Page 14 of Cruel Biker

“Did you share in prison?” she asked, and winced. “Sorry, that was so not appropriate.”

“I didn’t share anything in prison, and for a short time, I got to spend it in solitary confinement.”

She gasped. “What? You did? How?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t take too kindly to a perv. They offered to throw me into solitary for a few months, rather than extend my sentence. I thought it was a pretty good deal.”

“Can they do that?”

“Who the fuck knows what they can actually do? I think they make shit up that suits them.”

“Wow,” she said.

“Am I scaring you yet?” he asked.

“Would it shock you if I said absolutely not?”

He chuckled. “I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder if you’re a shit judge of character.”

“I am starting to agree with you. I thought my husband was a good guy, and he’d make an amazing dad. I think he is an amazing dad, but he’s a selfish bastard who wants it all his own way.” She let out a sigh. “Let’s not talk about him today. I just want to forget about it.”

“Is that why you’re sitting on a bench, on a running path?” he asked.

“There are only a couple of runners in town, so for the most part, it’s quiet, and that is what I want right now, the quiet.”

He sat down beside her and offered her a piece of chicken. She smiled and it looked like she was about to decline but then accepted it, telling him thank you. Picking up another piece of chicken, he took a large bite and just stared ahead of him. He didn’t feel uncomfortable. It was good to just be eating chicken.

“Where did you get your tattoos from?” Morwenna asked.

“Here and there. Some out of town, some local. Why?”

“I always wanted to get a tattoo but Bolt told me not to. He said it was ... not for me.”

He frowned, as he knew Bolt had a couple of tattoos.

“I’d like to get one,” she said.

“You would?”

“Yeah, do they hurt?” she asked.

“They can hurt, but I know a guy. Do you have any idea what design you want?”

“I don’t have a clue.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I can do it. What if it looks like a total mess?”

He couldn’t argue with that. Some of the ink he’d gotten was done by some shit tattoo artist, and ink was a skill.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said.

He finished up his food and tossed it into the trash can. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an ink pen and clicked his fingers for her arm.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Do you have a preference?”

“I have no idea what you’re going to do.”

“I’ll draw on your arm. You keep it for as long as you can, and it’s the best way I can think of that will wipe off, if you hate it. Ink is there to stay, unless you want laser surgery, and trust me, I can imagine that shit is going to sting. It has laser in the title.”