Pretty In Ink

Pretty In Ink

Scott Hildreth

DEDICATION

One never knows what may be beneath the surface of the skin. This book is dedicated to anyone who has had the guts to see beyond the exterior, and love someone for who they are, not what they appear to be.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.

All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

Pretty In Ink 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at
[email protected]
. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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STEVIE

As I stood in the kitchen and prepared the first of what was sure to be many cups of coffee, he sauntered into the living room as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. Hell, maybe he didn’t as far as he was concerned. While he glanced around at his unfamiliar surroundings, I quickly attempted to get one good drink of my coffee before I shifted my focus to him. Although the liquid caffeine was much more important to me than he was, I felt a need to gather his attention before he got too close.

“Where’s your shirt?” I hollered.

He twisted his body toward the sound of my voice. Upon seeing me, his eyes went wide. “I didn’t know where you went,” he said.

I shifted my eyes down to his bare feet, chuckled, and glanced upward. “Well, now you know. Dude, where’s your fucking boots?” I asked as I sipped the coffee.

He tossed his head to the side. “They’re in your room.”

I really wish you would have lasted long enough to make me have an orgasm…

I really do.

Standing in front of me half-naked, he had the body of a Greek God. Even half-drunk in the bar on the previous night it was easy to see he was well equipped in the muscle department, and he later described himself as being hung like a horse. It was all I needed to hear. His Harley, muscles, tattoos, handsome looks, and the anticipation of his massive manhood convinced me to invite him to come home with me, but none of them were enough for me to let him stay.

The man had no sexual stamina.

I took another sip of coffee. “Well?”

“Well what?” he asked as he continued to walk in my direction.

“Well, you aren’t going to want to ride home like that,” I said as I nodded my head toward him. “Go get ‘em.”

“I ain’t plannin’ on leaving just yet. Thought we could fuck again,” he said with a laugh as he flexed his massive chest.

I nodded my head and widened my eyes comically as if he’d revealed one of the greatest ideas I had heard in the last decade. My clear recollection of his comical five minute sexual performance was difficult to contain, and although I hadn’t originally intended to do so, as I lowered my coffee cup to the counter I burst into laughter.

He shrugged his shoulders as he stepped into the threshold of the doorway. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

He could have easily been a dream come true. A Harley riding hellion who was tall, muscular, handsome, rough, had a few tattoos scattered about his upper arms, and a cock the size of a large cucumber. To me, however, he was as useless. Having him standing in the same room as me made me slightly uncomfortable, and I was ready to see him out the door. The thought of him now that the night was over included no desire on my part to continue anything sexually. I suspected most women would have at least got a little more dick from the guy before he left. Hell, it wouldn’t have cost me anything.

Well, nothing but a little pride.

“Listen. Go grab your shit and hop on that HOG of yours and just go on home,” I said as I turned toward the sink.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Okay, that’s too close.

I placed my cup on the counter and turned to face him. “Other than the fact you’re in
my
kitchen? No.”

I tilted my head toward the doorway. “Listen, just go.”

And it was then that he grabbed my shoulder. Being grabbed wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; in fact I generally enjoyed it, along with being choked, tossed around a little bit, and having my hair pulled until my eyes watered. Sexually speaking, they were all things that were necessary as far as I was concerned

But the way he grabbed me reminded me of my ex.

The “I’m getting what I came here for, regardless of what you just said” grab.

One clear benefit I could see in moving from San Diego to the Midwest was the effortless yet completely legal means of owning a firearm. California sat on one end of the spectrum mirroring communism, while Kansas sat clearly on the other. Considering the amount of people I witnessed carrying guns on the streets since I’d moved to Kansas, it was almost as if I had been transplanted to the Wild West. To comply with the state’s gun laws, a concealed carry permit could be obtained, allowing a person to conceal a pistol and carry it at will. Or, a legal owner of any firearm could choose the “open carry” option – requiring no permit – and carry the weapon on his or her hip. Both options were completely legal.

Personally, I chose the cabinet carry method.

I spun to the side, pulled open the kitchen cabinet, grabbed my newly purchased .45 caliber Colt pistol and leveled it at his head.

“See, you could have left. You really
should
have,” I snarled as he began to walk backward, raising his hands a little higher with each step.

“What the fuck…”

“What the fuck is right.
What the fuck
did you grab me for? Huh?” I asked as I continued to force him closer to the door.

“I wanted to…”

“Shut up. Now you get to ride home barefoot. Get the fuck out,” I fumed as I tilted my head toward the door.

“Hold on,” he pleaded. “You uhhm. Fuck, you really need to…”

“You’re all fucked up on where you are,” I said. “I make the rules in this house.
You
really need to go.”

“I can’t ride without my boots,” he shrugged as he continued to nervously eye the barrel of the pistol.

“You’d be surprised. Get out,” I demanded. “And I’ll leave whatever you’ve left here at the door of the bar where we met last night on my way to work.”

“You crazy little…”

“Bitch? Yeah. I am,” I said with a grin as he stumbled into the door.

“Now reach around and open it. It’s unlocked,” I said as I nodded my head toward the door.

‘You’re really going to…”

“Yeah, really,” I said as I reached past him with my free hand and opened the door.

“Crazy bitch,” he said over his shoulder as he gingerly walked to his Harley.

“You fuck like a little girl,” I hollered as I slammed the door.

I walked into the kitchen and set the pistol on the countertop. After warming my cold coffee in the microwave I made some toast, sat down, and began to eat my light breakfast. Half a dozen beers, a few margaritas, and who knows what afterward had led to a night that was a blur of a memory at best, and now my stomach was in turmoil; anything more than toast and I’d yack for sure.

And I hated barfing just about as much as I hated men with no stamina.

As the sound of his Harley faded into the distance, it was almost as if a small part of my confidence went with him. A girl with my looks, body, sexual appetite, and my attitude should be able to find a man compatible with her.

But try as I might, I always seemed to choose the losers.

I had decided after leaving Bart that the next man I settled down with was going to treat me right, fuck me right, and be able to stand on his own two feet without my income as a crutch.

And I really didn’t care how many men I had to force out of my house at gunpoint to find him.

WILSON

As a child, I dreamed not of obtaining material things, toys, or property of any kind, but of spending time with my parents, playing in the yard, and being allowed to enjoy life as the kid I desperately wanted to be. My childhood slipped away from me, somehow without so much as a trip to the park, a single soccer match, or a birthday party with my friends.

I was raised in a disciplinary home by parents who placed tremendous value in protecting their only child from the drugs, violence, and mayhem they believed to be prevalent in the streets of the city I grew up in.

Receiving my education at home, having little exposure to other children, and being raised by a caretaker while my parents either worked or mingled with the business partners of my father should have left me mentally deranged or yearning for even an ounce of affection. For some reason, it didn’t. Now, as an adult, I would describe myself as cocky, confident, and extremely wealthy. Most who didn’t know me portrayed me as being an arrogant man, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Normally, I viewed myself as being extremely disciplined, capable of exercising control in almost any situation, and slightly weary of outsiders attempting to enter my otherwise private life. The fact that I was wealthy, single, and would always remain the son of my parents allowed me to understand there may always, however, be exceptions to these rules. And today was certainly an exception.

I was coming unraveled at the seams.

As I stood under the overhang and gazed out into the parking lot at the rain, I felt the dark skies and foul weather, at least for once, was appropriate. As I contemplated my next move, the unmistakable high-pitched complaint of an angry woman caused me to shift my eyes toward the sound of the well-chosen string of expletives. 

“Son of a fucking cocksucking motherfucking bitch.”

Standing beside what I suspected was her bicycle with her hands full of groceries; she widened her eyes, arched her back, and appeared as if she was ready to start a fight. “What are you looking at?” she growled.

She was colorful, had a remarkably athletic body, and above all things, she defined beauty.

She cocked one eyebrow comically, apparently waiting for me to respond. I tried to keep from laughing and eventually shrugged my shoulders and simply grinned. Standing five foot tall at best and weighing maybe a hundred pounds, she was wearing jean shorts, a sleeveless tee-shirt - which she obviously made at home - and had hair that resembled the color of a peach. As my eyes darted from her gorgeous face to her remarkably colored hair and eventually to her tattooed arms, I realized she was covered from her wrists to her shoulders in the colorful ink.

I had always perceived tattoos to be an interesting form of art, but found them quite distasteful on women.

Yet she was remarkably beautiful.

“I was looking at the rain,” I said as I shifted my eyes once again to the parking lot. “But your expressed displeasure caught my attention.”

“Expressed displeasure?” she said mockingly as she rested her bike against the long string of shopping carts.

“Mmhhmm,” I responded.

As much as I wanted to turn and admire her tattoos, I forced myself to gaze into the parking lot at the late afternoon deluge that fell from the summer sky. My choice to stare blankly at the rainstorm didn’t satisfy me for long, but considering her striking good looks and the fact I enjoyed ogling people’s tattoos, it was no surprise I eventually turned in her direction and smiled.

“I like your tattoos,” I said. “They’re fascinating.”

She lowered her groceries to the concrete, crossed her arms, and tilted her head to the side. “Really? You’re the first person to ever tell me that.”

I cocked an eyebrow and feigned surprise. She obviously didn’t see the humor in it.

“Is that so?” I asked.

I was still quite lost in her beauty.

She narrowed her eyes and leaned back slightly. “No,
it isn’t so
, you idiot. You’re like the tenth person this week who’s said some shit about them. I fucking swear, do guys just think mentioning a chick’s tattoos is the best way to get in her pants?”

Arrogant or conceited may have been inaccurate descriptions of me, but naïve could be used at times, and accurately so. I often wondered if my sheltered childhood prevented me from obtaining all of the real-world exposure that left most men with the keen sense of human nature which I seemed to lack. 

“I wasn’t trying to get in your pants. I merely made an observation,” I responded as I turned away.

The rain continued to come down in a manner resembling a hurricane, something typical of a Gulf Coast fueled summer rain in the Midwest.

“Here’s an observation for you. It’s fucking raining,” she said as she waved her hand toward the parking lot.

It certainly wasn’t small talk, nor did she appear to be the slightest bit interested in anything more than getting home with her groceries, but to me it was enough of an exchange to encourage me to press a little further.

“Well, it doesn’t look like it’s stopping any time soon, so…” I paused and turned toward her. “I can offer to toss your bike in the back of my car and give you a ride.”

With her eyes still fixed on me, she waved her hand toward her bicycle. “I don’t
toss
my bike around. It’s my only ride, so I take care of it.”

“I didn’t mean…never mind. Let me run and get my car and I’ll pull up here and pop the hatch. I’m Wilson,” I said as I held my hand out.

“Like Tom Hanks’ little buddy, the volleyball?” she asked with a laugh.

I pursed my lips and nodded my head, guessing I had heard the comparison made as many times as she’d had people make a comment about her tattoos. Considering all things, it was far from practical for me to toss the bicycle of an unknown tattooed girl with the mouth of a sailor into the back of my SUV and give her a ride home. Nonetheless, I stood and stared at her admiringly, hoping she would agree to my offer.

“Okay, Wilson. I’d tell you normally I don’t do shit like this, but it’d be a fucking lie. I’m Stevie. I appreciate the offer. Thanks,” she said as she shook my hand.

As she released my hand my mouth curled into a smile. As much as I liked the thought of a girl with a unique name like Stevie, I couldn’t help myself.

“Like the blind singer from the 1960’s, Stevie Wonder?” I asked.

“Good one,” she said. “Now go get your car before you say something stupid and I decide to ride in the rain.”

I gazed down at my one week old Allen Edmonds Oxfords. I doubted the rain would actually harm the shoe, and even if it did, in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter - but something about running through the six inches of water standing in the parking lot in my newly purchased $400.00 shoes didn’t seem sensible.

Honestly, considering all things, I found it quite odd that I even cared.

I turned toward her and grinned. “Be back in a minute.”

I reached into the pocket of my pants, gripped the key fob in my hand, and dashed through the parking lot as fast as I was able. By the time I reached my vehicle, I was soaked from my feet to mid-thigh. I yanked the door open, flopped down into the leather seat, and stared down at my rain-soaked pants as they clung to my legs. As sat and stared at my wet thighs, my previous plans came to mind. Somewhat frantically, I opened the console, peered inside, and sighed. As long as it was out of sight, I knew she’d never raise question. I shifted my eyes toward the store. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her chest and her hips cocked to the side. I stared in admiration for a long moment before I shifted the car into gear. As I backed out of the parking stall, I continued to admire her beauty.

For now, my plan would have to wait.

As I pulled the SUV alongside the curb in front of the store, Stevie stood and stared. I pressed the hatch-release button on the dash and rolled the passenger window down slightly.

“Just wait there, I’ll get it,” I said through the open window.

As she nodded her head I rolled up the window. After getting out and running around the car, I picked up her bike and carefully placed it in the back of the SUV and closed the hatch. Without speaking, we made eye contact, and she quickly leaped from under the overhang toward the vehicle in two long strides.

Now sitting in the car drenched from head to toe, I turned to face her. She was equally soaked, her hair a darkened wet mess matted to the sides of her face. After a short time of surveying the interior of the vehicle, she reached for her seatbelt.

“So, a Porsche? You haul your kids around in this?” she asked, improperly pronouncing the word “Porsche” in one syllable.

“Yes,” I said as I pulled away from the curb. “And no.”

She glanced up from situating the bags of groceries at her feet and narrowed her eyes. “Huh?” she huffed.

“Yes, I drive a Porsche,” I said, pronouncing the word Por-sha. “And no, I don’t haul kids around in this. I’m single, and I have no children.”

“I thought it was Porsche,” she said, improperly pronouncing the word once more.

I shook my head. “It really doesn’t matter. I was being facetious. Almost everyone pronounces it like you do.”

As I waited at the exit for a break in traffic, she sat sideways in her seat and studied me. After a moment, she shifted in the seat, faced forward, and stared out into traffic. 

“‘Expressed displeasure.’ ‘Merely made an observation.’ ‘Por-sha.’ ‘I was being facetious.’ You sound like you went to Harvard,” she said in a sarcastic tone, pronouncing the word Hah-vahd.

“I did not attend Harvard,” I said as I checked traffic in each direction. As I glanced to my right, my eyes once again became fixed on her.

She raised her hands and began raking her fingers through her wet hair as her eyes fell to her lap. Her forearms seemed to be much more colorful now that they were wet. After enjoying watching her for a short moment, I pulled out of the exit and accelerated into traffic.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

She continued to toss her hair. “You know where Riverside is?” she asked as she glanced in my direction.

I did my best to focus on the road ahead of me and not stare at her, although doing so was difficult at best. The more I studied her, the more I wanted to continue.

I nodded my head as I approached the highway. “I sure do.”

“Well, head that direction,” she said.

As she peered out the side window, seeming to take each passing car and the few distant buildings into memory, she cleared her throat.

“So, were you lurking at the store waiting for some poor girl to need a ride?” she asked as she turned in my direction.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“You were leaving, and you didn’t have a bag, weren’t holding anything, and you don’t have a bulge in your pockets, so what were you doing there? Is this something you do frequently?” she asked.

Her eyes were an almost transparent brown, and her skin was dark, but didn’t seem overly dark like some of the women who spent countless hours in the sun or a tanning booth. As I formulated a response in my head, I wondered what color her hair would be if she hadn’t colored it the combination of colors it was. What I was doing at the store was a thing of the past, and although I couldn’t undo it, I certainly wished it hadn’t happened. My focus was now changed, and the girl at my side was unknowingly breathing hope into my lungs.

“I was mailing my sister a package on the way to my office,” I lied.

She gazed down at my still soaking wet pants, peered into the rear of the vehicle, and turned to face me.

“So what do you do, Wilson?” she asked. “For money?”

“I buy and sell stocks,” I responded.

“So, you’re a stockbroker?” she asked.

“No, not a broker,” I responded, shaking my head. “A broker works as an intermediary of sorts, making trades on behalf of retail clients. I buy and sell securities in the same day, normally in large quantities, hoping for a small increase, but making a large profit due to the amount purchased. It’s a fast-paced business.”

“Day trader?” she asked.

“Exactly,” I responded, surprised she had even heard of the title.

“You don’t look like a day trader. Not that I was looking, but you’re built like a body builder,” she said.

I grinned and nodded my head. “The wet shirt gave it away, didn’t it? Thank you, I’ve studied martial arts my entire life, and I’m quite dedicated. My parents insisted on it. A man should be able to protect himself and the ones he loves.”

“You don’t ride a Harley, do you?” she asked as she shifted her eyes toward my chest.

“I sure don’t,” I responded with a laugh. “Why?”

As her focus stayed fixed on my mid-section, I realized not only were my wet pants pasted to my legs, but my soaking wet shirt was stuck to my arms and chest, and was almost transparent.

“Just wondering. I only date guys who ride Harleys, and I just moved here, and I’m single, so I was just, I don’t know…”