Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers, #1)

feel a smile growing wider on my face as my long hair whips behind me, my legs snugly wrapped around the first boy I ever loved. Even if he doesn’t know who I am, even if he can never know… in this moment, just to be alone with him, on the open road, is enough for me.

  After we get a few miles, Jase slows the bike and pulls over to the shoulder. Smiling, he turns his head and speaks. “Where to?” he asks. Elliot.

  “I need to get this tattoo colored in,” I say, loud enough so that he can hear me over the roar of the engine. “Lost City Tattoos?”

  He nods and turns back to the road, checks his mirrors, and we take off again, destined for Elliot and his needles and his questions.

  I think I need a drink.

  Fifteen

  I saunter casually up the sidewalk, Jase by my side. I am a squirming bundle of nerves inside at the prospect of Elliot chewing me out, but outwardly I attempt cool, calm, and collected.

  “Here we are,” I say at the door to Elliot’s studio, handing Jase my helmet. “Meet me back here in a few hours?”

  Jase looks uncomfortable and scans the sidewalk on both sides of us.

  “What?” I ask him.

  Jase breathes out audibly. “If you run, my father will fucking kill me. Literally.”

  “Wait, you think I’m going to run?”

  Jase shrugs. “I would if I were you.”

  I point to a Hooters across the road. “You can keep an eye on me and order beer from hot girls with nice racks,” I say. “What do you say?”

  He shifts from foot to foot. “I’ll just come in with you,” he says.

  “Wait,” I say, putting my palm flat against his chest. “If you must know, I kind of … cried last time I got tattooed. And he told me the coloring in is worse than the outline.”

  Jase relaxes perceptibly and steps back. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll be just across the road.”

  I smile sweetly. “Thanks.”

  I wait patiently until he has crossed the road, wave him off and take a deep breath, pushing the heavy glass door to Elliot’s studio open. The bell above the door chimes to signal that someone has entered, and I jump ten feet in the air.

  Elliot is tattooing a butterfly on some woman’s lower back when I walk in. He notices me immediately and stops his work, the gun clattering onto the tray beside him.

  “Okay,” he says to her. “We’re all done for today. Make sure to give us a call next week and book in for your final appointment.”

  The lady sits up, a look of confusion on her face. “Aren’t you gonna finish it now?” she asks.

  Elliot squirts her skin with a layer of antiseptic solution and tapes a piece of plastic-backed gauze on top. “Nope,” he says. “You’re bleeding too much. Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

  The guilty look on her face provides an answer. Elliot gently but firmly pushes her out of the door, promising that her finished tatt will look just gorgeous next week. Once she leaves, he spins around to face me.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asks, his expression frustrated.

  I smile in case Jase can see us from here. “We’re being watched,” I say to him through my cotton-candy grin. “Are you gonna take me back there and color me in, or what?”

  His entire demeanor changes when he understands that there are eyes on us, and he points to the table that the old lady had been prostrate on only moments before.

  I take my shirt off and hang it over the seat beside the table, my breasts covered by a plain black bra that is struggling to contain their ample size. Elliot seems a little flustered, and I grin wickedly. “You like them?” I ask him, waiting for him to bite. “I got them for a good price.”

  “Shut up and get on the table, whatever your name is,” he says, and I can’t tell if he is amused or annoyed.

  I hoist myself onto the table and lay down, wincing as I rip my bandage off in one go. “They’re just boobs, El,” I say, settling against the squeaky plastic.

  He takes a moment to look at them dubiously before shifting his attention to my face. “They’re hot. I don’t want to talk about your boobs, though.” He snaps a plastic bag open and withdraws a single-use needle chock full of ink that will stain my skin permanently.

  “I want to talk about where the fuck you’ve been for three days not answering my calls.” His words are bitter and I can tell he has thought of nothing else except me and my safety since I left here three days ago.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “They took my phone and smashed it.”

  “Well, are you okay?” he asks me, his voice straining to sound normal under the weight of his despair. His blue eyes are oceans of worry and hurt, and I have to look away before I really do cry.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I got in there. They bought my story. That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” Elliot stops fumbling with needles and packages and stares at me questioningly. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

  I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, the events of the past three days a broken record of pain, blood, and lust playing on repeat in my addled mind. I can’t tell him about Michael. He would never speak to me again if he knew the depths of my treachery.

  “Dornan liked me straightaway,” I say in a monotone voice. “He liked me a little too much.”

  Elliot’s hands are empty and I can hear his nails digging into the hard plastic that covers the table I lay upon. “Julz…” he growls.

  Hot tears fill my eyes and I look up at him angrily. “Don’t call me that,” I say viciously. “Don’t you ever call me that, do you understand? Do you want us to both get killed?”

  He lets go of the table and shakes his head. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, his fists in tight balls.

  “Yes,” I say honestly, blinking the tears away. “But I let him. It’s all part of the act.”

  He goes to grab my shoulders and I look at the front door in alarm. “Jason is watching,” I say in a high-pitched voice, and I see Elliot use every single reserve of strength he has to back away from me and collect his tattoo gun from the counter. He preps the needles, each one holding dye that will soon be on my skin.

  “How’d you convince him to stay out there, anyway?” Elliot is crazy angry, but attempting normal conversation at the same time. Super.

  I stretch out on the soft plastic bed. “I told him I cried last time I got inked, and it would be way too embarrassing for me if he watched.”

  Elliot smirks despite his earlier tirade, his needle poised at my hipbone.

  “So,” he asks stonily, “you gonna cry?”

  I clench my fists as he begins to drag sharp needles through the sensitive, scarred flesh that covers my hipbone. “Hell, no. It takes more than a little tattoo gun to make this girl cry.”

  Sixteen

  Three hours later, my tattoo is completely shaded in, blacks and dark reds a swirl of patterns and seeping blood across my midsection. I am sweating, and my skin is simultaneously numb and screaming alight, each nerve crying its own confused protest.

  “I thought this wasn’t supposed to hurt,” I asked Elliot as he applied a new dressing. “I thought I was meant to get a huge rush or something?”

  Elliot paused, staring at the fresh blue and purple bruises around my wrists, where Dornan pinned me to the bed after he shot Michael.

  “Your body only has so much adrenalin,” he says, taking my wrist and studying the flesh with an unreadable look on his face. He brushes his warm fingertips lightly across the bruises, a deep frown settling into his forehead. “You’ve probably used it all up.”

  The front door jangles, scaring the hell out of me, and I look up to see Jase at the front counter of the shop. He eyes us cautiously, obviously noticing the tenderness with which Elliot is touching my bruised wrists.

  “You done?” he asks me. I nod eagerly, sliding off the bench and carefully pulling my t-shirt back over my head. I wince as the fabric touches my inked skin; even though the plastic forms a barrier, it doesn’t stop my skin f
rom protesting at the merest touch.

  “Don’t forget to bathe it every day and keep it clean and dry,” Elliot says, as he’s no doubt said a thousand times before. He hands me an after-care kit which includes gauze pads, saline solution, barrier cream, and a business card with the landline of the studio printed across the front in large numbers. Smart.

  “Got it!” I say, making my way towards the door, where Jase waits. I don’t look back at Elliot. If I look back, I’m screwed.

  Remember why you’re here.

  My mantra, a chant that keeps me sane in times of trepidation.

  Fuck Dornan over. Kill his sons. Send the rest to jail. Find that tape.

  Live happily ever after. Pfft.

  We step outside to a day that has almost entirely disappeared; wisps of aubergine cloud hang low in the sky, waiting for the night sky to swallow them completely.

  “Where to?” Jase asks, lowering his sunglasses to look at me.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m kind of starving. Are you hungry?”

  Jase smiles. “Yeah. I called the clubhouse, Pop’s still sleeping it off.”

  He must notice my face fall as he says it, and back-pedals furiously. “I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I didn’t mean–”

  “Beer,” I say to him in response. “I could really use a beer.”

  He frowns and points to my midsection. “Are you sure you’re supposed to drink after getting a tattoo done? Doesn’t it bleed a lot or something?”

  I shrug. “Let’s find out.”

  He laughs, and the sound is sweet in a world full of hurt and lies. “Come on, then,” he says. “I know a place on the beach that you’ll probably like. You