Chapter 22
GHOST
Bonnie paces the length of the common room for the third time in ten minutes.
Window to door. Door to window. Her boots hit the floor in a rhythm that’s starting to grate on everyone’s nerves.
Miller glances up from his pool game. “You gonna wear a hole in the floor?”
She ignores him and keeps pacing.
I watch from my spot near the bar. She stops at the window, stares out at the parking lot, then turns and does it again.
This has been going on for two days, ever since Savage Legion hit Snake’s tattoo shop.
They didn’t burn it down—just smashed the windows, spray-painted threats on the walls, left a dead rat nailed to the front door with a note that said Next time it’s your apprentice. Snake closed up the shop immediately. Called Ash to tell him Bonnie shouldn’t visit until the heat dies down.
That was forty-eight hours ago. Bonnie’s been climbing the walls ever since.
She stops at the window again, pressing her palms against the glass.
“I should be working,” she says to no one in particular. “I have clients. Appointments. Mrs. Liu is supposed to come in next week for her cancer survivor piece, and I haven’t even finished the design.”
“Mrs. Liu can wait,” Titan calls from the couch where he’s cleaning his gun. “She’d rather wait than identify your body.”
Bonnie spins around. “I’m not going to die giving someone a fucking tattoo.”
“Tell that to the dead rat Snake pulled off his door.”
Her jaw clenches. She turns back to the window.
I set down my water and cross the room. She doesn’t acknowledge me when I stop beside her. “You’re making everyone nervous,” I say quietly.
“Good. Maybe someone will let me leave then.”
“Ash isn’t changing his mind.”
“Ash can go fuck himself.”
Miller whistles low from the pool table. “Dangerous words, Mrs. President.”
She flips him off without looking away from the window.
I study her reflection in the glass. Dark circles under her eyes. Jaw tight. Fingers drumming against her thigh in a pattern I recognize—she’s counting. Trying to calm herself down.
It’s not working.
“When’s the last time you held a tattoo machine?” I ask.
“Five days ago. Why?”
“You miss it.”
“Of course I miss it. It’s the only thing I’m actually good at, and I’m stuck in this compound like a prisoner while everyone else gets to—” She stops. Takes a breath. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”
“You’re not.”
She looks at me, finally. “What?”
“You’re not being dramatic. You’re an artist who can’t work. That’s like cutting off a limb.”
Her expression softens slightly. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
I make the decision before I can talk myself out of it. “Tattoo me.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You need to work. I need ink.” I pull my shirt over my head and point to a blank space on my chest, just below my collarbone. “Right here. Whatever design you want. Your choice.”
“Ghost—”
“You can set up in your room. Bring your equipment. Take as long as you need.” I meet her eyes.
She stares at me for a long moment. Then her whole face changes. The frustration melts away. “You’re serious.”
“I don’t joke about ink.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “Okay. Yeah. Give me an hour to set up.” She’s moving toward the stairs before I can respond. She takes the steps two at a time.
Miller leans on his pool cue. “You’re a good man, Ghost.”
“I’m a practical man. Another hour of her pacing, and someone was going to lose their shit.”
Titan grins from the couch. “Sure. That’s why you did it.”
I flip him off and head upstairs.
An hour later, I’m sitting in a chair Bonnie dragged in from somewhere, shirtless, while she sets up her station.
She’s transformed a small part of her room into a makeshift tattoo parlor. Equipment laid out on a clean towel. Ink caps filled and organized by color. Gloves, razors, transfer paper—everything in its proper place. She works in silence, checking and rechecking each piece of equipment.
This is different from the Bonnie who paces and worries and carries the weight of too many secrets. This Bonnie knows exactly what she’s doing.
“I sketched a few options while I was setting up,” she says, pulling out her phone. “Unless you want to tell me what you want specifically.”
“Your choice. I trust you.”
She scrolls through her photos, stops on one, and studies it. “This one. It’ll work well with your other ink.”
She shows me the sketch. A raven mid-flight, rendered in black and gray with incredible detail. The feathers look like they’d move if you touched them.
“It’s perfect.”
“You haven’t even looked at it for more than two seconds.”
“Don’t need to. If you drew it, it’s perfect.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. She looks away, back to her equipment. “Okay. Let me prep the area.”
She moves closer, razor in hand. Her fingers are gentle as she shaves the area where the tattoo will go. I can smell her shampoo and feel the warmth of her body this close to mine.
“This might take a few hours,” she says, wiping down my skin with alcohol. “The detail work is pretty intensive.”
“I’ve got nowhere to be.”
She positions the transfer paper, presses it against my chest, and peels it away to reveal the outline. Then she steps back to check the placement.
“Looks good,” I say.
“You didn’t even look at it.”
“I’m looking at you looking at it. That’s good enough.”
She shakes her head, but I catch the small smile. “You’re weird.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Fine.” She pulls on black gloves and picks up her machine. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The machine buzzes to life. She tests it once, adjusts something, tests it again. Then she leans in, and the needle touches my skin.
The pain is sharp and familiar. I’ve sat through dozens of tattoos over the years—each one a mark of something survived, something earned, something lost.
This one’s different.
Bonnie works with complete focus, her brow furrowed in concentration. The machine hums steadily in her hand as she traces the outline, pulling smooth lines that will become feathers and wings.
“So,” she says after a few minutes. “How long were you in the military?”
“Six years.”
“What made you join?”
“Needed discipline.”
She glances up at me, then back to her work. “That’s it? Just needed discipline?”
“Yeah.”
“What branch?”
“Marines.”
“Were you always a sniper?”
“No. Started as an infantryman. Then I showed aptitude for long-range. They trained me.”
Another glance. She’s trying to understand me and pull more out of me than the bare minimum I give everyone else.
“What made you leave?”
“My contract was up.”
“But you could have re-enlisted.”
“Could have.”
“So why didn’t you?”
I’m quiet for a moment, feeling the needle drag across my skin, creating art from pain.
“Got tired of being told who to kill,” I say finally.
She stops tattooing and looks at me fully. “Is that why you joined the club? So you could choose?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She studies my face, searching for something I’m not going to give her. Then she goes back to tattooing.
“What about this one?” She gestures to the military insignia on my shoulder without stopping her work. “What does it mean?”
“Service.”
“And this one?” She nods toward the dog tags inked on my ribs.
“Brothers I lost.”
“The skull on your forearm?”
“First confirmed kill.”
She’s quiet for a while after that, just the buzz of the machine filling the silence.
I watch her work, the way her lips press together when she’s concentrating on a difficult line, the way her eyes narrow slightly as she switches ink colors.
After about twenty minutes, she tries again. “Do you miss it? The military?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you miss?”
“The clarity.”
“Clarity?”
“Knowing exactly what your mission is. Execute it. No politics. No gray areas.”
“The club has plenty of gray areas.”
“Yeah.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Not anymore.”
She wipes excess ink from my skin, examines her work, and goes back to it. “What changed?”
“You.”
She freezes for just a second, then keeps working like I didn’t just admit something I’ve been avoiding saying.
“Me?” Her voice is careful.
“You changed things. Made the gray areas matter less.”
“How?”
“Because now I’m fighting for something that matters.”
She doesn’t respond.
We fall into silence after that. She stops trying to pull conversation out of me, and I stop deflecting. The machine buzzes. Ink flows. Art forms on my skin.
I watch her work and realize I could do this forever. Sit here while she creates, while she loses herself completely in the thing she loves most.
This is who Bonnie really is. An artist. Young, talented, hungry for respect and recognition, and the chance to prove herself in a world that wants to define her by who she belongs to instead of what she can create.
Guilt twists in my gut. I questioned her loyalty. Suspected her of betraying us. Looked at her like she might be the enemy.
But she’s not.
She’s just a young woman who wants to draw, ink, and build something that’s hers. Who dreams of her own shop someday, her name respected in the MC tattoo community, her art speaking for itself.
And I almost destroyed that by doubting her.
The hours pass. She switches between outline and shading, filling in the raven’s wings with gradients of black and gray that make them look three-dimensional.
My chest aches, but I don’t move.
She’s beautiful like this. I would give her every inch of bare skin I have left if it meant seeing her like this more often. Would volunteer for a full-body suit if it kept that look of concentration on her face, that slight smile when she nails a difficult section.
Finally, after what might be three hours or might be five—I lost track—she sits back and turns off her machine.
“Done.”
She wipes down the tattoo one last time, then holds up a mirror so I can see.
The raven is incredible. Wings spread wide, caught mid-flight, every feather rendered in perfect detail. It looks alive, like it might take off from my chest at any moment.
“Bonnie.” My voice comes out rough. “This is—”
“If you say it’s fine, I’ll stab you with this needle.”
“It’s perfect. You did an incredible job.”
Her whole face lights up. Glows. Like my words are the only review that matters, the only validation she needed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Best ink I’ve ever gotten.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I don’t just say things.” I meet her eyes. “You’re talented. Really talented. Snake taught you well, but this—” I gesture to the raven. “This is all you.”
She ducks her head, but I can see the smile she’s trying to hide. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious. You’re going to be huge in this scene once people see what you can do.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
She starts cleaning up and wrapping the area.
“Hold still,” she says, smoothing down the bandage. “You need to keep this covered for at least four hours. Then wash it gently with antibacterial soap. No soaking it. Pat dry. Apply the ointment I’m going to give you three times a day. No sun exposure. No picking at the scabs.”
“I know the drill.”
“I’m telling you anyway.” She finishes wrapping and steps back. “Because if you fuck up my work by not taking care of it properly, I’ll be pissed.”
“Understood.”
She strips off her gloves and starts breaking down her station.
I stand and pull my shirt back on carefully, feeling the tender skin pull slightly under the bandage.
“What do I owe you?” I ask.
She looks up, confused. “What?”
“For the tattoo. What’s your rate?”
“Ghost, you don’t have to—”
“You did professional work. You should be paid professionally.” I reach for my wallet.
“You’re not paying me.” She tosses a used ink cap in the trash. “You’re family.”
“Family or not, your work is worth money.”
“Then consider it a gift.” She moves closer, checking the bandage one more time. “Besides, you let me work on you for hours. That’s payment enough.”
I catch her wrist gently when she reaches to adjust the tape. She freezes, looking up at me. I’m a lot taller than she is. She has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
Her teeth sink into that plush bottom lip, slow, unconscious, the same way she dragged the needle across my ribs for hours. My pulse slams so hard I feel it in my throat.
I drag my thumb across the bite mark she just left, freeing the lip with a soft pop that makes her breath hitch.
“Don’t,” I growl, voice gravel and smoke. “That lip is mine to bruise.” Her pupils swallow the green, lashes fluttering.
“Ghost—”
I swallow the rest of her sentence.
I band one arm around her waist and haul her up until her boots leave the floor and her spine meets the cinder-block wall with a soft thud. My mouth crashes over hers, no warning, no mercy, tongue sliding past her parted lips to claim every corner.
She tastes like cherry cola and the mint gum she chewed to stay awake, and I drink her down like I’ve been starving for years. Her hands fist my shirt, yank me closer, nails scraping my neck hard enough to leave half-moon crescents that will bloom purple by morning.
I angle my head, deepen the kiss, teeth nipping that swollen lip until she whimpers into my mouth. The sound shoots straight to my cock; I grind against her once, letting her feel exactly what hours of her hands on my skin did to me.
She answers with a roll of her hips that makes me groan, low and filthy, the vibration rumbling between our tongues.
I slide my hand into her hair, fist the silky strands, tilt her head exactly where I want it, and lick into her like I’m signing my name inside her soul.
Her knees buckle; I pin her harder to the wall, thigh wedged between hers, feeling the scalding heat of her through two layers of denim. I suck her tongue, bite, soothe with a slow swirl, then dive again, deeper, wetter, until we’re both shaking.
When I finally rip my mouth free, a thin string of saliva snaps between us; I catch it with my thumb and paint it across her lower lip like gloss.
Her eyes are glassy, lips cherry-red and trembling, chest heaving so hard her tits brush my ribs with every inhale.
“That tattoo,” I rasp, voice shredded, “is the sexiest fucking thing anyone’s ever put on my skin.” I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “And I’m gonna kiss you like this every time you finish a piece on me, until you forget how to stand without my tongue in your mouth.”
She makes the sweetest broken sound, fingers clawing at my belt like she’s two seconds from dropping to her knees right here on the floor of her bedroom.
I step back, adjust myself with zero shame, and smirk at the way she sways after me. “Pack up, little artist,” I say, voice velvet and venom. “Then come find me. I’m nowhere near done tasting you.” I walk out slowly, boots echoing, but I feel her stare burning between my shoulder blades.
I count to ten. At seven, I hear her door lock and her frantic footsteps chasing me down the hall. I smile to myself.
Worth every single second of needle pain.