That was… hard to argue with, and so were the light-hazel eyes that gazed soulfully at Tag as Joe waited for his answer.
“I know,” Tag admitted with a wry twist of his mouth. “And I can see the hours weren’t the only reason you became a lawyer. But like you said, it’ll hurt less if I do it now. And your aunt can’t be too pissed at me.”
After a second, Joe shook his head in defeat. “Your choice,” he said as he dipped his hand into his pocket for his phone. “Your loss.”
“Absolutely,” Tag agreed. “Trust me. This is a lucky escape for you. Look, I can give you a lift back to—”
Joe snorted. “Your complicated asshole of a mechanic just said your car was a death trap,” he said as he tapped and swiped the screen. “I think I’ll call an Uber. Have a good life, Taggart. Don’t be complicated too long.”
Good advice, Tag supposed. He should probably take it, but he doubted he would. In his experience, no one ever did. People ate what they shouldn’t, went where it was stupid, and followed their hearts right into hell.
Or in Tag’s case, he supposed bitterly, his cock.
“I’ll try,” he said. “If I sort myself out, maybe—”
Joe looked up from his phone and twisted his mouth into a dubious line.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “You’re a handsome guy, and from what I’ve heard, a good surgeon, but I watched my mom wait for a doctor for fifteen years before she finally left. It’s not for me. So if you can’t sort yourself out before my Uber gets here? It’s goodbye.”
There was a pause. Like the unexpected arm around the waist earlier, it left Tag at a disadvantage as he tried to work out how his answer was supposed to fit into the conversation. The Uber, who must have just dropped someone off around the corner, turned up before Tag worked out what to say.
His silence was probably answer enough. Joe gave him a tight smile and a shrug. “It probably wouldn’t have worked anyhow,” he said, an edge of sarcasm to his voice. “Why risk it, right?”
Tag watched him get into the SUV and then waited for the big silver car to drive away. Once it was out of sight, he scrubbed his hands roughly over his face and wondered if he could convince Beattie on Monday that this had been the right thing to do.
He doubted it.
Shit. Tag sighed and decided he needed a drink—a real drink, something cheap enough he could get drunk without savoring every mouthful. The sort of bottle he had back in the apartment.
He turned and headed to where he’d parked his car. Whiskey wasn’t the answer to everything. He’d seen enough drunks roll through the ER who thought it might be. But it did help make you forget about the question.
He saw the red curve of the Mustang first—death trap or not, Tag enjoyed what a beautiful car it was—and the sprawl of unwelcome biker on the hood a second too late to retreat. Tag faltered midstep, caught himself, and exhaled heavily as he tried to drag his eyes away from the stretched-tight stomach muscles and the careless dangle of heavy boots over the tarmac.
There was something unguarded about Bass in that moment, with his arms folded behind his head and his face relaxed. It didn’t change anything, but it did mix an unwelcome splash of tenderness into the usual backwash of lust.
Tag cleared his dry throat. “How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off?”
Bass turned his head toward Tag and peeled open one eye. “I could say until you sounded like you meant it,” he said slowly. “But we’d be here all night then…. Not that I’d mind.”
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Tag as he sat up. The mix of anger and lust that hit Tag left him with his fists clenched and his mouth dry. His stomach was in knots, twisted around every shitty thing that had happened for the last few months.
“What do you want?” he asked.
He expected another smart-ass remark. Instead Bass didn’t say anything for a moment as he slid off the hood of the Mustang. “An apology.”
Tag spluttered in indignant disbelief. “Are you kidding me? I could have lost my license. I could have been killed and dumped in a shallow grave.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen,” Bass interrupted firmly as he stepped up onto the pavement. “C’mon, Doc. You know that I wouldn’t.”
Tag snorted. “Of course I don’t,” he said. “I don’t know you. We fucked once. I’ve seen a couple of pictures of your hard-on.”
“Don’t forget the videos,” Bass said lightly.
Tag ignored him and plowed on. “You want anapology?You should be glad I didn’t go to the police and turn you in.”
“I am. It wouldn’t have done you any good, but I still appreciate it,” Bass said. He took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. Then he admitted, “Iwanted to say sorry, Doc. It was a shit move to drag you into what was going on… but Shepherd’s not someone you can say no to if he asks you to do something. Iamsorry. That’s it. That’s all I wanted.”
Bass stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. His mouth was canted up at the corner, already rueful in anticipation of Tag’s reaction. He looked like he meant it, that it was a genuine apology. Of course he seemed to mean it when he told Tag he wanted to hook up that night.
