Page 11 of Dash

Game over. Patience gone.

When she lowered her gaze, he wondered if she considered the ultimatum. Ah fuck him, it was Alice all over again. How the hell did men do this shit, make women do something they didn’t want to fucking do?

“Get the fuck out of here,” he dismissed her. Willing pussy was one thing. A bitch who took her top off and rubbed her tits in his face even if he didn’t want it, fine. But a girl who second-guessed the suggestion? Well, she didn’t belong in the clubhouse. Who the fuck brought her?

Turning back to the bar, he looked for someone in a cut, someone with authority. She needed to be shown the door. She’d get hurt if she didn’t know the rules. Any woman walking through the door had to know the goddamn expectation Patches got what they wanted. If a woman made them happy, usually the patch made the woman happy.

Take Basketball Tits. Dollars to donuts she didn’t pay for those. All the women walking around with designer bags, long nails, extensions in their hair, fake tans—all that shit is paid for by brothers. They took care of their women; they gave them what they wanted. Now, not all women wanted material things, some got apartments, some got jobs. Either way, everyone got something. It’s how it fucking worked. Pixie Cut didn’t get it.

This wasn’t a nightclub. One percent motorcycle clubs were goddamn criminals. Hell, the majority of those hosting this party had killed someone.

He hadn’t told her to suck his cock or to take it up the ass. Jesus. If she hesitated with the simple request to show some skin, how the hell did she even get there?

Spotting Clark, Dash whistled loud to get his attention. The VP of Ohio’s head jerked in his direction. Once they made eye contact, the two headed toward one another. It was dangerous to have someone who didn’t get how it worked there.

Dash pointed out Pixie Cut. She’d moved on to a group, but still seemed to stand out, nervously glancing around. Rolling his eyes, Clark nodded. Dealing with her was below his pay grade, but with his club as bare bones as it was, he had to step in on matters that normally he wouldn’t. Sad fucking shit.

“Romeo and his woman are waiting for you in Prez’s office,” the VP said before he headed off to handle his shit.

Dash watched the approach for a moment. Clark, with his Superman curlicue above his eye, could come across as harmless when he wanted to. So, out of all the brothers, he was the best choice. Heading back to the bar, Dash put the empty beer bottle down and scooped up the two untouched glasses of whiskey he’d abandoned earlier, thankful Basketball Tits hadn’t put ice in them. He headed for the president’s office.

Knocking, he waited for permission to enter.

Chapter 6

Liz

1 month ago

Getting back to work, directly impacting another person’s life in a positive way, inevitably improved her mood. A bounce had returned to Liz’s step. Her smile came back. Cliché as it was, it felt like the sun shone brighter now that she’d settled into her new job.

She could finally relate to those happy movies where the birds chirped and people sang and danced for no reason. Hell, she skipped down the path from her last client toward her car. Hitting the button to unlock it, she knew the day couldn’t get any better. She was in a good place.

Her work being a nurse gave her a purpose in life. It didn’t just pay the bills; she helped people. Few got to say that about what they did. Liz could.

Tossing her work bag into the car, she dumped herself into the driver’s seat. The sun hadn’t even set yet, and she had the rest of the night to herself. What would she do with it?

From her pocket, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her options. Swiping away the missed call from her mom, she fired off a text letting her know she’d been held up at work and would call her tomorrow. There was no need to ruin a good day with a chat with her mother.

With that, her phone vibrated, and she winced. She’d tempted the beast. She must have summoned her by thinking her name three times or something.

Fearing the worst, she peered at her phone. Chuckling at herself, she tapped at the screen to see the text was actually from her friend.

Anemone: This calls for champagne! I’m on my way over.

Furrowing her brow, she peered at the message.

Anemone: Okay, I’m a cheap ass bitch, so we are getting sparkling something. It may not be actual champagne, but it will bubble and we are celebrating. Another message came through before she could respond.

Laughing and shaking her head, Anemone’s energy came through the phone and she almost felt bad typing it out.

Liz: What are we celebrating?

Anemone: I’ll tell you when I get there. Order dinner. I’m in the mood for some General Tso’s.

Sighing, she put the phone down and slid the key in the ignition. A surprise with Anemone could go one of two ways—really great, or terrible. She never did things halfway. She was always in the extreme.

Yet, her jaw still dropped when she got out of her car, dinner in hand, and climbed the steps to find her friend sporting purple deadlocks. “Wha-wh-what did you do to your hair?” she stammered as she cautiously approached Anemone.

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