Inked Fighter: Complete Collection (MMA MC New Adult Romance) (12 page)

I closed my eyes, waiting for his kiss when the front door creaked. My eyes snapped open. Zoe stood in the doorway staring at us with a smirk on her face.

“My bad!” she said, moving to the kitchen.

“It’s fine, Zoe,” I said, my face growing hot. I pulled away from Damien. Rose bounced in her playpen, saying, “Zo, Zo, Zo.” Bradly ran around the living room like a maniac, jumping on the furniture.

“We’re glad you’re home,” I said, smiling.

Damien said, “I should go while the weather is cleared up. Call me if you need anything.”

“Sure,” I whispered. He planted a kiss on my cheek. I put my hand where his lips had been and watched him ride away.

Chapter Seven: Damien

A few days later, I got the okay from Martel to open my doors. All the paperwork was in order, and we were good to go. Bill kept his word and was the first to come by the shop for a tattoo. He wanted a pinup girl on his right bicep. I liked tattooing pinup girls, and he gave me a good idea of what he wanted her to look like.

I sketched him a girl in a red flannel shirt that tied under her breasts. She wore cut-off jean shorts and cowboy boots, riding a Harley. It was a cute mixture of cowgirl and biker chick. I liked it. We got to talking while I tattooed him. He told me about his wife and kids.

Bill was actually a decent guy. He owned the pizza place along with Martel, and had a piece of land about six miles west of town. His wife was a nurse at the clinic, and they grew vegetables and were almost totally off the grid.

He told me about how he came to be part of the club. Back when he was in his mid-twenties, he met Martel and got involved because of him. He’d just gotten back from the first Gulf War and he wanted to be part of a brotherhood again.

The way Bill talked about the gang, it almost seemed like a civic organization like the Shriners or the PTA. My first impression was that it was a criminal organization. Maybe because their sergeant-at-arms had been gone, there was now an overt douchebag element. Regardless, I still didn’t appreciate the introduction or the blackmail.

Over the next few weeks, more guys from the club came in to my tattoo shop. Each told me stories about how they joined the club. I tattooed a lot of tourists. The girl from the health food store told all her friends about the shop, and I was flooded with local kids. At the end of the day, my cash drawer was always full.

Today I closed up shop, entered the daily totals into the computer system, and went upstairs to get ready for Claire to come over. Ever since I’d helped her with her house and her sister, she’d been coming over to hang out on Zoe’s days off. Tonight, it was going to be a “Project Runway” marathon. Claire had been ecstatic since she’d found out about it.

After our first kiss, she’d pulled away again. Most of the time we sat together, holding hands while we watched cable. I was okay with not having a physical relationship. I knew she wasn’t ready. Getting knocked up the first time would leave anyone with a permanent scar. I had to admit, I was getting restless. I wanted her bad. I dreamed about her at night. I thought of her in the shower. I was starting to feel like a fourteen-year-old boy.

Just as I pulled my baked Alaskan salmon from the oven, I heard a knock at the door. I jogged over to open it and found her standing there looking hotter than I’d ever seen her. She wore one of her own dresses cut short on the leg with the neck scooped low.  I could see the swell of her breast and the softness of her thighs. Her hair was layered and tumbled around her shoulders in soft curls. Claire was wearing makeup! Her eyes were encircled in black liner and her lips were matte red. I scanned her up and down, not believing my eyes.

“Wow, you look amazing.”

“I finally broke down and wore one of my own dresses.” She shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, and I realized I was blocking her entrance while I ogled her body.

“Come in!” I said, getting out of the way.

She walked in and headed to the kitchen, where she leaned over the bar to inspect my cooking. I ran over and dished the salmon into place with garlic sautéed green beans and risotto. I had learned to cook from my mom. After I started training, I took cooking lessons from a member of my old gym in LA so I could learn how to make healthy foods.

I brought the plates around to the dining room table and Claire sat in front of her plate. She seemed withdrawn compared to the last time we’d spoken. She had been so excited about the show.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, uncorking a bottle of chilled chardonnay.

“Everything is fine. I just had another run-in with Regan. She says the most horrible things sometimes. It makes me feel really bad about myself.”

I poured two glasses of wine and brought them to the table before I sat down. I lifted the wine to my lips and let the soft buttery flavor roll over my palate. Claire picked at her green beans and then picked up her glass, twirling the light amber liquid around in the stemmed glass.

“Zoe wants to kick her out.”

“What about you?” I asked, taking a bite of salmon.

“Sometimes I do, but… I can’t. Regan used to be different. I can’t forget that person.”

“You think she’s going to come back or something?”

Claire shoved a bite of salmon in her mouth and chewed. Her forehead crinkled and she frowned. When she was done chewing, she sighed and took a deep gulp of wine, then set the glass down with a clanging sound.

“Maybe I do. If she would get help. I feel as responsible for Regan as I do for Zoe or Rose. Well, maybe not Rose. Regan isn’t in control of what she does.”

“Do you think you are making excuses for her?”

She glared at me. Her stare was stone cold, and it made sharp chills run down my arms and into my chest.

“No. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

We finished eating and went to sit on the couch to watch the “Project Runway” marathon. Claire lit up after about fifteen minutes into the show. I handed her a dessert plate with a small slice of chocolate cake, and watched her while I leaned on the couch arm. We ate the cake and finished off the bottle of wine, but Claire never scooted over on the couch to sit next to me.

One of the designers she liked got eliminated in the semifinals and she yelled at the television. Watching her react so emotionally to a design TV show reminded me of how guys react to sports. It was so adorable. I had a smile plastered on my face the whole night.

We watched the marathon late into the night, and Claire rested her head against the opposite arm of the couch instead of my chest. Something was wrong. We didn’t do more than kiss, but she usually didn’t avoid me so completely.

I watched her fall asleep and wondered if I should wake her to drive home. She looked so peaceful with her legs curled up under her as she dozed. I knew she needed to get home to her daughter. At about one in the morning, I gently shook her arm.

“Claire. Wake up. It’s late.”

She took a deep breath and sat up. I knelt beside her and watched her face come back to consciousness.

“Shit,” she said, with sleep in her voice. “What time is it?”

“It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh, I do have to go. Thank you for waking me.”

She stood on wobbly feet and slid her ankle-high boots back on. Stumbling toward the door, she reached out to the wall for balance.

“Are you going to be all right driving?”

“Ah, I’m just tired.”

“Let me get you a glass of water.” I got her a glass of water from the kitchen and she chugged it down. “Maybe you should stay here. I don’t feel comfortable with you driving like this.”

She took another breath and cupped her forehead with her hand. “Maybe I drank too much.” Claire called her sister and left a message on the answering machine. When she was done, she stumbled into the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and climbed into bed. I turned off the lights in the living room and kitchen before I went to brush my teeth.

Claire was in my bed. I’d been waiting for weeks for this. I’d just never imagined it would be like this. I took a drink of water, swished the toothpaste from my mouth, and spit, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I went into the bedroom. It was dark except for the bedside lamp. After I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my pants and shirt, I crawled into bed next to her. She turned over and cradled her head in my chest, and I put my arm around her shoulder.

“Do you think I’m a tease?” she slurred.

“No.”

“Regan says I’m a fat tease and no one will ever want me.”

“Regan is a bitch.”

“Do you want me, Damien?” She ran her clumsy hand down my chest to find my half-erect penis. She fiddled with my briefs and gripped it with her hands. All the fantasies I’d had about Claire had never been anything like this. She was drunk and hurting. Her hand on my cock felt so good I couldn’t stop her.

“I think you know the answer to that one,” I said, breathing heavily.

“I don’t let you touch me. You never even try anymore. Don’t you want me? Do I disgust you?”

“Of course I want you. God, how could you think you disgust me?” I took her hand and pulled it away from my body. “I don’t want you like this. I’ve never seen you drunk. Regan obviously said something that messed with you. I’m not taking advantage of that. I care too much about you.”

“You don’t want me. I’m disgusting.” She turned over in the bed and started bawling. Spastic sobs shook her body as she cried.

“No. Of course, I do. Please don’t cry. Just try to sleep, all right?” I rubbed her arm and back until her sobs died down. Soon she was breathing deeply, totally quiet. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. Regan was nothing but trouble. If she couldn’t get her act together, she needed to get the hell out of Claire’s life.

The next morning, I woke first and made a pot of coffee. The rich aroma brought Claire out of the bedroom like a cute little zombie. She squinted at the morning light.

“Good morning, lightweight,” I teased as I handed her a cup of coffee with cream and sugar.

“I’m definitely not that.”

“You got smashed on three glasses of wine.”

“I’m not a drinker.”

“Apparently not.”

She slid into the dining room table and sipped her coffee. “I need to get home.” She downed the rest of her coffee, stood, and grabbed her purse. “How about next week we do something else. Maybe have a picnic out in the park? I’ll drive.”

“All right.”

She walked over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “About last night,” I said as she turned to the door.

She looked over her shoulder at me. “What? It’s nothing. I get it.” She opened the door and started to walk outside.

“I meant what I said.”

This time she turned to face me, standing one step down in the staircase. “What did you say?”

“That I care about you, and I do want you. You should know that.”

She sighed and looked away. “I know,” she said. Then she walked away. 

A few days later, I went to the club to hang out during their poker game. I’d started to feel at home there after the guys who were actually in the club came to get work done at my shop. That night for poker, it was just a few guys. Martel didn’t come to the poker nights, but Bill and Mike were both there. Perez had just gone across the street to get another six-pack. 

Bill had just dealt me into the game when Perez came running into the room.

“Damien, you’ve got to come over to The Clutch before someone gets hurt!”

“What?” I threw my cards on the table and followed him outside.

I ran out into the warm, damp night with Perez and ducked around the Highway 101 traffic. Across the highway, in the parking lot of The Clutch, was a line of motorcycles and a collection of muddy four-wheel drive trucks.

The sound of a shrieking woman’s voice wailed through the front door over the sound of classic rock. When I opened the door, I was slapped by the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. The regular patrons of The Clutch, mostly older dudes from around the area — loggers, bikers, farmer types, a few old hippies, and some of the troublemakers who’d infiltrated the club before I’d become sergeant-at-arms sat with their mouths wide open, staring at the spectacle freaking out on the bar.

There was Regan in all her glory, stripped to the waist, screaming at everyone incoherently. She wore cut-off shorts and Doc Martens that she used to kick pint glasses and beer bottles onto the already wet floor.

I approached her with my hands in a surrender position, but she kicked a bottle right at my head. I ducked and narrowly avoided being smashed in the face.

She didn’t recognize me. I couldn’t get to her from the front, so I backed away and reassessed my tactic. Some customers behind me mumbled about the area going to hell. A few guys whistled and clapped like jackasses. Someone put “American Woman,” by Guess Who on the jukebox. The sound of screaming and crashing beer bottles was accentuated by the rhythm of the music.

Regan threw a bottle at some kid with dreadlocks. I had my chance while she was distracted. I crept behind the bar and grabbed her around the waist. She swung a full bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the air and tried to knock it over my head. I was far too strong for her. I squeezed her hand until she let the bottle fall to the floor with a thud, and I hauled her out of the bar.

Out in the night, the crickets chirped on the hillside louder than the muffled sound of music. I gripped Regan’s arms and looked her in the face under the dim glow of the parking lot lights.

“What the fuck are you doing, Regan?”

“Let go of me!”

“You need to get some clothes on. It’s time to go home.”

“No. Let me go. Rape! Rape!”

“Shut up! I’m trying to help you.”

She wrenched one of her hands free and slashed me across the face with her sharp fingernails.