re funny, Claire. I like your sense of humor.”

“Well, that’s something anyway, because I know it can’t be my fantastically toned body or my lack of massive amounts of baggage.”

“Let’s meet up later when I finish your design. Give me your phone number.” He pulled out a smartphone and started pressing buttons. I gave him my number, glancing over the table at the technological marvel that was a cell phone. None of us had one, just the old home line. I had to write his number on a napkin with a fabric pen I had in my purse.

“Alright, well, just don’t call me in the middle of the night to breathe heavily into the phone.”

“I’d never do that. Unless you wanted me to.” He winked. 

Zoe set the check on the table and Damien scooped it up before I could stop him. He’d already paid by the time I pulled Rose from her high chair.

Out on the street, I said, “You didn’t have to pay for my lunch. Let me pay you back.” I dug into my purse, looking for change for a twenty. Rose pulled my hair, and I winced.

“No, no, no. I wanted to pay. How about we get together when I finish your drawing?”

“Alright. When did you want to do that?”

“I’m not sure how long it will take. I’ve got other obligations, but when I’m done, I’ll call you and come over. If that’s okay?”

“Should be fine,” I said, regretting my words. What if Regan was home? I cringed, thinking of all the embarrassing things she could do.

“Where do you live?” he asked, getting his cell phone out again. I told him, all the while not believing I would give my address to a total stranger. My mind alternated between thinking he was crazy to be interested in me and thinking he was serial-killer crazy. Then I thought maybe there was a third option in which he wasn’t crazy at all. I decided to stick with that one.

“I’m home most days because I work out of my house. Just give me a call when you want to come over. I’ll keep my dog from eating you.”

He chuckled again. “Sounds good. I’ll call you soon, Claire Parker.”

I should have left her alone. She didn’t need to get mixed up in my mess.

Her curvaceous body made me want to bite my knuckles. When she took off that baggy sweatshirt she always wore, I swear it was instant boner. I had to force myself not to stare at her amazing breasts.

It wasn’t just the plumpness of her flesh. Even with that dark humor, there was a gentleness in her that made me want to get closer. My life was in desperate need of gentleness. It made me feel slightly more human.

I turned off the highway into the parking lot of the clubhouse and shut off my motor. Inside, the lights were off. No one was there. I shuffled downstairs and unlocked the door to my bedroom.

I grabbed a sketchpad and sat on my bed. My hand buzzed across the page. Delicate curves of flower petals surrounded the fierce strength of a dragon, much like Claire. Every line reminded me of her. No matter how much I knew I should stay away, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to give her something. If all I could give her was a drawing, that would be enough. For now.

I always had the ability to draw, almost freakishly well. I’d even won a scholarship to an art school. After Mom left, I started getting in trouble around the neighborhood. It hurt that she left me. I’d been really close to my mom. My dad was a bystander in our house. He stayed out late and slept until noon. Half the time he didn’t come home.

My mom. I remembered her so well. When I was a kid, she took me to soccer games and cheered for me from the sidelines. She paid for my uniforms from her meager cleaning wages. I always knew I meant something to her.

When she left, I felt like maybe I hadn’t meant anything to her. Maybe it was all a lie. Then I thought, maybe she was dead.  I was sixteen, but even then, I needed someone to care. Dad never seemed to care. He just wanted what he wanted. He drank, gambled, and was into all kinds of freaky shit.

Being left with him influenced me. I started to steal and vandalize. The stupid thing was, I got caught doing graffiti art on an already painted-up wall. My painting was improving the quality of the neighborhood, I thought. It didn’t matter. I got arrested and lost my scholarship.

It was then that my drawing ability really got me into trouble. When I lost my scholarship, my dad asked me to do some drawings for him. At first, it was simple stuff. He’d have me copy a signature. I knew what I was doing. I mean, everyone knows what forgery is, even teenagers. Then it got more complicated.

He had me draw templates for foreign currencies. I was able to do it. I’m like some kind of savant that way. They were used in a big forgery ring. Millions of dollars were exchanged for the forged Mexican and Canadian bills. Of course, I didn’t see a dime of it. If anyone found out I’d made those templates, I’d go to prison for twenty-five years.

I moved out of my dad’s house five years ago when I started tattooing and practicing martial arts. Tattooing gave me direction. Judo and kickboxing gave me discipline — discipline I severely needed. I learned self-control, meditation, and how to take care of my body.

I tried to stay away from the youthful overconsumption of the past. I hadn’t touched anything illegal since leaving my dad’s. I had a good life until Black Blades MC broke into my apartment one night and threatened to have me sent to jail.

The blackmail had worked to get me to give up my job and put all my things in storage. I believed them well enough to follow them to northern California to bide my time. I wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, so I stayed. I wanted to know what they were really up to. Sure, I gave world-class tattoos, but why keep an outsider so close? There had to be other reasons for me to be there. I planned to find out why.

I put down the sketch of Claire’s tattoo and jogged upstairs to test the doors along the first floor. Every door was unlocked. I peered inside the first-floor bedrooms. They were just messy dudes’ rooms. I didn’t even want to go through them. I doubted they had any evidence. Most of the people around here weren’t even full members of the club. They had no idea what was going on.

I went upstairs and tested the second-floor doors. They all opened easily, except one. It had a standard, cheap household lock. I pulled out a credit card and slipped it through the doorframe. The lock came open in one swipe.

Inside was an office. Papers were stacked up on the desk, and one drawer in the filing cabinet was open. I slipped inside, shuffled through papers, and opened drawers. Nothing interesting jumped out at me. There was a small utilitarian desk in front of the window with a comfortable-looking office chair. 

Business ledgers were piled on the desk. The gang owned several businesses in town — a mechanic shop, a gas station with a quickie mart, a hair salon, a pizza restaurant, the bar across the street. I sat behind the desk and flipped through a few of the ledgers. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I closed the books and leaned back in the office chair.

I tapped my finger on the arm of the chair and looked around. The desk drawer caught my eye. I tried it; it was locked. I slid the credit card through the opening and pulled. Nothing.  I didn’t like to fail, not at anything. Failing to get the drawer open made me more determined. I found a paper clip and bent it. Then I shoved one end into the lock and twisted until it clicked.

Triumphant, I pulled the drawer open. There was a handgun inside. I considered taking it but didn’t.  I shuffled through the contents —stacks of cash, pens, post-it notes, and note cards. Intermixed with the junk I noticed the back of an old photograph. I grabbed it and flipped it over.

It was a picture of Martel and my dad, from a long time ago. My dad was thin and his beard was short and black. He still had hair. I smiled at the picture, remembering the old bastard. Martel looked just as young. His hair was black instead of salt-and-pepper gray. They both wore the same motorcycle club vest, but it wasn’t Black Blades.

I squinted at the picture, trying to make out the club logo, but I couldn’t. The picture was too old and too faded. When were my dad and Martel in the same club? My dad always rode a Harley, but as far as I knew, he didn’t have any affiliations.

My father pretended to be a mechanic. Well, he was a mechanic, but he sure as hell wasn’t a law-abiding citizen.