Prideful Ache

Chapter 1

ONE

PHOEBE

There was always something so intoxicating about pain.

The impact of being slapped. The burning sting from digging my fingernails into my skin, watching how the skin only grew red and aggravated. Even the nick from a razor or snap from a rubber band, once I made it past the initial wince or groan, made my breath grow heavy.

It was euphoric, in its own sense.

Addiction was never something I struggled with, thankfully, until the aspect of pain came into the equation.

I was addicted to feeling some form of pain, but it was harder to come by than most people assumed—unless you just wanted to bang your knee into a door and then moan like a lunatic in front of a crowded room.

Yummy. Probably not recommended by a clinical physiatrist.

Or, well…anyone.

In the minds of many, the prospect of seeking pain often meant you were mentally ill or disturbed. Basically, you had to be depressed or insane, which I was neither. At least, I didn’t think I was, anyway. I’m sure I’ve had a few boyfriends who thought otherwise, though.

The point was—I didn’t seek out pain. I simply…relished in it.

Thinking someone was psychotic for liking the discomforting things in life was complete, utter bullshit, and frankly, no one’s business. Everyone’s a freak in their own way. Some people went as far as to have sex with rotting corpses, so in comparison, I’m a fucking saint.

Even if the occasional graveyard sex never hurt anybody.

Mostly.

That was a story for another day, though.

Aches zipped through my forearm and a sigh fell out of my mouth. Leaning back in the leather chair, I crossed my ankles, watching as my destroyed, midnight jeans grew tight against my thighs from the movement. I relished in the digging, stinging sensation.

It hurt.

And yet, a component in my brain nearly purred from the discomfort.

The sound of ripped disposable wax paper spread throughout the small, cramped setup of Kane’s workspace and I cringed inwardly.

These studded boots were great for the entire badass-biker-chick look that came with the ambiance of The Devils MC, but they were not practical while sitting in a tattoo chair, covered in wrap that squeaked every time my ass moved slightly to the right.

“Sorry,” I muttered. Kane only grunted back in response.

He was always grunting. I was surprised he didn’t speak caveman.

Fortunately, the pain of a tattoo gun was about as socially-acceptable as I could get without my father having some kind of stroke.

If anyone around me thought I was at risk from an outside force—even if that force was my own brain—my MC brothers would form yet another biker version of a Sister Mary church circle around me.

Just like they did when fifteen-year-old Phoebe told her father that she had begun dating some boy.

It was nothing more than a Phoebe-cock-blocking-circle, but I wasn’t going to say that out loud.

Not the type of circle jerk people actually want to be in.

Especially when Aureo, one of the new riders at the time, caught me losing my virginity in the backseat of a college guy's pickup truck, mid fake orgasm. Tits out and all.

To be fair, the random guy promptly shoved me off of him after making eye contact with Aureo—girls knew how to get themselves off in seconds, but as soon as you threw a stumbling guy into the picture, it was game-over.

Not the best way to lose your v-card, that’s for sure.

No one in the gang looked me in the eyes for months after that, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with purity, sex, or similar.

Instead, I’m pretty positive that my father would have decapitated any of his men, loyal or not, just for looking at me during that time of my life, period.

Your wife dies, your teenage daughter starts having sex, and your town fills itself with rival gangs? Hell, he probably wanted to decapitate me—and it would honestly have been stress relieving if he did. I didn’t envy the man for all of the attitude I threw his way.

Or the entire biker crew, for that matter.

I could still feel Aureo tugging my ponytail in the bar one day after a particularly loud argument with Daddy dearest. I tried to look at him, only to be met with a black bandana that covered most of his face.

“Bratty Phoebe out to play again?” he muttered, swiping the beer from me that I had just conveniently pouted my way into receiving from the bartender.

He left without another word, departing with a dark chuckle, just like he always did.

Fucking asshole.

He saw my tits once and thought he had some kind of bullying claim over me.

So, it wasn't a surprise any of the other brothers avoided me like the plague after that experience. They were probably one comment away from getting stabbed in the leg as it was, let alone if they brought me up.

Aureo, new rider or not though, had it lucky.

Afterall—he was dad’s childhood best friend who moved away to be with the woman of his dreams, only to crash and burn after some shitty luck with love and killing careers. Dad protected him unlike anyone else. Sometimes, I wondered if he’d choose him or me.

I was pretty sure he would choose me, but you never really knew. A brotherhood bond went to depths even I didn’t understand sometimes.

In my defense, no one wanted to lose their virginity to a fumbling boy who masturbated more hours than he slept; let alone one who didn’t even know how to put on a condom correctly.

Granted, no one really wanted to lose their virginity in the back of a truck, either, but my options were limited and the opportunity presented itself.

Get it done.

Get it over with.

No societal standards over the stupid hymen.

So, if pretending I wasn’t an absolute masochist was the only objective needed to avoid the wild, mostly-bearded Sister Margarets, then so be it.

They had certainly cock-blocked me enough already.

“And we’re done,” Kane said, his voice gruff as he squinted down at the fresh ink on my arm, inspecting it one last time.

Smiling, I eagerly jumped off the tattoo bench to inspect the newest design in his studio mirror.

The skin was raw, pink, and heavily abused, but the wolf staring back at me was beautiful.

Intricate swirls of blue danced in the eyes of the design, while the rest of the piece remained black and white, matching the other artwork dancing over my skin.

While I had never believed myself to be a spiritual person, I always wondered what it would be like to be reincarnated as a wolf. I wondered what it would be like to be truly fearless, loyal, and worthy, without being born in the ranks for such a position.

To earn the right of survival instead of being guarded.

I was fortunate to be the princess of such a brotherhood, but as the saying goes: you always wonder about the things you haven’t experienced or don’t have, and then you envy it, anyway.

So, while I would never be a wolf and I would never have to realistically worry about surviving in this life, I could carry it with me.

I could carry around a semblance of strength that said I was worthy without my father’s say-so.

I could use my smart mouth to portray I was something strong, even if I often questioned myself during the dark hours at night.

I watched as Kane began the steps of his aftercare process, never missing a beat in the routine, smirking in admiration at his own artwork.

It was the same method every time.

Douse paper towels in foaming soap, wipe the flesh until it was nearly raw—maybe a few more times, if he was feeling extra generous that day—and then bullshit around before covering the area with a bandage that hurt like fuck to take off in a couple days.

It was like clockwork.

A sigh of relief escaped my mouth as he started to wipe the cool material against the inflamed flesh of my forearm and my shoulders slumped forward slightly. The skin around the blackened floral design was bright, pink, and hot to the touch.

The cool glide of the cleaning solution was near orgasmic because of it.

I chuckled as I thought about how so many people thought the aftercare process was similar to wiping their arm with sandpaper, when I compared it to the feeling of being doused in cold water after escaping an inflamed house.

Yet again, masochistic tendencies.

Or maybe the general population was just full of pussies.

The lines of pain, courage, and cowardice were all extremely thin and blurry in the grand scheme of things. Plus, if I could call the world overly-sensitive, then I could easily tell myself that nothing was technically wrong with me or my…eccentric outlets.

Earlier that evening, after the wolf design had already been drawn up and we had sipped one-too-many fingers of Irish whiskey in what we called Birthday Bitch Celebration, Kane and I impulsively decided to add vine work and sunflowers to the already existing Stormed Souls symbol further down my arm.

I looked down in admiration with him as it blended into the rest of my artwork beautifully.

I was desperate to add any feminine touch to the amount of testosterone that surrounded me, and like always, Kane delivered exactly what I needed.

Plus, I knew when I decided on the addition that my dad, president of the Little Devils MC, wouldn't have any issues with it like he would with any of the other guys who decided to mark themselves with the symbol.

I was a daddy’s girl, through and through, after all.

Looking down in fondness, the florals and smoky design surrounding the infamous skull, holding a lightning bolt under its eye, glared back up at me. I couldn’t contain my smile.

Dad would never let me in the field with the rest of them, but I would always be a member, anyway.

I was proud of what he accomplished.

Even if it wasn’t inherently legal all of the time.

It was pretty much initiation to be tattooed by Kane at least once if you lived in the small town of Nixie, Ohio.

He was the best in the area. From the minute I turned eighteen—the only law my dad was ever truly strict on, go figure—to now, on my twenty-second birthday, Kane had completed nine projects along my skin; with many more to come.

“I love it,” I whispered, the smile on my face growing even more.

The double bright side about tattoos belonging to the one category of acceptable pain?

Art.

There would always be an artistic conclusion to the agony.

I leaned forward, placing way too much trust in the arm rail of the tattoo chair, and plopped a wet kiss on Kane’s cheek, leaving the softest imprint of purple lipstick in its wake.

He made a noncommittal sound, wiping away at his stark-black beard with the back of his hand as the faintest glimmer of pink formed under the scratchy skin.

“Girly, can you stop kissing me after every tattoo session? I have a lady, you know.”

“Nope,” I replied, popping the p with my lips. “I have to show my appreciation somehow. And your one-night stands don't count as having a lady, K. But nice try."

He laughed gruffly, the bloodshot in his eyes simmering against his blue irises, and clutched his heart mockingly. “Some guys would prefer to have a container of whiskey or a blow job for thanks, yet I get gifted with wet kisses and insults.”

“Go ask your lady for a blow job then, old man.”

He rolled his eyes and snapped the gloves off of his hands, tossing them in the waste bin by his swivel chair. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, you brat.”

I watched him, curious as to what the man was ever really thinking about.

If there was ever someone to be confused by, it was Kane Rogers.

He always tried to fit in with the rest of the guys, but it never really clicked.

He was quiet, calculating, and yet none of us knew anything real about him, other than his artistic skills.

He was…different. And I never knew if that was good or not.

He avoided the topic, easily sidestepping the conversation as he pulled a bandage barrier from his drawer of supplies along with a pair of neon-pink scissors. “So, tell me. What is the famous biker-princess doing for her birthday?” A twisted, faux smile filled his face.

“Do you want the truthful answer or the bullshit answer?”

“What do I look like, your father? I couldn’t care less, but the truth would be nice, yeah.”

I bit my bottom lip. The slightest bits of nervousness fitted through my stomach with the truthful answer. “I’m going to get shit-faced.”

He snorted. “Obviously.”

“And then I’m going to the Crow Cavern with Echo.”

His sudden stiff posture was enough to make my stomach clench.

I always attempted to not appear as shy and reserved as I actually was, but damn, telling one of your brothers that you were practically going to a sex club wasn’t exactly a pleasure.

He looked down at me with something akin to humor in his eyes. Though as the light from his floor lamp hit his face, a scowl etched across his stern features, highlighting the rugged and scarred appearance even more. “The Crow Cavern? Ain’t you a little too young for that kind of thing?”

“I thought you said you weren’t my parent?” I rebutted. I felt my eyebrow twitch in annoyance.

He pointed at me, his own bushy eyebrow raising in mock defense. “I’m not. But you know that we protect you, and you and your little friend are about to walk into a sex club. Can you blame me for not loving the idea?”

“Maybe. But it is technically my dad’s club, you know. I have my big girl pants on and everything lately. I know exactly what goes on in there.”

“You know, one of the guys is patrolling tonight. Maybe you and Echo should ju–”

I snapped forward, cutting his sentence short, forcing the chair beneath me to creak obnoxiously. I did not need someone trying to be a second father to me. Especially when my real father was suffocating, albeit lovingly, enough. “I can handle myself. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

That bushy brow of his lowered, furrowing instead. He stared at me, his eyes calculating me yet again. But after a few moments, he raised his hands in submission, like his own personal white flag. The tattooed rose on the back of his hand glinted in the light from the action.

“Alright. Your funeral, girly. Give me your wrist so I can put this shit on and get you out of my shop. I have plans tonight.”

I heaved out a breath of relief and slumped back into his chair, holding my arm up and ready so he could begin wrapping it with the Saniderm I loved more than anything. It hurt like a bitch to take off, regardless of how big the tattoo was, but I was just a little too fucked in the head to care.

As he placed it on my arm, completely ignoring my pouts, my mind wandered to the chaos that may ensue tonight. I sighed as my heart started to beat faster.

Echo was a really bad influence.