Page 25 of Vapor's Blaze

Trix

All the way home, I can feel the trickle of blood oozing from my busted lip. Flashbacks of being punished when my grandfather was in a rage flash through my mind, though before today he’d never hit me. Being raised by the president of an outlaw biker club was not easy, particularly for a girl. My grandfather might call me his princess, but he treats me like garbage, or more accurately a possession to be traded away to gain an alliance with another MC club. He’s so hopelessly old fashioned in his thinking, and stubborn as the day is long.

My trip home seems like it takes three minutes instead of the normal twenty because I’m lost in my thoughts, reliving the fear of my childhood. I have nightmares about some of the stuff. There’s a recurring one where I’m hiding and scared for my life as a man tries to pull me out from under my bed. In that dream my mom is lying in a poppy field and she’s fading from view. My Grandpa Cooper had me in therapy for years, but apparently, I wouldn’t talk about what happened the night my mom died. I still don’t remember anything, other than what I was told afterward—once I was old enough to understand. Apparently, she’d had a row with her drug dealer, and he’d killed her.

I’m still shaken by my grandfather’s words, after he hit me, he told me I was gonna wind up like my mom if I didn’t watch myself. I don’t know what he meant by that, unless he thinks I’m using drugs too. I pull into the parking space in front of my apartment and rush inside, hoping no one sees my shameful busted lip.

Normally, I pace the room when I’m upset. Today, I just sit on my sofa and stare out the window as I think about my predicament. There’s no way out for me. I can’t run because I’ve got no place to go. Plus, if I do run, the Hounds will chase me down and bring me back. If I go to the police, they won’t do anything. My grandfather was in cahoots with the old police chief and probably is with the new one as well.

I almost jump out of my skin when someone starts banging on my door frantically. I drop the cloth and both hands go up to cover my ears. Maybe if I can block out the noise they’ll just go away and leave me alone. I know that won’t happen, because it never does. They just keep coming after me, forcing me to do whatever they want.

I pull my hands down and scream, “Go away, Tracker. Leave me alone. What happened was all your fault for talking about it at the clubhouse where he could hear.”

A gruff voice comes from the other side of the door. “It’s not Tracker. It’s Vapor. Let me in.”

My breath catches in my throat. I lower my voice, “Go away, Vapor. Now’s not a good time for me to have visitors.”

“Fuck visitors. I know that you’re hurting, but you’ve got to get the hell outta here. Decker is on his way and your grandfather told him to do whatever it takes to make you accept him.”

I feel nausea swirling in my stomach, like I’m about to throw up. I don’t know how Vapor knows about my personal problems but I sure as hell don’t want to be here when Decker arrives. I run to the door and unlock it. The second I open the door, Vapor steps forward and wraps his arms around me. I let him hold me for a second because it makes me feel safe.

When he pulls back and looks down into my eyes, his expression is horrified. “Look, you’ve got to leave right now. Decker is right behind me and King roughed him up as well. He’s going to be mad, I don’t trust him not to take his anger out on you.”

Bewildered, I ask, “How do you know all this?”

“No time to get into it right now. Come, let me get you someplace safe and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I want to take my car.”

He growls, “What don’t you understand about no fucking time? I swear to God, if Decker gets here before we leave, I’m going to gun the fucker down.”

I gape at him. “You’re packing a weapon.”

He literally scoops me up in his arms and carries me out the door. The crossbody bag I use as a purse pokes me in the side, so I push it out of the way. Before I know what’s happening or have a chance to protest, Vapor is dumping me onto his bike, he’s got his helmet strapped on my head, and climbs on in front of me.

“Hold on tight and don’t let go,” he says over his shoulder.

***

He uses the back streets to get us out of town, and we’re on the road for twenty minutes or so which gives me time to think as I rest my head against the back of his black hoodie, inhaling his scent and feeling safe. I think how much easier things would be if the handsome bastard was around to solve all my life’s problems like this. Eventually he pulls into a tattoo parlor.

When he stops the bike, I tell him, “I’m not really in the mood to get a tattoo. Can’t we go somewhere else?”

“It’s me and my brother’s business. We have a back room where we sleep sometimes when things get busy and going home isn’t viable. Come on in. We need to get some ice on that lip of yours before the swelling gets worse.”

My hand comes up to instinctively cover my lip. I’m embarrassed that this man and I have had a couple of wonderful, if brief, romantic encounters and now he is seeing me at my worst. This just goes to show that I’m never going to be able to outrun my ties to the outlaw biker club my grandfather runs. It’s going to keep ruining every nice thing in my life it touches.

I allow Vapor to escort me into his tattoo shop. If I was expecting the kind of shady businesses the Hounds frequent, I would have been very much mistaken. Vapor’s business is neat, clean, and well decorated. It has the look of a retro barber shop in the lounge area, there are large books of tattoos laying around on low end tables tucked between comfortable seating. Drop lighting hangs down from the ceiling, the type with the filaments exposed so it looks kind of industrial, giving it a moody, calm atmosphere. Which, I guess when you’re waiting for a tattoo is what you need.

Over the far end are the booths where customers get tattooed, while it still has the barber shop feel to it, with the chairs and mirrors, it also looks pristine.

“You have a really nice place,” I murmur, feeling all kinds of awkward. The adrenaline is wearing off and I’m feeling a bit shaky.

“Thanks, me and my brother recently bought out the guy who owned it.”

He gestures toward a door in the back. I follow right along where he indicates, amazed that I’d managed to hook up with a tattoo artist. I’m pleased he was telling the truth at the rave and not spinning me a line. It’s kind of cool and fits his personality perfectly. The back room is like a tiny studio apartment, with a kitchenette, sleeping area and a small seating area. It’s not as fancy as the shop, but looking at the cans of paint stacked in the corner, it looks like it’s due a facelift.

I sit on a small sofa while he rummages around in the freezer to get ice. He comes back with an ice pack and wraps it in a clean cloth. He also brings a warm, wet cloth to clean me up with. This man is good all the way down to his bones, I think to myself.

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