ONE
PHOEBE
There was always something so intoxicating about pain.
The impact of being slapped. The burning sting from digging my fingernails into my skin, watching how the skin only grew red and aggravated. Even the nick from a razor or snap from a rubber band, once I made it past the initial wince or groan, made my breath grow heavy.
It was euphoric, in its own sense.
Addiction was never something Istruggled with, thankfully, until the aspect of pain came into the equation. I was addicted to feeling some form of pain, but it was harder to come by than most people assumed—unless you just wanted to bang your knee into a door and then moan like a lunatic in front of a crowded room.
Yummy.Probably not recommended by a clinical physiatrist.
Or, well…anyone.
In the minds of many, the prospect of seeking pain often meant you were mentally ill or disturbed. Basically, you had to be depressed or insane, which I was neither. At least, I didn’t think I was, anyway. I’m sure I’ve had a few boyfriends who thought otherwise, though.
The point was—I didn’t seek out pain. I simply…relished in it.
Thinking someone was psychotic for liking the discomforting things in life was complete, utter bullshit, and frankly, no one’s business. Everyone’s a freak in their own way. Some people went as far as to have sex with rotting corpses, so in comparison, I’m a fucking saint.
Even if the occasional graveyard sex never hurt anybody.
Mostly.
That was a story for another day, though.
Aches zipped through my forearm and a sigh fell out of my mouth. Leaning back in the leather chair, I crossed my ankles, watching as my destroyed, midnight jeans grew tight against my thighs from the movement. I relished in the digging,stingingsensation.
It hurt.
And yet, a component in my brain nearly purred from the discomfort.
The sound of ripped disposable wax paper spread throughout the small, cramped setup of Kane’s workspace and I cringed inwardly. These studded boots were great for the entire badass-biker-chick look that came with the ambiance of The Devils MC, but they werenotpractical while sitting in a tattoo chair, covered in wrap that squeaked every time my ass moved slightly to the right.
“Sorry,” I muttered. Kane only grunted back in response.
He was always grunting. I was surprised he didn’t speak caveman.
Fortunately, the pain of a tattoo gun was about as socially-acceptable as I could get without my father having some kind of stroke. If anyone around me thought I was at risk from an outside force—even ifthat force was my own brain—my MCbrotherswould form yet another biker version of a Sister Mary church circle around me.
Just like they did when fifteen-year-old Phoebe told her father that she had begun dating some boy.
It was nothing more than a Phoebe-cock-blocking-circle, but I wasn’t going to say that out loud. Not the type of circle jerk people actually want to be in. Especially when Aureo, one of the new riders at the time, caught me losing my virginity in the backseat of a college guy's pickup truck, mid fake orgasm. Tits out and all.
To be fair, the random guy promptly shoved me off of him after making eye contact with Aureo—girls knew how to get themselves off in seconds, but as soon as you threw a stumbling guy into the picture, it was game-over.
Not the best way to lose your v-card, that’s for sure. No one in the gang looked me in the eyes for months after that, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with purity, sex, or similar. Instead, I’m pretty positive that my father would have decapitated any of his men, loyal or not, just for looking at me during that time of my life, period.
Your wife dies, your teenage daughter starts havingsex,andyour town fills itself with rival gangs? Hell, he probably wanted to decapitate me—and it would honestly have been stress relieving if he did. I didn’t envy the man for all of the attitude I threw his way.
Or the entire biker crew, for that matter.
I could still feel Aureo tugging my ponytail in the bar one day after a particularly loud argument with Daddy dearest. I tried to look at him, only to be met with a black bandana that covered most of his face. “Bratty Phoebe out to play again?” he muttered, swiping the beer from me that I had just conveniently pouted my way into receiving from the bartender. He left without another word, departing with a dark chuckle, just like he always did.
Fucking asshole.
He saw my titsonceand thought he had some kind of bullying claim over me.
