Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Rage wished he had that fucking answer. “Got any suggestions?”
Steel had been on the six-man team that eliminated the Warriors. He probably had a shitload of suggestions.
And if so, Rage was going to listen to every fucking one. After that, he’d decide which of those he’d bring to the table.
Chapter Four
“You’re running out of space, Ash.” Lyric studied his bare chest and arms. Every visible inch of skin was already occupied with ink.
The DAMC sergeant at arms grunted. “Plenty of space left.”
“Where? Your asshole?”
Ashton cracked a grin. “My face.”
Her long, black braid swept across her back when she shook her head. “Oh no. No. No. No. If you want face tats, go elsewhere. You know I don’t like them. And you’re too handsome for that.”
“Done ‘em before.”
“On customers. Not family.”
He cocked one of his dark blond eyebrows. “Are we family?”
“By bond, Ash. You know that.” The whole club was family. Always had been and always would be. “Seriously though, what do you want and where do you want it?”
Certainly not on his broad back. That large piece of real estate was strictly for his club colors. The colors he wore with pride. Like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him. Like her own father, grandparents, and great-grandparents, too.
He pointed to the side of his head where it was freshly shaved. “Want a hawk right here.”
“A hawk?” Why did he take off his cut and T-shirt if he wanted ink on his head? Men!
“Yep. Wanna honor my father.”
“Does Hawk know you’re doing this?”
“Gonna be a surprise.”
“That’s sweet, Ash.”
Of course his answer to that would be a deep grunt.
She warned, “I’ve never done a hawk before so it might not be perfect.”
“When the fuck have I ever asked for perfection, Lyric? What makes it perfect is you bein’ the artist.”
Holy shit. This man might be rough around the edges, but he certainly knew how to melt her heart. “Well, I’ll accept that glowing review.”
“Really don’t need it. Your pop made a name for himself with his work. Now you are, too. You learned from the fuckin’ best.”
A warmth flooded her belly. “I certainly did.”
To be compared to her father was the ultimate compliment. She had always been in awe of her mentor’s work and hoped to one day live up to him.
“Let me see what I can come up with.”
He stopped her from walking away by grabbing her wrist. “Don’t wanna draw it freehand?”
“Did you ignore the part where I said I’ve never tattooed a hawk before?”
“You ignorin’ the fact I trust you?”
She paused. “Maybe I don’t trust myself. And this piece will be where everyone can see it. Even if you wear a baseball cap.” Which he never did.
His father, Hawk, always shaved the sides of his head and wore a short mohawk on top. Rage did the same with the sides, but instead of a mohawk, he kept the longer hair at the top in tight braids, reminding her of a Viking on his way to pillage some far-off village. The only time his head was covered was if he wore a skull cap while riding his sled. And even that was rare.
“Could come out like a stick figure and I won’t fuckin’ care. It’ll be an original Lyric Alexander piece. And that alone is priceless.”
“Ash, you’re already a walking billboard for my work,” she breathed. For some reason, he was full of compliments today when he was usually grumpy and grunty. But wait, if he came for a head tattoo… “Why’d you take your shirt off, anyway?”
He ran a big hand down his chest. “Figured you could check to see if any of my tats need touched up.”
She accepted that as a valid reason. But if it was solely to check his older tattoos, he should remove his jeans, too. His legs were almost as jam-packed as his torso, including his neck.
“Let me look at those first, then I’ll work on the hawk.”
After sitting on her stool, she rolled it over to the tattoo chair where he reclined and took her time inspecting his ink, brushing her fingertips lightly over each piece that she and her father had done to see if more work was needed to keep the shading fresh and the lines crisp.
“Can’t tell the difference ‘tween your pop’s work and yours. You got a skill to be proud of, baby. You’re a true artist.”
“Like you said, I learned from the best,” she whispered, her eyes following her finger as she traced some of the larger pieces.
“Damn right you did. You know he’s prouda you, too.”
“Thank you for letting me practice on you when I was still learning.”
“Even back then, had complete fuckin’ faith in your skills.”
“Then you had more than I had in myself.”
As he followed her motions, the heat of his gaze caused her nipples to peak under the snug racerback tank she wore when she worked. When she was her father’s apprentice, she’d quickly learned to avoid any loose clothing or long sleeves so they wouldn’t get stained with ink. Tattooing could be messy business and she had ruined quite a few pieces of clothing.