Dex slid a piece of pancake between his lips, his dark blue eyes hooded. "No clue, babe. Maybe they were expectin' him not to pay up. Who knows."
Well, shoot. That didn't add up but it wasn't like I could hound Dex for an answer he didn't have.
“I just don't get it, I guess. Neither one of us is close to him," I didn't need to be specific about who him was. "He won't give a crap about either one of us paying for his mistake.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, disappointment and sadness pierced my belly.
It was the truth. The awful truth. Curt Taylor wouldn't give a shit about his son getting beaten up. Getting a freaking concussion and left behind at a freaking park. Alone. Unconscious.
Just as quickly as the sadness had poked at me, it disappeared, replaced by pure anger. It was red and hot and just... dark. And I hated it. Hated that I could feel so much disdain toward a man that I should have loved.
A man that should have loved me.
Should have loved his sons.
"Babe," Dex murmured, reached out to place a hand on my forearm. "Baby, quit it."
"Quit what?" I asked him in a gloomy voice.
He squeezed my forearm. "Quit thinkin' about him. I already told you that prick's not worth you gettin' upset."
How the hell did this man know what I'd started thinking about?
I had to swallow back that weird feeling and try to plaster a smile onto my face. "I wasn't—"
"You were."
Crap. I sighed. "I know he's not worth it but it still just... gets me.” My fingers flexed around the silverware I was holding. “I want to punch him in the nuts so bad."
Dex choked. "What?"
"I said it." My tone was husky, almost a growl in frustration. I shouldn't be calling him an asshole. I told myself that I wouldn't but he'd gotten Sonny hurt. I could forgive the old man for a lot of things, ignore a lot of things but this had crossed the line. "He's so stupid."
Stupid for messing around with a group he had to know would only bring trouble. And so friggin' stupid for the dozens of other mistakes he'd committed along the way. I don't know how long I sat there, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth to calm down but when I managed to, I caught Dex looking at me with an amused tilt to his mouth.
"I don't like feeling this angry," I admitted to him, feeling incredibly vulnerable.
Like all things Dex, his response was so simple I wanted to laugh. "Then don't."
~ * ~ *
We pulled into the parking lot opposite from Mayhem about twenty minutes later, parking the solid black motorcycle into the closest open spot next to another Harley. Hoofing it across the street, I spotted the same guy that had come into Pins a few weeks ago standing by the door. The one who had gotten into an argument with Dex my first night in Austin, I finally realized.
"Dex." The man tipped his chin up before looking over in my direction, a smug grin crawling over his lips. "Sweetie."
I smiled at him weakly. “Hi.”
“How you doin’?” His thick eyebrows went up.
“I’ve been better, and you?” Crap, what was his name again? I couldn’t remember.
That smug grin grew wider. “My day just got a whole lot better, sweetie.”
Dex’s presence, broader and slightly taller than the other man, maneuvered its way between us like a barrier. His eyes burned a hole in his direction. “Don't you have shit to do?” he asked brusquely.
The man shrugged, that pleased smile still plastered on his dark pink mouth. "Yeah."
"You don't get paid to stand around scratchin' your balls," The Dick, who had apparently come out to play, bit off before pulling the bar's door open and pushing me through a little more roughly than he needed to.
I looked at him over my shoulder, frowning. "Watch it, would you?"
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and waved me forward. "My bad, babe."
With a flick of fingers, Dex led the way through Mayhem. The place was empty and dark as we crossed the hardwood floor to the stairs that were on the far end of the floor. On the second floor, he turned and pushed open the door that closed off the stairwell from the rest of the building, holding it for me. I got a chance to look and see that the stairs went up another floor.
I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting to see inside, but it wasn't the short bar directly off to the right with neon signs mounted on the wall around it. A pool table and a separate foosball table took up an open space to the left with beer brand lamps mounted on it. It looked like a replica of downstairs except on a smaller scale.
“Babe, take a seat and hang out for a bit, yeah?” Dex asked me.
I nodded.
“Grab a pop or whatever you want from the fridge behind the counter,” he offered. A second later he'd disappeared down a halfway off the end of the bar. Like a siren’s song, a couch pressed against the far side of the wall called me to it.
I really didn’t mean to fall asleep but with the four hours I’d gotten the night before, it was inevitable. Except all I did was dream of my mom.
~ * ~ *
“We’ll get your car tomorrow,” Dex said as we got off his bike that night after closing up Pins.
I’d been surprised that he even came back to the parlor after he’d dropped me off with Blue that afternoon. He’d left me sleeping at the bar for four hours. Four hours of sleeping on the couch with my neck twisted, my drool a little river from the corner of my mouth down my chin.
The only reason why I'd gotten up was because I felt something dabbing at my face. That "something" was a napkin Dex was holding while looking like he was trying his best not to smile.
Not cool, and when I told him just that, he threw his head back and laughed.
His laugh still unsettled me.
Work had been steady like usual until Dex showed up around nine, cool as a cucumber to tattoo his nighttime appointments. The only sign he’d given me that this day was different from every other one before spending the night at his house and spilling his guts about his family back in Austin, was when he stood behind me after tattooing a client and wrapped his fingers around the back of my neck while I typed in a follow-up appointment for him.
I tried my best not to react to his touch but this was Dex. Hot Dex. Hot Dex that screamed at scary, mean men for me. Hot Dex with a piercing in his thing. Supposedly.
God, guessing where that piercing was located was a game I had no business playing.
“What do you wanna eat for dinner?” he asked as he held a hand out to help me off his bike.
“Anything really.”
“You know how to cook?” He watched as I pulled off his helmet.
“Yeah. Do you have groceries?”
He nodded. “I have shit in the freezer.”
“I have shit in the freezer,” I repeated his words back to him, walking into the house. So eloquent. “Well, I can probably figure out something. No promises it’ll be good though.”
He shrugged, still facing forward before detouring to head in the direction of his bedroom. “Gonna shower. Make whatever you want, babe. I’m not picky.”
The stuff in his freezer wasn’t exactly shit, but compared to Sonny’s house, it was like this guy visited the grocery store once a month instead of weekly. I found cans of diced tomatoes, pasta, and dried herbs in the pantry that I set out, while a big pot of water boiled—after spending ten minutes trying to find pots that were scattered in random cabinets throughout the kitchen. For as organized as Dex made sure we kept Pins, he didn’t have the same standards at home.
“What are you makin’?” Dex asked from just a few feet behind me.
I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Spaghetti." I gave him a little smile, taking in the worn white undershirt he'd put on. "If you want to take out some of that chicken you have in the freezer, I'll cook it."
He hummed. “Sounds good. I’ll pop the chicken in the microwave, babe. No big deal."
I smiled at him from
over my shoulder. “Well, it probably won't be that good since there wasn't much to choose from in the pantry but...hopefully it won't taste like crap.”
Dumping the box of noodles that were in his cupboard into the big pot of water, I saw him pull out the freezer bag with precooked grilled chicken and set two breasts onto a plate. "I'm sure it'll be better than anythin' I can cook," he chuckled, putting the plate into the microwave and setting the timer.
“You better hope so." I made a face, stirring the pot.
He snickered.
The silence felt pretty awkward while I dealt with the food cooking. Trying to kill the tense silence, I tried to think about something to talk about. “So you’ve known Sonny for a long time?”
Dex was sitting there next to the bar with both elbows resting on the counter, hunched over it. “Ever since your pa used to drop him off with my ma durin’ club meetings.”
“You didn’t go to school together?”
He shook his head. “Nah. We lived in different hoods. Him and Trip went to school together.” For a brief moment, he got this far off look in his eye that made me wonder what kind of crap he was remembering. Probably nothing good.
“Oh. I don’t know why I got the impression you two were pretty close.”
Dex pushed away whatever had caught his attention on memory lane. “Close enough. I didn’t even know he still kept in contact with you ‘til a few years ago. He used to take off and not say shit to anyone about where he was goin’.”
Yeah...that sounded like Sonny. I lifted up a shoulder at him.
“Thought you were too good to come see him.”
And that had me narrowing my eyes over in his direction. It was a fact. A statement, and if I took the time to absorb what he was saying, I’d understand his point. So I saved my smart ass comment and went for a scowl. “I didn’t have money or time.”
He gave me a long look before nodding. “Yeah, I get that now.”
When he didn’t say anything else, I tried to think of what else to talk to him about. The distance between us wasn’t so painful at Pins, but at his house? It was. Oh lord, it was. I was grateful to him for letting me stay and sitting there quietly, well, awkwardly quietly, seemed wrong.
“I like your house,” I blurted out the first thought that came to mind.
He glanced up and looked around his kitchen, tipping his chin down. Dex’s mouth formed a serious straight line. “Me too.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“Almost a year in November,” he answered.
Why was he making this so difficult? I glanced at the bare walls and clean counters, listened to the cicadas outsides, thinking of the fact he lived out of the city limits. “I’m a little surprised you have a house out here and not an apartment like Trip’s.” A little shudder curled through my spine when I thought of the state his toilet seat had been in.
In typical Dex fashion he picked up on the last thing I would expect. “You been to Trip’s place?”
Did his tone sound off or was I imagining it? One look at the straight line of his jaw had me deciding I’d imagined it. “Once.”
“Huh,” he huffed. Those dark blue orbs narrowed for a split second. His fingers tapped against the counter before he started talking again. “I used to live in the same complex before I bought this place. Fuckin’ hated it there.”
“Really?”
Dex lifted up a shoulder. “Made me feel like I was livin’ in a beehive. Kinda reminded me too much of bein’ all cramped up in a double-wide as a kid, too.” When he went to start scratching at his throat, I understood how awkward and uncomfortable the memories of living in a trailer made him feel.
Then I remembered everything he’d said about growing up with his drunk of a dad. That kind of man in such a small place? Oh hell. With two sisters? Where the hell would he have even slept?
Acid built up in my chest and throat so quickly it caught me off guard. I was suddenly the one that felt uncomfortable. “I had to share a room with my little brother—bunk beds—until I was nineteen.” Yia-yia’s house had been so small, but it’d been home. I swallowed hard at the memory of sleeping on the couch at the apartment we’d moved into after selling the second home I’d ever known. “So I get it.”
And then, nothing. Silence.
O-kay. I could let that topic go.
I fumbled my way through making sauce for the pasta, hoping it wouldn’t taste completely bland since I didn’t have the right ingredients. In the mean time, Dex watched quietly, only getting up to grab a beer from the fridge and asking if I wanted a drink.
We sat on opposite sides of the kitchen bar, Dex drinking a beer and me with a bottle of water he’d pulled out from somewhere in the fridge I hadn’t seen. Considering the absence of necessary condiments and herbs, I thought the food came out pretty good. Dex’s murmurs of enjoyment told me he was either a great liar or it wasn’t too bad.
“Good food, babe,” he finally muttered after twirling ribbons of pasta around his fork, gaze leveled on me.
I smiled at him, taking a few more mouthfuls of food. I glanced up again only to see him still looking at me.
O-kay.
“Is there spaghetti sauce on my face?” I asked.
He shook his head, stringing more noodles along the tines of his fork.
I let it go until I caught his eyes one more time. “I’m not kidding, what’s on my face?”
“Nothin’.”
I narrowed my eyes in his direction but kept watching him. Until he did it again.
Oh dear God.
I put my hand over the middle of my face. “There’s a booger in my nose, isn’t there?”
He looked at me for a long moment, a moment that stretched light years and galaxies. Time-wrinkled centuries and possibly eons. Generations—
And then Dex was laughing. Laughing and laughing and laughing. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “You’re the goofiest fuckin’ girl,” between bellows of barrel-shaped laughs.
And I might have had a booger in my nose, though I’d probably never know for sure, but that laugh coming from that man.
So worth it.
Chapter Eighteen
“That’s fucking outrageous!”
Dear God, what in the hell had I been thinking working at a tattoo parlor? A tattoo parlor that was right around the corner from a body shop. A body shop that was owned by the president of a biker club. A biker club that owned a bar, which seconded as headquarters for said club, who were enemies with stupid asses that beat up innocent—err, pretty innocent—people.
Where had my quiet life disappeared to?
And why hadn’t I insisted on going with Sonny?
With the exception of Rick, the drunk guy who had yelled at me and called me a bitch, every other client had been incredibly nice. Even when they had to pay the steep rates that the shop charged—with good reasoning. The reasons were framed all over the shop in printed acclaims.
The first time I heard how much Blake charged his client, I had to stop myself from choking. The prices could be down payments on used cars. I’m not exaggerating. But it was standard practice to agree on a fee before any piece got started so the customer didn’t have a fit at the end.
Obviously, not everyone functioned on the same wavelength.
This customer had been in once last week to talk to Blue about having some detailed script done on his ribs. Blue had drawn out the idea, spoken to the guy about the pricing and the man had scheduled an appointment to come in and get it done.
So why the would-be client was now standing in front of me while I was trying to take payment and having a fit to end all shit-fits—and this included the year I worked at a daycare—was beyond me. “Blue had already spoken to you about the pricing last week,” I reminded him.
Blue stood directly behind me, silent.
“You never said it was going to be that expensive!” the guy shouted at Blue, completely ignoring me.
Yes. Yes, she had.
“Sir, before we schedule anything in advance for custom artwork, the rate is agreed on,” I told him.
Pissed Off guy just shook his head. “Fuck that. I’m not paying that much for a goddamn tattoo.”
Blue and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay.”
There were payment options that Blake had told me about, but that consisted of the customer paying in advance for artwork or doing bits and pieces at a time as they could afford it. But if Blue wasn’t going to say anything about it, then I wasn’t either. I think we both could be perfectly happy having one less belligerent customer coming in over a period of time.
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