My eyes dropped to his chest to see my ink on his upper ribs, under Tabby, close to his heart. The dogtags rested right next to it.
He had my tattoo done before I got out of the hospital.
On the inside of his right forearm was another new tattoo. A set of scales, unbalanced. The top scale had the word “Red” inked in killer lettering sitting on it and dripping over the sides were rivers of blood. The bottom scale had the word “Black” and drifting up was a ghostly, hooded, skull-faced reaper with eerie blue eyes and a scythe in his skeletal hand. The support holding the scales was made of the words, “Never Forget”.
Every member of Chaos had this tattoo. The “Red” was me and a reminder that I got out alive, but barely. The “Black” represented their fallen brother (whose last name, incidentally, was Black) who went down when they’d first instigated plans to pull themselves off the path of evil to strike out toward redemption. The message of the tattoo was a reminder that if they weren’t smart, the scales could unbalance and it wasn’t worth the loss of what was at stake.
Brothers and blood.
Nothing more important in life.
Not one thing.
Even Arlo and High got that tattoo. One could say what happened that day was a wakeup call. No money or adrenalin rush was worth what happened to their brother or Tack and me.
So all was good in the Club.
No, actually, all was good with everything.
Absolutely everything.
And it was about to get better.
My eyes lifted from my ink on my old man to catch his as he made his way to me. He held my gaze as he fitted his front to my back, one of his hands gliding along my arm to rest on mine at my belly. His other hand came up and wrapped around my throat.
He did this often. In fact, all the time. I knew what it meant and as the weeks wore into months and he kept doing it, it troubled me so I’d gently approached him about it.
“Don’t question it,” he’d replied just as gently. “Just give it to me when I think I need it.”
What could I say? They were his demons and he had to create his methods of coping. And this was one.
So I agreed and let it go.
As for me, the first thing I saw after waking up in the hospital which was also the last thing I saw every night before going to bed and the first thing I saw in the morning was my coping mechanism.
It was a hellish six hours and I couldn’t say I didn’t have dark moments when those hours drifted into my brain and haunted me.
What I could say was, once I made my way to Tack, he let in the light.
I watched him tip his head and felt the tickle of his goatee whisper against the skin of my shoulder before I felt his lips touch there and I melted back into him.
He lifted his head and again caught my eyes in the mirror.
“You’re quiet this mornin’,” he said softly.
“I’m pregnant,” I replied and felt his body go still behind mine but his fingers at my throat flexed and his hand over mine at my belly pressed deep.
We held each other’s gazes in the mirror for long moments before he whispered, “Say again?”
“I’m pregnant, handsome.”
His hand again pressed against mine at my belly as I watched his eyes flare.
Then both of his hands moved so his thumbs could hook into the sides of my panties and he yanked them down.
A tremor ran through me at this maneuver and the area between my legs instantly got wet.
Then Tack put his fingers to my h*ps and turned me to him, his mouth slammed down on mine and I got wetter. His tongue thrust into my mouth as my arms slid around his shoulders, his fingers clenched into my hips, jerking me up and I got even wetter.