Oh, hell, it hurts.
“I’m so sorry. That was your…” The woman cleared her throat. “Your nipple.”
No shit, he thought, pasting on a smile for her benefit.
“The rest should be easier.” Again she hesitated. “Your stomach and…hips.”
Clay’s eyes stayed glued to the doctor. What the hell she must think of him, this big creep with his contradictory stories scrawled all over his outside—and his one, drunken attempt to rid himself of the worst of the ink.
Yeah, he bet she was impressed by that. Her expression, though, was hidden behind those ugly-ass glasses, so he had no clue. No fucking clue. She bit her lip, leaned in, and went to town on his belly, one hand resting lightly on his. Clay closed his eyes at her touch—soaking up the pain the way his bloodstream would soak up the particles of pigment—and let his mind go away.
Ape, marching him into the back that day, surrounded by their brothers. But what could he do? What could he fucking do, with the entire fucking multi-agency task force poised outside, waiting to descend on the place?
Into the back, the stress of that quick stop in the head, whispering into the wire and those ridiculous Hail Marys as he waited for Ape to pop his eyeball. Because when Ape wanted you in back, you fucking went, and you let him ink you. Brotherhood and all that.
“Mr. Blane? Andrew? Are you okay?”
“Mmm?” Clay shook his head. It was fuzzy, wrong.
He opened his eyes to find that the noise had stopped, which was better, since it meant no more tats. Ape nowhere in sight. Or behind him with a fucking ax.
The quiet left a hollow in his head, a vacuum where he should have found relief, but instead he seemed to have lost sight of himself.
From the hazy depths, he saw a woman’s hand on his. He frowned at it, the way the fingers looked over his dark ones. She was talking to him, and he tried nodding, wanted to smile.
Be a cop, not a biker.
Stuffing the biker deep, deep inside of him, Clay attempted to listen to what she was saying.
Her other hand reached out and touched his shoulder lightly before trying to pull away, but he stopped her, grabbed her, held her against him, hard.
“Stay here,” he slurred. Was he drunk?
“May I…” A thin, white hand hovered close to his face, and he almost flinched before she reached out and removed the foggy layer covering his eyes.
Oh. Oh, right. Glasses. Protective glasses. He blinked in the bright, sterile room and let it come back to him. Or rather let himself return. Shit. The doctor. Had he hurt her?
“I’m…I’m sorry, Doc.”
He should thank her.
He would. In a second. Just as soon as he got out of this fuzz. He sat back on the table, sank down, heavy. Shit, he’d done it again, hadn’t he? Gone somewhere ugly, from the looks of it.
“Did I…?” He closed his mouth, trying to get enough saliva to speak. “Are you okay?”
“Am I…? Oh, I’m fine, Mr.… I’m fine.”
The woman, clearly not in her right mind to trust him, reached out, and he caught those gloved fingers with his, almost brought them to his mouth, but saw the freakiness of that before it happened. The arm of his protective glasses snagged between them, hard edges pressing grooves into his flesh.
“Thank you,” he said in a voice that wasn’t even remotely his. It was too low, too grainy, too breathy and bare.
For a handful of seconds, she squeezed him back, and all he could see were the kaleidoscope layers of her eyes.
It took some time for him to come out of his haze, the air still snapping with electricity.
“You Irish?” he asked, and she squinted, not seeming to understand. “Green eyes,” he explained.
“Oh. Right. Actually, yes. I’m half Irish,” she finally answered, and he nodded. And there were their hands again, still pressed together into a stark, spidery sculpture of black examination gloves, tattooed fingers, and dark glasses. The longer he looked, the less it felt like him. He squeezed and felt nothing. After a moment, she squeezed back, and that, that he felt, like a vise. A warm, solid vise. He let a finger loosen, ran it over hers, and shivered when she again tightened her hold. He moved his eyes back to her face, and she looked—what? Shocked? Scared?
