Page 9 of Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers)

“Here,” he said, handing me his gun, and that’s the moment when any suspicion I had about his intentions melted away.

“If this doesn’t work, and somebody else opens this lid … shoot and keep shooting, you hear?”

I nodded.

“You know how to use a gun?”

I nodded, tears streaming down my cheeks. My father, up until a few weeks ago, had been the president of the most renowned and feared biker club in the United States. Of course I knew how to use a gun.

“I’m gonna get you out of here, kid. I promise.”

And he did.

Six years later, Elliot isn’t a cop anymore. In fact, he resigned from the force almost immediately after moving me to a safe house in Nebraska with his grandmother. Juliette Portland was reported dead in the hospital from internal bleeding the night he smuggled me out, and while we think that Dornan bought the story, it’s always possible that he is still keeping watch for me.

I’m standing outside a building with LOST CITY TATTOOS emblazoned across the front, my dirty clothes switched for a spaghetti-strap white summer dress that skims my knees and shows off my enviable tan. I’ve just spent the last hour scrubbing every inch of myself in the shower of my hotel room. I wasn’t actually staying in a dingy hostel. I had a room at the Bel Air. I figured I may as well enjoy my last few hours of freedom before moving into the clubhouse tonight.

I push the door open and am immediately hit by a breeze of cold air. The air-conditioning is bliss against my reddened skin, which has started to prickle after only a few moments outside. It is so much cooler inside, I think I might never leave.

I am expecting the humming of tattoo guns, but everything is silent. I look around the room, seeing nobody.

“Hello?” I call, waiting for an answer.

“Hi,” a voice behind me says, startling me. I spin around to see Elliot, still looking as gorgeous as he did the last time I saw him, only now more grown-up, and with tattoos covering every visible inch of his skin. He wears a white t-shirt and dark grey dickie shorts, a pair of bright blue sneakers on his feet. His face is the only thing that assures me of who he is.

I study his face and wonder if he knows who I am, then decide he probably doesn’t. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

He immediately looks suspicious. “No. Should I?”

I shake my head, my fake Southern drawl thick on my words. “It doesn’t matter. I came here because I need a tattoo. Everyone says you’re the best.”

He smiles, licking his lips, and I see a flash that I think is a tongue stud. “Come on through,” he says, leading me to one of the hard leather beds. “What kind of tattoo are you after?”

“One to cover a scar,” I say, biting my lip.

He nods, patting the bed. I hoist myself up, studying his face intently. He is the kindest person I have ever met, I think to myself. He truly did risk his life to save mine.

“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Where’s your scar?”

I swallow thickly, gather my dress in my fist, and raise it so that he can see.

His face contorts into something tortured. He looks at me, then the scars, then back at me.

“Julz?” he whispers. He takes in my hair, my skin, my blue eyes, my new nose. He steps back as if horrified.

“It’s Samantha, now,” I say, the accent gone, my breath hitching in my throat. “And I need your help.”

Six

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. I suddenly feel ill, as though I have done the wrong thing by seeking him out.

“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my dress back down and sliding off the bed. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

I try to leave but he catches my elbow, turning me to face him. “Wait,” he says. “Please. I don’t want you to go. I’m just a little … shocked. I haven’t seen you in three years.”

I just stand there, feeling pathetic.

“Juliette,” he says darkly. “What are you doing here?”

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