Page 1 of Falcon

CHAPTER ONE

– KENZ –

Flipping the sign from open to closed, I turn up the volume of my earbuds and grab the broom out of the corner to start sweeping. “Old Time Rock & Roll” by Bob Seger fills my ears and I start to sing along. Classics are always great to shake off a busy workday.

It’s a routine I developed after I bought this little space and turned it into a tattoo shop. After the last client leaves, I always make time to clean up. I’m a little behind today and had to wrap up a phone call after I heard the last client slip out the door.

I should have left already, but I’m not leaving until everything is clean and ready for a new day tomorrow morning. Well, technically the next workday is Monday ’cause I have the weekend off. Perks of being my own boss. I schedule appointments at the times I want to work and determine how many I need per week to keep my life going the way I want it to go.

Over the years I’ve created the perfect balance and managed to save a little nest egg to support myself, and my dreams. I could either hire another tattoo artist, or allow one to join me, but I’m not one for sharing or having people in my personal space.

It’s probably due to being born into a motorcycle club and growing up with a load of overbearing found family. Every single member, family by blood or not, is sweet and awesome, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate and love them to pieces.

Though, that life pushed me to be my own person and do whatever the hell I want. Due to my family, I feel confident and know possibilities can become reality if you put your mind to it. They are the reason why I’m a successful tattoo artist, making my own living.

Growing up around bikers who are overbearing Neanderthals that turn into puppies whenever they find the right woman to claim, has also placed a standard for me when it comes to men. Which means I’m still single and get aggravated when guys flirt, assuming you crave dick, or want to belong so they can put you behind a stove to pop out a few kids.

I’ve never found a guy who spikes my blood with lust the way romance books trigger the perfect guy picture inside my head. Which makes me believe fiction and reality won’t ever cross over in my lifetime. I’m definitely not the type of girl to settle down, especially not with a damn biker.

Well, until Livi, my best friend who also happens to be my cousin, messaged me a photo of a guy. Hot damn. That guy was definitely fiction becoming reality. The scars on his ink covered face made him both handsome and menacing. It totally awakened my libido and the only answer I could give was ‘mine’.

As if on cue, my phone vibrates, and I know it’s an incoming message. It’s probably Falcon, the man in the photograph, because Livi used his phone when she messaged me. Ever since I replied to said message, we’ve been ‘talking’ back and forth.

I also have the weird feeling he’s been watching me. Bordering on stalker level, or maybe it’s been wishful thinking with all the reading of dark romance I’ve been doing lately. Whatever. A girl can dream and create her own pleasure if life sucks…because we all need something good to get us through the day.

Just a few more minutes of cleaning, then I can shove my nose into a book and dream away. My mood instantly lightens, and I sway my ass to the beat. I notice a piece of foil clinging to the floor, no matter how many times I sweep over it. Grumpy due to skipping lunch, and freaking dinner, I bend down to grab it. Flying debris catches my eye as it bounces to the floor.

My eyes widen when I notice the bullet hole at the same level where my head would have been if I didn’t bend down just now. What the actual fuck? Dropping on all fours, I scoot around the desk and crawl into the little kitchen. Ripping my earbuds out, I throw them on the floor and reach for my phone.

A shadow falls on me and I automatically drop my hands, place them on the floor for balance, and kick out. Instant pain radiates from my shin. A curse rips from me when I now see the broad frame of a man leaning over me in a hoodie and a leather cut. Half of his face is covered by black fabric, and with the hood pulled forward to hide his eyes there’s not much to recognize.

Still, there’s a prickling on the back of my neck that recognizes the penetrating stare locked on me. I’ve been experiencing the feeling at night ever since I started messaging with Falcon. The patch on his leather cut shows a snake along with dice showing snake eyes, and the bold letters stating Wisely Dicey MC.

Standing before me is Falcon. Why the hell did he creep up on me and fire a damn bullet? I know from our messages, and meeting him face to face once when I visited my cousin at their clubhouse, that the man is mute. Something about permanently damaged vocal cords.

“You know you could knock or message me that you’re coming over,” I grumble. “No need to shoot up the freaking place.”

I reach out to grab a fistful of his leather cut and use it to get to my feet. It’s then I notice the drops of blood slipping down from his fingertips.

“Did you kill someone, or hurt yourself getting into my shop? ’Cause you’re making a mess and I really want to go home and eat something, not clean for an extra hour.” I narrow my eyes. “If you did kill someone, you shouldn’t expect me to roll the body into a carpet, throw it in the trunk of my car, and bury it in the desert. Hate to tell you, but those kinds of activities are only reserved for family or besties. Maybe a third date, depending how good you are in bed. Since we didn’t even have a single date, you’re shit out of luck, buddy.”

I keep my grip on his leather cut in place and pull him in the direction of the sink. Grabbing a cloth, I hold it under the tap and then clean off Falcon’s hand. Multiple scars are visible on his palm, fingers, and the back of his hand. A deep cut in his palm is the reason for the dripping blood. Releasing a curse, I press the cloth over the gaping wound and reach for the first aid kit underneath the sink.

“You’re going to need stitches,” I tell him, and feel his eyes on me.

Opening the first aid kit, I turn to face him and ask, “Did you hurt yourself getting in here, or killing the one who fired off a bullet?”

I only get a tight nod. Shit. I should have split the question in two because the guy doesn’t use words. As if he tapped into my brain, he slowly brings his other hand up to his throat and makes a fist, leaving his thumb out which he glides from left to right in front of his throat.

“Killing, how nice,” I huff.

Pressing my lips shut, I prevent myself from rattling out questions. It would be too damn difficult to get straight answers when the guy in front of me doesn’t talk. So, instead I work fast to clean the wound and get the suture kit.

Glancing at him, I ask, “Do you want to do it yourself or should I?”

He raises his hand and presses his finger against the center of my chest. Weird. Pointing would have been sufficient enough.

I narrow my eyes at the big mute standing before me. “Okay, but don’t cry when I start to poke you with a needle, mister.”

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