I leaned into him, wrapping him up in a hug with my arms around his neck. Burying my face against his shoulder, I breathed him in again. “You won’t have to.”
Convincing King that I was in fighting form was an entirely different story.
“No.” King crossed his arms and raised his chin. The gruffness of his tone made me wince. “You can barely balance your bike some days. That’s why you go to rehab. You’re not ready to be back on the road when someone could be shooting at your ass or chasing you. Forget about doing a run out of state.”
He spun on his heel and stalked over to the ebony bar in the far-left corner of his office. I sat on the leather couch with PD beside me, while Undertaker and Jester each took a wingbackchair. Undertaker was the treasurer and one of the men King trusted most, while Jester was the vice president of the club, so it made sense that they were both here.
Undertaker leaned back in his chair and threw a leg over his knee, not a care in the world. His kilt rode up and I caught a flash of ball sack. Men around here fucked in public, so seeing dick in the wild wasn’t anything new. He always looked good, too, and today was no different. To match the kilt, he had black army boots and a black tight-fitting T-shirt, finished with his leather Kings of Men jacket.
Jester, on the other hand, appeared worse for wear. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes were nearly falling out of his head. He played with the gold band on his ring finger, eyes drawn to it thoughtfully.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m ready, I fucking swear, King.”
After my conversation with PD, we’d found King and asked for a meeting the next day. Now here we were.
He uncorked a whiskey bottle and poured a drink. It was barely nine in the morning, making it too early as far as I was concerned. He hummed. “Your brothers depend on you. If you fuck this up?—”
“I won’t.” I winced as he scowled.
“As I was saying, if you fuck this up, you can get someone killed.” He took a sip of whiskey from his tumbler, then grabbed a stool from the bar and walked back over to us. He plopped the stool down beside Undertaker and sat on it. “What do you think, Tim?”
Undertaker eyed him. “Rook’s been out of the game for a while. But, if he says he’s ready, maybe we should put him to the test.”
“Nothing dangerous,” PD said, and I sent him a glare.
Undertaker gave him a sly grin. “Danger is the fun part.”
King grunted. “Let’s start him off small.” He pointed at me. “If you want to get back on the big stuff, you need to prove you can handle the small things. I’ll think about what I want you to do. Until then, make sure you’re going to your rehab and shit.”
I held in a snort at the irony as he took another sip of the alcohol. His boyfriend, Dallas, had been trying to get him to cut down on his boozing for years now. Maybe he needed to go to rehab, too.
“You also need your license back.” King pointed at me again. “That doc took it off you until you retest because of your brain injury. I need you to go back to the doc and the DMV and do what they want you to, all right? I can’t risk you getting arrested for not having your license. Rule one when you’re doing illegal shit, have your paperwork locked down. Don’t give them a reason to pull you over.”
I held in a growl. “He was being a prick, Pres. He took it years ago at this point.”
King grunted. “You need it back. Get that shit done and we’ll see about the rest.”
I nodded my thanks and stood. Giving Jester a final concerned glance, I let PD lead the way out of King’s office and into the hallway.
“That’s a good start,” PD said as he guided us out of the hallway and across the barroom toward the front door. We had plans to go to the art shop beside the Ink Well to buy spray paint and a couple of canvases for me to work with.
“Is it?” I gritted my teeth and exhaled through my nose. The outcome wasn’t what I’d wanted, but it was better than nothing. A dull ache throbbed in my forehead, and I rubbed it, irritation bubbling up in my chest. I’d had this headache since this morning and couldn’t get rid of it. Meds weren’t helping. At least my ribs and back didn’t hurt as much today.
PD grabbed my arm and gently turned me toward himself as we reached our truck. “If you want to do this right, Will, you need to start slow.” He cupped my face and kissed me gently.
I closed my eyes, reveling in the touch of his lips against mine.
He broke the kiss but stayed close enough that our noses touched. “I’m fucking terrified because I want to keep you safe, but whatever King assigns you, I’ll support you from the sidelines.”
My stomach went light and fluttery, and I grinned. “I love you.” A couple of nights ago, I was too angry at him to tell him, and I needed him to know what he meant to me. “I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you, Paris.”
He exhaled and closed his eyes, then opened them just as fast. “I love you, too, Will. I’ll make mistakes because I’m worried about you, but I want you to succeed.”
“Let’s not think about it.” I kissed him again because I was a weak man when it came to Paris Deiters. “Let’s go get the supplies and have some fun. It’s been a while since we’ve painted together.”
He’d taken another day off work for this and I wanted to enjoy it while we could.
He smiled and laced his fingers in mine, tugging me toward the truck.
