Oliver (Inked Menace MC 2)

Oliver

Inked Menace #2

Ryanne Hawk

Fused Publishing

Copyright © 2015 by Ryanne  Hawk.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Ryanne Hawk

P.O. Box 726

Woodstock, CT 06281

www.ryannehawk.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

Oliver/ Ryanne Hawk. -- 1st ed.

ASIN: B00YT0IQNU

Dedication

I’d like to thank the Wolf Pack, Howling Romance Authors, my friends and family, and all of you, for making Inked Menace possible.

A book is a dream that you hold in your hand.

―Neil Gaiman

The Inked Menace Series:

1. Lucky
   
2. Oliver
   
3. Flip (Coming Soon)
   

1
Chapter One

Amara Delco dumped her bike and skidded across the tar as some asshole in an SUV tried to merge lanes without checking his mirrors. The gravel burned, tiny rocks turning her legs to bloody hamburger as her leathers tore and she ate asphalt.

The screech of tires drowned out her scream of pain as a line of cars stopped on Route 12 in Connecticut.

Someone ran up to her and turned her body over so she faced the blinding mid-day sun. She blinked several times, but the face of the man talking eluded her. For a minute, she floated, then her leopard took over and the healing process started. Amara pressed her head back, closed her eyes against the wicked glare, licked her lips, and croaked, “I’m okay.”

“Like hell you are, honey,” a man’s deep voice said, breaking through the fog. “You took a hell of a spill. You’re going to need an ambulance.”

Panic paralyzed her limbs for a moment, but she swallowed the fear and pushed herself to sit up.

“Easy now,” the man said and rested a hand on her shoulder.

Amara opened her eyes to slits and slowly perused the scene wondering how she was going to get out of this one.

Inside, her body had begun the rapid healing process of the shapeshifters, and Amara couldn’t be there when the authorities showed up asking her a million questions she couldn’t answer.

“Can you help me stand, please? I need to check my bike.”

“I don’t think you should.”

Anger swirled inside her blood, hastening the healing. She shrugged his hand off her shoulder, turned her body slightly, and pressed both palms onto the hot pavement, shifting to all fours. Then she stretched her neck, popping her bones back into place, and stood, slower than she would have had no one been around, staring at the wreckage.

“How?” the man sputtered.

Amara turned and flashed him her trademark smile, making sure her cheeks dimpled. “Leathers, my friend, are a rider’s best friend.” She paused and inhaled. “That, and I know how to take a beating,” she muttered under her breath.

Sirens rang in the distance and she knew her time was up. Her feet carried her to her bike on autopilot. She lifted the borrowed motorcycle off the ground, pretending it was heavy and playing her role as hapless woman. A quick perusal showed no major damage, despite the speed she’d been traveling, and so she mounted the bike, glanced at the bystanders, started up the bike, and drove off.

It was a good thing Amara had studied the area maps before disembarking the plane from Europe. She’d had nothing better to do to pass the time, but she always trusted her gut, and her gut had told her to get acquainted with her surroundings, just in case shit hit the fan. Because shit always hit the fan.

Amara didn’t stop to call her club and let them know of her arrival. Instead, she pushed forward and drove more carefully to Inked Menace’s doorstep. The ride was rough, her leathers flapped in the wind and she knew she was a mess, but that couldn’t be helped. Normally, she’d have shown up and been all charming smiles. Too bad she’d lost the energy to muster such cheer. She needed a shower, food, and a nap.

She parked the bike and strolled to the door marked ‘office,’ rapping three times against the steel.

Heavy-booted feet sounded through the door and then the steel was whooshed open, revealing a mountain of a man. “What?”

Amara lifted her face and studied the beefy bloke blocking the entrance. She mentally flipped through the MC’s dossier and pegged him as Meat, the bear. The name suited him.

“I’m here to see Patrick James.”

Meat crossed his arms and raised a brow at her attire.

She didn’t owe him an explanation, so she matched his pose and pretended to clean her nails.

“Who’s at the door?” a male voice hollered from inside the building.

Meat said nothing, but he took a deep inhale.

“Come on, who’s at the door, Meat?”

The other voice was closer, more child-like, and Amara nearly laughed. The big, bad bear was shielding her from a child. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m here to see Patrick. Would you tell him I’m here, please?”

She figured a little diplomacy would go a long way.

“Who are you?”

The deep rumble of his voice bathed her in ripples. From under his large arm, a shaggy head appeared and a man with hair streaked blond and black smiled at her.

“Subtly is not your specialty, I gather,” she said to the new man. Amara shook her head. “Meat, can you get Hammer?” she said and watched his jaw tick.

“Your voice is so sexy,” the black and blond haired man said on a wistful sigh. “Can you say something else. Something uber suggestive?”

Amara couldn’t help it; she laughed and pushed away from the door jamb she’d been leaning on to stand to her full height. “My name is Amaraynth Delco, and I’m here from Britain.” She raised her own brow and waited. As she did, she slipped her backpack off and pulled out her black leather cut. She dropped the bag to her feet and eased into her jacket, still a bit sore from the crash.

“I’d like to clean up and get my bike looked at if you have time,” she said as Meat’s eyes bulged at her Sergeant at Arms patch and their sister charter’s logo.

“Who’d you steal that from?” His jaw popped and he clacked his teeth. Meat’s stance shifted and Amara straightened her spine.

“I earned it, love.” Her hand shot out, lightning fast, and wrapped around his throat. She shoved him back and then let go, spun, and kicked him in the stomach, sending the big man hurtling backward, where he crashed into a wooden table with a loud crack.

“So,” the sensual blond male said, sidling closer to her. He proceeded to sling an arm across her shoulder. “If you’re going to punch me for this, just avoid the face, okay? It’s my best feature and all the ladies would be sad if you messed me up.”

“I have no plans to fight at the moment. I’d like some food, to clean up, and rest. I thought I’d be welcome here, but it seems not.” Amara glanced over her shoulder as Meat ambled to stand, bracing his hand on his fat leg. He lifted the broken table with ease and tossed the pieces out of the open door. He glanced in her direction.

“I’ll tell Hammer you’re here.” He then turned his attention to the man standing beside her. “Take her to the meeting room, Pretty-Boy.”

Ah, so Mr. Charming had a name. She discretely checked him out and tested his unique scent on her tongue. He wasn’t what she expected from the club’s vice president, but who was she to judge? No one thought she could handle being her club’s enforcer, but she constantly proved them wrong, now didn’t she?

“Thank you so much,” she said, sarcasm rolling off her tongue in response to her leashed irritation.

Meat huffed, then stalked out of the back door, slamming the wood harder than was probably necessary. She turned her attention to Pretty-Boy and rummaged through her mental file. His name was Oliver Ridgeway and his good ole boy personality was deceptive, at least according to his file.

“So, Tiger,” she said, and chuckled when his mouth opened, then snapped close. His large blue eyes masked his surprise quickly enough, but she caught it. “Tell me about your new guest.”

Pretty-Boy stiffened beside her and he dropped his arm from around her shoulders. The loss of contact should have made her feel better, but instead, a swift bereavement fell over her. She shook the thought and waited for whatever he was going to say.

“You can call me Oliver, and she’s none of your business.”

He pushed open a set of wooden double doors and motioned for her to enter in front of him. Generally speaking, Amara didn’t allow strangers at her back, but oddly enough, she had an innate sense of trust about the tiger. She’d really need to analyze herself later. It was probably because of their clubs’ histories, and the fact she’d eaten tar for breakfast. Chances were, the crash had made her insane.

Yeah. That was the reason.

She sniffed the air surrounding him before she walked into the room, memorizing his scent, which had landed on her skin when he’d slung his arm around her shoulder. As she sat in one of the plush leather chairs framing the club’s carved wood table, she lifted her shoulder and took another inhale of his spicy and intoxicating aroma.

To him she said, “Why is your hair two colors?”

Oliver sat opposite her and looked away, blowing out a breath as he stared out the lone window. “Got tired of dyeing it, I suppose. I figured I’m a tough dude wearing leathers and decked out in biker gear, I can wear my hair any way I want. Who’s going to say otherwise?”

The petulance in his voice made her perk up.

“What’s the matter, prissy, did someone hurt your feelings?”

Oliver’s fists tightened on the table, and he moved his hands to his lap. “Something like that.” He refused to look at her, instead, staring down.

A sharp spike of remorse flowed through her. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

He waved her apology away. “It’s fine. Besides, what the fuck happened to your leathers? You look like you’ve seen better days.” He raised his face and met her gaze for half a heart beat before a smirk replaced the scowl that had adorned his face. Pretty-Boy shifted on the seat and leaned back, appearing relaxed, but there was a frenetic energy surrounding him, and it prickled the fine hairs on Amara’s body.

She laughed. “Bloody right, I had a rough morning. I got cut off on one of the main routes,” she said, flinging her hand up and out, trying to think of which one it was, “by some bloody arsehole driving a huge SUV.”

Pretty-Boy sucked in a breath and rested his palms flat on the table. A new tension thrummed through the room. “Any serious injuries?”

Amara shook her head. “I’m not sure if anyone caught me on their phones though. Might be wise to check the local news.” She glanced around the room when she heard his booted foot stomp the ground. “Yeah, I know. It probably wasn’t wise to flee, but it was a calculated risk. Only a few people stopped, the SUV drove off, leaving the scene. It would have taken a long time to sort out with your authorities, and that is not something I have a lot of at the present moment.”

She stared into his magnificent light blue eyes and stopped breathing, the world tilting for the barest of seconds, then the moment changed in the space from one blink to the next, and a new sizzle came to replace the static. An awareness she’d never felt before. She was suddenly all too conscious of the sensual way he wet his lips, the color of his tongue, the way she imagined it would feel between her legs, coaxing her to orgasm.

Shivers danced along her spine and she pressed her legs together.

He stared back at her, and lines of communication passed between them, promises, forbidden desires, carnal knowledge, and blurred lines of sensuality.

“Amara!” Hammer’s voice cut through the erotic haze and she blinked, breaking the intense connection with the man they called Pretty-Boy. She flattened her hands on the table and rose to stand, turning to meet the president of Inked Menace.

She pasted on a tight smile as she whipped around, extending her hand, but he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet.

“Hey, Hammer,” she squeezed out. “Nice to see you, too. How’s Maura?”

Both Hammer and Amara froze when a low, primal growl came from behind them. Slowly, Amara turned her face to meet the yellow eyes of Pretty-Boy. She tilted her head and examined his response.

Hammer chuckled and then a vacuum of sorts rustled over Amara and the others who’d piled into the room behind him. Energy leeched from the shifters, and eventually Pretty-Boy bowed his head and dropped the growl.

“Enough, Oliver,”  Hammer said and left Amara to go and take his seat at the head of the table.

The other men and two women came into the room and grabbed seats at the table. Amara waived at Flash, who showed her teeth in a feral grin, her head bobbing between Pretty-Boy’s glare and Amara. Amara shrugged and sent her an ‘I have no clue what the fuck he’s agitated about’ message.

Flash shook her head and leaned back in her seat, her black laced corset showcasing her ample breasts. They knew each other, had history, but that history would remain shelved for the time being.  The other woman sat on the wolf’s lap. Amara turned and faced Lucky’s mate and examined her. She had auburn hair, blue eyes, and a petite body. She looked all too comfortable on her mate’s lap, and it seemed none of the rulers on the council had any problem with her being there.

Curious. She was human as far as Amara knew, with some magic. Why they trusted her, she’d have to learn.

Lucky toyed with a lock of his mate’s hair and drummed his other finger on the table. Once everyone was seated, Hammer cleared his throat and said, “What brings you to Connecticut, Amara?”

She’d always enjoyed his no-nonsense approach to ruling. Her own president, Luther Moran, despised honesty and relished in subterfuge. He played the game, and she loathed it.

She inhaled, and with her eyes on Hammer, said, “I need your help.”