Page 13 of Dash

“What?” her friend interrupted. “Been psychic? Been able to predict that he was a criminal?”

When she put it that way, Liz wanted to crawl deeper into her cocoon.

“Stop it.” The heavy authority carried on the words struck a chord so deep within Liz, her breath hitched.

This was beyond a dominant speaking to a submissive. This had nothing to do with power exchange or honorifics or anything like that. Those two words carried emotion and a tenderness along with the sentiment which left Liz absolutely shook. Biting her lips together, she couldn’t do more than look up at her friend with large doe eyes, feeling lost.

“You made a mistake. You can’t wallow in it. You didn’t have ill intentions. You can’t stop living. Move on and let it go. Let him think about what he did.” Anemone tilted her head and gave a reassuring smile before she stroked Liz’s hair away from her face. “It’s his turn. Yours is over. Tonight is your last night of this. Tomorrow, you’re starting to live again.”

Liz marveled at her friend’s confidence. She wanted that. She wanted the ability to turn her nose up at all this. The idea of being able to just walk away from Richard and everything he did really appealed to her.

“Is it that easy?”

Anemone lifted her shoulder. “It will be tomorrow.”

Liz sure as hell hoped so.

Chapter 7

Dash

Nothing could have prepared him for what Dash saw when he entered the president’s office. He’d expected a desk, a computer, filing cabinets, and some chairs—and they were there. Monty had posters of Harleys and pinups. They both had various pictures on the walls.

There most certainly was not a hospital bed with a frail, old, white-haired man with a mask over his face connected to a machine lying in Monty’s office. He’d seen Bowie six months ago. It was just six fucking months ago. Sure, he’d been coughing a lot, but six months.

“What the fuck is this shit?” Dash blurted out.

Sparrow wailed and tucked her face into Romeo’s chest.

“Nice, asshole,” his brother said with one arm around his Ol’ Lady. The other reached for the whiskey.

Dash handed it over, listening to the sobs.

The younger biker threw back the half-filled glass as though it were a shot. Without jostling his lady, he placed the now empty cup on the top of the filing cabinet against the wall. He waved for the other drink. Far be it from Dash to deny his brother liquor. He didn’t do it when the kid was sixteen, he wouldn’t do it now.

He hadn’t seen her right away, so when the blonde woman approached, she startled Dash. His history with this clubhouse had him jumpy. He’d have to work on that bullshit. She stepped back, eyes wide, a wary hand extended as though to protect herself.

“Get your hand off your piece around my woman,” Bowie wheezed from the bed. “I will fucking kill you.”

“Sorry,” Dash said and lowered his hand, which he’d put on the handle of his gun out of reflex, without one thought. He wouldn’t make excuses, though. No point in it. Instead, he stuffed his hands into both of his pockets, and turned his eye to the floor while he toed the linoleum like a kid getting in trouble in the principal’s office.

Realizing he wasn’t a fucking child, he cleared his throat and raised his head. You’re a goddamn outlaw biker, fucking act like it.

The blonde woman, apparently Bowie’s Ol’ Lady, smiled. “I’m Jan,” she introduced with a dip of her chin. “It’s stage four non-small cell lung cancer.”

Well, fuck him sideways. He really needed to cut it out with the cancer jokes. He glanced toward the bed again. Maybe he should cut out the smoking too.

“The prognosis isn’t good.” Jan continued. “It’s metastasized. It’s in his liver and kidneys.”

“But not my balls.” Bowie coughed, one of those gasping, dry coughs that sounded like someone who struggled to breathe.

Dash ran his hand over his bald head and pressed his tongue along the underside of his bottom lip, causing it to bulge. As he stood face to face with his future, it was all he could do to fight the urge to light up a smoke. It’d been the way he’d handled stress since he was twelve. Old habits were a fucking bitch. With a shake of his head, his addiction was all too clear when he had to talk himself out of a cigarette as he stared at the consequences of it. He was a goddamn moron.

Turning toward her Ol’ Man, Jan smiled as she took the few steps to close the distance between her and Bowie. She sat on the edge of his bed before her fingers brushed against his. Her features brightened as the affectionate smile spread across her face. She had a single dimple.

Dash diverted his attention. Shifting his focus to an old Harley Davidson calendar, he felt out of place in the face of their display of fondness.

He’d walked in on, and seen, his brothers balls deep in public plenty of times. There was no shame when it came to fucking in the MC. He’d been at play parties and orgies. He’d seen more cocks, pussies, and asses than he could count, but that wasn’t intimacy. That was fucking.

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