Claimed By My Biker Stalker

Chapter 4 — Flash Ink and Bad Intentions

JJ

The annual bike fest always smelled like gasoline, beer, sweat, and burned meat from the food trucks lined along Main Street.

By noon, the entire center of North Town had turned into controlled chaos.

Motorcycles packed the streets shoulder to shoulder, chrome gleaming beneath the hot afternoon sun while live rock music blasted from speakers mounted outside bars and vendor tents. Women in tiny shorts and club colors wandered through crowds carrying plastic cups of beer. Kids chased each other between booths while exhausted parents pretended not to notice.

And directly in the middle of all of it sat our tattoo tent.

FLASH TATTOOS — $50

20 MINUTES ONLY

The giant black banner hung crooked because Stitch insisted zip ties were “government oppression” and refused to use them properly.

“Hold still before I accidentally give you three n*****s,” Stitch barked at the guy in his chair.

The biker immediately froze.

I snorted softly despite myself while wiping down my station.

Stitch got his nickname after drunkenly trying to tattoo his own thigh at seventeen and ending up needing thirty-six stitches afterward. Now he specialized in trashy Americana tattoos, chain designs, screaming eagles, and aggressively ugly pinup girls people somehow loved.

He also never shut the hell up.

Across the tent, Kinsley sat behind the folding cash table helping a little girl choose between glitter temporary tattoos while smiling like she hadn’t detonated my entire life two nights ago.

I still didn’t know how to look at her.

Part of me wanted to scream every time our eyes met.

Another part remembered years of friendship too vividly to fully turn the switch off yet.

Trauma complicated everything.

Kinsley glanced toward me briefly before quickly looking away again.

Guilt.

Good.

“JJ!” Stitch yelled over the music. “You got another one.”

A teenage girl slid nervously into my chair clutching a folded fifty-dollar bill in one hand. “Can I get a little bat?”

“Blackwork or color?”

“Black.”

“Good choice.”

I pulled on fresh gloves and got to work while the festival swelled louder around us. The familiar buzz of the tattoo machine settled something inside me almost immediately. Tattooing always did that. It forced the rest of the world quieter for a while. Lines mattered. Pressure mattered. Precision mattered.

For twenty minutes at a time, I got to exist as someone other than Havoc’s wife.

“You’re really good,” the girl whispered while I cleaned the finished tattoo.

“Don’t tell Stitch that. He’s sensitive.”

“I heard that,” Stitch shouted.

The girl laughed.

A real laugh.

I almost forgot how much I missed hearing normal sounds around me.

“Keep it clean,” I told her while wrapping the tiny bat tattoo. “And no swimming.”

She nodded enthusiastically before hurrying away.

The second my chair emptied, Havoc appeared beside me.

His hand settled onto the back of my neck casually enough that nobody watching would think twice about it. From the outside, we probably looked affectionate. Stable. Married.

Perfect little biker couple running a tattoo booth together.

His thumb brushed slowly beneath my hairline.

“Smile more,” he murmured. “People tip better.”

I forced one onto my face immediately.

“That’s my girl.”

The praise made my stomach turn.

Then I saw it.

Across the booth, Kinsley bent over the cash box reaching for change while Havoc’s eyes dragged slowly down the curve of her body.

Not subtle.

Not accidental.

My chest tightened violently.

Kinsley noticed me noticing.

The guilt that flashed across her face lasted maybe half a second before Havoc winked at her.

Actually winked.

Something sharp and furious twisted through me before I could stop it.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath.

Havoc’s hand tightened slightly against my neck. “Problem?”

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened instantly.

“Careful.”

“Why?” I laughed bitterly. “Might embarrass you in public?”

That happened fast.

His hand slid down and clamped around my elbow hard enough to make pain shoot up my arm before he yanked me against his chest.

To anyone watching, it probably looked playful.

Possessive husband.

Flirty moment.

Normal.

His mouth brushed my ear while his fingers deliberately squeezed harder.

“You wanna make a scene?” he asked softly. “Go ahead. Let’s see how that works out for you.”

Pain pulsed beneath his grip.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Then stop acting stupid.”

My jaw clenched.

And that was when another voice cut smoothly through the tension.

“Flash tattoos only?”

Havoc released me immediately.

I stepped backward on instinct, rubbing my arm while turning toward the newcomer.

For a second, my brain stalled.

Tall.

That was the first thing I noticed.

He stood a few inches taller than Havoc with a leaner build, though there was nothing small about him. Black jeans. Black boots. Black Daggers kutte hanging open over a dark gray henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms.

His eyes were darker than I expected.

Sharp.

Observant.

The kind of eyes that looked like they missed absolutely nothing.

A skull tattoo climbed partway up his throat disappearing beneath his collar, and there was something about the way he stood that immediately felt dangerous. Calm dangerous. Controlled dangerous.

The worst kind.

I realized a second too late I’d been staring.

A slow smirk pulled at his mouth.

“Well,” he said. “Either the tattoos are good or I got uglier riding over here.”

Heat climbed briefly into my face before I could stop it.

Cute.

Annoyingly cute.

“Black Daggers making their appearance in North Town?” I asked, forcing my tone lighter than I felt.

“Thought we’d bless the place with some culture.”

I snorted despite myself.

Havoc’s arm slid around my waist instantly.

Claiming.

The stranger noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“I’m Jonnie Jo,” I said professionally, gesturing toward the chair. “What’re you interested in today?”

He sat down slowly, eyes still on me.

“Artist’s choice.”

I blinked.

“That’s dangerous.”

His mouth tipped slightly at one corner. “I like dangerous.”

Before I could answer, he reached up and shrugged off his kutte, draping it over the back of the chair. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest and stomach for a brief second before he grabbed the hem and tugged it over his head too.

And—

Jesus.

My brain stalled hard enough to genuinely irritate me.

Black ink crawled across broad shoulders and down one arm in heavy black-and-gray work, some of it old enough to have softened slightly with time. His chest was leaner than Havoc’s but built hard, defined muscle shifting beneath tattooed skin as he settled back into the chair like he had no idea what kind of effect he was causing.

Or maybe he knew exactly.

Heat crept traitorously up my throat.

“You okay there, JJ?” Stitch called from the next chair, sounding way too amused.

I snapped my attention back to my tray so fast I nearly grabbed the wrong machine. “Shut the hell up.”

Nixx’s low laugh rolled through the booth.

Great.

Now both of them knew.

I grabbed my sketch marker before I could think too hard about that.

“Well,” I muttered while stepping closer, “hope you like skulls.”

“I’m flexible.”

I examined the existing tattoo on his upper shoulder for a second before starting to sketch. A black dagger through the side of the skull already inked there. Clean. Aggressive. It fit him.

His gaze stayed on me almost the entire time. Not in the sloppy way most men looked at women, but intently focused.

Like he was studying me instead of just checking me out.

“You always this serious when you work?” he asked.

“Only when clients flirt badly.”

“Damn.” He leaned back slightly. “Bit sassy, huh?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“I like it.”

Havoc shifted beside me.

I ignored him.

Barely.

“I’m Nixx.” He said.

I glanced toward the Black Daggers patch on his kutte. “Yeah, I gathered that.”

That actually made him laugh.

A deep sound.

Real.

And unexpectedly attractive.

The tattoo itself only took about fifteen minutes. He barely moved the entire time, just watched me work while we traded occasional smartass comments back and forth. Easy conversation. Natural in a way that almost felt unfamiliar now.

By the end, I realized something unsettling.

I was enjoying myself.

“You done flirting with your client yet, JJ?” Havoc asked sharply from behind me.

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Nixx’s eyes lifted toward him calmly. “JJ, huh?”

I capped the ink bottle carefully. “That’s what people call me.”

His gaze flicked toward Havoc. “And he’s?”

“My husband.”

A pause.

Not long.

But enough.

Something unreadable crossed his face before he nodded once slowly. “I see.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded loaded.

But somehow they did.

I cleaned the tattoo one final time before wrapping it carefully. “Keep it clean. No soaking it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I rolled my eyes. “You say that to all the tattoo artists?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

Havoc stepped closer again.

Tension tightened instantly.

But Nixx just stood calmly and reached into his pocket, pulling out folded blue bills before handing them to me.

“For the artist.”

I glanced down automatically.

A hundred-dollar bill.

“Jesus,” I said. “It’s a flash tattoo, not open heart surgery.”

“Still worth it.”

His eyes held mine a second longer than necessary before he turned and walked away into the crowd.

And for some reason…

I found myself watching him go.

Havoc’s attention shifted toward a loud argument breaking out near the beer tents.

I used the distraction to finally unfold the bill fully.

My breath caught.

Not one bill.

Five.

Five hundred dollars folded so tightly together they’d looked like one.

“What the f**k?” I whispered.