Page 17 of Dash

Her friend hummed. “I don’t know. Do you know you?”

Liz opened her mouth to answer, but…nothing.

Anemone lifted her brows.

Still nothing.

“Hmm?”

Yep. Nothing.

“Yeah,” her friend nodded. “That’s what I thought. Don’t worry.” She winked. “I know what I’m doing.” She grinned and her fingers danced over the keys. “I have a marketing degree. I could sell you to gay men if I wanted to.”

“Uhhh.”

Anemone laughed. “Lighten up.”

Chapter 9

Dash

One week later

Quitting smoking and acting as the temporary Vice President of a newly patched over motorcycle club without actually being the acting Vice President of the motorcycle club was a bad fucking decision. The cigarette hanging off Dash’s lip was proof of that. There was potential in the club, but Bowie had let things slide for too long. Cleaning up the mess would take time and cigarettes.

Bowie was still president. Clark was still Vice President. That meant Dash was still just the visiting Sergeant at Arms of the mother chapter. Sick as he was, Bowie couldn’t call church to officially step down and name Clark president. Monty didn’t want to step in just yet, out of respect. So, they sat around playing fucking poker like goddamn idiots waiting for Bowie to either kick it, or call church.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the clubhouse was quiet with most of the guys working their day jobs. Finally, good music came through the speakers from the satellite radio station. Five Finger Death Punch was Dash’s favorite band, and he bobbed his head to the heavy drumbeat while the smoke from his cigarette swirled around him.

Jackal, one of the older Ohio club members who had to be in his seventies with short gray hair and deep creases in his face, spun the cards as he dealt them across the table. Lifting his fingers, Dash caught his first card. When he peeled up the corner, he spotted the king of diamonds. He exhaled smoke from his nostrils, channeling his inner dragon as he focused on the dealer’s pointed nose. The second card zipped his way. Taking a careful peek, he nodded at the sight of the ace of diamonds. It wasn’t a bad set-up.

With a deep inhale, he removed his hand from his cards, placing it on his chips, shuffling them. Taking his smoke between his index and middle finger, he pulled it from his lips, and blew the smoke away just as Blue approached with his Alagash. Blue, as he’d taken to calling her since he’d fucked her the first night he’d arrived, wore her blue and green hair up in pigtails and a plaid school girl skirt that didn’t cover her ass, a blue sports bra, and a pair of Converse All Stars.

Replacing his cigarette to his lips, he matched the bet in the pot, and took his beer. Blue leaned over him, sliding her arms over his shoulders so that her ample breasts, soft as they were, nestled against the back of his bald head. With her chin resting atop his head, he imagined her looking around the table as he did the same.

She bent her arm and pinched his cigarette between her fingers. Taking one last pull from it, he let her take it from his lips. She stepped back, and from the corner of his eye, Dash watched Blue puff on his butt. One arm on the far wall, her hip popped out, so that her barely there skirt rode up, showing off her pathetic excuse for panties. He suspected Blue wanted to get fucked, and he smirked at the thought. He’d think about it. It’d been a week since he’d gotten any, and she’d taken it like a champ.

“You gonna bet or what?” Jackal barked.

Jerking his focus back to the table, Dash had missed the reactions to the flop. Fuck. He eyed the grin on Blue’s face as she snubbed the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and headed for the bar.

“Bitch,” he hissed with a grin on his face.

Tossing some chips at the pot, Dash sat back with a cigarette hanging on his lip as he flicked his lighter to life. This was why he couldn’t quit smoking. There was always a reason. If he had his toy bag, he’d cane her. Blue’s ass would look amazing striped. His cock twitched at the thought of her tied, spread on the bed as his acrylic cane met her ass repeatedly.

The table had folded, save for Tut, Jackal’s son. Aside from the fact that he looked like a younger version of the old coot, with the same narrow features but with brown hair and a thin brown beard, Dash took a risk in playing him. He had a solid hand, and the flop teased him with a jack and ten of diamonds.

Studying his opponent, Dash took the cigarette from his lips and rested it on the ashtray. Using that hand to sip at his beer, he checked his cards again, as though he’d forgotten what he had, then looked at the pot. He studied Tut’s stack of chips, his hands, and then the pile in the middle. It was a modest pot. He guessed Tut had about six hundred fifty-two dollars, give or take. They were evenly matched, and Dash wasn’t opposed to doubling his own pile.

He raised it another fifty dollars.

As Tut considered the bet, a Bud Light appeared over his shoulder. Blue had returned with a wide smile, pressing her body against him. Bending down, she whispered into the other man’s ear, with her gaze locked on Dash.

Another fifty dollars in chips hit the pot.

Dash narrowed his eyes on the voluptuous vixen trying to sort out her game as she stepped back to watch with a confident smirk.

“Finally,” Jackal groaned as he turned over the card. “You Montana boys are slower than snail shit,” he grumbled.

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