While most of the bikers at the club are covered in tattoos, Dean only has a few, all of which mean something to him.
The Twisted Kings skull and crown stretch his back. His mom’s name is written in calligraphy on one side of his ribs. Then there’s the brand for Ironside Ridge on his chest above his heart.
Dean rests his arm over the pillow between us, and I almost laugh at the fact that it’s still there. It’s the most ridiculous thing—a joke from the first night. But neither of us has moved it.
He’s silent for a while, breathing steadily. So quiet I almost think he’s asleep until his voice cuts through the silence. “I wasn’t getting a lap dance if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I was trying not to think about it, remember?”
“How was that working out for you?” He pushes the pillow between us down, his gaze snagging on myfrown.
“I don’t care what you were doing,” I remind him.
“I know. I’m just saying the glitter isn’t from a lap dance.”
He lets the pillow go and looks back up at the ceiling. But now, I can’t stop the wheels in my head from turning, so I shove the pillow down again.
“What was it then?”
He grins, like he’s won. “Two of the strippers got in a fight. Had to pull them apart.”
“How valiant of you.” I roll my eyes. “Good thing they have you hovering at the strip club twenty-four seven, tending to their needs.”
“I’m not there twenty-four seven.”
“You’re barely here.”
Dean rolls onto his side, grabbing the pillow and tossing it off the bed.
“Hey—”
He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Do you want to know where I am when I’m not in bed with you, Willa?”
“No.”
“Liar.” He grins. “All you have to do is ask. I’m not hiding anything from you.”
“Even if you were—”
“It wouldn’t matter. Right?” His teeth clench. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself?”
“I’m not lying about anything.” I roll my eyes when his narrow. “Fine, where are you when you’re not here at night?”
“I’m at the bar talking to Venom or shooting shit with Legacy on his front porch. Or riding back and forth across Vegas trying to get my head on straight because I can’t do any of the usual shit I rely on when I’m stressed.”
My eyebrows pinch. “What’s the usual shit?”
“Fucking someone.” He doesn’t mince his words. “Getting drunk or getting high or getting head. I’m not picky so long as it’s distracting.”
Dean releases my chin, but I stay on my side, facing him. “So not much has changed then, huh?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means, Dean. Even when we were teenagers, you refused to face what was really bothering you. You drowned yourself in distractions.”
“We’re not talking about back then.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I know.” My eyes roll. “God forbid you address what’s actually bothering you.”
