Page 47 of Dash

“Ahh!” She let out a small triumphant cry as she pushed aside the orange juice and found the half-filled bottle of Riesling. Shaking her hips in a celebratory dance, she shimmied her way over to the cabinet to get a stemmed glass. If the plan was to drink wine, then she would drink it the way it was meant to be drunk.

Filling the glass halfway, she strutted back to her food. The fruity notes danced along her tongue once she’d taken the first sip before settling back on the floor to watch scientists try to navigate social norms with their actress/server guide and eat her dinner.

On the fourth glass and second bottle of wine, she decided she had enough. The heat in her cheeks had spread throughout her body. To combat it, Liz stripped down to her boy shorts and tank top. This, of course, meant the marks PRK left behind were visible.

With two, maybe three sips of booze remaining in the glass on the dresser, she stood before her mirror slowly rubbing the lotion into her skin, into the marks. Her fingers pressed into the lingering welts, intensifying the dull ache. It was nothing compared to the thrill of getting them. Cocking her head to the side, her hand glided effortlessly along her skin as she longed to be bound by him, to feel his floggers again. To transport herself back to that moment, she closed her eyes.

Music. She needed the music. Opening her eyes once more, she scanned her room for her phone. He’d played Halestorm. She’d had a cell phone since she’d gotten her learner's permit at sixteen. Her parents believed it was a safety measure. It was never far from her.

“Where the hell…” her voice trailed off as she mumbled to herself, tossing her blankets and pillows aside. Getting on all fours, she checked under her bed. Then climbed on it and looked between the mattress and the wall. Befuddled, she sat back on her heels, trying to mentally retrace her steps.

Crawling off the bed, she checked the dresser. Nope. Tossing back the last bit of wine, she couldn’t help but chuckle at her own lack of class. She was at home, after all. Who did she have to impress? Humming Freak Like Me, she bopped her head as she walked down the hall to search for her phone.

The kitchen was empty. She even checked the refrigerator. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d left it in there by accident. The ottoman was phoneless. How it wound up under a pillow on the couch was beyond her. She hadn’t even drunk that much. In nursing school, she used to drink a hell of a lot more, and hard liquor. When did she become such a lightweight?

Unlocking the screen, she smirked seeing she had a text from PRK, sent a half an hour ago. With an excited flip of her stomach, she flopped down on her couch to check it. Immediately her nether regions warmed with the memory of their earlier exchange regarding his insistence on her use of lotion. She could go for another guided romp right now.

Opening the message, she found one lone word.

PRK: Lotion.

Her thumbs fumbled their reply, and she had to erase it a few times to clear the typos before she could send her response.

Gingersnap: If I don’t, will I get the hose again?

Finding herself rather amusing, she snickered. Satisfied that he would find her tipsy-self just as delightful, she awaited his reply.

PRK: Not likely. You might scar, though. Your skin is far too fair not to take care of it.

Pouting like he could see her, she sighed. How did he not get the movie reference? Everyone knew that movie reference. Movies referenced that movie.

Gingersnap: You okay?

Something had to be off. He had a sense of humor. It was one thing that had drawn her to him. She didn’t really know him that well, but he wasn’t so serious all the time. She sat up and re-read his message. Tone could be easily misconstrued via text. Biting her bottom lip, she reviewed her text. Had he misunderstood her tone? The longer it took him to respond, the more she questioned her message.

PRK: Good buddy of mine died.

Well, that will do it. Nothing sobers someone up like death.

Gingersnap: I’m sorry for your loss.

She typed the words out of reflex. That was the standard thing to say. It felt like such a canned response; it lacked something. It wasn’t personal. It’s what someone says to their co-worker, or to someone next to them in the greeting card aisle at the store. She needed to say something more.

Gingersnap: Do you want to talk about your buddy?

Chapter 23

Dash

Talk. Gingersnap asked if he wanted to talk about Bowie. Lying in his bed, the eerie quiet of the clubhouse was deafening to Dash. Since he’d started hanging around Odin’s Fury, it’d never been this quiet.

Sure, they’d lost brothers before. Some to natural causes. The club had been around a while. They had some old timers. Some young guys died because of wrecks or serving. Hell, they’d even lost some to freak accidents. They’d also lost brothers to club business. Shit happened. Death was part of the deal. Never was the clubhouse this quiet. He’d never seen the club lose a president before. Therein laid the difference.

Talk. Did he want to talk? Fuck no. He didn’t want to talk. Talking didn’t do fucking shit. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to kill something, someone, someones. He wanted to string up Tut and Jackal and cut their balls from their sacks to shove them down their throats while he gutted them. That’s what he wanted to do. They wanted to destroy his club. So, he had to destroy them.

He couldn’t say that, not to Gingersnap. To Romeo, Whiskey, Cajun, or Clark, fuck yeah, he could, but not the pretty little redhead with the milky skin that marked beautifully. No. He couldn’t tell her club business, but he couldn’t say nothing. He’d fucking told her. He had to say something.

Goddamn Jack Daniels. He knew better, but the men in the clubhouse, the few that were there, the somber fucks, they needed to see him. They needed to see him grieve with them. They needed him to be with them at the moment. Camaraderie. Brotherhood. Now Jack Daniels hijacked his thumbs and sent that message to Gingersnap and definitely brought her closer than he wanted her to be.

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