Hell's Ink

  Hell’s Ink

  Copyright © 2015 by Nicole Reed

  Published by Nicole Reed

  Cover Design © Hang Le

  Photo Image by Golden Czermak @ Furious Fotog

  Model – James Van Nostrand

  Illustration by Alvin Dzihic

  Edited by Lisa Aurello

  Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in this novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at nicolereedbooks.com or facebook.com/authornicolereed.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hels’ breath hitched, a small puff of sound that instantly aroused and hardened Hold’s body. He watched her slender artist’s hand caress her taut, tattooed abdomen, instantly jealous that it wasn’t his own blunt fingers that idly drifted across her silky flesh. Her eyes flickered with awareness to where he stood at the end of the bed watching her. It only made his balls draw up tight. His rock-hard erection jutted outward, thick and long. He couldn’t halt his hand from massaging it with slow, steady jerks. His teeth burrowed painfully into his bottom lip.

  Through the haze of desperate lust, he saw her once-blonde hair, splayed black beneath her. She arched her back, her fingers moving down to the soft curls that lay at the juncture of her thighs, sensually massaging her clit. At the sound of her soft moan, all the blood rushed from his brain, straight down to his dick, engorging the already deep purple head.

  She motioned her hand toward him. Her finger glistened with her sweet juices. Hold’s mouth went dry, inwardly dying from the scene spread out in front of him. Like a man denied water during a drought, he knew it was a dream. A mirage. How many times in the past several years did he long for only her?

  “You’re not real,” he whispered, his breathing harsh in the silence, his feet padding cautiously around the bed to loom over her.

  “Does it matter?” she responded, her hand beckoning him to her.

  He knew there were reasons why he shouldn’t be here with her. Yet he couldn’t give two shits what they were. She was here. And so was he.

  His lean, muscular body lowered to the bed, covering hers in one fell swoop. Her skin was hot, causing his blood to boil underneath his own. He was going to die if he didn’t fuck her. Hold actually whimpered at the thought of this very moment being imaginary. Not even a memory.

  “Hels,” he groaned, every nerve set ablaze within him.

  “Keller,” she corrected, touching her other hand to his chest, letting her nails score his sensitive nipples. “Call me Keller.”

  He would call her whatever she fucking wanted. Just don’t let it end. Hold spread his hand to cover one plump breast, circling the tiny erect nipple, rolling it between two fingers. His painful erection ground against her thigh, the length of it lying skin-to-skin, sending small zings through his pelvis.

  “Whatever, babe. Whatever you want,” he growled against her chest, his tongue already lapping the small nub, making her cry out. “I just need you.”

  His mouth covered her breast, drawing it deep, the taste of her skin everything he remembered. His suckling was interrupted with the feel of her warm hand wrapping around his swollen flesh. Hels, Keller, whoever the fuck she needed to be, grasped him almost painfully, circling him tight, moving rhythmically with sure and steady strokes.

  “Gah.” He couldn’t make any other noise. This was the only thing he wanted, prayed for, betrayed everyone in his life only to have her beneath him, touching him. The one person who he couldn’t let go.

  Her tit popped from his mouth, so he moved to the next one, roaming back and forth. He nipped and licked. His hands roughly gathered the hills of her sweet flesh together, making it easier for him to reach them both. Making love to her as a grown-ass adult was much better than two kids fumbling in the dark. The sensual heat burned them both alive, driving him to the brink of begging.

  His mouth drifted downward, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her navel. The indentation of his teeth marked the barely rounded flesh of her belly. Her fingers tugged one last time on him, his body moving lower, out of her more than capable hands. He felt her heat as he laid his head at the juncture of her thighs. Hold’s eyes roamed over her colorful body. She was marked as a Hell’s old lady, with a motorcycle surrounded by flames tattooed right above her pubic bone. The club’s ink appeared to be living, breathing, swirling over her skin in bright hues of color. It didn’t seem fucked-up to Hold that it wasn’t possible. Being with Hels, well, anything could happen.

  Hold’s strong hands spread her thighs, his body strumming in tune with his heart. He heard her whimper. His slight tenure of restraint vanished. His hand covered her plump mound, his middle finger sliding through the swollen, glistening flesh. His tongue dashed over her moist clit.

  “Yes, Luke. Please don’t stop,” she screamed.

  Her words speared him, freezing him in place. She called him Luke, that ATF fucker she’d left town with, once again leaving Hold alone. It felt as if a bucket of frigid water had been splashed over his head. Mountains of rage rose fast and furious. Hold’s body seized at the overwhelming hurt filling him. He flung himself up and away from her.

  The reality of his situation grounded him immediately. A dream. His breath was weighted heavy in his chest—he could have sworn he could still taste her essence on his lips. His knees shook and his knuckles curved in anger. He wasn’t in bed with Hels, but standing, soaking wet, in an ab
andoned barn somewhere south of Harmony, Florida. His dick withered faster than the imagined feel of her in his arms.

  Hold glanced down at the dirt-encrusted floor where he’d slept, now becoming a muddy puddle, littered with straws of hay. The smell of musty wet earth filled his nostrils. His wrists were painfully cinched together behind his back, aggravating his already beaten and bruised body. When he tried to tug them free, the plastic embedded deeper into his abraded skin, sending twinges of physical discomfort up his arms. Hold had been brought here sometime yesterday after letting Hels and Luke escape the MC.

  “’Bout damn time you woke, boy.”

  Hold’s tired gaze followed the familiar voice, realizing he wasn’t alone. He squinted into the invading darkness to see the fucker who’d beaten the shit out of him, enjoying every time Hold’s body bended from the hours of seemingly endless torture. The chill of the cold water that drenched his body didn’t cool the heated temper flaming inside of him.

  Sandman stood before him holding an empty silver tin bucket. Droplets slowly rolled down Hold’s cheeks, lodging in the growth of unruly facial hair, and gathering in the bandana that bunched around his neck. He’d been blindfolded when they’d kidnapped his ass and brought him to this hellhole. Hold glared at Sandman and the ugly fucker stared hard right back.

  A malicious smile marked his mouth, twisting the scars that lined his bald head and bisected his face. Sandman stood inches shorter than Hold, but he was a thick-chested son of a bitch. Hold couldn’t help but smile when he saw the shiner Luke obviously gave him. He’d bet his sorry ass it ticked off the sergeant-at-arms for the Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club that he’d been so easily marked. The same club that Hold was the vice president of and his father the president.

  Hold’s knees ached but he stayed standing. This wasn’t the moment to show weakness even though his shoulders and arms painfully cramped from lack of circulation.

  “Where’s Ward?” Hold asked, his voice hoarse from being bone dry. He desperately needed something to wet it, but wouldn’t dare ask the bastard standing in front of him for a damn thing to drink.

  “Your old man will be along shortly. He’s bringin’ a present for you.” Sandman snorted back a laugh before turning around and reaching for a water bottle. “Open up.”

  He tilted the water bottle toward Hold’s mouth. Thirst made him relent. It wasn’t cold, but Hold drank the warm liquid in greedy gulps. The fluid hit his empty stomach, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in over forty-eight hours. A present? For one second he thought, please don’t let it be Hels. If Ward captured her… If he brought her here to torture them both… Hold knew that it would completely destroy what was left of him. He hated Hels, but he loved her with the same breath. She was the light that had given him hope when he was younger. How can you hate your own heart? Hold had repeatedly asked himself that same question these past four years.

  Once Hels and Luke took off in the van with Mikey inadvertently helping them escape, all shit broke loose. Ward’s motorcycle was shot up, which deviled him more than Hels getting away for the second time. The entire Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club gave chase to Mikey’s joy ride, except for Ward and Hold. Father and son, bitter with betrayal by those they loved, silently walked away from the other. Later that day, Ward’s men barged into Hold’s room, blindfolding and kidnapping him to wherever this hell on earth was located.

  Hold couldn’t believe what’d all gone down in the last week. Hels was gone. Again. So much had been sacrificed for her. And she’d left Hold this time for Luke. Everything he did was for Hels. The bitch. The ungrateful cunt. The pain lanced deeper in his chest, cratering out what was left of his soul, piece by painful piece.

  “Was she worth it?” Sandman seemed to read his mind, bringing him back to the present. “Her pussy good enough to risk your family’s life who you’d sworn to protect?”

  “She grabbed my gun, man,” Hold answered, keeping to his story. The truth was he handed it to her. If he hadn’t, Ward would’ve killed her. His eyes narrowed in on the asshole.

  “Bitch, please,” Sandman said, adding a sinister laugh. “She grabbed my gun,” he mimicked Hold’s answer in a high-pitched voice. “Fuckin’ pussy-whipped.”

  Hold saw absolute red. When they released him, if they released him, Sandman would be the first fucker he’d find. He’d begun to doubt that Ward would actually hurt him. No, if they were going to kill him, club justice would’ve already been dispensed.

  The creaking sound of the door shattered the silence of this standoff. Ward strolled inside as if nothing was wrong. His unaffected gaze seemed to take in the lackluster accommodations before resting on Hold. As if it were an everyday occurrence for his son to be held prisoner, sleeping like a mangy mutt bastard on the ground, hungry and dirty, and being held against his will by a sadistic, crazy fucker. Hold didn’t realize how much he’d come to hate the man standing before him until this very moment.

  His father stood three inches above Hold’s own six-foot-two height. Ward’s longish scraggily brown hair, peppered with grey, matched the beard that covered his face. For as long as Hold could remember, Ward had always worn a white wife-beater under his Hell’s Highwaymen cut that he never went anywhere without. It was part and parcel of him—you didn’t see one without the other.

  Ward wore his president patch with authority. With superiority. And without mercy. His dark brown eyes, so unlike Hold’s own bright blue ones, seemed distant as they roamed over him, something Hold had come to expect from the familiar stranger standing in front of him. Hold didn’t miss the disappointment that showed on Ward’s face. But just as he revealed it, Ward shut it down, once again hiding any emotion.

  “It seems we have a lack of respect between you and me, boy. Which is fucked-up considerin’ I’m not only your old man, who you should show some goddamn respect to, but your prez, which commands your fuckin’ reverence,” Ward said, slowly walking in a circle around Hold. “I’m not going to demote my own son, never goin’ to shame the Dawson family name. Me and my men trusted you to handle bein’ vice president of the Hell’s Highwaymen. This past year you’ve willingly and publicly challenged me. Do we have a communication problem, son?”

  Hold shook his head no. He knew silence was the only answer, and what he felt was better left in the dark recesses of his mind. Nobody could save him now—there was nowhere to go. The MC had been his chosen life for too long, chosen above everything and everyone. Just because he didn’t believe in Ward anymore didn’t mean he’d given up on believing in the brotherhood of the club.

  “I stand with my brothers,” Hold said bitterly, giving him the only truth he could.

  Ward emitted a gruff snort. “Brothers, huh? You know I started this club based on a brotherhood. Thicker than blood.” Ward froze in place, grasping his hands together behind his back. His beady eyes met Sandman’s before turning them squarely to Hold’s. “Valued more than money. Your life sacrificed for the MC. For life. Nothing or no one comes before your brothers.”

  “I don’t need no fuckin’ lesson on brotherhood,” Hold answered, standing up straighter.

  “The hell you say. But your punishment for turnin’ your back on us, your brothers, is almost over and everything will go back to normal. I still want that bitch to pay. She knows things. And now she is in dangerous hands. When I find Hels this time, there will be no club justice—it’ll be all mine,” Ward said, pacing in front of him. His darkened eyes stared directly into Hold’s before briefly nodding for Sandman to cut Hold’s wrists free. “Do you understand?”

  The blood circulated once again in his unrestricted arms and pain like he’d never known almost brought him to his knees. Once again Hold nodded absently to answer Ward. That idiot Luke better be smart enough to keep her safe. Hels wasn’t his worry anymore.

  “Now then, the last phase of your punishment is twofold. Like killin’ two little bitches with one stone. You with me, boy?” Ward asked, a smile splitting his haggard fac
e.

  Something told Hold it wasn’t going to be good. Not that the last two days had been a walk in the park.

  “Mikey,” Ward hollered, glancing over his shoulder at the old door swinging open.

  Hold kept watch for Ward’s reaction. His father anxiously brushed his hands against his worn and tattered jeans, anticipation almost vibrating off the old son of a bitch. His best friend since childhood stepped through the doorway. Mikey stood inches taller than Ward and was way more muscular in all the places he should be, instead of muscle turning to flab like Ward’s. His greasy blond hair stuck up awkwardly on his head and his normally manicured beard had been left bushy.

  Mikey looked about as bad as Hold felt, with the right half of his face a nasty sallow purple mixed with multiple shades of blue. The left eye was puffy and completely shut. His only good green eye stared wearily toward Hold. Mikey gave the appearance of being beat down by an entire pissed-off baseball team with an arsenal of aluminum bats. He didn’t have to ask what’d happened. Hold knew that Mikey was punished for the part he’d played in Hels’ escape. What Hold didn’t understand was Ward’s reason for Mikey being here at this particular moment.

  “You two young bucks ain’t runnin’ this show just yet. The Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club is my labor of blood, sweat, and motherfuckin’ tears. As long as there is breath in this body, you’ll answer to me. I’m your goddamn leader. My word is law. And by God, you two will both respect it, or find out what happens when somebody double-crosses me.” Ward gripped the torn collar of Mikey’s ragged t-shirt, ripping it wider as he tugged him to face Hold directly. “Mikey knows now who he ultimately answers to, Hold. Not you, son. Not yet.”

  Hold didn’t miss the flash of pain that splayed across Mikey’s face. At first he wasn’t sure if it was physical or mental, until Mikey glanced directly at him. He knows why he’s here, Hold thought to himself. It read plainly in his features.