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My parents had been reassured I hadn’t shacked up with some meth dealer who would knock me up, knock me around, and then knock every other woman up.
They’d been happy to see me happy.
They hadn’t stayed for the afterparty.
So, after all those changes, getting one little tattoo hardly seemed like a big deal.
That was, until the pretty tattoo artist walked in and everything became very real.
“First time, right?” she asked, throwing her hot pink and rose gold hair up into a messy bun, exposing the shaved side.
“Yup,” I barely squeaked out, making Judge chuckle.
“I love fresh skin.”
Little Walking Dead, but okay.
After washing her hands and setting up little cups filled with ink, she grabbed a pair of gloves and a stabbing machine—otherwise known as a tattoo gun. “Ready?”
No.
“Yup,” I squeaked again.
Maybe to distract me from the pain, or because the pain would distract me from him, Judge waited until she started before announcing, “We gotta move outta the clubhouse.”
My eyes snapped to him. “What? Did someone say something? Are they mad?”
“Relax.”
I flipped him the bird with my free hand.
“This is coming from me. No one’s said shit, and I haven’t said shit to them about it ‘cause I’m not discussing our shit before I talk to you. But the clubhouse is for Mayhem. Brothers have to be able to come and go.”
“Okay, and? Let them.”
I hadn’t understood what Judge had meant about liking the company until I’d experienced it. Every day was new and exciting, seeing brothers nearly daily or ones who just came through every so often.
It was home.
And they were family.
“That would mean I can’t fuck you on the couch,” he pointed out.
That’s a very big con in my book.
My face flushed as my eyes darted to the tattoo artist.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “And definitely not the worst thing I’ve heard during a tattoo.”
Judge leaned closer, bringing out the big guns. “Babies don’t belong in a clubhouse.”
Every time he talked about babies, my brain went stupid and my heart went crazy.
And my pussy went Niagara Falls.
I hadn’t known it before, but there was very little hotter than the idea of a big, badass biker holding a tiny baby.
“Bongs probably aren’t good toys for developing fine motor skills,” I joked.
