Marked as His

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Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

Hartwood Publishing, 400 Gilead Road, #1617, Huntersville, NC 28070

www.hartwoodpublishing.com

Marked as His

Copyright © 2015 by Em Petrova

Digital Release: May 2015

Cover Artist:  Georgia Woods

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Resident tattoo artist for the Hell’s Sons, Paxton inks badass bikers, but he wants to climb the ranks within the motorcycle club. When he asks the president for a task to prove his value to the club beyond his artistic abilities, he is given an assignment—bring back the uncontrollable wildcat Santana Powers, the estranged daughter of a club brother.

Since the day her father walked out on her mother during a desperate family crisis, Santana hasn’t seen him and good riddance. Then a brawny, tattooed god walks up to her, and commands her to get on his Harley and return to her father’s motorcycle club with him. She has no choice but to take matters into her own hands—or handcuffs, that is.

With the tables turned and Paxton tied up—literally—he’s convinced his bid for club recognition is lost. While he calls to Santana’s vulnerable side and things heat up between them, putting her trust in a biker is almost as hard as returning to the club that nearly destroyed her family. Can Santana and her father settle their differences, especially when she rumbles back into his life on the back of Paxton’s bike, sporting his ink?

Paxton set down his ink machine to accept a bottle of beer from one of the club girls. As he swallowed the earthy flavors, he eyed the young woman. They called girls like her “sweet butts” and he could see why.

This one had a particularly enticing curve to her ass.

“You like the booties, I see.” Tommy’s tone was amused despite the gravel in his voice. Years of motorcycles, whiskey, and hard living did that to a man. He wouldn’t have it any other way, and neither would Paxton.

Nodding, Paxton took another drink of beer and smiled at the sweet butt. She gave him a sparkling white grin, her blonde bangs dripping into her eyes with just enough hint of seduction.

She dropped him a wink. “You know where to find me, Pax.”

Paxton watched her sway away from the table where he was creating his latest masterpiece on Tommy’s one blank patch of skin on his upper arm.

“You should tap that,” Tommy said.

Paxton took up his machine again. The equipment was an extension of his hand and mind. He often didn’t even use a stencil but inked right onto the skin. In a motorcycle club like the Hell’s Sons
,
he got a lot of work.

Though the work wasn’t as exciting as some of the other guys got. Paxton wasn’t making illegal alcohol deals or fighting with Russian hit men.

“Maybe I will tap that,” he said noncommittally.

“At your age, there’s nothing that would have stopped me.”

Paxton swept his gaze over Tommy’s face. The man was rough around the edges but he supposed he looked young enough to attract more than a sweet butt, who would sleep with anybody in leather.

“How come you don’t have an old lady?” Paxton set needles to skin.

“Used to. Too much trouble at my age.” Tommy ran a finger down each scar crisscrossing his cheeks. He’d earned them in a fight and they puckered his skin without making him look disfigured.

“C’mon, man. Chicks dig scars.”

Tommy delivered a light slap to Paxton’s cheek. “Better go out and get a few of your own then, pretty boy.”

“I’m not unwilling.” He laid down a line of black ink. The words “Kiss my country ass” surrounded the American flag. Nothing said Heller’s Gap, Alabama like a redneck tat.

“What’s stoppin’ ya? Go out and get in trouble.”

Paxton threw him a grin before adding a lighter line that would fade to gray and add dimension. “I’d like to earn a little trouble if you know what I mean.”

Tommy arched a brow. “Oh?”

Gliding the needle over Tommy’s skin, he said, “I want a piece of the biz. Something to earn me that patch.” He jerked his chin at the leather vest Tommy wore. The “cut” had several club patches on it, and one was the coveted blood patch.

The solid blood red rectangle was earned when a man was willing to bleed for the good of the club. And Paxton was.

Several times he’d asked to make alcohol runs or run vigilante on the drug dealers of the town. But the MC—motorcycle club—prez, Jamison, claimed he didn’t want Paxton to fuck up his hands in bar fights. Who would ink their members?

Tommy ran a finger over the patch. “You sure you’re worthy?”

“Hell yeah. I’ve been a full member for two years.”

“Why don’t you ask Jamison to take one of the runs over the state line?”

The tax-free alcohol trade was booming, and eluding the Feds was risky. Paxton had requested a spot on the team before and was blown off.

“Maybe I will.”

“Hey, Jamison, come listen to this.” Tommy waved at the prez.

Paxton glanced from his fresh ink to see Jamison setting the soft, curvy redhead onto the seat next to him. The man had it bad for his old lady, and no wonder. Every member’d had a wet dream or two about Ever.

Jamison dropped into a seat at the table beside Tommy. “Ink’s looking good, Pax.”

He responded with a chin nod and kept inking.

“Our boy here wants a blood patch. Can’t we hook him up?”

Paxton hid his smile. This was how things went down in the Hell’s Sons—a member nominated a prospect. Then once he was voted in as a full member, he kept getting pushed forward by his sponsor.

Except Paxton’s sponsor was dead. He’d been killed a while back, shot during a raid gone wrong.

Feeling his prez’s stare on him, Paxton kept his face blank and kept inking.

“Harris is going out of town. He could take his place for a few nights,” Tommy suggested.

“I got someone else covering that. But another mission comes to mind.”

At Jamison’s serious tone, Paxton looked up. He stopped the needles. “Does this involve stealing any girls from rival clubs? Because I don’t want involved.”

Jamison barked a laugh and stubbed out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Is it the girls or the rivals you find daunting?”

“Chicks are a lot of trouble.”

“Ah.” Jamison exchanged a meaningful look with Tommy then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It just so happens we have a job.”

Paxton folded his arms over his chest and waited.

“Tommy here has a family issue.”

Paxton raised a brow. “I’m listening.”

“Tommy’s got a daughter he hasn’t seen since she was a kid. He’s getting up there in years—”

Tommy cut across the prez. “Not that far up there. I was eighteen when she was born.”

“Like I said.” Jamison gave a crooked smile before continuing. “He wants to see his daughter but she’s not interested.”

“Why don’t you just call her up?” Paxton asked. He already didn’t like this mission. How dangerous would it be to go find some snotty female and haul her back to see Tommy? No bloodshed, no risk. Hell, he might as well go into town for groceries—it would be more dangerous fighting for a place in the checkout line.

Offering a wry stare, Tommy said, “Don’t you think I’ve tried that?”

“So drive over and beat on her door.”

“Tried that too. She has a restraining order against me.”

At that, Paxton burst out laughing. He picked up his machine again and resumed inking the blue area of the flag.

“This doesn’t sound like a job worthy of a blood patch.” He dragged his teeth over his lower lip, down to the patch of hair beneath.

“We’ll let you be the judge, why don’t we? You go tomorrow.” Jamison stood. Across the room, his old lady smiled softly to see him returning to her.

Paxton pushed out a sigh but didn’t stop laying down color. “I guess I’m in.” He met Tommy’s stare, thinking about digging a little deep into the flesh, enough to hurt.

Tommy slapped him on the shoulder. “Son, you bring back my hellcat daughter to me and I’ll sew your patch on myself.”

“Better find your needle. I’ll be back within an hour.”

•●•

“Good morning. Flick Welding.” Santana pressed her long, heavy hair over her shoulder and grabbed a pen, prepared to jot down a note.

She listened to the request of the person on the line. “Yes…yes.”

A big male body was standing in her doorway, and she looked up. The greasy man did a gyration with his hips like a ghetto Chippendale.

Ugh.

Covering the phone with one hand, she got up and stomped three steps to the doorway. She lifted a boot and delivered a hard kick to the man’s saggy ass.

He howled and the guys in the shop roared with laughter. Santana slammed the door, trying to control any muttering under her breath. The new welder didn’t have the moves he believed he did.

He also didn’t know Santana would do more than kick his ass out of her cubicle. Each and every one of the other men had learned their lessons the hard way. She still kept rope and pepper spray in her top desk drawer alongside normal office supplies.

“Yes, I understand,” she said pleasantly into the phone. “We can do what you’re asking. Are you able to bring the item you need repaired into the shop?” She listened to the customer with half an ear because something was going on beyond the door. She prepared herself. All day long, the guys tried their best to get into her small office—and her pants.

One guy walked by the window and gave her the devil horns with his fingers, sticking out his long, pierced tongue.

Shaking her head, she turned her back on him and took down an address.

When she ended the call, she issued the growl she’d kept pent up. As the receptionist and bookkeeper at the small, privately owned
,
and male-staffed welding shop, she was harassed more than she’d care to be. Guys saw her as easy prey.

At least until they learned who they were messing with.

Another big body obscured the whole window. With a grunt, she got up and took two steps before she realized this tower of muscle didn’t belong to the new welder. In fact, she didn’t recognize those hard buns and the back like a wooden plank with black leather stretched over it.