“I can make anything Hannah can make,” Preacher objected. He gave Alena a sheepish grin. “Well. Maybe. I should make her a chemistry challenge. I’ll visit her shop, Player, and see what kind of love potions she has. I can recreate anything she’s got and make it stronger.”
“You do that, brother,” Lana teased. “I want a front-row seat when you do. But seriously, Player, Alena has a good idea.”
Player glared at them. “Do you think I’m crazy? I know who Hannah Drake is. She helped us out a few years ago, and she’s scary as all hell, not to mention she’s Hannah Drake Harrington. You know, married to the local sheriff, Jonas Harrington. I go near that woman and that thin veneer of his making nice with our club is going to come off.”
“Is she supposed to be a witch or something?” Destroyer asked.
“If she is a witch, I think our advice to Reaper might have been safer than what you’re giving to Player,” Storm said piously.
There were several nods of agreement.
Alena rolled her eyes. “Destroyer, you weren’t here, but the Drake sisters helped us when our club went up against the Swords. We were significantly outnumbered, and the Swords’ president had major psychic talents. Fortunately, so do the Drake sisters. Sea Haven seems to draw talent to it. Hannah Drake is powerful, and I’m sure ignorant people would call her a witch because she has mad talents and is skilled in using them.”
Lana tugged at Player’s arm to draw him deeper into the empty space. “We wouldn’t steer you wrong. Hannah’s nice. I’ve met her numerous times. Also, if you do business with his wife, Jonas will probably like us even more. Just go into her place and look around. You don’t actually have to talk to her if you don’t want to. And you might not even need to. Who knows, maybe Zyah will totally forgive you.”
Behind them, the snort of derision was loud. Player spun around to find that the others had filed into the space behind them. He found himself smiling. He couldn’t help himself. Big men, wearing their familiar colors, the tree with the solid trunk representing Czar, the man who had gotten them out alive and hopefully intact as human beings. The seventeen branches representing those left alive. Ink had said he would be adding an eighteenth branch soon to every one of their tatts if Destroyer stuck around. The ravens, resting in the branches or flying away, representing the ones they couldn’t save. All the skulls piled high in the roots of the trees and lying around it, the dead, those he and the others had killed in order to escape or had tracked down and taken out to exact revenge for the deaths of the children in the school.
They wore that symbol on their cuts and on their skin, branded into their souls. They were bonded together, stitched together just as tightly as the lethal loom that they’d been tortured with, so many years ago, at that school. All of them bore those scars and woke with those nightmares.
He looked at Destroyer, wanting him to understand what was being offered to him. Willing him to take it, just as Alena and Savage had held it out to him. Czar had stood for him. Destroyer was covered in prison tattoo ink. He knew Destroyer still wasn’t quite convinced he was where he should be, and somehow, like the others in Torpedo Ink, Player felt compelled to convince him.
Player turned to Lana. “Babe, are you really serious about wanting to use this space for a shop?”
“Yes, but all of you were so busy worrying about Zyah and all the men fawning all over her you couldn’t give me your opinion. I’m very serious. What do you think? Too big? Too small? Am I crazy to want to actually work? I hate being cooped up.”
“If you want my real opinion, then I’m going to give it to you because you know I love you, honey,” Player warned.
“Of course I want it, or I wouldn’t be asking,” Lana said, but she sounded wary.
The others wandered through the four rooms. There was the larger floor space with a single dressing room. A back room and a bathroom. The storefront looked out onto the street and gave a good view of the ocean. The back had a very nice enclosed, covered patio like most of the other businesses on the street, which were closed.
“I think the idea of you running a clothing store like the one you’re talking about is unrealistic given your personality. You’ll be bored out of your mind in a day. You would never have the shop open. Not ever. You already know that. What you should do is start up a business designing exclusive clothing for some of these kids Darby was telling us about, who can’t afford shit and the other kids are so fucking mean to. You could change their lives for them.”
When the club came together for breakfast or barbecues, Darby, Czar’s oldest adopted daughter, often talked about other teens she met that had difficult home lives. Sometimes Player found it difficult to listen to the stories she told about children who actually had parents. The parents didn’t take care of them; instead they made alcohol or drugs their priority.
Alena spun around. She’d been staring out the window, keeping her eye on the grocery store, but she hurried across to them. “That’s so brilliant, Player, why didn’t I think of that? He’s right, Lana. That’s exactly what you should do. Design a few pieces of clothing. One of a kind. Sell them for a bazillion dollars so that everyone wants your label. You know they will. No one will be able to resist, just like with Ice’s jewelry. Once your label is blowing everyone away, then have Darby bring these kids to you. You make their clothes for them and put your special whammy into them. It won’t matter so much that they don’t have the best home life. If they start hanging around your shop and talking to you while you measure them, sitting in your chairs or on the patio outside with Darby while you work, it really could be a good thing.”
“Do you really think their parents are going to let them hang around with a bunch of bikers?” Keys asked.
“I don’t think we’re talking about kids whose parents give two fucks,” Player said.
“Player’s right, Lana,” Preacher said. “We go to Blythe and Czar’s home nearly every weekend for breakfast or lunch in the afternoon with their kids. We teach survival class, and Darby or Kenny always brings up something about kids they know from hanging at the beach or down at the community school when they test, or when Airiana teaches them physics. Lana, you could really do some good.”
Lana shook her head. She even took two steps back, as if the idea were terrifying, when she wasn’t afraid of anything. “I don’t know the first thing about kids. Blythe had a thing or two to say about the way we were handling survivor class, remember?”
“But she didn’t stop us,” Master pointed out. “One word from her and the show’s over. We all know that. The kids know it. She looks at Czar and he just caves.”
They all laughed—everyone, Player noticed, with the exception of Destroyer. He sent the man a small grin. “We sound like Blythe’s a battle-ax. You’ve met her numerous times. She’s really as sweet as she seems. It’s just that . . . well . . . she’s . . .” He trailed off again.
“Our heart, if we have one,” Alena supplied.
“Everyone’s in agreement, Lana,” Ink said. He was leaning against the wall, quiet, the way he often was. Ink could be moody. “Player’s onto something. You’ve got a gift. Help these kids out.”