Page 48 of Keeping What He Wants

“You don’t know that.” She counted on her fingers. “First, who knows where we live? We just moved in our apartment. Nobody knows the address but a few select people. People we both trust. Second, it has his name written all over this. The women look like me. It’s a message. Thirdly, he’s had it out for me from day one. It would be orgasmic to him to finally get what he wants. And lastly, you let him go. You let him out of your sight and pushed him away from Atlanta. He has ties here. It’s not beneath him to use them from afar to get what he wants.”

“You done?” Ryker asked.

“Don’t be an ass. I’m just as much a part of your world whether I’m fucking you or staying far, far away from you and the club. It doesn’t matter. We’re in this together, and you need to accept that.”

“I know you’re smart, but dammit, you’ve got this way about you that makes you think you have a right to an opinion about things you really know nothing about. You don’t know, Ella. You don’t. Even with what I told you, you still don’t know. If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Until then, keep it to yourself.”

“Fine. I’m sorry I said anything.” She stood and dumped her trash in the nearby container.

Ryker knew he’d made her mad. A small part of him wanted to apologize and make up with her, but the main part of him knew that Ella didn’t run the club. Her opinion meant little to him where club business was concerned. She had to understand that.

They spent the day shopping. He bought fudge from the fudge factory and walked around eating the huge chunk while she window shopped. She didn’t say much to him, and that was fine. He was agitated enough without her adding to it.

“Are you done being mad at me?” she asked as they walked by a clothing store.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I want some of your fudge.”

Smiling, he held out the chunk to her for a bite. Her blue eyes sparkled as she parted her lips for the sugary treat. Once she took the bite, he leaned in to kiss her. He could be angry. Pissed. Hurt. Sad. Whatever emotion he felt, Ella made it better. Even if she caused that emotion.

“I’m buying more before we leave.” She wiped the corners of her mouth. “That stuff is good.”

“I know.”

He would never admit it out loud, but he liked walking around with her while she shopped. His friend’s voices filled his head telling him he was pussy-whipped, and he knew deep down he was. He liked seeing her smile. He wanted her to be happy. If that meant that he walked around with her while she shopped, then he’d do it.

“Are we going to talk about your new tattoo?” she asked, stopping at the ice cream booth.

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

The tattoo in question was side ink of an elaborate design that he planned to take up both his right side and part of his back. The artwork was from one of the best in Atlanta, and he knew it was going to look badass when he was done.

“Please tell me that they sterilize their equipment and clean their tattoo shop regularly and thoroughly.” She took the ice cream cone she’d bought from the teenager working the stand and licked it.

“You worry about some of the weirdest stuff.”

“You can get Hep C from a dirty needle.” She closed her mouth over the tip of the cone, and his mind went elsewhere. “I mean, you’re a biker. You’re going to do what you’re going to do, but you can at least make sure things are clean.”

“They’re clean. My artist is one of the best in the city. He’s in high demand from celebrities so it’s good.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Celebrities screw around with one another. You never know what you can catch. And just because he’s in high demand doesn’t mean everything is good. High demand can mean he takes shortcuts, and shortcuts in proper technique that can lead to you having a nasty disease.”

He sighed. “I just had to fall for a fucking doctor.”

She licked the ice cream. “What is it anyway? A devil or something?”

It was. He wanted to weave in an intricate pattern of devil and angel, a metaphor for their relationship. “You’ll understand what it is when it’s finished.”

“You mean you’re not done?” Her eyes widened. “Doesn’t it hurt? Your ribs are sensitive. There’s very little fat or muscle there. You’re basically tattooing bone.”

“It does hurt. Like a bitch. But I want it.” He shrugged. “I have probably eight or more sessions before it’s done.”

“Make sure you take care of it properly. It looked puffy and red the last time I really paid attention to it.”

He had over twenty tattoos, and she stood before him eating a damn ice cream cone telling him to take care of his last one properly.

“Yes, Mother.” He saluted her.

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