Page 57 of Dash

I stare at the message. It’s a blatant deflection, a sign I’m getting too close, that I’m unsettling her. I won’t let her pull back. Not now.

That’s not why I’m looking forward to seeing you.

This time, there are no dots and no reply.

The silence hisses in my ears.

“You’re frowning.”

When I lift my gaze, Diesel is staring at me like I’m a puzzle to solve.

“Indigestion,” I lie. Dayna’s a secret I’m not sharing outside of those I trust.

He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t have to. Diesel can have a whole conversation without opening his fucking mouth.

“You haven’t eaten anything yet.”

I haven’t. “Who are you, my fucking mother?”

He shrugs as he pops the lid off his milkshake. Then he dips a few fries in it, laying them in the burger carton.

That shit is gross enough, but then he pulls out a little sachet of sriracha sauce from his kutte and drizzles it over the top of the milkshake-coated fries.

I’m pretty sure my jaw is unhinged, and my stomach is staging a rebellion.

“Brother, what the fuck? That is the nastiest shit I’ve ever seen.”

He wraps his mouth around the straw, sucking up a mouthful, his gaze lifting the mine as he does. “You’d disagree if you tried it.”

“That filth is not passing my lips.”

He shifts his shoulders while I chew my own fries slowly, questioning all my fucking life choices.

“You’ve been on edge all day,” Diesel says. “Is it me?”

Fuck. The guy might have weird eating habits, but this shit isn’t his fault.

“No, it’s not you. It’s just… people being complicated.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful as he dips another fry into his milkshake. “People can be…difficult, even when you’re doing what’s in their best interest.” He grumbles the last part, like he’s talking from experience.

“Isn’t that the truth?”

My instinct tells me he’s not on Crank’s side and that he is not working with Blade or Grub because Diesel does and has always existed in his own world.

He sits a little straighter, his fingers twitching, as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for another fry, grab his burger, or wrap his hands around something.

“What does it mean when they say…” He breaks off, his nose wrinkling.

But my body is alert. Is he about to spill some club secrets? Or admit something I shouldn’t hear?

“When they say what?” I ask slowly.

He scratches his jaw. “When they say they don’t feel important?”

I’m not sure what the fuck we’re talking about, so I’m careful with my answer. “It depends who said it and in what context.”

His nostrils flare, and his attention goes to the window. “Yeah… complicated,” he mutters.

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