Page 22 of Dash

Nodding, he knew. He’d guessed wrong and internally kicked himself for it.

“I like you, Dash,” she began, but seemed to struggle with a sigh. “I really do.”

He smiled in amusement.

“But this.” She waved a hand at his toy collection. “It’s way fucking intense.”

It was. He knew it was. He knew better than to fuck with club whores. He was a fucking idiot.

“I came here to have a party,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice. “I want a tattoo internship, and Mooky, he runs the club’s tattoo shop. I’ve been trying to hook up with him, but he’s not been around.”

Dash cocked his head. Mooky’d been working on a contract for a month. He nodded. “Ah.” He smiled. “Okay.”

She bowed her head, looking at the toys. “Are you going to kick me out?” she asked sheepishly.

“What?”

“I know the rules.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. The rules. Yes. There were rules. The women who crossed the door were expected to see to the needs of the guys with patches. Dash was a patched member, and yes, he had needs. His needs were now splayed out on his bed. “No.” He shook his head and went over to wrap her in a hug. “Listen, that on the bed, it’s not the same,” he said as he rubbed his shoulders. “That’s different. You’re good.”

She tucked her head under his chin. “’Cause, I’m still down to blow you and stuff.”

He snorted. He was sure she would, but he couldn’t anymore. He’d guessed wrong, and now, well, now he’d lost interest in Blue. “Thanks.”

Chapter 12

Gingersnap

Too soon. It was too soon. What the hell was she doing? Liz glanced at the dashboard clock. With half an hour before their meet time, she could—in theory—leave, and he’d never be the wiser. He’d never know she’d ditched him.

That’d be a dick thing to do. What kind of asshole stands someone up? Liz was a lot of things, but an asshole? She tried not to be.

Sighing heavily, she let her head fall to her steering wheel. The nerves in her gut warred with one another, tangling and knotting, pulling this way and that. She thought she might vomit. Really? This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. He was a person—just a human being. She met human beings all the time. This did not differ from meeting a new client.

She wasn’t ready, though. It hadn’t even been that long. She’d only been back on the stupid website for three weeks—not even a full month. She was out of her damn mind. What was the rush?

Three weeks on the site, but you have been in some self-imposed kink-witness-protection for like ten months. It’s time to get back out there. What are you waiting for?

Why did she let Anemone push her into this? She wasn’t ready.

What does ready look like? What does that even mean?

She didn’t have an answer to that. She waited for some sort of sign to tell she was ready. She imagined there would be a feeling; she imagined there would be this sensation of like a click—that the stars would align and she would just know, but she couldn’t explain that. She tried. It didn’t come out.

You can’t just stay in this state of exile. You aren’t happy. I see you. Just try. This guy is harmless. Seriously, I promise. I checked him out. Just get coffee. You don’t have to marry the guy. You don’t even have to play. He’s on a trial run.

A trial run. That’s all he was. He was a sample to help her feel safe in the community again. Richard, the thief, had stolen more than just passwords from her. He’d taken her security in her community and her trust in herself.

Fucking bastard.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head off the steering wheel and stared at the door of the coffee shop. If she got out of the car, if she went through that door and went through with the meeting, she’d take it back. She’d take back her kink life.

Checking the time—fifteen more minutes.

She pulled her phone from the cup holder and pulled up the mobile view of the kinky social networking site. After a few taps, she was face to face with SensualPrime39, a thirty-nine-year-old self-described sensual dominant switch.

For the three hundredth time that day, she skimmed his profile for any sign that he was a criminal or had any sort of inclination for nefarious intent. Paranoid much, Liz? She rolled her eyes.

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