Surrender A Section 8 Novel

Chapter Twenty-two





Gunner took her back in the Kodiak and then on his Harley, which he’d locked in a shed onshore. Avery guessed he owned it; it all looked steel reinforced.

He hadn’t said much of anything, to her or to Dare, since they’d come back from Grace’s house. Had checked on Grace, then spent time out on the front porch by himself.

She tried again now, before they got on the bike. “I really can take care of myself, you know.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” was all he told her before handing her the helmet. Of course, he didn’t bother with one, but arguing would be futile. She put it on, hopped on behind him and enjoyed the cool bayou night as the bike raced along the back paths until they hit the city.

Different worlds. She wasn’t sure which one she liked better, but to her, they were both still pretty magical.

Now, back in the shop, he locked the doors behind them.

“Time for your tattoo,” he said.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

She couldn’t argue. Instead, as he began to draw up a design, she sat on his chair and watched. He drew in quick bursts with a black pencil—then he threaded the sketch through a copy machine and onto thin paper that would transfer the projected design to her body.

“Shirt off,” he told her without looking at her. But she was pretty sure he glanced her way as she stripped and held the shirt up to cover her breasts. “Lie down on your side, arm over your head.”

He helped her move the T-shirt so she remained covered as he transferred the design onto her. Then he held the mirror up so she could see what he planned. Helped her up so she could see it in the big mirror.

“They’ll be pink and white with some black and gray shading,” was all he said as she fingered the design, a string of flowers that would look as if they floated down her side.

It would look beautiful. Perfect. How had he known?

She didn’t bother asking, merely nodded her assent, and Gunner patted the table again.

She wondered why he hadn’t simply asked to sleep with her instead and realized that what they were about to do might be considered far more intimate.

“When you’re done, we have to get in touch with Jem and Key,” she said before he started.

“I don’t think we’re going to have a problem with that,” Gunner said over the buzz of the needle. Without turning her head, she felt the blast of hot air above her, heard the jingle of the bells as the door opened.

“Nice vacation?” Jem asked.

“Was going to call you,” Gunner said.

Avery remained in position as Key stared between her and Gunner. “I’m getting a tattoo,” she said, in case it wasn’t obvious.

“You gonna let him mark you like that?” Key asked.

“It’s not like I’m grass in a dog park. Besides, it was our agreement. I don’t go back when I give my word.”

“Good to know. I guess you’re sleeping with him?” His words were dangerously quiet.

She wondered why—if—he cared. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

He snorted. “I don’t like stepping in the middle of love triangles.”

She wanted to say that it wasn’t love, but it was some kind of crazy triangle. You’d have to be blind not to see it, and even then, the energy was palpable.

Gunner was somewhere around six foot five. Key was taller, Jem slightly shorter, but all three together were especially impressive. Imposing. Dangerously sexy.

But she wasn’t in the market for relationships.

“Do you have any information?” Jem was asking.

“As soon as I’m done with Avery’s tattoo, we’re supposed to take you to see Dare,” Gunner said.

Key’s face hardened at the mention of her brother’s name, and she couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of what had happened between them. The fact that Key had been preparing to use her against Dare was proof enough that it was something very bad.

“I’m starting now, which means no more talking,” Gunner said.

“Let’s go get a drink, Key,” Jem said.

“I’m not leaving them alone—they could take off again,” Key said. At least he’d stopped looking at her as though she were the money in a bank robbery.

Jem muttered something about drinking Gunner’s whiskey as Key moved closer to the table and Gunner turned on the tattoo gun.

The buzz of the needle, the humid air on her skin . . . and she’d never had anything like the attraction she had for both men.

Key and Gunner were having a pissing contest, and she honestly didn’t think it had much to do with her. But maybe it did.

She felt languid. Light-headed. It had nothing to do with the tattoo process.

Half-naked, the needle buzzing and every sense heightened. An intimate act shared with the two men surrounding her, Key stubbornly refusing to leave and Gunner not stopping his process.

It was heady, she had to admit. Power over men wasn’t something she was into, but this came naturally, seemed as old as time itself, as intricate, and yet, so simple.

She was a wanted woman, but here, between Key and Gunner, she was simply a woman who was wanted, and that was something different altogether.

She wasn’t sure how long she lay there. Gunner gave her a short break to drink a soda and eat a candy bar, assuring her she’d need both. There wasn’t pain any longer—it had transcended pain and become something else. A feeling of light peace, even with Key glaring Gunner down.

She didn’t bother talking during the process, and finally, Gunner rubbed a gloss of antibacterial gel onto his black-gloved hand and then rubbed it lightly on her newly tattooed side. “You’re all done.”

He helped her up, and she watched Key watch her in the mirror as she lifted her arm to reveal the beautiful slide of pink and white flowers that floated down her rib cage in a grand, graceful swirl that mirrored her curves perfectly.

“Gunner, I love it,” she breathed.

“I know,” he said, and Key snorted.

“Full of yourself much?”

“I’m damned good at what I do. Can you say the same thing?” Gunner asked, and before she knew what was happening, the two men were circling each other and yelling in what she assumed was Cajun French. She fully expected a punch to be thrown at any minute as they moved closer to each other, both gesturing wildly.

She couldn’t understand a thing they were saying.

“Jem!” she called, but he came in from the kitchen, bottle in hand, unconcerned.

“They’re big boys—they’re fine,” he said. “Let’s see the tattoo.”

She followed Jem’s lead and ignored Gunner and Key as she and Jem gazed at her new skin art.

“Guy’s good,” Jem said grudgingly, and she agreed.

Life was so ugly most of the time. Something pretty etched onto her skin might help to balance that.