Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(21)

“Wait—”

“Done waiting, princess.”

I secured my own helmet and climbed on the bike.

“Just hold on.”





The man was a brute. Apparently no one had informed him that picking up a woman and moving her where he wanted her was passé. As in, men haven’t done that since they stopped painting on cave walls.

Constantine Leahy had missed the memo.

When he tossed out the command to ‘just hold on,’ I’d stubbornly refused. For about three seconds.

As soon as he fired up the bike and revved the engine, my self-preservation instincts had overridden my pique. I wrapped my arms around Con’s middle, and he rocketed away from Voodoo, the brick walls of the alley flying by. I buried my face against his back, certain I was going to die before we even made it onto an actual road.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I yelled over his shoulder, “What if someone sees me?”

The wind carried Con’s laugh back to me. We slowed at a stoplight, and he turned his head to reply, “Princess, no one would ever think you would get on the back of my bike. If anyone sees us, they’ll just assume you’re my newest piece of high class ass.”

I opened my mouth to deliver some sort of scathing reply, but the light turned green, Con gunned the engine, and we were off again.

“Where are you taking me?” I yelled. The wind whipping the ends of my hair drowned out my words. Con ignored me, changing lanes and heading into an area of town where I’d be more than hesitant to venture alone.

He didn’t stop again until we pulled up in front of a crumbling brick building. There was no sign, no awning, not even a flashing neon light announcing ‘topless women’ in sight. He booted down the kickstand, hopped off the bike, and unhooked his helmet.

He reached for me, and I flinched, unsure of what he was trying to do.

“Easy, princess. Just want to get your helmet off.”

I relaxed as he unbuckled the strap and sat it on the seat.

He held out a hand, and I stared at it, eyes caught on the name tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Joy. His adoptive mother. She’d been a happy, vibrant woman. I’d heard that she and Andre had died holding hands. I glanced at Con’s other wrist. Sure enough, Andre was written in black script. It seemed overly sentimental for the tough exterior Con exuded.

Which just highlighted how much I didn’t know about this man.

The question was, did I want to know him?

I looked up at the brick building. I supposed the question I should really be asking myself right now was whether I trusted him enough to take his hand and follow him inside?

The heavy, humid June air pressed down on me as I sat, showing way too much leg, on the seat of his matte black Harley. The fact that I was sitting on the motorcycle told me that I trusted him. When he’d picked me up and sat me on it, he’d ignored my protests…but they’d been half-hearted at best. Because a part of me—the part that had made the decision to go home with him that night two years ago—already trusted him far more than I should.

I took his hand and swung my leg over the bike.

Instead of going through the front door, Con tugged me along around the side. He reached over a section of the wooden stockade fence and flicked a latch.

I glanced around nervously, looking for some indication that we were allowed to be here. The lack of “Beware of Dog” signs was heartening at least.

“Are we breaking and entering? Because I’m on my lunch hour. I don’t really have time for jail at the moment.”

“It’d be the parish prison, sweetheart.” He pushed open the fence, and the mouthwatering aroma of barbeque connected with my olfactory receptors. “But either way, the only thing you need to worry about right now is whether you prefer ribs or chicken.”

And then that mouthwatering aroma made me want to vomit. I grabbed his arm and squeezed my eyes shut. “I can’t.”

Con stopped, swung the gate back shut, and turned on me. “You need to quit telling me ‘you can’t’ without any other kind of explanation. It really f*cking pisses me off.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle, and my mind raced for a good excuse. Something…anything but the truth.

Con’s callused fingers tilted my chin up, and I was forced to meet his stare.

“Just f*cking tell me what your deal is. Are you trying to be difficult? I know you can be a righteous bitch, but over ribs and chicken? Or is it me? Are you really so much better than me that you can’t sit at the same table and share a meal?”

At that, something flashed in his eyes. I remembered the angry boy sitting alone at a lunch table in our prep school. The foster kid. The boy who solved every problem with his fists. The chip on his shoulder may have shrunk slightly, but the habit of lashing out at anyone who thought they were better than him hadn’t completely disappeared.

“It’s not you. I swear.”

His eyes narrowed on me.

“Then what?”

I tugged my chin out of his grip and looked away. I couldn’t look him in the eye when I confessed.

God. Why was I going to tell him? Because I hate having him look at me and assume I’m a stuck up bitch who thinks she’s better than him.

The words came out in a big mumble.

“What? Was that Cajun? Because I didn’t catch a word of it.”