Chapter 4
Roan
Stepping back into Danger’s office, Roan was immediately hit with the dank scent of weed for the third time today.
The man was not thrilled with Doc’s orders for him to keep the stitches in his forearm and calf dry because it meant he hadn’t been able to slip in his early morning surf session or mid-afternoon break to ride his board.
He could tell it pissed Danger off when he heard Pope call out to Kazzy, telling him that he and Ocean were headed to the beach and asking if he wanted to catch a few waves with them; it was written all over his face as Kazzy raced past the office on his way to join them.
Determined not to make things worse and prompt Danger into lighting up what would be the third or fourth joint of the afternoon, Roan had taken special care to keep his head down and his thoughts focused on the tasks he was given, though so far, the only thing Danger had asked him to do, besides sitting silently on his pillow, was go to the kitchen and bring back a couple ice cream bars.
Unfortunately, Ms. Kat had intercepted him on his fourth trip up, and as he approached Danger, empty-handed this time, he knew the man wasn’t going to be happy with the message she had for him.
“Owe, fuck,” Danger growled when he banged his injured leg on the side of the desk, grimaced, and slammed his fist on the stack of papers he’d been going through out of pure and utter frustration.
Which didn’t bode well for Roan when he delivered the news he’d been given.
The moment Danger noticed him, he eyed Roan up and down, seeking the ice cream bars he’d been packing away all afternoon, in between scowling at his work.
“Mz. Kat wouldn’t let me bring you anymore ice cream bars,” Roan blurted before Danger could inquire about them. “She said to tell you that you’re cut off for the rest of the week and that you um…”
He paused to check the note he’d jotted down because he hadn’t wanted to be accused of misquoting her.
“You either need to smoke less or find a pencil to chew on to curb your munchies.”
As if his scowl hadn’t been fierce enough, the flash of fury in Danger’s eyes nearly made Roan take a step back.
Only his determination to be taken seriously as a member of this club kept him standing there instead of sliding to his knees and begging forgiveness for not being able to complete the task he’d been given.
“Fine,” Danger growled, lifting up so he could tug his wallet out of his back pocket, fish out a ten, and hold it out to Roan, who didn’t take it. “The gas station sells them.”
Squirming, Roan wished he was anywhere but in that office or, at the very least, had been able to smoke a couple of joints himself before delivering the news, but the universe loved seeing him squirming like a worm on a hook and had deemed he deal with this bullshit sober.
Sighing, he shook his head, even while Danger waved the ten at him. “Sorry, I-I can’t. She said you’d try that and that I wasn’t to get them for you, and she told everyone else in earshot not to get them if you asked, either.”
Groaning, Danger shoved the bill back in his wallet, which he tossed in the top drawer of the desk before scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Fine,” Danger snarled. “You might as well get out of here then since there’s not fuck all you can do to help me.”
“I-I don’t mind sticking around until you’re done in here,” Roan offered, because being ordered away from the man wasn’t what he’d been after either.
In fact, what he’d hoped for was the opportunity to show Danger that he could help take his mind off the pain of his injuries, at least for a little while, but Danger just waved a hand in the direction of the door, all his attention back on the mound of paperwork he’d been slogging through.
Apparently, filing the insurance claims for the damaged bikes to ensure that the repairs were covered was also one of the many things he took care of for their club brothers.
Having so many to file at once had just added to his foul mood and Roan’s desire to make it better.
“No need,” Danger replied, glancing up for a moment to stare out the window, lips pressed into a grim line. “It’s bad enough that I’ve got to waste the day in here. You shouldn’t have to. Now get moving before I change my mind.”
The sunbeams shining in were certainly inviting, and while he couldn’t surf, Roan loved the beach, though it was always a great deal more fun when he had someone to share the time there with.
Maybe…
“Why do you have to miss all of it?” Roan asked. “Just because you’re not supposed to go in the water doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the sound of the waves?”
Danger sucked in a ragged breath, fingers curling around the papers, crumpling them when he glanced up at Roan. “Because despite the rest of my proclivities, I’ve never been a masochist. Now get out before you start working on my nerves.”
Message received and understood. Roan turned and scurried back through the door, skidding to a halt when Danger’s voice followed him up the hall.
“And close that fuckin’ door!”
He closed it softly after one final glance at the man with his head bowed over the desk, swiping his palm across the pages in an effort to smooth them out.
Dejected, Roan trudged up the hall, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.
He paused when he reached the bar, mostly empty, save for Duggan and his boy, Lightning, who glared at Roan the moment he caught him watching them.
Fine, if that’s the way he wanted to be, then Roan would just steer clear and not bother flirting with Duggan again, despite the spark of interest he’d felt twitching beneath his bottom the last time Roan had perched on his lap.
With the evidence of so many poly relationships clearly displayed throughout the club, Roan struggled to understand why everyone was so damned touchy and possessive about him trying to get in on the sharing too, but some of them were downright assholes about it.
Even the hang arounds got catty when they saw him approaching one of the club brothers they were attempting to attach themselves to, like they weren’t all fair game until they’d earned a patch tagging them as belonging to someone.
Property of.
Tanner’s boy.
Micha’s pup.
There was a place in town that designed and printed them all for the Jokers, along with the prospect patch sewn onto the back of Roan’s kutte and the rocker he hoped to earn in the future.
Trudging across the gravel parking lot between the clubhouse and his cabin, Roan longed for a night in the dungeon beneath Joker’s Wild, that many of the members frequented.
Private, protected, and filled with more toys, implements, and uniquely designed furnishings than Roan had ever seen, all he’d been able to experience thus far was what it was like to keep everything clean, sanitized, and well-maintained.
Roan longed to know what it felt like to be restrained on a table and tormented by a Dom who’d make him soar and forget all about the crushing loneliness he’d been seeking to relieve for most of his life.
Couldn’t they see that he just wanted someone to take an interest in him?
Tug him close, card their fingers through his hair the way Pope had done when he’d been kneeling beside his chair in the game room?
The handful of hours he’d spent there with him was amazing.
Not only had Roan picked up on bits of club history as the remaining founders shared memories with Ocean, but when he’d closed his eyes, Roan had been able to pretend Pope hadn’t just snagged him because he hadn’t been doing anything.
The praise he’d received from the man at the end of the night had left him grinning all the way back to his cabin, and in the shower, when he’d stroked himself beneath the spray, he’d imagined that it was Pope’s hand on his cock when he came.
Unfortunately, he’d been sent right back to Danger’s side the following morning, and there had been no gentle caresses, no praise, even when he managed to keep his mouth shut and not get into shit with anyone, and no sign at all that Danger had any interest in him aside from training him in how a proper club submissive should behave so he’d stop pissing people off.
Inside his sparsely furnished cabin, which more closely resembled a motel room in its current state, Roan stripped off his clothes, grabbed a pair of swim trunks from the pile of clean clothes he kept forgetting to put away, and quickly pulled them on before heading for the beach.
Sand squished beneath his toes as he wobbled over unstable dunes, sliding down several as he searched for the perfect place to sit.
In the distance, he spotted a rider expertly maneuvering their board over the waves, two others straddling their bobbing surfboards as they watched him.
While he couldn’t join them out there, watching was just as good, so he made his way along the beach until he reached a spot where he had the perfect view.
Watching Ocean, it was like he was dancing on the back of the board. Every bend of his knees, every swivel of his hips was fluid, purposeful, like he and the board were one entity fused with a singular purpose in mind.
Conquering every wave he tackled.
Watching Kazzy catch the next one, Roan began to pick up on the subtle differences in their styles.
While Ocean was more speed and flash, Kazzy was laid back, with a cooler sort of intensity.
Then Pope caught one and, for a man who was pushing fifty, rode with a grace and poise Roan immediately found himself admiring.
With a steady stream of waves, he had more than enough entertainment to fill the remainder of the afternoon, with a sea turtle sand sculpture slowly evolving over the course of the afternoon while watched them.
Of course, the moment they waded out of the water and started heading his way, he brushed his hands over the sand, easing all but a few lumpy bits of the turtle.