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Chapter 1
The long lick of her words traced a wet trail up his spine, leaving him hungry for more. Who the hell was that? Hannibal couldn’t see a damn thing from the reclined position of his chair as Rebel worked on his tat.
“Hi, I’d like to speak to the owner of the shop.” Her voice was like honey. Sweet, too sweet for a tattoo shop run by bikers. Ex bikers. He almost shook his head, but he didn’t want to jar the needle as Rebel worked. They’d just started, but his feet tapped in his boots, eager to get up and see the owner of the voice.
“Rebel, who’s that?”
“Hmm?” When he worked, his focus was legendary. But how could he miss a voice like that? A combination of sexy and sweet. Sin and saint. If she wasn’t a jazz singer with her husky, sexy voice, she should be. Working her way from the stage of a dark bluesy joint in a red dress clinging to every dip and curve. “Who?”
“The girl. The one looking for Rector.” Rebel’s gun continued outlining the wings he’d requested to honor his fallen brother.
“Rebel,” he growled.
The needle slowed its rhythmic drilling. “Don’t know. Never seen her before.”
The voice came again, as if she knew he was about to give Rebel the smack down. Rebel was no lightweight in a fight. He’d seen the pretty boy torch more than one dumb ass in a fight. But he wasn’t a lightweight, either. They’d never clashed before, but he’d never tested him like this either. But the voice crossed the distance, soothing his wild beast with a gentle stroke, and he settled. Content as a kitty to just listen to her conversation.
“Are you the owner?” He closed his eyes. Taking deep breaths, wishing he could smell her scent across the distance.
“We’re all owners.” Rector answered her.Shut up and let the girl talk.“But I handle most of the shop’s business. Can I help you?”
“I wanted to ask about working in the shop. My name is Angel.” This had to be a joke. He’d fallen asleep, and the voice of an angel was teasing his dream. Yeah, he’d go with that. Because if it was a dream, his dream, he already knew where this was heading. His palm fisted air as if it were already curling around his dick. He hadn’t even seen her, and her voice alone was turning him on.
“I’m Rector.” Were they shaking hands? He didn’t even know if they were or not, but he wanted to rip Rector’s giant paws from his lady. He already felt possessive. He was never possessive—but damn there it was. He’d never wonder again how blind men fell in love.
“I wanted to ask about working in the shop.”
Was she a tattoo artist?His hand lifted to tell Rebel to stop. He’d let the pretty lady work on him instead.
“You, tatt?”
“No, I’m not a tattoo artist. I’m a masseuse.”
“We don’t offer that service.”
“And that’s what I’d like to speak to you about. I finished school a few months ago, and I’ve been mainly working out of my home. Having appointments with family friends in my apartment. I want to expand on that, and go full-time. I need a space where I could have a bit of walk-in business as well and I thought…”
“Rebel,” Hannibal hissed under his breath. “What does she look like?”
“Hmm, who?”
“The girl, numb-nut.”
“Oh,” he held his gun for a sec before resuming the outline. “She’s pretty enough. Long braids, decent shape, brown skin.”
“She black?”
The tattoo gun froze, and Rebel took a step back. “Yes, she looks African American. You got a problem with that? Do we got a problem?”
Rebel’s old lady was black, and so was Rogue’s. But he gave no shits about it. He just wanted to picture his angel. He curved his neck around Rebel’s girth to see for himself.
Shit, ‘pretty enough’, his ass. The face and body were more entrancing than her voice had been. First off, her skin was not brown. It was the color of his favorite after Sunday school treat, caramel cake. The light yellow cake was covered with the golden light brown caramel color of his aunt’s homemade icing. He licked his lips, tasting the sweet treat on his tongue. He hadn’t had that cake in years. Hadn’t even thought about it, but now, he craved it more than his next breath.
And her decent shape would rival a goddess’s. He knew little about goddesses, but what else could you call perfection? She was the original Eve. Wicked enchantress, his Sunday School aunts would say. They’d believed every desire of the flesh was sinful. But if she offered him an apple, even with God warning him from above, he’d take every damn bite. Her hips were made for riding. For spending a day out on his bikes with those thick thighs pressing against him. He’d take every curve at a breakneck speed just to have her squeeze tighter and press the plump swell of her breasts into his back. His dick strained against the zipper of his jeans. He couldn’t adjust himself with Rebel working on his arm, but fuck it. He didn’t care who knew he had a hard-on for the girl.His girl. HisAngel.
Rector’s voice iced his raging erection. “Sorry, I can’t help you. At least not yet. The town is just warming up to having a shop filled with bikers. We’ve tried to give it a family-friendly atmosphere. But people see the bikes,the bikers,and think something shady is going on. We add masseuse to the mix, and they’ll picture every low-life dive tatt parlor and masseuse, with married men sneaking in and out of back doors. Entering stressed and leaving looking satisfied.”
“A man should look satisfied when he leaves my table. And not because of any illicit activity.”
