Chaos series by Kristen Ashley

“Well, of course.”

It was then he was staring at her.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“What’s it?”

“You’re down with that?”

She shrugged. “If you changed my tire and took me to coffee, sharing all this, probably not. But now I know you. I know them. I know who you are. I know what you all stand for. And it isn’t the garage and the store and vigilantism. It’s family. So am I happy my new, handsome, manly man biker boyfriend, and his brothers are in a power struggle with a bad guy? No. Am I okay with the fact that you take me as I am, all my baggage, the way my life was messed up, the unknown ways Aaron hopes to keep messing it up, and you don’t waver? Yes. A thousand times yes. So it wouldn’t say much for me at my first opportunity, I waver against you.”

Fuck, he loved her.

Straight up, down to his gut, for the rest of his life, loved her.

He didn’t tell her that.

He told her, “The manly man biker shit you spout is cute, Butterfly, but it’s also goofy.”

She grinned, pushed forward on her knees, then crawled to him where he sat on the edge of her bed, twisted to her. She got close, landed on her hip pressed to his, and put a hand on his chest.

“I’m not goofy,” she whispered.

She totally was.

“Whatever,” he whispered back.

“Not sure I can get back to sleep for the whole hour I could do that,” she shared.

“What are you sure you can do?” he asked.

She leaned in and ran her nose along his jaw.

That was what he was hoping would be her answer.

And it was an answer to a lot of things, all of what they’d just talked about.

An answer he liked.

Luckily, he was sure he could do that too.

So he pulled her into his arms, took her to her back, and they did it.

Chapter Nineteen

Give Good Girlfriend

Carissa

WHILE MY BIKER was in the kitchen making coffee, droopy-eyed, I stood at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, thinking about all that had happened the night before and early that morning.

I gave Joker what I needed to give him when we had our talk.

That didn’t mean what he said didn’t alarm me.

It did.

And in the light of the coming day, tired and facing work and an important meet-the-friends dinner that night, that alarm grew.

Still brushing, I saw Joker walk in wearing nothing but his jeans (and by that, I meant nothing—he’d pulled them on commando to go make coffee), his miraculous chest (and shoulders, and head, and face, etc.) on display.

And I saw his tattoos.

He had a variety of them he’d explained were Chaos tattoos. A big one on his back, one on his inside biceps, one on his outside forearm.

He also had a tattoo over his left pectoral that was a playing card of a joker.

To be honest, I’d never liked tattoos. I thought they were common, not in the sense they were low-class, but when everyone started getting them, the coolness factor went out of them.

But Joker had told me the story of his Chaos tattoos, and the joker card was obvious.

So I’d changed my mind.

First of all, they were amazing to look at. I was no art expert, but it was clear they were that. Art on skin.

But it was more. They told the story of the person who had them. Inked forever in their skin was their history, or what was important to them, or lessons they’d learned they didn’t want to forget.

This made me look at all Chaos brothers’ tattoos more closely, and I’d stopped being judgmental as I read their lives, their thoughts, their life lessons on their skin.

For Joker, I liked most the fact that his tattoos showed his life started when he found the brotherhood. He didn’t have tattoos from before, angry ones he got after he left his father and struck out to make his own life with a car full of stuff and not much else.

I liked it that instead, he’d inked his skin when he’d found his place, knowing it with such certainty, he vowed allegiance to it and put it in a forever way right on his body.

From a man like Carson “Joker” Steele, that said a lot about the place he found.

My eyes lifted from his chest to his as he walked up behind me. I kept brushing but did it automatically when he put a hand to my hip and slid it over my nightie (another stretchy, blousy one that still fit and looked okay, this one in green) to my belly.

Then I watched as he bent his dark head and kissed my shoulder.

That was when my eyes went to my shoulder and I saw the love bite he’d given me there. It was more than a hickey. There were indistinct purple teeth marks all around it.

And that was where Joker’s lips right then touched.

My stomach dropped and I locked my legs as his hand slid up to my ribs and he moved his lips to kiss my neck.

He let me go, moved away, and reached for his own toothbrush.

But I was brushing and staring at that mark.

My physical reaction was only partially due to Joker’s touch, liking it, the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, and the beauty of watching him give it to me in the mirror.

Mostly, it was about that mark. About him kissing it. About him making it.

About me wearing it.

And having it, how I got it, what was said after, and later, the honest way Joker gave me what he had to give me early that morning, the apprehension I was feeling slid away.

Chaos were bikers. And being around them I’d learned that bikers were just like any people.

I was sure there were scarier clubs, more dangerous ones, ones that attracted that kind of guy. There were probably more casual ones, ones about riding on the weekends and having guys to hang out with, a different kind of brotherhood that wasn’t as important as family.

And then there was Chaos.

It had not been lost on me the men were tough, rough, and edgy. Even before Joker shared what he shared with me, I would not expect they sang in the choir at church on Sundays.

But Tack had picked Tyra.

And Hop had picked Lanie.

And Tabby had picked Shy.

They’d gotten married. They were making babies.

And they were devoted.

Not like Aaron was “devoted” to me.

They were devoted.

Truly.

Not to mention, Stacy was really nice and she was no one’s old lady, but the boys liked her hanging around and I knew why.

Because the guys were tough, rough, edgy, about family, and good to their souls. It might be a different definition of good that included vigilantism, which was arguably not the right thing.

But it was their thing.

So who was anyone to judge?

I couldn’t say I was happy that my biker and his friends who were now my friends were possibly in danger.