Inked. Anne Marsh

fit into my life plan, and that makes him most definitely not the person I need in my life right now. If I were smart, I’d sit out on dating for a few months even if said life plan calls for marriage and kids before I’m thirty-five and my eggs start drying up like water in the desert. It’s just that I’d swear Vik looked at me like he liked what he saw. I mean, really, really liked what he saw. And he walked me out and gave me his card and God I need to find a life somewhere. I’ve already taken his dick for a ride, so it’s not like I can even blame curiosity for the warm sensation licking my belly and melting all my resolve.

      I settle slowly into the seat as the taxi pulls away from Ink Me. Brooklyn makes a face like she’s giving serious consideration to puking, so I rub her back and try to not hear the wounded animal sounds she’s making.

      I should throw Vik’s card away. Instead, I turn it over. It’s the general card for Ink Me, with all the basic contact information for hitting up the tattoo parlor for an appointment. On the reverse side, however, Vik has scrawled an address and two words.

      Come over.

      Oh, and he’s also sketched a cartoon Viking that’s...

      Doing something downright obscene.

      To a very large penis.

      That has...

      Ink?

      I shove the card into my purse and try not to wonder if Vik has tattoos in some very personal areas. How likely is it that a guy would let a needle and ink anywhere near his favorite body part? Plus, the pain. And how would that even work? Do you ink when you’re hard or soft?

      He has to be exaggerating.

      I make a mental note to Google penis sizes and hand-to-dick ratios. After that, I’ll clear my browser cache and get on with my life, curiosity satisfied.

      Really.

      I will.

      Bad boys and bankers don’t mix.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Harper

      MY LIFE DOES not magically sort itself out overnight.

      This comes as no surprise, although part of me wishes I’d inherit a fairy godmother or some magic beans. Instead, I wake up alone in my Bellagio hotel room. Since I’m only here for a week or two until I find a new place and I’m paying for my reservation with the Douche’s lifetime hoard of frequent flyer miles, I upgraded to a room with a fountain view. This means I don’t even have to get out of bed to see the watery fireworks. One push of a convenient bedside button and the blackout drapes part with a dramatic swoosh, sunlight pouring inside as the water below shoots upward to the sounds of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

      I go all in and order room service pancakes. A pot of overpriced coffee, hothouse strawberries and a pound of butter improve my mood substantially. I send emails and make calls, setting up appointments to view various condos because unfortunately I can’t live at the Bellagio forever.

      I do Saturday things after I’ve done what I can to organize my life, because it would be a shame to be camped out at the Strip’s fanciest hotel and not take advantage of it. I swim in pools surrounded by faux-Grecian statuary spouting water. I lose ten bucks in the slot machines. I pass on visiting the art gallery in favor of the ginormous chocolate fountain in the hotel’s candy shop because everything is better with chocolate.

      And the whole time I keep thinking about last night. About Vik’s casual invitation to join him at an MC party. He might be hot and uninhibited, but he’s also a biker, and he’s the guy who banged me in the back seat of his car after high school prom...and then promptly forgot my name, my face and every detail of that encounter. I’ve probably idealized his bedroom skills. He’s not worth pursuing, and he likely has zero interest in me that way, even if he did offer to be my booty call. Who says those kinds of things?

      Other than company events, I can’t remember the last party I went to. There aren’t many festive moments on my calendar. Okay, so I could swing by Vik’s clubhouse and check out his party. My night’s wide-open, and how many opportunities will I get to ogle an entire roomful of bikers? Since I’m most definitely not drinking tonight, I could even drive there, which would give me a handy escape route. I’m assuming a biker event is a little rowdier and grittier than, say, a fund-raiser ball, and it’s entirely possible I’ll feel too uncomfortable to do more than just look in.

      I go through the clothes I’ve stashed in the closet. Most of them are work things, with a healthy side of yoga pants. Nothing screams party. I do a quick Google search for biker get-together dress codes but come up mostly empty. Lots of leather and denim, plus the occasional porn-or Coachella-worthy outfit that makes Princess Leia’s slave girl bikini look like a nun’s habit.

      Huh.

      Going naked—or even mostly naked—seems like it would send the wrong message, plus I can’t picture myself strutting around in denim shorts and a black bikini top. Maybe it’s all in the footwear?

      I could go shopping.

      Something tells me that Vik would really enjoy a pair of fuck-me Louboutins, for instance. Or I could wear yesterday’s heels.

      But I feel like something new to go with the new me.

      I end up calling Brooklyn for a consult, and then she meets me in the lobby and we hit the Desert Passage Shops at the Aladdin. There’s an awesome bar smack in the middle of the mall like the best kind of desert oasis. We make a well-deserved pit stop there for yard-long frozen margaritas that come in fluorescent yellow bongs and manage to achieve both quantity and quality.

      After that, we hit the shops. Brooklyn insists that I need to go for a whole new look, and I’m in the mood for a change. She grabs an armload of insanely teeny clothes off the rack in a store I’ve never stepped foot in before. It’s the kind of place that advertises on the pages of Vogue, and I’m pretty sure the fabulously gorgeous clothes will be wasted on a bunch of bikers. So it’s a good thing I’m dressing for me now.

      I come home with a ridiculously expensive black tube top and a pair of wicked stiletto booties with ribbons instead of laces. Outside of work, I avoid anything that adds to my height, but new me, new rules, and apparently New Me has decided tonight’s theme is girlish bondage. I shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans that seem to have gotten smaller since their last wash, and then I hit the road.

      Vik’s clubhouse is not exactly on the Strip. In fact, it’s most definitely in East Las Vegas, and the blocks get grittier and more dangerous as I get closer. It’s the kind of neighborhood with bars on the windows, bright splashes of graffiti and cars up on blocks. Pots of succulents and geraniums line the walkways adding some hopeful color, and more than one strand of white twinkling lights wrap around palm trees despite the summer weather. Eventually, the houses give way to block after block of slightly run-down, gone-to-seed warehouses. In the movies, this is the point where the bad guys come out shooting or there are gratuitous explosions.

      The GPS on my phone announces it’s time to turn. I’m not sure what I expected, but Vik’s clubhouse looks like all the other warehouses—except for the parking lot full of bikes. Who needs a sign reading Biker Party Here or a clutch of helium balloons with all those Harleys reeking of testosterone?

      The bikers themselves don’t seem too scary. I mean, they’re definitely not firemen, or lawyers, or anything remotely wholesome-looking or suit-wearing, but they’re also not engaged in any visible felonies, which I appreciate. They’re simply a bunch of guys milling around the bikes, talking and joking. The dress code appears to call for leather and boots. Music pounds out of the warehouse when someone pulls the door open. I don’t recognize the singer, but the song has one of those hard-hitting, pulse-raising beats that makes you want to dance in place or screw.

      I so don’t belong here.

      Nevertheless, one of the younger bikers waves me into an empty spot next to a row of trucks.