Too much Elliott in Denver.

He was a fuck up, got himself dead and Lanie in the ICU. But even so, she loved him and still wasn’t over him.

She hadn’t dated since. Not once.

I was worried about her and planning a trip to go out and shake her shit up.

Life was too short and too precious to lay it down to grief.

My friend was beautiful, she was funny, she was loving and she needed to wake the fuck up.

She was breathing.

She needed to start living.

And she was going to do it even if I had to kick her ass.

Yes, I was a badass biker babe and if my friend didn’t sort her shit, she’d answer to me.

On this thought, the bathroom door opened and my eyes went to it in the mirror to see Tack walking in wearing nothing but faded jeans and my dogtags hanging around his neck.

Mm. Nice.

My eyes dropped to his chest to see my ink on his upper ribs, under Tabby, close to his heart. The dogtags rested right next to it.

He had my tattoo done before I got out of the hospital.

On the inside of his right forearm was another new tattoo. A set of scales, unbalanced. The top scale had the word “Red” inked in killer lettering sitting on it and dripping over the sides were rivers of blood. The bottom scale had the word “Black” and drifting up was a ghostly, hooded, skull-faced reaper with eerie blue eyes and a scythe in his skeletal hand. The support holding the scales was made of the words, “Never Forget”.

Every member of Chaos had this tattoo. The “Red” was me and a reminder that I got out alive, but barely. The “Black” represented their fallen brother (whose last name, incidentally, was Black) who went down when they’d first instigated plans to pull themselves off the path of evil to strike out toward redemption. The message of the tattoo was a reminder that if they weren’t smart, the scales could unbalance and it wasn’t worth the loss of what was at stake.

Brothers and blood.

Nothing more important in life.

Not one thing.

Even Arlo and High got that tattoo. One could say what happened that day was a wakeup call. No money or adrenalin rush was worth what happened to their brother or Tack and me.

So all was good in the Club.

No, actually, all was good with everything.

Absolutely everything.

And it was about to get better.

My eyes lifted from my ink on my old man to catch his as he made his way to me. He held my gaze as he fitted his front to my back, one of his hands gliding along my arm to rest on mine at my belly. His other hand came up and wrapped around my throat.

He did this often. In fact, all the time. I knew what it meant and as the weeks wore into months and he kept doing it, it troubled me so I’d gently approached him about it.

“Don’t question it,” he’d replied just as gently. “Just give it to me when I think I need it.”

What could I say? They were his demons and he had to create his methods of coping. And this was one.

So I agreed and let it go.

As for me, the first thing I saw after waking up in the hospital which was also the last thing I saw every night before going to bed and the first thing I saw in the morning was my coping mechanism.

It was a hellish six hours and I couldn’t say I didn’t have dark moments when those hours drifted into my brain and haunted me.

What I could say was, once I made my way to Tack, he let in the light.

I watched him tip his head and felt the tickle of his goatee whisper against the skin of my shoulder before I felt his lips touch there and I melted back into him.

He lifted his head and again caught my eyes in the mirror.

“You’re quiet this mornin’,” he said softly.

“I’m pregnant,” I replied and felt his body go still behind mine but his fingers at my throat flexed and his hand over mine at my belly pressed deep.

We held each other’s gazes in the mirror for long moments before he whispered, “Say again?”

“I’m pregnant, handsome.”

His hand again pressed against mine at my belly as I watched his eyes flare.

Then both of his hands moved so his thumbs could hook into the sides of my panties and he yanked them down.

A tremor ran through me at this maneuver and the area between my legs instantly got wet.

Then Tack put his fingers to my hips and turned me to him, his mouth slammed down on mine and I got wetter. His tongue thrust into my mouth as my arms slid around his shoulders, his fingers clenched into my hips, jerking me up and I got even wetter.

My ass landed on the basin and my legs wrapped around his hips.

One arm tight around my back, his other hand roamed as he kissed me and I kissed him back. His hand slid over my side, my ribs, up and in, he found my nipple, caught it between thumb and finger and rolled.

I gasped into his mouth, my hips shifting on the counter to gain better access to his.

His hand instantly left my nipple and went between us.

“Fuck, please, be ready,” he growled against my lips as his hand worked his jeans.

“I’m ready, honey,” I breathed against his.

He kissed me again then he was inside me. I gasped in his mouth and my legs tightened around his hips. He leaned in, I went back and he braced one hand against the basin, the other arm still wrapped around me and he pounded in deeper and, better still, harder.

“Yes,” I whispered.

His arm around me jerked me slightly out from the basin so he had better access and I moaned as fire shot through me because this meant he could go even deeper and drive in way, way harder. I knew because he did just that.

He fucked me and kissed me as my hands moved on him, all over him, every inch I could get, fast, feverish but when I was close, one hand sifted in his hair and clenched as my other arm went around his back and squeezed.

“I’m there,” I gasped.

“No shit,” he muttered, I vaguely felt his mouth smile against mine but I was paying a lot more attention to the fact that I was coming.

He lasted a long time, I held him tight and he built it again so I climaxed again before he finally groaned in my mouth.

Except during my recuperation and after the cosmetic procedures, this hadn’t changed. Tack was always hungry for me. I was always greedy for him.

No. It had changed. It kept getting better and better.

His lips were working my neck and my hands were sliding over his skin when I turned my head and asked, “So, I’m taking it that was Kane ‘Tack’ Allen’s way of communicating he’s happy he knocked me up.”

Tack’s head came up and his lips surrounded by is badass biker goatee were smiling.

“Yeah, babe. That’s my way of communicatin’ I’m glad I got you knocked up.”

“Good,” I said softly.

His smile faded as his hand came up to my neck, palm under my ear, fingers in my hair behind it, thumb moving out to sweep the apple of my cheek.

God, I loved it when he did that.

His eyes watched his thumb move then they came to mine and I held my breath at what I saw.

“I got there,” he whispered.

“Where, baby?” I whispered back.

“God wouldn’t ‘a given me you and all you could give me growin’ inside you if I was not redeemed.”

My heart tripped and my belly flipped as I breathed, “Handsome,” lifting a hand to curl around the side of his neck and moving my head so my forehead was resting against his.

His soft words brushed against my lips and it was the sweetest touch he’d ever given me when he said, “I love you, Red.”

“I love you too, Tack.”

We held each other close, connected and savored the moment before he lifted his head and announced, “We got a party to get to, darlin’.”

He was not wrong.

He touched his lips to mine, pulled out gently and, still gentle, slid me off the counter and onto my feet. He held me close until my legs felt firm under me. Then he dropped his head and kissed my throat.

I closed my eyes.

Second sweetest touch he’d given me. Definitely.

I opened my eyes when Tack stepped away and adjusted his jeans. I turned to the basin and twisted on the taps to clean up.

All was right in the world and I knew this when Tack wandered out of the bathroom bossing, “Hurry up, babe. Takin’ the time to fuck you means we’re runnin’ late.”

My eyes to the reflection in the mirror of the door he disappeared through, I rolled them.

Then I cleaned up.

Back in my panties, I reached to my moisturizer but stopped.

We had pale yellow tile in our bathroom rimmed with thin tiles of white. I’d dumped Tack’s old, mismatched towels and added new, thick emerald green ones. They were hanging on the towel rack.

My eyes moved.

My moisturizer and toner bottles were the deep hued color of moss. My toothbrush was bright pink, Tack’s was electric blue. There was a little bowl by the tap where I tossed my jewelry when I was washing my hands or preparing for bed. It was ceramic painted in glossy sunshine yellow and grass green. My eyes went to the mirror. My undies were cherry red lace.

I grinned at myself in the mirror.

I lived in color, every day, and my life was vibrant.

I rubbed in moisturizer hoping our baby got his or her Dad’s sapphire blue eyes.

But I’d settle if they were my green.

* * *

Sitting on top of a picnic table outside the Compound in the warm, late June Colorado sun having a moment of alone time, I heard the clickety-clack of high-heeled shoes and my eyes turned to see Elvira bearing down on me.

And when they did, my lips curved into a smile.

Only Elvira would wear to a barbeque at a biker stronghold a tight, butter yellow, cleavage-baring, halter top dress with a pair of bronze sandals that were so fuck-me, even as a girl I would describe them as that.

She looked like she was about to step out to a trendy eatery not about to bite into a grilled brat.

With a grace borne of practice, she climbed up and sat her ass down beside me at the picnic table whereupon she announced, “Trouble’s a-brewin’.”

I felt my eyebrows draw together at this very strange yet totally Elvira opening. “Pardon?”

Her head tipped in the direction of something and my eyes moved there.

I saw Shy, now a full member of the Club, being Shy. That was to say he had on a pair of faded jeans that fit him all too well, a tight black t-shirt that also fit him all too well, his dark hair was a sexy mess, his mirrored shades were shoved on the top of his head and he was openly flirting with a young, attractive biker babe.

He was smiling at her and his smile was wicked.

She was also smiling at him and her smile was come hither.

Shy was clearly going to get him some. And from copious experience witnessing Shy in action my guess was, he was going to get that some and soon. Hell, just that week I’d seen him charm a woman who was buying wiper fluid in Ride into his bed in the Compound and he’d done it in ten point seven five minutes. I knew this because Hop and I had timed it.

Not a surprise and also not a rarity, not by a long shot. Thus I didn’t know what trouble was “a-brewin’” until I started to look away and my eyes caught on Tabby.

Oh boy.

She was standing about ten feet away. She was also looking at Shy and the way she was looking was like her entire world just came to an end.

This was not good.

Tabby had pulled her shit together. This didn’t mean she didn’t come home drunk once, as in drunk and puking all over the entryway. And this didn’t mean Tack didn’t lose his mind when she did and she didn’t get a lecture. But she was a teenager. That shit happened. Tack knew it and busted her chops but he didn’t go overboard.

Mostly, she was Tabby, sweet, cute, smart, charming. She and her Dad were tight. She and her brother were tight. And she and I were tight. She got good grades. She came home (mostly) by curfew. She dated boys of an appropriate age who only slightly scared the crap out of me seeing as they were all good-looking and players-in-training but were also totally into her. And it helped Tab’s Dad was a badass and he more than slightly scared the crap out of Tabby’s boyfriends.

But this wasn’t good. Not only because Tabby was seventeen and Shy, at twenty-two, was out of her league for at least another year but also because Shy was Shy. He was a dawg. He racked ‘em up and nailed them down so fast, if it could be recorded as a world record, it would.