A Dream of Summer (Bleeding Angels MC Book 3) (8 page)

I take a look at the finished design on my shoulder in the cracked mirror of the rest rooms of Wheels. It’s the emblem of the Bleeding Angels: a winged man in a crucifix position with blood dripping out of his wounds. Above the image are the words “Property of.”  It’s a big design across the top of my arm and it had taken hours for the tattoo artist to finish. I’d barely even flinched. It was the right kind of pain—one that I could tolerate. It was the pain in my chest that was the problem.

Seeing the words cut into my skin makes me wonder why Scar had even bothered to pretend this was about a brotherhood. Ryan had chosen the wording that would cause me as much pain as he could. They knew that I never wanted to be one of them, so they’d made it clear that there’s no getting away from it. Not only am I one of them, but I belong to them. They’ve branded me like I was cattle.

Tiny threads of blood are still coming out of the dark lines scarred onto my skin. They combine with the image and mix real blood with the fake blood of the Angel.
What would Aimee think if she saw you now?
I look at myself in the mirror and see a hard-eyed man staring back at me.
She’s going to see you soon enough,
I remind myself.

Ryan had brought me to the bar to wait until it was the right time to make the play on Sunny Side Up. We were waiting until the late night shift because there were never any cops around and hardly any customers. It was also the time of day when the till was at its fullest.
How am I going to do this?
I rest my head against the cool of the cracked mirror. I’ve never stolen anything—not even a pack of gum from the corner store when I was a kid. But if I don’t do it, then I know they’re only going to raise the game. That’s how it works. If you can’t do the first initiation they set you, then they set another and another, each one more morally-challenging than the last.

I take a deep breath and walk out of the rest room, steeling myself against the wall of noise that I know is going to hit me. Wheels is in full swing with drinks flowing and a crowd of bikers getting rowdy.

“Another beer, handsome?” The pretty blonde girl behind the bar asks before winking at me and giving her low-cut top a little tug to make it drop even lower on her impressive cleavage.

“Thanks.” I smile at her, wondering how she ended up in a place like this.

“Sure, Sugar.” She smiles and giggles a little as she pops open the bottle. I go to grab the bottle but she doesn’t release it straight away. “If there’s anything you need… anything at all,” she says, leaning suggestively over the counter of the bar, “You let me know.” She plants a quick kiss on my cheek and I catch a scent of marshmallows as she sets herself back down on her side of the counter.

She’s a pretty girl. Prettier than a lot of the girls I’ve been with. I know that she would make it so easy for me, I wouldn’t even have to try. But it’s not what I want. I’m not even remotely interested in anything that girl could offer me. It’s simple: she’s not Aimee. Aimee’s the only woman that I want, despite what she’s done to me.
You’re fucked up, Summers, you know that?
I tell myself.
Yeah, I guess I do
.

I amble back to my seat and notice some of the bikers that were at the table have left. Their places are now filled by others. I was surprised to find that a lot of the guys, especially the older ones, seem more or less like normal people. Seriously tattooed people, but normal nonetheless. They don’t seem to have Ryan’s sadistic side or Elvis’s sycophantic streak.

Unfortunately, when I get back to my table, those assholes are the only two that are left. Not only that, but they’ve both been hitting the powder hard. I wonder how they manage to stay upright with the amount of drugs they both do. I wonder what Scar thinks about his own bikers dipping into the stash—it can’t be good for business.

“Here he is, the man of the hour!” Elvis announces grandly, but his eyes are glittering with a hatred that is plain to see. “So what do you think of your new ink, Jakey-boy?” he asks, prodding my tattoo with his thick fingers, making my shoulder burn. “Oh, sorry. I guess it’s still a little tender.” Elvis cackles like a witch and then leans back in his chair, glassy-eyed. I figure whatever they took when I was in the rest room must be starting to kick in.

“You know, Blake over there—she’d put it out for you. Looks like she creamed her panties just talking to you.” Elvis hoots as he looks in the direction of the girl at the bar. “Between you and me,” he adds, although Ryan is still sitting at the table with us. I wonder at how often he seems to be left out of things, sidelined and made to feel as if he weren’t even there. I guess that’s enough to give anyone that’s already a little crazy the push they need to go full blown loco. “Between you and me, Ryan’s been trying to tap that sweet ass of hers for a good long while now, but she won’t even give him the time of day! Isn’t that right, Ryan?” Elvis laughs, slapping his thigh like this is the funniest thing that he’s heard in ages. The coldness in Ryan’s stare seems to sober him up pretty quickly.

“Elvis, you talk too fucking much.” Ryan takes a long swallow of his beer, his hard gaze never leaving Elvis, and I almost wonder if he’s about to smash the bottle and start attacking his friend with it.

“Ah, man, don’t get all sore. I was just playin’.” Elvis ducks his head and looks like he wishes he was somewhere else. “I guess I’ll just go on and check out that thing…” His words peter out into nothing, as he doesn’t manage to finish the sentence in the haze of drink and drugs that he’s wading through. He gets up unsteadily and, before he can do anything else, Ryan has kicked his legs out from under him, knocking Elvis to the floor.

“Now that’s fucking funny!” Ryan cackles as he surveys his handiwork. Elvis laughs nervously, probably wondering if there’s going to be anything else coming his way. “Get out of here, Elvis. You and me are gonna have a little talk later, just the two of us.” Ryan gets in his face and smiles that yellow-toothed grin of his that looks more threatening than any grimace.

“You want her, Jakey-boy?” Ryan asks after a few moments, and it seems like such a non-sequitur that I’m not sure who he’s even talking about. “Blake, that sweet thing over there. You want her?” Ryan is staring at the girl, and when she catches sight of him an unmistakable look of fear passes over her features and she hurries to serve the next customer, ignoring Ryan.

“No.” I shake my head and take a swallow of beer. It tastes like ash in my mouth, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.

“Why not? Pretty little thing like that. Elvis’s right, she’d give it up for you in a second—all you’d have to do is ask. Don’t you want a little taste?” Ryan’s sliminess makes my skin crawl and an unwelcome thought comes into my head over how Aimee managed to let this guy touch her. “You’re done with Winters though, right? So what’s the harm?” Ryan’s voice is like the serpent in my ear, tempting me.

I think about it for a split second, and that’s probably too long. Aimee cheated on me. Sleeping with Blake would even the scoreboard. I bunch my hands into fists, angry at myself that I’ve even had that thought. This isn’t a game—it’s not about scoring points.

“I thought you were into her.” I shrug my shoulders casually.

“We could both have her.” Ryan’s voice is low and his breathing is coming in short gasps, like he’s starting to get excited. “You could take the front, I could take the back.” His eyes are all lit up like Christmas morning and I have to swallow the sick feeling that his words give me.

“Not really my style. I don’t share.” I look around the room, refusing to give Ryan the twisted friendship that he seems to want from me.

“Ah, come on, Jakey-boy, wouldn’t be the first time we’d shared a piece of ass.” My head whips back round to face Ryan and I can see the excitement in his eyes. He’s getting off on this. I don’t plan on helping him any further so I remain silent, refusing to feed into this creepy little fantasy he has in his head.

The silence between us becomes heavy and the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as I get ready for anything he might throw at me—literally.

“So what do you think? You feel like an Angel now?” Ryan asks, smiling at his handiwork on my shoulder. It’s a complete change of tone and not at all what I was expecting from this psycho.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” My voice is flat and I hope that Ryan takes the hint that I don’t want us to become great buddies, sharing a beer and shooting the breeze.

“You’re not better than us, you know?” Ryan hisses.

“Ryan, could we just not do this right now? How about we take some quiet time?” I wonder why it’s so hard to speak to him without losing my patience.

“Don’t talk down to me, Summers. Your little girlfriend made that mistake and I made sure she wouldn’t make it again.” He cackles out a high-pitched laugh that makes me want to wipe the smile off of his face.

I’m aware that our little exchange has aroused some interest in the nearby bikers and a little crowd is not-so-subtly waiting to see what happens next.

I raise my voice just enough for the surrounding tables to hear me. “Ryan, we’ve spoken about this before, but I guess you haven’t understood what I’ve been saying. So let me break it down for you.” My voice is completely calm, almost ice cold. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else—someone more in control, someone who isn’t an emotional mess. “If you talk about Aimee again, I will fuck you up.” The surrounding tables are quiet and I know that we have a captivated audience. Ryan’s little bug eyes bulge with fear and anger like they’re about to be pushed out of his sockets. “Actually, scratch that—if you so much as think about her or
dream
about her, I’ll know, and when that happens you can be sure that you’ll wake up as even less of a man than when you went to sleep.” I hold Ryan’s astonished gaze steadily so he knows I’m not fucking around, and there’s a moment of tension when I wonder if he’s going to lunge over the table at me.

In the silence surrounding us you could have heard a pin drop. Ryan and I are totally concentrated on each other, each waiting for the other to show some sign of weakness or of things about to escalate.

“Well, the kids got a steel set of balls on him!” The words come from an older biker who’s just in my line of sight.

“We’ll make an Angel out of him yet!” Another biker joins the chorus of appreciation and their support for me makes Ryan break eye contact and turn his attention to scowling at them.

I can feel the grudging respect coming from the crowd and it’s combined with a disdain for Ryan that seems to be rolling off of them in waves. I can’t blame them—it’s not like Ryan has any redeeming features that would make the other bikers respect him. The only thing that he’s got going for him is being Scar’s son, and he’s extended a kind of wary respect purely for that reason.

“Must be nice to be you, Jake.” The words come out grudgingly from Ryan, as if he doesn’t really mean what it is that he’s saying. “You’ve had it easy your whole life. You could get the girls that you wanted; you were the most popular kid in high school. You’ve always had everything you wanted.” There’s a dreamy quality to his words, as if he’s speaking to himself and no one else. But there’s an edge to his voice that sounds a lot like jealousy.

“Nothing’s ever as simple as it looks from the outside, Ryan.” I don’t add that it’s easier for people to like you when they don’t think you’re about to cause them physical harm.

“My dad likes you. I don’t know why, but he seems to think that the sun shines out of your asshole.” Ryan shakes his head. “What did he say to you this morning?” His eyes bore through my head as we get to the crux of what he’s wanted to ask me.

The memory of Scar telling me that I could be the next leader passes across my brain and I wonder how much Ryan already knows and how much he just suspects.

“You know, just general ‘welcome to the gang’ kind of stuff.” I was shooting for a joke, but Ryan is clearly not in the mood for laughs anymore.

“This is my MC, you got that? Mine. No one is going to take it away from me.” The intensity in Ryan’s words and his eyes makes me wonder how far he would go to get what he thinks is his. I already know the answer—he’d go all the way. He’d do whatever needed to be done.

“Got it. It’s yours. You don’t have anything to worry about, man, not from me.” If anything, it’s going to be Ryan’s own father that makes sure he doesn’t inherit the leadership of the Angels. If what Scar told me was true, then he wouldn’t trust his beloved MC to his unhinged son.