Chapter 8
brYCE
My fingers drifted from the steering wheel to my lips.
Since Dash’s kiss on Friday evening, I couldn’t stop touching them.
All weekend long, I’d caught myself staring blankly into space with my fingers to my lips.
No matter how much I rubbed them clean, no matter the many coats of lip gloss I applied, his touch was there like an invisible tattoo.
Why had I let him kiss me? Why had I kissed him back? Exercise, that’s why. I was blaming all of this on exercise.
I’d worked my ass off at the gym on Friday, running three miles on the treadmill followed by twenty minutes on the stair climber, then ten burpees. I’d pushed myself hard, trying to get my head on straight. Trying to get my mind off Dash and burn off some sexual frustration.
My workout had been so intense, I’d felt like a puddle as I’d driven home. Normally, puddle was a good state of being. Puddle meant a long, hot shower and a sound, dreamless sleep.
Fucking puddle. Exercise was no longer a sanctioned activity, not until I had my head screwed on straight where Dash was concerned. Not when he showed up and caught me unprepared.
Forcing my fingers back to the wheel, I pulled into the parking lot at the paper. I had a busy week ahead and starting off Monday without focus was not an option. Yesterday’s Sunday edition of the Tribune had gone out the door without a hitch, and it was time to focus on my articles for Wednesday.
I didn’t have time to worry about Dash Slater. I didn’t have time to think about how his tongue had tasted like cinnamon and beer. Or how close I’d been to dragging him inside my house to the bedroom on Friday.
My core quivered. Hell.
“Good morning, Art,” I said as I came into the building, hoping my smile didn’t seem as forced as it felt.
“Morning.” He smiled. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I lied. “It’s going to be a great day. I can feel it.”
He chuckled. “You and your feelings.”
Feelings. I wish I could make sense of them where a hot biker was concerned. Why did he kiss me? Why? I didn’t have time for this kind of distraction.
I left Art hard at work adding yesterday’s paper to our electronic archive system and went to my desk. Plopping down in the chair, I stowed my purse and glanced around the empty room, taking a deep inhale.
The newspaper smell wasn’t bringing me much comfort today. Dash’s smell was too fresh in my mind, wind and cologne and a hint of oil.
The bastard was even stealing smells from me.
Well, I wasn’t going to let him take my focus from this story. Draven was going down for murder and I’d be there every step of the way. Once he was serving life in prison, I was going to find out why the Tin Kings had broken apart their club.
Yesterday, I’d written another feature on the murder. Timing had been on my side and the police had released some new information to the media, including a few details from Amina’s autopsy. I’d printed her name along with cause of death.
I hadn’t included the sexual evidence. True to my word with Mike, I’d keep that to myself until the chief deemed it newsworthy. Eventually, Draven and Amina’s sexual escapade would come to light. For now, I was content having that knowledge to use as I did my own investigating.
A clang from the pressroom caught my attention and I stood, pushing through the door. Dad was at the back by the Goss.
I’d gone for a pair of Birkenstocks today with my black skinny jeans and T-shirt, wanting to feel comfortable on the outside while my insides were all twisted in a knot, so my footsteps were nearly silent as I crossed the pressroom.
“Hey, Dad.”
He jumped, spinning around. “Hey, yourself. You startled me.”
“Sorry.” I smiled, but it fell when my eyes landed on a pair of legs hanging out from beneath the printer. “Is that BK?”
To my knowledge, BK didn’t wear black motorcycle boots. BK’s thighs weren’t firm and the jeans he wore didn’t mold around them perfectly. BK didn’t have narrow hips or a flat stomach.
My heart dropped. I knew that black belt. I’d had vivid fantasies of unbuckling it all weekend.
Before I could turn tail and sprint for the door, Dash slid out from beneath the machine. He had a wrench in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. His fingers were smudged with grease.
“Got it,” he told Dad, barely sparing me a glance.
“Really?” Dad asked.
“Really.” Dash stood, still refusing to look at me. “I think you should be good now. There’s a gear that probably needs to be replaced soon. I’ll see if I can get a part and come swap it. But I managed to get the one in there working for now so it won’t skip rotations.”
“That’s great.” Dad clapped Dash on the shoulder. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I was going to have to get a repairman from the press company, and bringing one out here can get expensive.”
“No problem.” Dash took a rag from on top of one of the towers, cleaning his hands. His eyes stayed fixed on Dad like I didn’t exist.
I hated how my heart sank. Refusing to let him win, I put on my best aloof face and turned up my nose a bit. He wasn’t going to ignore me. I was going to ignore him.
Hello, high school.
“How much do I owe you?” Dad asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, I can’t let you do all this for free.”
Dash chuckled, that devilish smile going straight to my center. Damn him. “Tell you what, buy me a beer the next time we run into each other around town.”
“All right.” Dad extended his hand again. “I’ll do that.”
Dash tossed his rag aside and shook Dad’s hand. Then, finally, he looked my way. “Bryce.”
“King.” I held his hazel gaze. “How are you today?”
“I had a good weekend.” He smirked. “Always makes for a good Monday.”
If his definition of a good weekend was invading my private life on Friday—kissing me—only to ride off and find another woman to make his weekend good, I was going to destroy him.
“Lucky you,” I said. “I wish I could say the same. I had an unwelcome guest on Friday who put a damper on my whole weekend.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” Dad asked. “What guest?”
“We were busy yesterday with the paper. But it seems that I have a pest problem on my porch. Can I borrow your shotgun?”
Dash chuckled quietly, his broad chest shaking as he smiled at the wall.
“A shotgun?” Dad’s forehead furrowed. “What kind of pest? Gophers?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “A snake.”
“You hate snakes.”
“With a passion. Hence, the shotgun.”
Dash continued to laugh under his breath. The movement making his jaw seem stronger. Sexier. Ugh.
“You’re not using the shotgun.” Dad frowned. “I’ll come over tonight and see if I can find it.”
“Thanks.” I’d tell him later the snake was gone. “Well, I have a busy day. Glad you got the press working.”
“Me too. It was a good thing Dash poked his head in when he did.” Dad laughed. “I was about to light the damn thing on fire.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” Standing on my toes, I pressed a quick kiss to Dad’s cheek, then spun around and marched for the door. Behind me, Dash’s deep voice rumbled until the sound of boots echoed behind me on the floor.
Dad didn’t wear boots. He was a sneaker man.
Every cell in my body wanted to tell Dash to go away. Or to ask him to kiss me again. I wasn’t sure.
Fighting the urge to turn was hard but I kept my shoulders squared and my legs moving forward. When I pushed through the door, I only opened it a crack, hoping it would shut on Dash’s face.
It didn’t. The moment I was in my chair, Dash was perched on the edge of my desk. He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing with the movement. The definition around his muscles wasn’t something you saw often on mere mortals, all tight skin covered with tattoos.
I swallowed down a wave of drool. “What do you want?”
“A snake?” The corner of that sultry mouth turned up. His eyes were shining and full of mischief.
I shrugged. “It fits.”
He grinned, flashing me those white teeth. A lock of hair fell onto his forehead and I clasped my hands together so they wouldn’t reach to fix it. Dash had great hair. I bet it was silky and thick, the strands like dark chocolate. It was just long enough I could get a good grip if he was on top of—
Oh, for fuck’s sake. That kiss had scrambled my brain and given him the upper hand. Somehow, I had to take it back, which was going to be difficult with him sitting on the edge of my desk, smelling like sin and pure temptation.
“Was there something you needed?” I asked.
“How about a thank you?”
“For?”
He nodded to the pressroom door. “For fixing your press.”
If not for the stress it would take off Dad and the paper’s budget, I would have died a thousand deaths before uttering a word of gratitude for a job I hadn’t asked him to do. But Dad’s relief had been palpable. “Thanks.”
“Was that so hard?”
“Would you mind getting off my desk? I have work to do today.”
“Can’t.”
“Jesus. Here we go with the can’ts again.”
“Read your paper yesterday.”
“And.”
“It was . . . informative.”
“Well, that is the purpose of a newspaper. To inform the people.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job.” His compliment seemed genuine; therefore I didn’t trust it for a second. “I have a proposition for you.”
I arched an eyebrow, a silent I’m listening.
“Let’s call a truce.”
“A truce?” I scoffed. “Why would I agree to a truce? I’m winning.”
“Maybe.”
Bullshit. “Definitely.”
“Fine. You’re good. But we both want the same thing. We both want to find out who killed that woman.”
“But I already know. It was—”
“It was not my dad.” He held up a finger. “If it was, you can prove me wrong. But if I’m right, which I am, wouldn’t it be better to print the real story? The one about the real killer, before anyone else?”
“I hate to break this to you, King, but I’m the only one in town spreading the news. I don’t need your help getting the story. Hell, I can wait around and print what the cops feed me and I’ll still keep my readers.”
“But that’s not your style.”