Chapter 2 #2
“That would be great.” I tried to keep my voice even and cheerful. “But I’ll pay for it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Dash stepped closer, his six-foot-something frame blocking some of the sunlight.
My natural urge was to scoot back and maintain my space, but I didn’t move an inch.
Maybe he only wanted to stand closer. But I’d learned years ago that arrogant men often tested the strength of their presence over a woman. They’d make little gestures to see how far they could push her around, especially when that woman was a reporter.
They’d touch a lock of my hair to see if I’d flinch. They’d stand tall to see if I’d cower. And they’d move in too close to see if I’d step away.
Either Dash knew exactly who I was and wanted to see if I’d tuck tail and run, or he was so cocky that he thought a grin and an oil change would make me drop to my knees and undo his belt to pay for my on the house services.
“You new around here?” he asked.
“I am.”
He hummed. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before.”
“I don’t get out much.” The air was heavy around us, like a brick wall had gone up in place of my personal bubble and the spring breeze couldn’t get through.
“That’s a shame. You feel like getting out, stop by The Betsy. Maybe I’ll buy you a beer sometime.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe not.
The Betsy was Clifton Forge’s infamous dive bar and definitely not my scene.
“You guys must all be into motorcycles.” I turned and pointed at the row of them behind me.
“You could say that. Most of us here ride.”
“I’ve never been on one before.”
“Yeah?” He grinned. “There’s nothing like it. Maybe before I buy you that beer, I’ll take you for a ride first.”
The way he stressed the word ride made my breath stutter.
I locked my gaze with his, a flare of heat passing between us.
Were we both picturing a very different kind of ride on that motorcycle?
Because, despite my best efforts to block it out, the image of me straddling his narrow hips was now the only thing in my head.
From the hungry look in his eyes, he had a similar mental picture.
“Which bike is yours?” I asked, shoving the sexual thoughts away.
He raised an arm, his wrist brushing against my elbow in a movement that seemed accidental but had definitely been done on purpose. “The black one in the middle.”
“Dash.” I read the name emblazoned with flames on one panel. “Is that your name?”
“Yep.” He held out a hand between us. “Dash Slater.”
I slipped my hand into his, refusing to let my heart flutter at the way his long fingers engulfed my own. “Dash. That’s an interesting name.”
“Nickname.”
“And what’s your real name?”
He smiled, dropping my hand. “That’s a secret I only tell a woman after she’s let me buy her a beer.”
“Pity. I only drink beer with a man after I know his real name.”
Dash chuckled. “Kingston.”
“Kingston Slater. But your nickname is Dash. Does anyone ever call you King?”
“Not anyone who lived to say it twice,” he teased.
“Good to know.” I laughed, carefully slipping my phone from my pocket in case a photo opportunity came up. Then I fanned my face. “Is it hot out here? Do you have a waiting room or someplace cool I could sit?”
Maybe a place where your soon-to-be-incarcerated Dad is hanging out? If the cops ever showed up. What was taking them so long?
“Come on.” He nodded to the office door. “You can wait in my office.”
We made it three steps when a police car came racing into the parking lot, lights flashing but no siren blaring. Yes! I resisted the urge to victoriously throw my arms in the air.
Dash halted, holding out an arm to shield me from the police. It was a protective gesture, certainly not what I’d expect from a former criminal. Shouldn’t he be using me as a shield from the authorities, not the other way around?
The two officers in the patrol car were out of their cruiser in a flash. “We’re looking for Draven Slater.”
Dash stood taller, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you want with him?”
The cops didn’t answer. They marched toward the office door and disappeared inside just as another police car pulled into the parking lot—this one carrying the chief.
Marcus got out of the passenger seat and walked over to Dash and me, lifting his sunglasses as he approached. “What are you doing here, Bryce?”
“Getting an oil change.”
“I thought I told you to stay away.”
“That car is brand-new, Chief.” I smirked. “I want it to last and I’ve heard car care is key.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his mustache turning down. So that’s what his annoyed face looks like. I’d never mistake it for a smile again.
“What’s going on, Marcus?” Dash asked, looking between us.
“We’re bringing in your dad.”
“Why?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
Dash grumbled something under his breath. “Then what can you tell me?”
“With her present?” Marcus tossed a thumb my way. “Not much on the record, at the moment. I hope you didn’t tell her anything you don’t want in Sunday’s Tribune.”
“What?” Dash’s jaw went slack.
“She’s the new reporter in town.”
Dash’s face whipped my way. “You are the new reporter? I thought they hired a man.”
“Yeah, I get that sometimes. It’s my name. It always causes confusion.” I shrugged. “Bryce Ryan, Clifton Forge Tribune.”
Dash’s nostrils flared. My invite to The Betsy for a beer had just been revoked.
The garage’s office door flew open and the two officers came out with Draven Slater handcuffed between them.
I fought a smile, casting up a thank you to the journalist angels who’d blessed me today.
“Call our lawyer,” Draven ordered Dash, his jaw set in an even angrier line than his son’s.
Dash only nodded as Draven got shoved into the back of the cop car.
A woman with a white pixie cut came running to Dash’s side, having followed the parade outside from the office. The two mechanics from the garage were jogging our direction.
I hurried to snap a picture with my phone before the cruiser reversed and sped away. We didn’t keep a full-time photographer on staff at the newspaper, not that we really needed one when smartphones were so convenient.
The moment the cruiser and Draven were gone from view, Dash whirled on the chief. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Dash, I’d like you to come down to the station for questioning.”
“No. Not until you tell me what this is about.”
The chief shook his head. “At the station.”
The pause that hung in the air was as stifling as the tension between the men. I didn’t expect Dash to budge, but finally he nodded.
“The station,” Marcus repeated, shooting me another one of those frowns before walking to his cruiser.
“What’s going on?” The woman from the office touched Dash’s arm. “Why did they arrest him?”
“Don’t know.” Dash stared at the chief’s taillights as they disappeared down the street, then he turned his attention to me. “What the hell do you want?”
“Your father is a suspect in a murder investigation. Do you have a comment?”
“Murder?” The woman’s mouth dropped as the bulky mechanic cursed, “Fuck.”
But Dash only hardened at my question, his expression turning to stone. “Get off my property.”
“So you don’t have a comment to the fact your father might be a murderer?” The might was generous. “Or did you know that already?”
“Screw you, lady,” the woman spat while Dash’s hands fisted at his sides. His expression remained stern, but behind his icy stare, that mind was whirling.
“I’ll take that as no comment.” I winked and turned for my car, ignoring the angry glares that prickled my neck.
“Bryce.” Dash’s voice boomed across the parking lot, freezing my steps.
I looked over my shoulder, giving him only my ear.
“I’ll give you one.” His voice was hard and unyielding, sending chills down my spine. “One warning. Stay out of this.”
Bastard. He wasn’t going to scare me away. This was my story. I was telling it, whether he liked it or not. I spun around, meeting his level gaze with my own.
“See you soon, King.”