BULLET: Lords of Carnage MC

  BULLET

  Lords of Carnage MC

  Daphne Loveling

  Copyright 2019 Daphne Loveling

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A previous, novella-length version of this novel appeared in Wanted: An Outlaw Anthology under the title Rebel Ink.

  Contents

  Credits

  Mailing List

  Dedication

  1. Six

  2. Six

  3. Bullet

  4. Bullet

  5. Bullet

  6. Bullet

  7. Six

  8. Bullet

  9. Six

  10. Bullet

  11. Six

  12. Bullet

  13. Bullet

  14. Six

  15. Bullet

  16. Bullet

  17. Six

  18. Bullet

  19. Six

  20. Six

  21. Bullet

  22. Bullet

  23. Six

  Epilogue

  Daphne Talks out her Ass about Bullet

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  About Daphne Loveling

  Books by Daphne Loveling

  Cover design by Coverlüv

  One of my favorite things about writing is the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.

  See the back of this book for details on how to sign up.

  One of my favorite things about writing is the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.

  See the back of this book for details on how to sign up.

  To Nigel and Petunia.

  You’re judgy, but you’re furry. Thanks for being my office mates.

  1

  Six

  “Is it the number of times you’ve broken a man’s heart?” he teases me. “Because if so, you’re about to make it number seven.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “No, that’s not it either. Face it, you’re never going to get it.”

  “Would you tell me if I did?” Bullet challenges. He gives me a sexy wink. “Come on, now. I bet I already guessed weeks ago.”

  “No, you honestly haven’t,” I tell him, flushing slightly.

  Although he is right.

  I wouldn’t tell him, even if he guessed.

  The name I go by — Six — is a frequent source of interest and amusement here at Rebel Ink. Though, if you wanted to find a place where a weird first name would blend in, a tattoo parlor is probably one of your best bets. I work here as a receptionist and aspiring tattoo artist. I fit right in among Chance, Sumner, Hannah and Dez. Most of my customers hardly even blink when I tell them my name. Hell, a lot of them go by handles even stranger than mine.

  Like Bullet, for example.

  But so far, Bullet is the only one of our customers who’s been this insistent on trying to find out what my name means. The first time he came into the shop — all leather-clad, tattooed, and gorgeous — and introduced himself, I tried to deflect his question by pointing out that his name was just as weird as mine.

  But then he immediately told me his real first name is Wyatt, and that Bullet is the road name given to him by the Lords of Carnage MC. Apparently, ‘road name’ is what motorcycle clubs call the nicknames their members go by. If he can be believed, Bullet has an actual bullet lodged in his body. Hence the choice of monikers.

  And hence why he keeps insisting I need to reciprocate, and reveal to him why I go by Six.

  Bullet leans forward now, one elbow propped up on the counter of the reception desk that separates us. He’s close enough to me that I can’t help but notice the flecks in his golden-brown eyes. Beneath his short, dark beard, one corner of his full mouth twitches with mischief.

  “I think I know what Six stands for,” he murmurs in a low voice. There’s an intimacy to his tone that sends heat straight to my core. Dammit, this man has no business being this hot. I swallow audibly and try to look unaffected by his words.

  “Oh yeah?” I retort, but my voice comes out a little less steady than I want it to.

  “Yeah,” he breathes. “It’s the number of times I’m gonna make you come.”

  Jesus. His words are so unexpected that I pull back in surprise, knocking a cup of pens and pencils off the counter and onto the floor. The clatter is loud, and I jump, pulse rate spiking as my heart starts to hammer in my chest.

  “Sorry to startle you, darlin’.” Bullet gives me a wicked, satisfied smirk. He glances down at the mess I’ve created. “You need some help with that?” he asks, lifting an amused brow.

  “No, no,” I mumble hastily as I bend down behind the counter to gather up the pens. I feel my cheeks flush even redder than before. Bullet loves to flirt with me when he comes into the shop, but my God. He’s never said anything remotely that direct before.

  If it was any other guy, I’d give him a piece of my mind. I might even go as far as to tell the owner, Chance, that one of his customers was sexually harassing me.

  But as I pick up the cup and pens with shaking hands, I realize there’s a reason I won’t say anything to Chance. And it isn’t because Bullet is a member of the Lords of Carnage MC — the local motorcycle club that gives our shop all of their tattoo business. It’s not even because I’m afraid of getting on the wrong side of a man who’s probably not used to being refused anything, by anyone.

  The real reason I won’t say anything?

  It’s because I’ve fantasized about exactly what Bullet just said.

  Way more than six times.

  While I’m still down on the ground, I take advantage of the two or three seconds where I’m hidden from view to take some deep breaths and try to come up with a smart-alecky response — one that won’t reveal to Bullet how rattled I am. But thankfully, just as I’m picking up the last pen, my boss, Chance Armstrong, comes striding down the hall.

  “Bullet. My man,” his booming voice calls out in greeting. “Shit, you’ve been in here a lot lately. You here for some more ink?”

  I stand up awkwardly just in time to see Bullet turn and lift his chin at Chance. “Hey, man. Yeah.” He grins easily, spreading his hands. “What can I say? I got some time, and some space to fill.”

  “This is the third tattoo in two weeks,” I point out, breathing a little sigh of relief that the subject has been changed. “I don’t know how you have any more space on your body left.”

  For some reason, even saying the word body in reference to Bullet makes me shiver a little, but I try hard to ignore it.

  Bullet glances at me, looking slightly feral. “Don’t worry, I still got some room.” He winks at me again, and my mind can’t help but slide into dangerous territory, wondering exactly where he is and isn’t tattooed.

  A low thrum starts up on my skin, which feels almost electric. I try to ignore it, but it does no good.

  “Shit, Bullet, I don’t have any open appointments until later this afternoon,” Chance frowns, glancing at the clock on the far wall. “I guess I can fit you in though,
if you want to come on back.”

  “Actually,” Bullet replies easily, “I was thinking Six could do the tat.”

  What the what?

  “Me?” I ask in surprise. I glance uncertainly from Bullet to Chance. “But… I mean… I’m still in training.”

  “I trust you,” Bullet murmurs. “You’ve been training with Chance for a while now, right? He wouldn’t have taken you on if he didn’t have confidence in you.”

  Actually, Chance took me on as a favor to Hannah. She started out here as a receptionist, too. Chance didn’t know me from Adam (or Eve) when I first walked in the door to Rebel Ink. I’ve worked my ass off to pay him back for taking a chance on me, learning everything I could and taking all the grunt jobs just to show him how thankful I am. So far, he’s never had any cause to complain about me. He’s even said once or twice that I’m a quick learner, and that I have a good eye.

  Still, it’s one thing to do a simple flower on some twenty-year-old girl’s ankle. It’s entirely another to ink a member of an outlaw motorcycle club. I could completely ruin Rebel Ink’s reputation with the MC if I fuck it up. If Bullet’s tattoo turns out bad, and one of the other Lords asks about it, that would be enough to harm the shop. Which is why I look again at Chance, hoping like hell he’ll refuse.

  But instead, he just gives us a brief nod and shrugs.

  “Sure. I’ll have Dez come out and man the phones,” he says swiveling on his booted heel. “Come on back, Bullet. I can come in and supervise Six while she works.”

  Desperately, I cast around in my head for some excuse to say no. But before I know it, Chance and Bullet are already walking down the hall toward one of the free rooms.

  With a helpless sigh, I stand up and follow them, stomach already churning. On the way down the hall, Chance stops by Dez’s room and tells him to go out front and man the desk for me.

  Then, almost before I know it, I’m sitting on a stool, with Bullet in front of me.

  Looks like this is happening.

  Well, shit. Here goes nothing, right?

  2

  Six

  Bullet shrugs off the patched leather cut he’s always wearing and tosses it on a counter.

  Then, without any ceremony, he reaches up over his head with one arm and pulls his black T-shirt off over his head in one fluid motion.

  “Chance knows the tat I want,” he says casually, and points to a spot low and to one side of his ripped abs. “We talked about it before. It’s gonna go right here.”

  Holy hell…

  Everything has happened so quickly. I’m totally unprepared for the sight of Bullet’s naked chest and torso right in front of me. I’ve been apprenticing with Chance for months, and I’m no stranger to seeing people unclothed. Tattoo artists see a pretty wide variety of naked body parts — for better or for worse. Old, young, fat, skinny — I thought I’d seen it all by this point. I’ve observed and even worked on plenty of chest and back tattoos for guys and women alike. Part of the job involves keeping a professional distance from sights like this.

  For the most part, that’s been pretty easy. Like how gynecologists get to the point where they probably don’t see the hoo-has they examine as anything other than just part of the whole reproductive system. I mean, staring at vajayjays all day has to make them seem pretty uninteresting after a while, right? Just a biological reality, nothing more.

  But this…

  Well, let’s just say my body’s reaction to seeing Bullet shirtless is a little more intense than I expected. Since I’m already recovering from our earlier flirting session, my skin is still sort of tingling from his how many times he’s going to make me come remark. Now, faced with the reality of his ripped, half-naked body right in front of me, so close I can touch it — and the fact that I am about to actually touch it — I’m feeling all sorts of hot and bothered.

  I can barely hear anything through the roar of blood in my ears. The thudding of my heart is so loud I swear it’s audible to everyone in the room. I swallow with difficulty, then try to arrange my facial features into an expression of professional indifference. As I try to get my racing pulse under control, I take a few seconds to examine Bullet’s tattoos. Maybe if I just concentrate on the artwork itself, I can distance myself from how fucking hot the canvas is.

  Like Chance said earlier, Bullet is already covered in quite a bit of ink. Most of it is absolutely beautiful work. Tons of people come into the shop with all sorts of poor quality tattoos, but that’s definitely not the case here. I can instantly tell that Chance has done a lot of these designs, just by the style and the degree of skill and precision. Both of Bullet’s arms are covered to the wrists in intricate sleeves. Across his torso is a repeating pattern of skulls and razor wire. Lower down, on his incredibly muscular and delicious stomach (okay, calm down, Six, and concentrate, for God’s sake), the razor wire snarls together to form another, larger and more intricate skull.

  It’s incredible stuff. So beautiful I could happily let my eyes play over the artwork for hours — regardless of the taut, muscled body underneath it.

  But good lord. The way his ink accentuates the carved sculptural perfection of Bullet’s body is a thing to behold in itself. And unfortunately for me, his tattoos only emphasize how perfectly tempting it would be to reach out and trace the outline of his tapered abs and hard, muscular chest. An almost irresistible desire to let my hands roam over him wells up inside me. I’d do almost anything to find out for myself whether this man feels as good as he looks.

  My breathing grows shallow as I fight against the thoughts that threaten to overpower me. Being so close to Bullet for the next hour or so is going to be pure fucking torture. I open my mouth, in a last-ditch attempt to get out of this, but then snap it shut again like a fish. There’s nothing I can do or say that won’t make me seem like a weirdo, and make Chance pissed at me. There’s no way to talk Bullet out of this without compromising my job. I just need to suck it up and do the tat. That’s all there is to it. It’s a professional challenge, nothing else. I’ll have more of them in the future.

  Though it’s hard to imagine another tattoo in my whole career will ever be quite as challenging as this one’s going to be.

  “Okay, then!” I squeak, hating how I sound. I clap my hands on my thighs. “What’s the design we’re doing?”

  Chance turns to Bullet. “We still doin’ what you talked about last time?”

  He nods. “Yeah. The bullet.”

  “I’ll go grab the stencil.”

  “A bullet, eh?” I manage to smirk. “Appropriate.”

  “Yeah,” he replies, a little gruff. “Been meaning to get this one for a while. It’s gonna go right there.”

  Forcing myself to act cool and unaffected, I lean in to take a better look at the spot he’s indicating. He shifts in his seat to give me better access. The tattoo is meant to go on his right abdomen, over the external oblique muscle. Moving closer, I see he has two long scars across his skin at the site, which are not yet covered by any ink. They look like they maybe could be from a knife. There’s also a long, strangely-shaped furrow along his back and around to his side.

  “It’s still in there,” he tells me, “since it was too close to some organ or other to take it out.”

  I swallow nervously. I guess he wasn’t kidding about having a bullet in him. “You want me to tattoo scar tissue?” I croak.

  “Just at the edge, here.” He runs a thumb along the end of the scar. “At the entry point.”

  “You’re pretty nonchalant about having a bullet in you,” I remark, trying for humor. “Is that something that happens to you often?”

  Bullet has always been so easy-going and charming around me that I’m expecting his usual flippant reply. But what comes back at me instead lowers the temperature in the room by five degrees.

  “Only once.”

  His voice drops to a dark, menacing register. All semblance of flirtation between us instantly evaporates into thin air. “The man who gave
it to me is dead now.”

  Instantly, I freeze, shocked by the abrupt change in his demeanor.

  “Wow,” I manage. “That’s… unlucky for him.”

  “No,” Bullet bites out, his jaw turning to stone. “He’s the lucky one.”

  I have no idea what that means. But I don’t dare ask more. I doubt he’d tell me — and even more than that, I’m almost certain I don’t want to know. For the first time, I get a glimpse of the dangerous man beneath the joking, laid-back exterior. I’ve mostly ignored the leather biker cut that Bullet always wears into the shop, except to briefly wonder what it means to be a member of the Lords of Carnage MC. I mean, sure, I know there’s probably stuff they get up to that’s not exactly legal. Given my own past, I can’t really judge anyone for that. But this is the first time I’ve come close up to the grim reality of what club life might be like. What Bullet’s life is like.

  I’m not sure how to feel about the fact that the evidence of that violence is right here. Under my touch. And that I’m about to tattoo a visual representation of that violence indelibly onto his skin.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, I shut my mouth and try to pretend the last thirty seconds didn’t just happen. Instead, I get to work prepping. I set out the paper towels I’ll need to wipe his skin. Ink cups. Ointment. Rinse cup. Sterilized tubes. Needles. Razor. When my table is prepped and I’m sure I have everything I need, I grab the alcohol from the counter beside me and set to swabbing the skin where Bullet’s ink will go.