Page 8 of Demon
And then she looked up, her loose hair falling off her face, full lips pushed together as if she struggled to control herself. And for the first time, I really studied the scar running down her right cheekbone. The skin was puckered slightly around it, more noticeable in places where it hadn’t really healed, still slightly red. It wasn’t all that old, six months, maybe more. Parts of it still tinged pink where the flesh was healing underneath. I’d seen plenty of scars from knife wounds, and this looked exactly like it. But fuck knows who’d wanted to cut that beautiful face.
Her eyes darted away from me again, but mine couldn’t leave her. Her cheekbones were prominent, the points merging into heavy smile lines that elongated her chin, defining the point at the end of her heart-shaped face. Even though I was yet to see her smile. And I’d bet that was a stunning sight.
And her chest, that bulged in the white shirt, the top buttons loose enough that I got a good eyeful of the promise of plentiful tits, was enough to captivate every conversation. But I’d guess she was used to that, to the depraved looks of men, salivating over what was in her top.
“So, who are you then?” she asked suddenly, snapping my attention away from her chest and back to her face.
“Sorry, what?”
“Yeah, thought as much,” she grumbled, more to herself than me.
“No. Really. What did you say?”
“I asked who you are.”
“I’m Demon.”
“Demon? You not have an actual name?”
“Not one I tell anyone.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not a thing we do.”
“You do?”
“What are you? A parrot?” I asked, watching her eyebrows draw together again.
“Forget it.”
She turned away, taking the glasses she had washed and dried and stacked them under the shelves under the rows of optics hanging on the back wall of the bar. Her arse cheeks bulged out of her shorts again, ending at the top of shapely long thighs and I caught myself leaning over the bar top, following her bare legs to the black boots that pulled up her ankles, cutting off only a couple of inches below her calves.
When I managed to move my eyes back up her body, I saw her. Two brown eyes staring at me in the reflection of the mirrored panel, scrutinising my every move. Her lips were pursed again, a dark look on her face.
“You actually going to sit with your friends or you just gonna hang here all night and annoy me?” she said, turning round to face me once more.
“You can get me a diet coke, darl,” I answered her, feeling the irritation deepening my voice.
*****
It was late by the time we leftTroubleand most the staff had left long before we had. I stuffed our cut of the night’s takings into my bike jacket. The envelope was thick with notes, all to add to club funds. Sex clubs always brought in a good return on investment, but we didn’t often collaborate with other bike clubs. Tez was an exception. Tyne Thunder was just a hobbyist’s club. A mismatch of motorbikes of all types of sizes and even a trike or two. They were weekend riders, looking for the thrill of the lifestyle, but none of the danger that went along with it.
Tez was a good president. An ex-MC member himself who’d wanted a quieter life but was still with the love of the road. And it always helped to have the smaller clubs in your favour, for when the shit hit the fan. Not that it happened often these days. The old patch wars on Tyneside had settled, clear boundaries and a new era helping to ease previous tensions.
The roller shutter over the garage door rattled loudly in the quiet street of shops and restaurants and behind the garage door a deep low bark resounded. The street had shut up for the night. The only resident was me, living in a flat above my tattoo shop. It was easier to come and go like this, particularly at 3 o’clock in the morning, with a motorbike that sounded like it had anger management issues.
I rolled the bike inside the garage, yanking the metal shutter quickly down behind me, closing me into pitch black space. Shuffling, I moved to the back wall, my eyes straining to adjust in the darkness. I’d taken this route, or similar, every day for years, in the pitch black, cautiously moving, and still my toe caught. I staggered forwards, my arms flailing, trying to grab hold of thin air. My next step clattered against the tins of paint on the floor that I’d stumbled into, tangling my feet and sending me crashing to the ground. Pain screamed in my shoulder where I’d hit the hard floor of the garage like a sack of shit, wobbling the shelves I’d grabbed onto instinctively, a heavy wrench smashing into my face.
Fuck. It stung like a bitch. The dog behind the door on the far side of the garage barked ferociously, a deep dangerous sound, urgent.
“Alright, Kinobi. I’m still alive.”
Fuck. Just. I was going to fucking kidnap Fury the next time I saw the fucker. He’d promised to re-site the light switches in the garage months ago. And I was still waiting. This was definitely urgent business for church.
Eventually, I stumbled through the doors at the far side. It was pointless turning the lights on in the garage now. The damage had been done, to me at least, and I couldn’t be bothered to look at the mess I had caused. I was already fuming. The extra pressure of chaos at 3am would add to the agitation pulsing through my body.
The black and tan dog bounded at me the moment I stepped over the lintel, snapping the lights on quickly as a blur of Doberman launched itself into my arms. The only female throwing themselves at me, it would seem. Her tongue lapped at my face, her front legs wrapped around my neck, the whole dog almost meeting my height when she stood up on her back legs.