Chapter One
Paxton set down his ink machine to accept a bottle of beer from one of the club girls. As he swallowed the earthy flavors, he eyed the young woman. They called girls like her “sweet butts” and he could see why.
This one had a particularly enticing curve to her ass.
“You like the booties, I see.” Tommy’s tone was amused despite the gravel in his voice. Years of motorcycles, whiskey, and hard living did that to a man. He wouldn’t have it any other way, and neither would Paxton.
Nodding, Paxton took another drink of beer and smiled at the sweet butt. She gave him a sparkling white grin, her blonde bangs dripping into her eyes with just enough hint of seduction.
She dropped him a wink. “You know where to find me, Pax.”
Paxton watched her sway away from the table where he was creating his latest masterpiece on Tommy’s one blank patch of skin on his upper arm.
“You should tap that,” Tommy said.
Paxton took up his machine again. The equipment was an extension of his hand and mind. He often didn’t even use a stencil but inked right onto the skin. In a motorcycle club like the Hell’s Sons , he got a lot of work.
Though the work wasn’t as exciting as some of the other guys got. Paxton wasn’t making illegal alcohol deals or fighting with Russian hit men.
“Maybe I will tap that,” he said noncommittally.
“At your age, there’s nothing that would have stopped me.”
Paxton swept his gaze over Tommy’s face. The man was rough around the edges but he supposed he looked young enough to attract more than a sweet butt, who would sleep with anybody in leather.
“How come you don’t have an old lady?” Paxton set needles to skin.
“Used to. Too much trouble at my age.” Tommy ran a finger down each scar crisscrossing his cheeks. He’d earned them in a fight and they puckered his skin without making him look disfigured.
“C’mon, man. Chicks dig scars.”
Tommy delivered a light slap to Paxton’s cheek. “Better go out and get a few of your own then, pretty boy.”
“I’m not unwilling.” He laid down a line of black ink. The words “Kiss my country ass” surrounded the American flag. Nothing said Heller’s Gap, Alabama like a redneck tat.
“What’s stoppin’ ya? Go out and get in trouble.”
Paxton threw him a grin before adding a lighter line that would fade to gray and add dimension. “I’d like to earn a little trouble if you know what I mean.”
Tommy arched a brow. “Oh?”
Gliding the needle over Tommy’s skin, he said, “I want a piece of the biz. Something to earn me that patch.” He jerked his chin at the leather vest Tommy wore. The “cut” had several club patches on it, and one was the coveted blood patch.
The solid blood red rectangle was earned when a man was willing to bleed for the good of the club. And Paxton was.
Several times he’d asked to make alcohol runs or run vigilante on the drug dealers of the town. But the MC—motorcycle club—prez, Jamison, claimed he didn’t want Paxton to fuck up his hands in bar fights. Who would ink their members?
Tommy ran a finger over the patch. “You sure you’re worthy?”
“Hell yeah. I’ve been a full member for two years.”
“Why don’t you ask Jamison to take one of the runs over the state line?”
The tax-free alcohol trade was booming, and eluding the Feds was risky. Paxton had requested a spot on the team before and was blown off.
“Maybe I will.”
“Hey, Jamison, come listen to this.” Tommy waved at the prez.
Paxton glanced from his fresh ink to see Jamison setting the soft, curvy redhead onto the seat next to him. The man had it bad for his old lady, and no wonder. Every member’d had a wet dream or two about Ever.
Jamison dropped into a seat at the table beside Tommy. “Ink’s looking good, Pax.”
He responded with a chin nod and kept inking.
“Our boy here wants a blood patch. Can’t we hook him up?”
Paxton hid his smile. This was how things went
Paxton set down his ink machine to accept a bottle of beer from one of the club girls. As he swallowed the earthy flavors, he eyed the young woman. They called girls like her “sweet butts” and he could see why.
This one had a particularly enticing curve to her ass.
“You like the booties, I see.” Tommy’s tone was amused despite the gravel in his voice. Years of motorcycles, whiskey, and hard living did that to a man. He wouldn’t have it any other way, and neither would Paxton.
Nodding, Paxton took another drink of beer and smiled at the sweet butt. She gave him a sparkling white grin, her blonde bangs dripping into her eyes with just enough hint of seduction.
She dropped him a wink. “You know where to find me, Pax.”
Paxton watched her sway away from the table where he was creating his latest masterpiece on Tommy’s one blank patch of skin on his upper arm.
“You should tap that,” Tommy said.
Paxton took up his machine again. The equipment was an extension of his hand and mind. He often didn’t even use a stencil but inked right onto the skin. In a motorcycle club like the Hell’s Sons , he got a lot of work.
Though the work wasn’t as exciting as some of the other guys got. Paxton wasn’t making illegal alcohol deals or fighting with Russian hit men.
“Maybe I will tap that,” he said noncommittally.
“At your age, there’s nothing that would have stopped me.”
Paxton swept his gaze over Tommy’s face. The man was rough around the edges but he supposed he looked young enough to attract more than a sweet butt, who would sleep with anybody in leather.
“How come you don’t have an old lady?” Paxton set needles to skin.
“Used to. Too much trouble at my age.” Tommy ran a finger down each scar crisscrossing his cheeks. He’d earned them in a fight and they puckered his skin without making him look disfigured.
“C’mon, man. Chicks dig scars.”
Tommy delivered a light slap to Paxton’s cheek. “Better go out and get a few of your own then, pretty boy.”
“I’m not unwilling.” He laid down a line of black ink. The words “Kiss my country ass” surrounded the American flag. Nothing said Heller’s Gap, Alabama like a redneck tat.
“What’s stoppin’ ya? Go out and get in trouble.”
Paxton threw him a grin before adding a lighter line that would fade to gray and add dimension. “I’d like to earn a little trouble if you know what I mean.”
Tommy arched a brow. “Oh?”
Gliding the needle over Tommy’s skin, he said, “I want a piece of the biz. Something to earn me that patch.” He jerked his chin at the leather vest Tommy wore. The “cut” had several club patches on it, and one was the coveted blood patch.
The solid blood red rectangle was earned when a man was willing to bleed for the good of the club. And Paxton was.
Several times he’d asked to make alcohol runs or run vigilante on the drug dealers of the town. But the MC—motorcycle club—prez, Jamison, claimed he didn’t want Paxton to fuck up his hands in bar fights. Who would ink their members?
Tommy ran a finger over the patch. “You sure you’re worthy?”
“Hell yeah. I’ve been a full member for two years.”
“Why don’t you ask Jamison to take one of the runs over the state line?”
The tax-free alcohol trade was booming, and eluding the Feds was risky. Paxton had requested a spot on the team before and was blown off.
“Maybe I will.”
“Hey, Jamison, come listen to this.” Tommy waved at the prez.
Paxton glanced from his fresh ink to see Jamison setting the soft, curvy redhead onto the seat next to him. The man had it bad for his old lady, and no wonder. Every member’d had a wet dream or two about Ever.
Jamison dropped into a seat at the table beside Tommy. “Ink’s looking good, Pax.”
He responded with a chin nod and kept inking.
“Our boy here wants a blood patch. Can’t we hook him up?”
Paxton hid his smile. This was how things went
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