Page 6 of Single Mom's Bikers

CHASE

The whiskey burns just rightas I pour a third glass. Rick’s going over paperwork at the kitchen table while Zane raids the fridge. Normal night at the Cross house, except I can’t stop thinking about our new employee’s neck.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Rick says without looking up from his papers. “Still nursing that hangover?”

“Fuck off.” I down half the whiskey. “Just thinking about tattoo designs.”

Zane snorts, emerging with leftover pizza. “Sure you are. Nothing to do with the tattoos you spotted on her?”

My fingers itch for a pencil. That vine pattern disappeared under her dress, begging to be continued and expanded. “It’s shit work by an amateur.”

“Right.” Zane drops into the chair beside me. “That’s why you kept staring at it.”

“Some of us actually care about our craft.” But he’s not wrong. I spent most of the interview imagining better designs fromoutside Rick’s office. Watching the way her skin moved when she talked.

Rick sets down his pen. “Don’t even think about it.”

“About what?” I pour another drink.

“You know what.” He gives me that big-brother look I hate. “She’s off-limits.”

Zane laughs through a mouthful of pizza. “Come on, Rick. You saw how she looked in that dress.”

“I saw a single mother who needs this job.” Rick’s voice has that edge that usually ends arguments. “We’re not doing this again.”

I think about the last office manager—what was her name? Mandy? Sandy? She lasted two months before Zane charmed her into bed. I followed a week later. The consent form for sharing has stayed on Rick’s desk, unused since she quit.

“You’re both impossible.” Rick stands, gathering his papers. “I’m finishing these in my office.”

“More for us then.” I push the whiskey toward Zane after Rick leaves. “You really pissed her off this morning, huh?”

“Who, Evie?” Zane grins. “Nah, that was just fun. You should’ve seen her face when I kicked that mower.”

That’s Zane—everything rolls off him like water. Must be nice, being the baby brother. Never having to worry about living up to Rick or proving yourself better than anyone.

“I’m heading out.” Zane stretches. “Meeting some guys from the club at The Den. I’ll head upstairs to change,” he says, already at the foot of the stairs.

I grunt in response, already pulling my sketchbook from my back pocket. The whiskey’s got my creative juices flowing, and that tattoo of hers won’t leave me alone.

Funny how that works—three brothers, all covered in ink from neck to ankle, all knowing how to work a machine, but I’m the only one who lives for it.

Rick’s got about eighty pieces decorating his skin, Zane’s probably close to seventy-five, and I stopped counting mine after ninety. We’ve all done our share of inking beautiful women—it’s kind of our thing, marking skin that matters to us. But while my brothers see it as part of the lifestyle, I see it as breathing.

I hear footsteps running down the stairs. Zane.

“Don’t wait up!” he yells, heading to the door.

Like I would. Middle children get used to everyone coming and going. We’re the ones who stay put, hold grudges, and remember things others forget.

My pencil moves across the paper, recreating the vine pattern I glimpsed during the interview. It needs work—whoever did it didn’t understand the flow and didn’t see how it could embrace her neck, trail down her shoulder, and bloom across her back.

Her words from the interview replay in my head. Her husband cleaned out their accounts. Left her alone with two kids and ran off with another woman. Now, she’s starting fresh in Wolf Pike.

What kind of man walks away from his family? The question burns worse than the whiskey.

I flip to a clean page, but the designs won’t come. They keep turning into her face instead—the way her lips pressed together when Zane flirted.

“Fuck this.” I slam the sketchbook shut. I need to clear my head before these thoughts get dangerous.

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