Lucky (Inked Menace MC #1): Shifter Biker Club Read online

  Lucky

  Inked Menace MC

  Ryanne Hawk

  Copyright © 2015 Ryanne Hawk

  eBooks cannot be sold, shared, uploaded to pirate sites, or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, Ryanne Hawk.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  The first of the Inked Menace Series:

  Lucky

  Blurb

  Cecelia Marks is on the run.

  After whistle-blowing on an oil tycoon and small arms dealer, the worldly twenty-five-year-old finds solace on her new path of yoga, tattoos, and the simple pleasures life has to offer, until a phone call threatens her safety and she becomes the center of a war between rival motorcycle clubs.

  Lucky Miller hung up his cut a long time ago.

  The reclusive Sigma Werewolf abandoned his pack and left the club life in order to deal with his grief. And now, Cecelia Marks needs protection, only Lucky isn't sure he's the right man for the job because he's still haunted by demons.

  Their chemistry won't be denied, and soon, Lucky and Cecelia embark on a mission to free themselves from their horrendous pasts. They'll need to fight their way through the present in order to have a future together…

  Table of Contents

  Lucky

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About Author Ryanne Hawk

  Chapter One

  The tattoo parlor reminded Cecelia Marks of a Goth den, full of black walls, red furniture, and low lighting with patchouli floating on the air, along with the unmistakable scent of ink. She’d wanted a new piece for a few months but had to save the money and find the right design to remind her of her new life. And everything she’d left behind.

  She walked over to the long modern sofa and sat on the hard cushion. Why does beautiful furniture have to be so uncomfortable? she thought. So people don’t mill around and stay where they aren’t wanted? Why have them at all, then? Cecelia huffed out an exaggerated sigh and crossed her legs as she perused the shop. A kickass bass beat pumped through hidden speakers. She recognized the band and smiled, and the urge to stand up and get down made her jam on the couch with her arms and head.

  She’d learned over the past few horrible years to take joy whenever she found it.

  On the walls, black picture frames were scattered in geometric patterns featuring custom tattoo work. She heard faint voices echo from the back, though she couldn’t make out the words.

  A male and female were arguing, that much she knew.

  A few moments later and the scuff of footsteps made its way toward the front of the shop where she waited in front of the full wall of windows, tapping her foot on the cement floor, irritated that her artist was a few minutes late for her scheduled appointment.

  Cecelia believed in punctuality.

  The man who turned the corner and headed straight for her made her sit up straighter in her seat and take notice of more than just his body art. He had thick, almost black hair, shorn close to the sides but longer on top, sort of old school 1950s deco. Think of Grease. God, she loved that movie. He had deep-set eyes, a thick brow, and full lips. Not feminine plump, but sensual, taking her to a place where silken sheets and sexy laughter rang through the night. He had full sleeve artwork, mostly in bright colors, but a few black and white pieces adorned his arms as well.

  She blinked and wiped her palms on her leggings before she stood as he approached. He held his hand out and said, “I’m Luke Miller, your artist. Did you bring your design with you?”

  Cecelia stumbled over her name for a moment, remembering who she was now, as she said, “I’m Cecilia,” and handed him her printed design. He reached out and his finger touched hers as he took the paper. A jolt like static electricity ran through her body from the mere second of contact. He didn’t move, just stared deep into her eyes for half a breath.

  He blinked and the connection severed. “This way. Let’s get you prepped and get started.” He turned and studied what she wanted as he walked down a short hallway peppered with cubicles and work stations. She watched his spectacular ass the whole way, almost slamming into a pole holding up the ceiling. She glanced up as he rounded another corner and then entered a private cabana filled with tropical plants and Zen music.

  Not what she'd expected at all from the front of the store, or from meeting Luke. He struck her as a black room type, with neon lights and heavy metal tunes, probably a leather jacket for good measure. Goes to show you can’t judge people. Long Indian tapestries hung from rods and created a gorgeous space. It wasn’t a traditional cabana, but there were sheer scarf walls in a variety of jewel tones creating a sectioned-off, colorful world within the darkness of the studio.

  Stealing a deep breath, she hopped up on the massage bed as he pulled a forest green stool from under his drafting desk. The black floor sparkled with silver flecks reflecting the halogen lighting.

  “You’re a man of many talents,” she said as she glanced around his sanctuary, taking in the full color artwork, pencil drawings, and sketched buildings adorning his shelves.

  He smiled and followed her gaze around his private studio before he replied, “I don’t know where it comes from, but sometimes I get an overwhelming urge to focus and create. I’ll sit and paint for hours, or draw a building I walked by on the street. Some of the other pieces strewn about were tat commissions for clients.”

  “Your work is brilliant. I love your use of color. It smells nice in here,” she said softly, looking away from the sexy man drawing her work onto thermal paper, suddenly feeling shy and out of place.

  “Thank you. This is my home away from home, and I wanted a comfortable space where my clients, and myself, felt safe.”

  His words resonated somewhere deep inside she didn’t want to look. She hadn’t known safety in a very long time. Not even once her abusive ex-husband had gone to prison. Cecelia rubbed her arms as gooseflesh broke across her skin, born out of fear and anxiety. Inhaling to the count of four, exhaling for a count of five, she settled. She’d come prepared, wearing a deep brown tank top and comfortable yoga capris. Her only concession had been to wear her grounding necklace, as she never knew what type of energy she might encounter out in the world. Her peridot, bronzite, and serpentine necklace was one of her favorites. It was dainty and petite, with raw stones.

  The art she’d chosen for her tattoo was on the small side, a flaming abstract butterfly with inner lotus flower. The instant she’d seen it, she’d known it was the one, and she wanted it placed on her inner forearm. That way she’d always see it. Eventually she’d end up with a half or full sleeve, but she was starting small. Pet
er had never let her ink her body; the only colors she’d been allowed to wear were the sickly yellows and greens he’d placed upon her tender flesh in order to keep her in line.

  Luke rolled on the stool over to her, and his arm caressed her leg for a brief second as he came closer to the table. The electric current in the room flew straight into her body and zapped her in the core. For the first time in a long time she wasn’t afraid of a man. Cecelia decided it was a good sign. A sign she was moving forward with her life and leaving the pain behind her.

  They say you can have an instant connection with someone. That you see or touch them, and they become the sole focus of your attention, wants, and desire. Cecelia didn’t believe in love at first sight. Sure, she’d been in lust at first sight plenty of times before, but she’d never experienced the haze of love. But for some reason, ever since Luke had walked into her field of vision, her entire body was humming.

  The object of her daydream opened his mouth and then closed it. He shook his head once and then met her eyes. She noticed the color for the first time, a light green, nearly peridot like her necklace and birthstone, a very unusual color. The dark stubble along his square jaw enhanced his rugged appeal. He wore old jeans and a faded t-shirt with the Om sign on the front. Seemed they shared some common ground. She hadn’t noticed the symbol when he’d first come out to greet her, she was so entranced by his presence and charisma.

  “Do you practice?” she asked, staring him in the eyes as he tilted his head with his brows scrunched together. She broke the heat-driven connection by looking down at his chest and nodded once. He glanced down at the symbol.

  He cleared his throat and replied, “Yes, for the past three years. Before that, no.” A blank expression marred his face, his cheeks slackened, his eyes sort of glassed over, and he rolled back over to the table shuffling papers around, effectively ending the conversation.

  Never one to be deterred – her mouth had gotten her into more trouble than she cared to admit – she said, “I practice Svaroopa. Gentle Yoga, or as I call it, mind yoga.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” he replied without looking up from his workstation. “I prefer a more vigorous workout, like Bikram. Currently I’m doing white lotus.” She watched the muscles of his arms move as he used the pencil. She tried to pick out details of his tattoos.

  He sketched a bit more, prepared his ink containers with methodical practice, opened the sterilized instruments, and then came back to where she was sitting, pulling a tray behind him carrying his tools.

  “Nice. I’m not ready for the heavy stuff yet. I’m a beginner.”

  You could tell he worked hard, because damn, his body was nice, lean and muscular without being bulky. He radiated strength. He had a calming, centered energy about him that she was sure not many noticed. Cecelia found most people unaware of their own vibrations and aura. She shook her head to dislodge the current sexualized thoughts of his tongue stroking her inner thigh, and his fingers caressing her hidden desires.

  “Where do you want it?”

  Images flashed in her head of his naked body against hers, his cock nestled between her legs prodding her core, and his power mingling in a seamless dance of ecstasy. At least her girly parts had come alive again. She’d sort of been afraid her libido had died along with her soul the night Peter…

  Fingers snapped in front of her face and she blinked slowly, noticing the sexy grin adoring his face. She didn’t feel sexy in that moment. Pools of blood danced in front of her eyes and phantom pain lodged deep in her stomach.

  “Where’d you go just now?” he asked from between her legs, where he sat on his short stool. Part of her wanted to answer with the truth, but she’d been in witness protection since the night she had finally decided enough was enough. Peter had taken everything good from her. The detached half of her decided to play in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know…” she said in a husky voice she didn’t recognize and looked away as embarrassment flooded her mind. She placed her right hand over the spot on her left arm and said, “I want it here,” without looking at him. A few moments passed and the quiet forced her head to swivel back to him, as if he were a shining star she wanted to wish on.

  He nodded and grabbed the transfer paper without saying a word.

  “I printed it to scale, so hopefully the size is correct for my small arm,” she said to fill the silence, though it wasn’t the awkward kind, just heated and swirling with an electrical charge.

  He laughed. “You are a tiny thing. We might lose some detail, but not much. I’ll make your piece shine.”

  “I’d like all color, no black outline.”

  He reached out and turned her arm over, grazing her skin with his fingertips, planning his placement. Everywhere he touched tingled as her nerves fired hot and her heart started to pound. She nearly said ‘wow’ out loud, but didn’t want to further embarrass herself. She wasn’t exactly model material with her auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, and wearing what she considered her gym clothes so she’d be loose. She hadn’t bothered with makeup except a touch of mascara and some peppermint ChapStick.

  “Okay,” he said, then he went back to work mode and snapped on gloves, poured the ink into the small trays, and transferred her tat to her arm without speaking. His movements bespoke his fluid nature, and she found herself calming further in his presence. Luke pressed a button on a little remote and turned on a nearby water fountain that sat in the corner behind a large plant. She’d missed it during her cursory inspection of this strange oasis. The sound of trickling water soothed her mind.

  “Do you have other tattoos, Cecelia?”

  The way he purred her name caused her to shift on the table, under the guise of getting settled, but the truth was, Luke made her want to have rough and sweaty sex. It had been a while since a man had revved her engines enough to make her think of a hot tumble between the sheets. She didn’t make a habit of one-night stands and believed you should know a person before you got intimate, but she also wasn’t a saint, and she’d sown some wild oats in the past when she was young, foolish, and on the cusp of womanhood. The rumble of a motorcycle still turned her on, even to this day.

  But that was all before…the incident, the marriage from hell, and the greatest loss of her life. Her thoughts changed.

  A quick and dirty fucking in an alley flashed through her head and she was sure her cheeks reddened. Better those thoughts than the ones with angry welts, bruises covering her face and arms, and the long trip to the hospital in an ambulance where she'd feared for her own life. It’d been too late for her daughter.

  He wasn’t looking at her, so she forced herself to relax a bit and replied, “I have a few. A tiger on my back, a lotus on my thigh, and I have vines and butterflies on my feet and ankles.” For a second she wondered why he couldn’t see them, until she remembered she’d decided on socks and sneakers, and that her legs were covered to her calves.

  A low growl sounded in the small, intimate space, and Luke coughed into his arm, hiding his face. “Who did your tattoos before?” he asked casually as he turned around to face her dead on, reaching out to grab her hand, his eyes bright. He pulled her arm forward and then said, “This might be better if you sit in the chair. You’ll be more relaxed, and lower for me to work on.”

  His words caused a visceral reaction in her and she slid from the table in a fog, standing up between his legs with his face inches from her navel. “An artist from where I grew up,” she replied. Slowly he raised his head and when their eyes locked, time froze, and neither of them moved. The heat from his body seeped into her clothes and warmed her blood. A wave of hunger flared between them, and Cecelia reached up to cup his face, his rough cheeks scratching against her skin.

  A breath passed, then another, and her heart thrummed fast and loud as Luke slid his hands up the outsides of her thighs in slow motion. Her tight leggings barely created a barrier between his flesh and hers. His fingers rounded her hips and squ
eezed her ass as numbness flashed across her tongue then tingled her lips. Fear and anticipation coursed through her as she stared into the depths of his eyes, seeing lust mirrored back, and she bent slowly, wetting her lips, watching his mouth open slightly.

  He jumped from his stool, almost slamming his head into her face. He backed away from her as if she’d burned him into ash. Cecelia stood with her arms out holding air, where seconds before she’d felt the warm flesh of Luke. She let them drop down to her sides and watched some wordless message flicker in his eyes, but then he blinked, and it was gone.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” he rambled and looked left and right, anywhere but at where she stood still frozen and singed from his hands. She wanted to strip her clothes off and push him down onto the table so she could lick his art and taste his passion. Cecelia shook her head once, and took a deep breath. These rampant thoughts were starting to drive her crazy. It wasn’t her.

  He tried to stuff his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, but they wouldn’t fit with the gloves on. He ripped them off and tossed them in the trash. He turned around and walked to the small sink nestled against the one wall without fabric, and started to wash his hands.

  Her head fell forward, heavy under the enormous weight and her emotional response to such a harsh rejection. Her mind spun with words too fast for her to catch, but the feeling was the same with each spin. Hurt. Rejection. The intense reaction to not being good enough.

  Cecelia heard the tear of paper through a haze of tears, but fought them back and balled her fists, reining in her emotions through breath and counting. At ten, she raised her face and walked over to the chair and sat down, not making eye contact. She stared at the water dripping from the fountain and thought. She was sure he was probably more embarrassed for touching a client than how she looked, but a sting was a sting, whether you logically knew the reason or not.