Make Me: A Hawks Ink Romance, page 1
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MAKE ME
A HAWKS INK ROMANCE
K.S. ELLIS
Copyright © 2022 K.S. Ellis
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 9798797718048
Imprint: Independently published
For absent friends. I wish we had longer.
More by K.S. Ellis
SAN REMO SINNERS:
WILD HAWKS MC SERIES:
Sweet Sin
Sweet Torture
Sweet Pain
Sweet Redemption
HAWKS INK SERIES:
Mark Me
Marry Me (free giveaway)
Make Me
Miss Me
BROTHERS OF THE WILD HAWKS SERIES:
Buster
STANDALONE NOVELS:
Lie With Me
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m sure you’re sick of hearing it… but thank you, Cameron. You’re my very own happily ever after and the way you support me means the world to me.
Thank you to everyone who read this, who commented, who helped shape this story into what it was. Jax and Ari are my favourite couple so far, and I love that you loved them as much as I did!
A special shout out to my North American beta readers, who always pick me up on my “Australianisms” which inevitably creep into my writing. One day I’ll write a purely Australian character - just to trip you up!
Chapter 1
ARIEL
I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like, a lot. There was the time I thought it would be a good idea to hitchhike through Mexico. Or the time I thought it would be a good idea to learn to skydive – even though heights paralyze me. Or the time I figured it wouldn’t be that hard to learn to waterski… by joining an advanced class.
But by far, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life has to be right now, when I let Lacey talk me into going to a party with her. At a biker clubhouse. At a one-percenter motorcycle clubhouse.
Lacey is in her element. This is totally her thing. She’s tattooed and confident and dancing on a table with half her ass hanging out of her booty shorts. I’m awkwardly standing by the bar in skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a tight T-shirt, gripping my beer and hoping none of these scary-looking bikers talk to me. Or notice me. In fact, I’m mainly hoping to be invisible until Lacey is ready to go home.
I’ve been back in San Remo for two months, and she finally convinced me to come to one of these things with her. I’m pretty sure she’s a regular here. I can’t believe Lacey Clyde, my high school bestie, is a biker chick. I thought she’d be off running the world by now.
Instead, she’s running a biker-owned nightclub. I mean, she’s running a whole nightclub at twenty-four, which is amazing in and of itself… I just thought she’d be off smashing glass ceilings. Not smashing tequila shots in booty shorts.
To be fair, it’s not like I can judge her too harshly. After all, I have slunk back home at twenty-four to work in a dress shop. So I’m not exactly smashing any glass ceilings either. But at least I did actually leave San Remo for a hot second.
I was following the plan. Lacey and I were going to see the world together. Then she decided not to come to UCLA with me and, though we kept in touch, we went our separate ways. Until I landed back here, and Alicia, my manager at Anytime Boutique, dragged me to a nightclub to “reintroduce” me to San Remo.
Lacey spotted me right away when we walked in, and within a second, we were back to being besties. Which is why I somehow let her talk me into coming here tonight, even though it’s really, really not my scene.
“Hey there, girly, haven’t seen you around here before.”
I stiffen as the slightly slurred words wash over me, along with the whiskey breath. Turning slowly, like I’m dealing with a rabid dog, my eyes dart over the man standing a little too close to me for comfort. At a guess, he’s probably forty. He has a beard, and he’s wearing one of those leather vest things that mean he’s in the Wild Hawks Motorcycle Club, whose clubhouse we’re currently standing in.
It’s not that he’s bad-looking. It’s just that he’s twice my age, a criminal, and so not my type. I’ve never really thought about whether I have a type, but at the moment, I can tell you my type is not bikers. This lifestyle could not be further from where I see my life going. And if I’m being completely honest, it scares me a little. It might be Lacey’s cup of tea, but it’s nowhere near mine.
Not wanting to insult him by acting wrong or something, I flash the drunk guy a quick smile, turning my eyes back to Lacey’s writhing form. Unfortunately, he doesn’t take the hint.
“Name’s Rooster,” he tries again. I nod to him, at which point his eyes narrow. Shit. I think I’ve insulted him. “What’s your name?”
“Ariel,” I admit quietly, shuffling my feet as he slings his arm around my shoulders.
“Pretty little thing like you should be up there dancing too.”
He’s looking at where Lacey is dancing on the table in front of us. Across the room, I can see another woman, dressed much like Lacey is, also dancing on a table. The biker’s arm drops away from my shoulder. He slaps my ass while chortling like he made the world’s best joke. Oh god. Can I leave yet?
“I’m not a very good dancer,” I protest, which isn’t a lie. Rhythm really isn’t my thing. It runs in the family.
Rooster’s eyes wander over my body despite my protestations. I wish I wore looser jeans and a top.
“With a tight little body like that, you don’t need to be a good dancer.”
His eyes linger a little too long on my tits for comfort.
“I’d probably fall off the table and break something,” I blurt out.
Rooster blinks at me. I think he might be trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth or not.
A brassy-looking woman with big hair shrieks with laughter as she slides her hand around Rooster’s bicep.
“The girl isn’t going to give you a dance, baby,” she drawls, winking at me, rubbing herself all over Rooster until he wanders off with her. Well, thank god.
It’s not even midnight, but I feel exhausted. I want to crawl into bed and sleep for about five days. I shuffle closer to the bar, hoping no one else notices me. Or talks to me.
As I do, my eyes wander over the crowd. It’s packed in here. It makes sense. I think most bars get busy on Friday nights.
Continuing my perusal of the bar, my eyes lock onto a pair of light brown eyes. I swallow reflexively. Shit. I’m in so much trouble. Just how much trouble becomes obvious when those eyes flash with recognition and narrow on me.
They are staring out of a face with well-groomed dark stubble and lips that are not usually flattened into a disapproving line. That’s a special look just for when they’re looking at me.
What the hell is Jax Hudson doing in a biker bar? Oh shit. He’s clearly thinking the same thing about me because he’s totally coming over here. Maybe Rooster will come back and save me.
JAX
Ever since he got hitched, Cockerel has had a million excuses for why he can’t party with the Wild Hawks at their clubhouse. I’m sure the only reason any of them are accepted is because his wife, Kayley, is Aric Shaw’s adopted sister or some shit. That, and she used to strip for the club, so she probably doesn’t want to hang out here anymore.
Keith always whines about how he’s not going to waste his Friday nights off at a place where there’s more chance of hell freezing over than him getting any cock. That only leaves Harvey and me to take turns coming here.
I don’t mind it. The Wild Hawks are mostly all right. But I would still much rather watch football at a sports bar with my buds.
One of the younger club groupies, Paige, is currently cozying up to me. Whispering about how she could suck my cock out in the parking lot if I want. She wants a free tattoo or some shit, so I shoot her a tight smile, declining her offer. I’m not that desperate.
Besides, with groupies, you never know which club member you might accidentally piss off by cutting their grass. I’m not down enough with the club dynamics to know that stuff without asking. And even if I was interested, I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.
Shrugging off Paige’s advances, I leave her, walking over to chat with Buster, the head of the Wild Hawk’s road crew. We chat about his rig and shit. Anything to get the groupies off my case.
Lacey Clyde gets up on one of the tables, and Buster wolf-whistles. Lacey is not usually here at the clubhouse on a Friday – because she manages the Wild Hawks nightclub over near Downtown – but I guess she got tonight off.
I’m sure he thinks he’s been subtle about it, but it’s obvious Buster has been sniffing around her for a while. Going by the flirtatious looks she sends his way, I think tonight might finally be his lucky night.
Lacey was three years below me at San Remo High. The only reason I know her at all is that I’ve sat at the Day’s dinner table with her more times than I can count.
Charlie Day was my best bud in high school, so I was alwa
Mainly the only time I paid attention to Lacey was when Charlie and I were bailing her and Ariel out of stupid situations. For two smart girls, they sure got into a lot of them.
Sighing, I keep chatting to Buster, not watching Lacey’s show, though he can’t get enough of it. I don’t really want to focus on Lacey Clyde because she makes me think of Charlie.
When we graduated high school, he joined the Marines. I got a job at Hawks Ink, which had only just opened, and I’ve been there for the last nine years. Charlie used to rib me about working for Hawks Ink instead of at the parlor Downtown.
He always said I was an idiot for getting into bed with a one-percenter motorcycle club, and I was looking to get my head blown off. Turns out the Middle East was much more dangerous than San Remo’s seedy underbelly, and Charlie got blown up instead.
I saw Lacey for a few years after I graduated because while Charlie was in the Middle East, he asked me to keep an eye on his little sister, Ariel. The girl was a walking disaster. I swear she only had to look sideways at something, and she’d find herself in trouble. So that kept me on my toes.
Not to mention she was as stubborn as the day is long. Trying to talk her out of a truly terrible decision was worse than a fucking root canal. She up and left for college in Los Angeles, so there wasn’t much I could do for her anymore, seeing how LA is three hours away from San Remo.
After Charlie was shipped home from the Middle East in pieces, he went to stay with Ariel for a while in LA. The man up and married his physical therapist and moved to Canada. I’m happy for the dude, but I wish he had settled down closer to home.
I haven’t seen him since his wedding a month ago. I miss the fucker. Charlie is the only person I know who could get blown sky-high, come home missing half his body parts, and still have the biggest smile in the room.
Buster has stopped responding to my conversation because Lacey has taken her top off. Sighing, I look down at my empty beer. I might as well have another one for the road. It’s almost midnight, which means I can cut and run soon.
Cockerel recently hired another tattoo artist, a kid named Harvey. He poached him from the Downtown parlor. Cockerel mainly hired him to step back and spend more time with his wife, but Keith and I are also reaping the benefits. Ever since Harvey came on board, each of us has every third Saturday off work. And since the parlor isn’t open on Sundays, I have this whole weekend free.
It’s a pity it has to start with me hanging out here instead of at home, feet up, watching the game. Fuck. When did I turn into such an old man?
One more beer, then I’ll go. I turn my eyes to the bar, locking with a pair of steel grey ones. Shock floods through my system. Charlie never said his sister was going to be back in town. My eyes narrow because she’s standing between two Wild Hawks, grinning at each other over her head. Of course, it’s fucking Merch and Palmer.
Nothing but trouble, those two. They’re club enforcers and have been in the tattoo parlor enough over the years for me to know their greatest hits of conquest stories. Right now, they’re both looking at Ariel like she’s fresh meat. Motherfucker.
Ariel notices I’ve spotted her and starts to shuffle from foot to foot. She’s acting like she’s nervous. She should be fucking nervous. What was I just thinking before? The woman is a trouble magnet. And she’s found it here. Great.
As I stride across the bar to her, her eyes dart to the exit. But she’s not getting out of this situation that easily. Merch’s arm drops around her shoulders while Palmer holds out a shot glass to her.
Ariel is smiling up at him, shaking her head. He shoves the glass in her face until she takes it, gesturing that she should drink it. Over my fucking dead body.
Reaching them, I pluck the glass out of her fingers.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “And I think I’m not fourteen anymore, Jax,” she replies shortly. At her words, Merch’s eyes roam over her body.
“No, you aren’t, sweetheart,” he drawls.
I glare at him. “Time to go, Ari.” At my words, she rolls her eyes at me. “Now.”
Reaching over, I curl my fingers around her upper arm to drag her away from Merch’s arm.
When I do, Palmer smirks at me. “If you wanted this one for yourself, Jax, all you had to do was say so.”
I shoot him a look as Ariel makes a sound of disbelief. But I steer her away from them, to the exit, before she can say anything.
“Lacey,” she half-heartedly protests as I walk her out of the fucking biker bar. I don’t slow our steps. If Lacey doesn’t fuck Buster tonight, I’ll sell my condo.
“Text her,” I grunt shortly. “She’s not going home alone anyway.”
Ariel twists her head, trying to look over her shoulder as I keep marching her out of the bar. She must spot Lacey making out with Buster because she sighs, turning back to the door.
“She was going to ditch me, wasn’t she?” Ariel mutters, sounding resigned.
I snort, nodding. Yep. Lacey was one hundred percent going to ditch Ariel in a fucking biker bar.
As I said, trouble will find this girl within a hundred-mile radius. No questions asked. And since Charlie isn’t here to look out for her, I guess it’s up to me. Again. Just what I fucking need.
Ariel gives another half-hearted protest as I load her into my truck. Usually, I leave it parked at the parlor and walk over, but it was raining when I left the parlor earlier.
“Did you drive?” I ask her. Not that it would change anything. I don’t know how much she has had to drink – I wouldn’t be putting her behind the wheel anyway. But I would need to organize to have her car dropped at her place.
Ariel pinches her lips together, shaking her head. Didn’t think so. Slamming the door shut, I round the cab, sliding in. Turning to her, I stare, my eyebrows raised. She’s sitting there, without her seatbelt on. I wait for a moment, but she doesn’t even fucking move. Biting back a sigh, I reach over, snagging her belt and buckling her in.
“I’m not a kid,” she mutters as the belt clicks into its buckle. Well, you could have fooled me.
“Maybe you should have done it yourself then,” I grunt back at her.
I catch her eye roll as I reverse the truck out of the parking spot, out of the compound, heading back to town. The clubhouse is in the industrial district of San Remo.
“Are you staying with your folks?” I ask, trying to work out where I’m taking her. Ariel snorts.
“I have my own place,” she replies tightly, glaring across at me. Like she thinks I’m treating her like a kid again. I raise my eyebrows at her. We have a silent glare-off before, with a sigh, she recites the address through clenched teeth.
My lips tighten. What did I tell you? She’s. A. Walking. Magnet. For. Trouble. I know at least four Wild Hawks live in The Pines apartment complex. Including Palmer. Just fucking great.
Ariel is silent the entire trip, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes glued to the windshield. Honestly, it doesn’t even feel awkward. This isn’t the first time we have sat in this exact situation. Hell, it’s not even the tenth. Pulling up in front of The Pines, I can’t see any motorcycles. It makes sense. They’ll all be at the clubhouse.
When I open my door and start to slide out, Ariel’s eyebrows shoot up.
“What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously. I glower at her, slamming my door shut, rounding the cab, and opening hers.
“Walking you to your door.”
I would have thought it was fucking obvious, but she frowns at me, sliding out of the truck.
“Whatever,” she mutters. “I have no idea how you managed to get even more annoying in the last six years, but congratulations.”
Pot, meet kettle.
