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|Throttle Me(Men of Inked #1) by Chelle Bliss|
“Won’t deny that shit,” he laughed before slapping the table roughly causing all the bottles to jump.
We talked for hours about motorcycles, tattoos, women, and of course, the bar. The guys filled me in on the events of the last week. It was always the same old bullshit – bar fights, hook-ups, and booze. The town was so small that everyone knew each other’s business and word spread like wildfire.
“Fuck,” Bear hissed. “Speaking of bitches, Kaylee was in here looking for your ass.”
“What the f**k? When?” I gripped the bottle in my hand trying to control my anger.
“Last night. Mumbling some bullshit about how she was yours. Spreading that shit around here like it was the gospel. I told her to f**k off,” Bear said, leaning back like he was about to beat on his chest like he’d been victorious.
“She’s a f**king train wreck. Stuck my dick in her twice and she won’t let me f**king forget it. I’ll set her ass straight unless one of you boys wants to take her off my hands?” I looked around the table and waited for someone to accept.
“Fuck no, that bitch makes my skin crawl. Hate clingy women,” Frisco said, shaking his head.
“My dick, my problem,” I said feeling the phone vibrate in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glanced at the screen under the table.
Suzy: Drunk and tired. Sophia’s taking me home, but you’re welcome to join me.
“Ball and chain wrangling your ass in?” Tank asked.
“Such a ball buster. It’s late and I worked all day. I’m heading home. Thanks for the drink, Bear.” I shook his hand and turned to Frisco. “Good to see you again, buddy. Tank, it’s been real.”
“Whipped,” Tank mumbled as I stood to leave.
I left the guys to end the evening how they always did. Bitching about life and women. Thankful that my night wouldn’t end like it had for countless years, I sent Suzy a text.
Me: Leave the door unlocked. I’ll meet you in bed.
When I arrived Suzy was half dressed passed out across the bed. Her mouth hung open, hair was half covering her face and her dress halfway off, exposing her br**sts. It took everything in me not to snap a picture of her and remind her of it later, but I didn’t want to be a dick.
“Wake up, sugar.” I grabbed her leg, pulling her body down the bed. She mumbled but didn’t wake. I pulled the hem of her dress, removing the clingy material. I rarely had the ability to just stare at her body without her trying to cover her skin. I stood and looked at her – white skin, perky br**sts, and long muscular legs. She was a vision.
Gathering her in my arms, I placed her head on the pillow before I removed my clothes and climbed in next to her.
“City,” she muttered as she shimmied her ass into my dick.
“Fuck,” I sighed. My c**k throbbed from the warmth of her soft cheeks rubbing against it.
“Go back to sleep, sugar.” I pulled her tighter, burying my face in her hair before drifting off to sleep to her soft snores.
“How’s the shop doing?” my father asked as we sat around the dining room table. Today was gnocchi and they always sat in my gut like a ton of f**king bricks.
“We’re doing good, Pop. We’re turning a profit and we’re constantly booked when I can get everyone to show up for work,” Mike said before shoveling in a heaping forkful of gnocchi.
“Mike, you aren’t always there either, so don’t be a martyr and skip the bullshit.” Anthony pointed his fork at Mikey before stabbing the gnocchi on his plate.
“We all have other shit to do. The shop is for fun and to have something of our own, so get off our damn backs, Mike. You aren’t the boss,’” Izzy said emphasizing the word boss to sound like a great big ’fuck you.’ “You just aren’t an artist like the rest of us.” She picked up the wine glass and brought it to her lips to hide her smile. Izzy always had been a spitfire.
My mother and father sat at the opposite ends of the table and exchanged looks as my siblings had a war of words. As children, we battled with our fists and usually one of us ended up bloodied, but now we use our mouths. Sometimes the words that are spoken leave a greater mark than any punch ever could.
“I’m every bit an artist as you are, baby sister. I just prefer to use my hands for other things. I may not draw pretty pictures but I can pierce anything and knock a bastard on their ass in a single punch.”
My father cleared his throat. “Is the shop too much?” he asked.
I needed to speak up. The shop was doing great and we all got along. Sundays often made us crabby because we wanted to do anything but be trapped in this house. A one weekend reprieve would be f**king mind-blowing and a totally bullshit improbability. “Pop, the shop’s great. We’re packed. Every one shows up on the days they have appointments. I’m there more than anyone and I know the business the best. Mike may organize shit, but I know what happens inside the walls of Inked.” I soaked my garlic bread in my mother’s homemade sauce that had spread out around my plate. “We need to keep ourselves busy during the day and the shop has more than done that,” I said.
“Good, son. I’m proud of all of you. You could be sitting on your asses at home, but you’re business owners and successful – not to mention your other hobbies.” Oh f**k. Everyone hated to have their true passions and dream careers referred to as a hobby.
I heard forks drop to the table and clatter off the dishes. Such drama queens in this god damn room.