Page 44 of Dash

Not once during the forty-five-minute video phone call did he ask to see her tits or pussy. Instead, he had her place the phone in such a way that he could see her face while she was bent over. He had her alternate between using her insertable vibrator on herself and her Hitachi. Three orgasms later, their call ended. She still didn’t know if he touched himself, but she needed a shower and a nap.

Dash

* * *

Gingersnap had the most adorable orgasm face. She squeezed her eyes and opened her mouth. Then she twisted while her body jerked. Sure, a lot of women had the same move, but with her features, pale skin coloring, the high cheekbones, and that one little dimple she had that only seemed to come out when she came, Dash liked it. He liked it so much he wanted to see it three more times after he’d just seen it the night before.

Standing in the shower, after getting her off on the video chat, he stroked his soapy cock thinking of her come dimple. He’d never met anyone else with a come dimple before. She smiled a lot around him, and it hadn’t made an appearance, but when she came, that thing came out. Next time they played, he’d test the come dimple theory again.

With a grunt, he pumped his hips and his dick slid a few more times into his hand as his cock spasmed and jizz swirled down the drain. It wasn’t as good as a mouth or a pussy, but it didn’t feel right getting a club whore to take care of that hard-on. Gingersnap inspired that. So it was hers. He didn’t make sense all the time, he knew that. He lived by his own fucked up moral rules and sometimes he even confused himself.

Scrubbing down his body with bar soap and his beard with shampoo, he got on with his shower routine. The scene with Gingersnap had definitely breathed life into him, and taken a huge weight off his shoulders. He felt like he could breathe again. He could finally focus on his club, and if there was ever a time to focus on his club, it was now.

Clark should have the final funeral plans. Dash figured he’d be around one more month, tops. He’d pick his replacement. Whiskey would report his findings on the recruitment issue. They’d go home, and Clark and his new VP would figure it out.

As he wrapped his towel around his waist, he reached for his burner. Flipping it open, he walked over to his nightstand. Inside there was a scrap of paper with Whiskey’s number on it. He hadn’t heard from him in a while and wanted to check in. Shooting him a text in code, he left the phone on the bed, and went back to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Dash: Netflix later? We should catch up on Six Feet Under.

Chapter 21

Dash

Making his way down into the main clubhouse room, Dash slapped his hands together. He didn’t expect there to be many hanging around, so he considered hitting up some of the club businesses. Hollywood Undead played from the speakers that ran throughout the clubhouse on a low volume conducive to conversation. Basketball Tits stood behind the bar, stocking the coolers, chatting with a member Dash couldn’t recognize from the angle. Blue and Mooky stood together, holding cues near one of the pool tables, seeming to be in the middle of a game.

“Hey.” Coming from behind him, Cajun, scrubbing his hand through his long, light brown hair, walked past. Wearing a look of determination on his face, the potent scent of freshly smoked cigarette trailed behind his brother as he headed toward the bar.

Glancing toward the back door, Dash considered a butt for himself. Out of respect for Bowie, the club had taken to smoking outside. He really should quit. Now would be the perfect time. His itch was scratched. Club business was all but settled, and his stresses were almost over. He could focus on quitting, if that’s what he really wanted to do.

Pushing the door open, he reached into the inside pocket of his cut. When he left Ohio, he would quit. Plopping his thick body down onto the rusted metal patio chair with the ashtray beside it, he sparked his lighter and put the flame to the end of the cigarette while he puffed it to life.

Letting his head fall back, he tucked his lighter and pack away. Blowing smoke rings, he held the butt between his fingers as he enjoyed the feeling of nicotine hitting his system. The calm spread out from his lungs, through his chest, and eventually consumed his body. Every muscle lost any ounce of tension he’d clung to as the circles he exhaled floated away. Concentration and focus were left in its place.

He knew smoking was bad for him. As a child of the nineties, he’d seen the PSA commercials, and enough stop smoking ads to choke a horse. It hadn’t stopped him. Peer pressure was a son-of-a-bitch.

Besides, he knew it was just a matter of time until his body failed him. Though, given his life choices, would it be cancer or the club lifestyle that did him in? He was such a morbid fuck thinking about his own death when he was supposed to be relaxing, enjoying a calming smoke.

That was the shit about club brothers dying. Hell, it was the thing about surviving anything when others around him didn’t, and he seemed to be the one who kept surviving. When he’d gone to the VA support groups, they called it “survivor’s guilt.” He snorted, thinking of those group therapy sessions. He wasn’t sure if they were supposed to, but they never made him stop wondering what would finally take him down.

The back door squeaked as it opened, interrupting his wonderings about his own death. “I figured I’d find you out here.”

“Should I be somewhere else?” He put the cigarette back between his lips as he sat up and waited for Romeo to join him. Reaching into his pocket, he extended his pack and lighter to his younger club brother.

Waving his hand, Romeo shook his head. “If Sparrow smells that on me right now, I’ll be sleeping at the clubhouse for a month.”

Nodding, Dash put them away.

“You heard from Whiskey?” Romeo asked.

“Sent him a text.” Taking out his phone, Dash checked to see if maybe he hadn’t felt it vibrate with the response. Seeing nothing, he sighed. “Not like him to take this long.”

Having been a Signal Support System Specialist in the Army, Whiskey had been the one who came up with the communication codes the club used. Everything sent between them was in a complicated code. Anyone outside of the Montana Chapter would have seen it as a harmless, run-of-the-mill message.

“He’s posing as a hang around. Think he’s just with a bitch?” Romeo asked.

It didn’t feel right. Dash shifted in his seat and pulled his cigarette from his lips so he could exhale the smoke away from the young biker. Scratching his chin through his beard, he considered the possibility. “Whiskey’s never let pussy get in the way of club business before.”

“He’s been around the club house less often. If he’s supposed to be getting in tight with Ohio, he’s doing it wrong,” Clark offered, seeming to come out of nowhere.

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