Ride Steady(207)

“I’m not a tattoo person but I thought… Joker?”

She ended on a call to him because he’d dropped his arms and turned on his boot.

He threw open the door and yelled down the hall, “Party’s over! Get out!”

He heard a “What the f*ck?” and a guffaw but that’s all he heard before he slammed the door and turned back.

“Sweetie, that was rude… oh!”

She cried out because he was stalking.

She was backing up.

She had a hand up and was looking at him closely as she moved.

“Does this mean you like it?” she asked.

He didn’t give her an answer verbally.

But a while later, when he was not doing his usual watching her * take his dick but instead his eyes were locked to his card on her ass as she took his f*cking on her knees, her whimpers muffled by the covers where her face was pressed, he figured she got the message.

*

He figured she also got his message when she sat next to him, babbling about wedding plans, co-workers at LeLane’s, her and her girls’ predictions of when Malik would pop the question, as he laid back in the chair, the buzz sounding as his tat guy worked at his chest.

Like the joker card, it was his design, so he could change the deck to whatever the f*ck he wanted it to be.

So the card the guy was inking slanted over his heart next to the joker was the queen of hearts.

And butterflies.

*

The back door flew open and Carissa flew in carrying the handles of a LeLane’s paper bag in one hand, a massive stack of magazines tucked in her other arm, her purse over her shoulder, and wearing her khaki’s and LeLane’s polo, Converse on her feet.

Joker was at the stove.

Travis was unsteady on his feet as he ran to her, shouting, “Moomah!” then he took a header, landed on his hands and knees, tipped his head back and giggled.

“Googly,” she greeted, dumping bag, magazines, and purse and cutting her eyes to Joker. “Please tell me you’re browning the ground beef.”

“Seein’ as I got a text five minutes ago tellin’ my behind to do that and I’m standin’ at a stove… yeah.”

She smiled at him, bent, scooped up her kid, gave him kisses, tickles, and snuggles, then put him down again and came right to Joker.

Her eyes were shining.

“Did you see it?” she asked.

He nodded. “Tyra bought twice as many as you got over there.” He jerked his head to the counter where she’d dumped her shit.

“Did you read it?” she pushed.

“Uh… yeah,” he answered.

“It… is… amazing!” she cried. “So amazing. So cool. So you! And the brothers. I’m framing it. Every page!” she declared.

“Figure you will, bein’ a goofball,” he muttered, fighting his smile.

“Don’t make me annoyed when I’m this happy.” She jumped suddenly and yelled, “I have to change! Be back! There’s ice cream in that bag, toss it in the freezer, sweetie, will you?”

Then she didn’t wait for him to answer. She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss, which he thought was cute, and he usually loved it when she did that, but not so much right then when she just got home and he would prefer something a f*ckuva lot different.

He didn’t get it.

She raced out of the kitchen.

Joker turned down the meat, bent, nabbed Travis, and planted him on his hip.

“Joejoekah, loo lah, kah kah.”

“I hear you,” Joker muttered as he walked to the bag, took the ice cream out (three tubs), and put it in the freezer.

Then he went to the magazine, grabbed the top one off the stack, set it to the side and flipped it open.

He got to the page and whispered, “There it is, boy.”

“Dah, noo, fah, lah,” Travis replied.

“That’s what I think,” Joker said.

He stared down at the picture.

It took up both pages. One of his builds, a bike, purple, f*cking brilliant pinstriping, and even he had to admit the framing was inspired.

In big writing at the top it said, Custom Cool and under that, smaller, it said, Denver’s Chaos Motorcycle Club, led by design mastermind Carson “Joker” Steele, takes custom rides to the next stratosphere.

The brothers were gathered around the bike in the garage. All of them. Joker at the front wheel, arms crossed on his chest, Tack next to him, arm slung casually over Joker’s shoulders, his boots crossed at the ankles.