Page 25 of Dash

The three of them peered at him.

His smile dropped before he shook his head at them as though disappointed. “They’re talking to others and I’m listening.”

“Who is?” Clark demanded.

“No one directly connected from what I can tell. It’s weird.” He shrugged as he reached for some toast and butter. “A guy here, a woman there.” He shrugged, using a knife to spread the butter on the crispy bread. “It’s like whoever is causing the issue is doing it through hang arounds. I can’t really figure it out yet.”

Clark clenched his jaw while cracking his knuckles.

“I think I just need to get the right woman talking.” Whiskey took a bite of his toast.

Dash couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s always the women.”

“What’s going on with Bowie?” Whiskey asked, and heaviness hit the table like a ton of bricks.

With his undercover-like status, he wasn’t privy to seeing things the way the rest of them had. He wouldn’t see what they’d see.

Clark got his coffee and waved off a menu or offer of food. The fucker probably had breakfast before he got here. Another reason he would have been late. On one hand, probably good for the whole ruse of them not meeting, but a dick thing to do to keep them waiting.

“It’s really fucking bad,” Romeo answered. “I don’t understand why he’s hanging on at this point. He’s just in pain. He can barely talk, or fucking breathe, but he’s there.”

“Why hasn’t Monty passed the gavel?” Whiskey asked.

Collectively, the three of them winced. It made sense, but there were some things that shouldn’t be verbalized.

“Respect,” Clark grumbled, proving why he’d been chosen to lead in Ohio.

“There’s respect and then there’s just sense.” Romeo said what they all were thinking.

Dash nodded. “I don’t know about you, but I will not question Monty.”

Jointly, they nodded and continued their breakfasts.

“I don’t suppose it’ll be much longer,” Clark whispered. Dash couldn’t blame him. Who wanted to say it and then carry the guilt of wishing death on someone? It was one thing to kill a guy who deserved it. It was another to talk about the death of a guy who died of disease. Contradictory as it may seem, there were morals in the world of outlaws.

Back at the clubhouse, Dash passed up on the card game and headed to his room. Seeing Blue serving the drinks, he smiled and waved in her direction. They hadn’t fooled around since that night in his room. Not because he didn’t find her attractive, he did. Her hair still intrigued him, and she was sexy as fuck. He’d just categorized her as a club whore, a normal club whore. Plus, Mooky was back, and she wanted to be a tattoo artist. Her goals, the reason she’d gotten involved with the club, had nothing to do with Dash and everything to do with Mooky. He didn’t want to distract her from her true goal, getting Mooky’s attention.

Once in his room, he closed the door, thankful some other girl hadn’t tried to get his attention. Now that he’d stopped hanging around with Blue, other women had taken that as an open invitation to his bed. It wasn’t, but the girls in Ohio were thirsty for cock, apparently. On his phone, he opened up the fetish webpage that alerted him to events in the area. He scrolled through the generic description, boasting a safe meet-up environment for like-minded individuals that was both fun and educational.

He swiped through the names and profiles of those who had RSVP’d to attend. He went through the definites first and then the maybes. It was the standard hodgepodge of people, mostly adults in their late thirties through their mid-fifties. Some of them attached, others not so much. He could tell which were desperate for a connection and some who were comfortable in their skin. There were a few fun names, mostly puns, and, as always, a bunch that caused an eye roll or two. They often had a variation of master and cum in their name.

He needed to go. He needed to find someone to scratch the itch. There was a play party in a week, and the only way for him to be comfortable enough to do a scene was to at least have a conversation beforehand. He’d need to weed out the psychos. That was one thing about this lifestyle—plenty of unstable, damaged people flocked to it.

Wearing a faded purple Henley and dark blue jeans, he sat in a folding chair making polite conversation with a woman wearing a silver infinity collar. Dash hadn’t worn his cut to the munch. He never did. He separated his club life from his kink life most times. He’d yet to have anything kink related go long term so there hadn’t been a need for them to overlap.

He did his best to be attentive to the woman opposite him as she spoke about her truck driver, dominant boyfriend and their poly lifestyle. That was one thing he’d learned about coming to these functions. Some people were over-sharers. Attempting politeness, he smiled and nodded, listening while scanning the room.

Movement caught his eye, and he turned, seeing a flash of orange. A woman sat beside him, breaking him out of his daze of boredom.

“Hi. I’m Master Jim’s Pet,” the lady across from him introduced herself. The kink world went by scene names, much like the club world going by road names.

“Hey,” the redhead to his right greeted. “Gingersnap,” she said, resting her hand on her chest before turning her pale blue eyes to Dash.

“PRK,” he said as he offered his hand.

She took it and gave it a quick shake and narrowed her eyes. “PRK?” she repeated. “That short for something?”

“Purple Road King,” Jim’s Pet said in an unearned familiarity across the table in excitement. “It’s his motorcycle,” she squealed further as though they’d known each other forever.

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