Page 11 of Inked Daddies

It shouldn’t have made my heart race the way it did. I worried for them, but not only for them. I worried I’d never get to say what I’ve wanted to say ever since I knew I had a crush on them. To tell them who they are to me.

Ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Just a kid in their eyes. Nothing more.

I glance toward the doorway, my pulse ticking up when I catch a glimpse of Trick leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. He’s still got that playful smirk on his face, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that says he’s not as relaxed as he looks. He’s worried. Probably about me.

Sam’s pacing, his broad shoulders casting odd shadows under the overhead light. I barely hear a word he’s saying, but bits come through the haze in my head. “…shouldn’t have let her see…” and “…bad idea…”

Hugo watches him, his lips curved in a faint smile like he knows something the rest of us don’t.

They’re so different from one another, yet somehow they fit. They’ve always fit.

When I was a kid, I thought they were invincible. They were larger than life, my dad’s friends who could do no wrong. Sitting on their shop couch, I thumb the faint scar on my right knee, the one I got when I fell off my bike on their street.

A bee or a hornet had chased me, and I pedaled my heart out to get away from it, not paying attention to where I was going.A piece of broken concrete clipped my tire, and I went ass over teakettle, sprawling across the road. They came and helped me get washed up before driving me home. I had no idea what the world was really like back then, no idea what their lives were like outside the shop and the occasional church event.

Now I know better.

Dad always says they’re dangerous men, that they have a dark past. I never believed him before tonight. After seeing Sam and Trick fight, though, I know he’s right. No one moves like that without a history of it, and none of them talk about their history. But somehow, that only makes them more appealing.

Not that it matters. To them, I’m just the kid who gets hurt, and now the kid who gets mugged. And whatever else Crow wanted from me. It’s one thing to steal my money—that would have sucked, but I’d recover. When he said he wanted more…my stomach lurches at the memory as if vomiting might wipe it out.

But then I remember how Trick and Sam beat the hell out of Crow while Hugo held me, and my body is on fire again.

I bury my face in the blanket, letting out a quiet groan. I shouldn’t be thinking about them like this—not now, not ever. This isn’t normal. Who goes from damsel in distress to horny in two seconds? But I can’t help it. The way they looked at me tonight, the way they fought for me, the way they held me afterward…that spark is a raging forest fire right now.

It should be illegal to look as good as they do at nearly my dad’s age.

This isn’t good. I don’t want to be the girl who needs saving, but I like the way the guys made me feel. Protected. Like I wasn’t justsome innocent bystander, and like I’m someone worth fighting for.

“Marie?”

I jump at the sound of Hugo’s voice, my head snapping up to see him standing in the doorway. Most of the time, I don’t pick it up, but tonight’s tension has his very slight accent more pronounced. I’m not sure if it’s Cajun or French, but it’s usually only detectable on certain words. The way his lips form around the words…all I can think of is kissing him.

But all I’ll ever do about it is write them into my spicy novels and play with my battery-operated boyfriend. The three of them have helped me build a mildly lucrative side gig under a pseudonym. If my father ever learned about it, he’d never speak to me again. The only person who knows about it is Julie, and that’s only because she caught me writing on a lunch break.

My readers might hate me if they knew I was a virgin. Just thinking the word in Hugo’s presence makes me blush.

He leans against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, his sparkling eyes fixed on me in that unnervingly intense way he has. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though I’m pretty sure we both know it’s a lie.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my answer, and steps into the room, his boots thudding softly against the floor. He stops a few feet away, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You don’t look fine,” he says, his tone teasing but not unkind. “You look like someone about two seconds away from curling into a ball and hiding under that blanket.”

I glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I said I was fine. Can we leave it at that?” I don’t want him to treat me with kid gloves.

Hugo studies me for a moment, his head tilting slightly like he’s trying to figure me out. It’s unsettling how good he is at that—at reading people, at knowing exactly what they’re thinking even when they don’t want to admit it. Not as good at it as Trick, but close.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks, his voice softer now.

I do. I want to give in, to give him whatever he wants. But what good would it do? It’s over. “There’s nothing to talk about. The police have him. It’s done.”

Hugo doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he moves closer, kneeling down to meet my eyes. Those emeralds of his flash, and for a moment, it’s hard to breathe. “It’s not done for you. Not yet.”

My chest tightens, and I look away, focusing on the worn edge of the couch instead of his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Aye, you do.” His voice is so soft, so gentle, that it makes my throat ache. “Look,” he says, shifting so he’s sitting on the coffee table in front of me. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. Not with us.”

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