Chapter 8
JADE
Foot jiggling, I twiddle my thumbs as I sit on my tattoo bed and wait for Josh to arrive.
My glitter tattoo ended an hour early. That happens sometimes, when a client’s pain tolerance wanes.
It’s normal. I’ll finish the piece next month, when she comes back for her appointment. Aw. Look at me…planning ahead.
Pixie glances up from her client, meets my eye, smirks, then wipes her client’s leg. “You good?” she asks.
“Yep,” I lie and trace the outline of a cat tattoo on my arm.
“Um. Humm.”
I wave her off. “It’s fine.”
The rumble of a tailpipe rattles the front door as I watch, in horror, as Josh pulls up on his motorcycle.
Oh. Fuck.
I must make a sound because Pixie chuckles, and I shoot her a death glare that she doesn’t see, because she’s busy inking an American flag on some chick’s leg.
Like something out of one of those romance movies, Josh swings his leg off his bike, removes his helmet, sets it on his seat, and saunters into the shop wearing a cut, dark-washed jeans that hug a set of nicely toned thighs, and shit kickers.
He removes his sunglasses and tucks them into the collar of his crisp white t-shirt.
Carding a hand through his hair, he throws a panty-melting smile my way.
It’s so bright and sweet that I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s not looking at someone else.
When it’s confirmed that he is, indeed, giving me that smile, something akin to bubbles does this odd thing in my stomach as he approaches, stops at the foot of my bed, and brushes his fingers over my bare ankles.
Goosebumps break out across every inch of my body as I suppress the urge to shiver.
“Hey, pretty lady,” he purrs, and I swear… I… almost melt.
What the hell is happening?
Is this because he slept in my bed with me last night, and I actually got sleep? That must be it.
“H-hi,” I croak and clear my throat. “Hi.”
Josh smirks. “You ready to go on this date?”
“Where’s Hunter?” I ask, ignoring the fact he’s calling it a date. I know he called it that this morning, but I thought it was a slip of the tongue.
“He’s meeting us there.”
“How? Did he start driving, and I didn’t know?”
Josh huffs a laugh. “He’s got a ride.”
Right. He’s thought of everything, like always.
I glance around Josh to the two wheels sitting in front of the shop, all ominous and shiny. “You brought the bike.”
“Yep. I sure did.”
“I’m wearing a dress.” I point to said dress, on my body, like an idiot.
Again, that smirk makes an appearance, but Josh’s head tilts to the side just a little, and his eyes soften around the edges like he finds me…something not bad. “I know, babe. I dropped you off at work, remember?”
Babe.
Oh.
“Yes.” I half huff, half awkwardly growl, crossing both arms under my breasts. “But a dress and the bike don’t mix. I can’t wear this.” I pluck the fabric on my skirt, then eye his jade-green motorcycle. “On that.”
Pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh, and doing a piss-poor job of it, Josh stutters out a breath and schools his features. “I know the bike freaks you out. You can just say that.”
It’s not that it freaks me out. Well. Okay.
It does. I’m not a small woman. Riding behind anyone makes me uncomfortable.
I’ve done it a few times, but I don’t like it.
It’s too intimate, and I worry I’m taking up too much space, or holding on too tight, or that I’m gonna lean wrong and we’re gonna go down.
I may hang with bikers, but I’m not one.
“Just tuck the dress between your legs. That’s what I do,” Pixie, my boss, who obviously likes throwing me under the bus, says, ruining any chance for me to get out of this.
I huff, again, which everyone ignores.
“Smart woman.” Josh grins, lopsided and far too adorable, and offers me his hand. “Let’s get ya fed. I’m sure Hunter’s already there, waiting on us.”
That lights a fire under my ass.
Clasping my palm in Josh’s, he pulls me to my feet and doesn’t let go when I grab my purse.
We’re still holding hands as we stroll out of the shop, into the broad daylight.
He leads me to his bike, drops my hand, leaving my palm damp, and retrieves a second helmet from his saddlebag that he fits over my head.
Crooking his finger under my chin, the man forces me to look up at his too-attractive face as he fixes my chin strap. “This looks good on you.” He knocks against the side.
“It’s a helmet.” Black and simple. Nothing special.
“But it fits, and you look cute in it.”
He can’t talk to me like that.
“I’m not cute.”
“No. You’re usually hot. But the dress and the helmet.” Taking a step back, he appraises me from head to toe. “Adorable.”
More of those weird things go haywire in my belly, and I hate it as much as I hate the blush he elicits.
To stop feeling like this, I punch him in the shoulder. “Eww. You’re just buttering me up, so I stop freaking out about riding bitch.”
“Whatever you say, bestie,” Josh sings as he finishes securing his helmet and puts on his sunglasses.
He takes my purse and tucks it in his saddlebag before swinging his leg over his bike.
“Come on.” He offers me his hand, and much to my dismay, I fumble and die a little inside as I climb on behind him.
My breasts smash against his broad, leather-clad back, and every inch from there down sticks like Velcro as he helps situate my black-and-white checkered Vans on the pegs.
“You good?” He pats the side of my thigh.
“Yup. Fine,” I grumble, not at all fine.
I hate how exposed I am. My black dress is basically pooled around my waist. I tuck it as tight as I can underneath me, but what good will that do once we’re rolling?
In case you didn’t know, I love dresses.
Pinup style is my favorite. They’re long enough and comfortable enough to wear when I’m hunched over a body, jabbing ink into skin every day.
Plus, they flare enough that you can’t see my panty outline through the fabric.
They also hide all my bumps and cover a decent portion of the cellulite on my thighs.
Yes, I’m talking about my love of dresses, so I don’t end up in a panic attack.
Have I mentioned how much I don’t like riding bitch?
Josh wraps my arms tightly around his ridiculously muscular middle before firing the bike to life.
It rumbles under my ass and into parts of me that are…
dormant. In seconds, we’re backing out of the parking space and riding on two wheels.
Air flaps my black, shoulder-length hair in the wind.
It’s grown out a lot since the assholes at the warehouse shaved us bald.
Air tickles my arms, and my fingers flex and unflex as I hold on to Josh for dear life.
At a stop sign, he pulls the supple leather of his cut to the side and rests one of my palms on his t-shirt.
It’s damp from the humidity yet comforting as I watch the world fly by.
We drive through downtown. Other bikers, some Sacred Sinners, others just weekend warriors, greet Josh with the typical low, two-finger hello.
After what seems like a year, my muscles relax, and I breathe in the fresh, sticky summer air.
It smells of earth and corn. Everything does this time of year in the Midwest.
Riding out of town and through the flat countryside, I want to ask him where we’re going, but once we pass a familiar rusted-out sign, I know where we are.
It’s confirmed a minute later when Josh parks out front of a local watering hole that caters to bikers and drops his kickstand at the end of a row of motorcycles.
Hunter is standing out front of the old brick building, in a pair of jeans and a black heavy metal t-shirt with words I can’t make out, stretched across his chest. He smiles wide and waves a giant bouquet of roses at me.
My stupid insides turn to goo, and my heart…
it fills to the brim, damn near bursting.
Josh helps me off the bike, takes my helmet, and doesn’t make fun of me when I race toward my son and wrap him up in the biggest hug.
He’s taller than me now, and that’s okay.
I rest my cheek against his shoulder and smash my lips together to keep from crying.
I cannot cry. We’re here for a night out.
We’re here to have fun. I need to hear all about his time at the clubhouse, working with the brothers.
I’m sure there are plenty of stories to share.
Damn.
I’ve missed him.
A warm chuckle sounds behind me. “Let the boy go, pretty lady.”
I grip the back of Hunter’s shirt, and his cute, crackly going-through-puberty laugh rumbles in my ear. “Mom. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Shhhh.” I hide my face against his shoulder. “I’m having mom time.”
Hunter pats my back like I’m diseased. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m allowed to be weird. Moms are weird.”
My child snorts. “You’re not.”
“I am now,” I grumble.
A thick, tattooed arm wraps around my waist, and Josh carefully extracts me from my son.
I let him escort me into the bar, with Hunter in tow.
I also let him pull a chair out for me at a table in the back by the pool tables, a dart board, and a handful of different pinball machines—Hunter’s favorite.
Everyone greets us with chin lifts or waves.
Hunter knows half a dozen people by name.
It’s odd. Even more so when a waitress, close to Josh’s age, sashays over, all blonde and bubbly, and sets a Coke with two cherries in front of Hunter and a local brew on a white napkin in front of Josh.
“Thanks, Candice.” Josh flashes her a friendly smile. When she turns her attention to me, I expect her demeanor to change. That happens a lot in spaces like this, but it doesn’t.
“What can I get you, sweetie?” she asks.
“This is my mom,” Hunter says as he sets the bouquet on the edge of the table, and Josh stretches his arm across the back of my chair, where he traces designs on my shoulder.