“I love you,” he whispered.
“Ditto,” I said. “You know, you’re still going to have to entertain me until the barbeque. We’ve got more time.”
“Is that so?”
“You better believe it,” I said. “I insist.”
“And what the Old Lady wants, the Old Lady gets,” Blaze said.
“Shit, you guys really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I said, heat rising to my cheeks. I hadn’t expected all this fuss over me leaving for school. The whole club was here, Old Ladies too.
Blaze pulled me close. “You’re one of us now,” he said, and I felt a rush of pride.
Picasso walked up, put his hand on my arm, spun me around. “Let’s see it, girl,” he said, looking at my shoulder. “Nice. That’s some great fucking ink there.”
“You did a good job, man,” Blaze said. I knew Blaze loved seeing me emblazoned with his name. Some women would think it was crazy having that kind of ink. Hell, before all of this, I probably would have looked askance at some girl if I saw “property of” tattooed on her shoulder. I knew people would think it was strange.
But I’d come to be a part of this, something much bigger than myself. This club was more than just something Blaze was interested in, a thing he did in his spare time. It was his family. It was part of him. It was written into his DNA. I understood that, and I loved him for it. The tattoo was a symbol. It said I was standing right here beside him. I was joined with him. I was a part of him, and a part of his family.
It wasn’t that I was his property, something to be possessed. The tattoo said that if anyone hurt me, that person would bring down the full wrath of the Inferno Motorcycle Club. I wanted to wear that symbol now more than ever, especially having seen the club rally around me in so many ways after what had happened.
“I love it, Picasso,” I said. “Thank you.” Standing on tip-toes, I kissed him on the cheek and watched his face turn scarlet.
Picasso cleared his throat. “Get out of here, girl. Go get some barbecue or something.”
In the parking lot of the clubhouse, we mingled with the raucous crowd, most of them already drunk. I looked around, trying to memorize every bit of it, etching it into my brain, something to hold on to when I went back to Stanford next week. I wanted to take it all in - the drunk bikers groping their old ladies, the smell of smoke from the grill mixed with the scent of grease and leather that seemed to permeate every article of clothing Blaze owned. I watched as Mad Dog’s Old Lady, Kate, leaned against him, laughing as she rubbed his grey hair. He bent over, burying his face in her chest, and she swatted him away playfully.
“Hey, there, lovebirds,” Axe said, raising his bottle to mine and Blaze’s, then bringing it to his lips. “So you’re really going to trade all this for Stanford?”
“I have to get my edu-ma-cation, you know.”
“At least I won’t have to deal with all the kissy face anymore,” Axe said. “Shit, man, she’s got you whipped real good.”
“Hey now,” Blaze said.
I laughed. “So when are we going to get you an Old Lady, Axe?”
Axe shuffled, looking the ground. “Oh, honey, I think I’m beyond having an Old Lady anymore.”
“You talk like you’re an old man - you’re only what - forty?”
“Fuck you too,” he said, smiling. “Jesus, Blaze, get your Old Lady in line. Forty, shit. Do I look that old?”
“You’ve got an ugly mug, dude. Can you blame her for thinking you’re an old man?” Blaze took a drag on his beer.
“Any girl would be lucky to have you, Axe,” I said, glaring at Blaze, who raised his hands in a “what can I say?” gesture.
Axe was one of Blaze’s closest friends and Mad Dog’s right hand man as the sergeant-at-arms for the MC. He’d become one of my favorite people here. He had a calm nature and dry sense of humor that persisted no matter what shit was happening. Like Blaze, he was more than just some dirty biker. While he might not be well-educated, he was smart, just like Blaze.
The first time I'd really talked to Axe was right after I'd shot Guillermo. I was waiting at Benicio's house with a bunch of guys from the club, while the surgeon worked on Blaze. It was a surreal experience, sitting around waiting in a Malibu mansion while a surgeon operated on my biker boyfriend. I had gone down the hallway and sat on the floor, just wanting some silence. Standing here thinking about it, my mind went right back to that memory.
I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder, and I turned my head to see Axe, squatting down beside me on the floor.
“Man,” he said, grimacing. “My knees. They’re not so good anymore.” He settled down beside me, his back against the wall. “Too many deployments, carrying too much gear. I’m not as young as I used to be.”