“This is why I didn’t say anything!” he shouted, but he still didn’t let go as he gave me the most ferocious glare in his arsenal.
“If you had, I would’ve done things differently. It’s nice that you have something, some first to share with me, too.”
His expression softened—but only barely. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I don’t need special treatment.”
“So, it’s okay for you to take your time with me and make sure I feel all right, but not for me to do the same for you?” I stared at him, trying to work out his flawed logic.
He looked up at the sky and his jaw tightened.
“You know, I want to take care of you, too. It’s a two-way street.” I kissed his neck and nuzzled my face against his pulse point, and it fluttered under my lips.
He grunted. “Let’s go home and get this over with.” He tensed against me.
“No.”
“No?” He leaned back, lips pursed, and shook his head. “Thought you wanted it?”
“Let’s just… let it happen. I’m not forcing anything again. It’s no good for me if you’re not enjoying it. I’m not that guy.” I kissed his chin, but it was like putting my lips on a marble statue.
He winced. “Can we be fuckingoverthis shit?”
“You say that like you weren’t the one hiding from me all week. You made me wonder if you were done with me, actually.” I shivered, and he let out an unhappy sound as he pressed his lips to my forehead.
“Don’t say stupid shit.” He hugged me tight.
“Ride with me?”
He grinned. “Yeah. King wants us at the clubhouse later.”
I sighed, all at once feeling a hundred years old. The exhaustion from the whole week weighed down on me. “Great.”
He scooped my helmet from the ground and handed it to me, and as I stared at it, I sighed again. Would he ever trust me enough to tell me when something wasn’t right? I put my helmet on and studied him as he checked over something on his bike. Or would I be forever guessing what the hell was going on in his head, because yeah, he’d said he hadn’t bottomed before, but he also hadn’t fucking told me anything else. When he looked up, he smiled at me, and my heart warmed.
“I love you,” I called over, and his shoulders relaxed.
“Shut up and get on your bike.”
Yeah, this is true love.
3
Scar
The smellof paint hung heavy in the air of the barroom. I wasn’t sure when the decision had been made for renovations, but the common rooms of the clubhouse had all been overhauled recently, which meant the walls were a spotless cream color—for however long that lasted. No one had bothered hanging any artwork, though, so at least I knew King hadn’t forgotten we were a motorcycle club. We had real overhead lights that let us see each other, which wasn’t always good. All the couches along the walls were black leather that matched, and the old bar had been hauled out and replaced with a new one of gleaming oak. I’d heard Josh had threatened the life of anyone who dared put a scratch in it. Hell, the downstairs bathroom didn’t even smell like piss, and the toilet had been switched out for a fancy black one.
I glared at Barber as I rubbed my chest where a panicked ache had been digging away since Charley nearly crashed his bike three days ago. I was wound tight already, but Barber was making it worse with his stupid cackling as he made jokes and danced around the upgraded pool table—the wood matched the bar—like a fool. The unblemished velvet on the playing area was the blue of the Kings of Men patch. He was going up against Dallas in a game of Stripes and Solids and winning, apparently. He made sure everyone knew it.
“What did I tell you, Wichita Falls?” Barber drummed the pool stick on the newly refinished floor, hooting. The black tiles were nice, and they would probably be cracked at some point soon, but for now they were flawless. With far too much energy, he turned in a circle, showing off. Barber wasn’t thin, but he was slim, at least compared to me. His shit-eating grin highlighted the tattoo on his left cheek, which was words in a language I didn’t know. He had sharp features, thin lips, and despite the tattoos covering his neck, he still managed to be a pretty boy—he even had a thin gold hoop in one nostril. It was a shock the jewelry had never been ripped off his face, considering all the fights he started. “I’m fucking good at this game.”
Dallas stared at him nonchalantly, brown eyes bright and lacking any tells as to what he was thinking. Even though he’d been in the Kings less time than anyone else, he had the cool attitude you’d expect from one of us—especially as the boyfriend of the president. I liked him, which was more than I could say for Barber. “You’re going to run out of Texas towns soon, you know? And then you’ll need to actually call me by my real name.”
Barber shrugged and danced around to the other side of the table. “I’ll just start from the beginning again.” Bending down, he lined up a shot.
I snorted from where I sat at the bar nursing a tumbler of rum. Beside me sat Barber’s stylish boyfriend, Quain, and he appeared to be as unimpressed as Dallas at this point. He kept sighing, huffing in irritation, and shooting me looks of exasperation, as though silently asking me why he was dating the jackass. At one point, he ran his finger along the clean line of maintained stubble covering his jaw while he pursed his pink lips, clearly trying to keep his mouth shut. Unlike me, though, he was facing their direction on his barstool.
I shrugged at Quain. “You’re the idiot who sleeps in the same bed as him.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I should,” he mumbled, more to himself than me, but I still heard it.
