Page 10 of Dash

Once at the bar, Dash nodded his head along with the change in song: Blue Oyster Cult. While he preferred more modern bands, he couldn’t complain. It was better than country or pop. If he walked into a one percent clubhouse playing Justin Bieber, he’d personally shoot every one of them. When bikini girl came over, all toothy grin and giant tits, he returned her smile.

“Alagash White and two Jamesons,” he requested.

Unashamed, he gave her a generous once over. A woman didn’t wear two triangles and some string for a shirt if she didn’t want him looking. Fake tits. Big ol’ round basketball sized tits. Those weren’t breasts. They were tits. He’d crack a tooth on those things.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” came from behind him.

He’d never heard a high-pitched purr before, but hey, he was up for new things. Leaving the two glasses of whiskey once he’d been served, he took the beer and turned toward the source.

“I haven’t been around in a bit,” he said.

With his back to Basketball Tits, he rested his elbow on the bar and brought the beer to his lips. His gaze swept over the brunette standing in front of him. She’d obviously made her own cutoff jean shorts. She cut them so high the pockets dangled down her thighs, past the actual jean part. They were jean panties, and they didn’t look comfortable. Perhaps that was the point. If she wore something uncomfortable, out of sympathy others would be more likely to take it off her. He had to hand it to her; it wasn’t an offensive strategy. He’d seen worse.

His gaze traveled up her body, spotting the hint of ink peeking out from her hipbone. Ahh, another temptation to get her naked. She had a tattoo in an intimate spot. Tricky girl. He grinned.

“So, Montana,” she said as she fidgeted. “That’s the important, uh, chapter, right?”

“Mother chapter,” he said as he lifted the bottle in honor of his club before bringing it to his lips to take a swallow of the craft beer.

She’d at least read his cut. He gave a point for that and another one for knowing a bit of club history. His focus continued upward, noting that she was quite the fashionista, or someone who owned a pair of scissors. He wasn’t sure if there was a difference.

She’d cut up a Harley Davidson T-shirt to expose her midriff and the underside of her breasts. They were nice enough, small, but he suspected natural—another point for her. Fake tits felt cheap to him.

The shirt lacked sleeves, and she’d made a nice wide neck. It allowed for the remaining fabric to slide down her shoulder, revealing her collarbone. With a cute face, brown eyes, and a short pixie haircut, she lost a point. He liked to pull hair. There wasn't much to pull there.

“What do you have against clothes?” he asked, cocking his head.

She laughed, the exaggerated kind where someone tried too hard.

He arched his brow in response. When she rested her hand on the bulge of his leather covered bicep, her moxie amused him.

“I’m a nudist by nature,” she whispered as though this were some kind of dirty secret.

He did his best not to roll his gray eyes. More points lost. Shit. How many points did she have? He’d lost count. For a moment, he tapped his fingers against his thumb, attempting to count. Fuck it—all points lost. “Then why do you have so much on?” he challenged in his own whisper as he crouched toward her ear.

Rising to his full height, which admittedly was only five foot ten inches, he still towered over her. He could be a smug bastard as he called her bluff, even if he was below six foot. It wasn’t something reserved for tall guys. What he lacked in height, he more than made up for in bulk and personality.

Raising his brows in expectation, he took another swallow of his beer. There was something about turning a woman’s cheeks pink that got his motor running, and he couldn’t get enough of it. The way their cheeks glowed. The vulnerability in that brief moment of embarrassment made his pulse race.

Plenty of the women here attempted to lure a brother into bed with their bodies. She wasn’t special. If anything, it made her just as boring as the rest of them. Hell, it was the women who came in here fully clothed that got the men’s attention more than the women who came in here half naked. If she thought because he was fresh off the road, in his leathers, and smelled like hot garbage, he’d be easy pickings, she had another think coming.

Not that he didn’t like getting laid. He was a fucking man, after all. But he found club whores bland. Sure, they knew the score, they’d do what a brother wanted, but the shit Dash wanted, he couldn’t do with a club whore. They’d only do it because they’d think it’d get them on the back of his bike, and he sure as shit wasn’t putting any of these bitches on his bike.

These women were dishonest, opportunistic snakes in the grass. He’d seen a few brothers get jammed up after a little slap and tickle with a bitch who got pissed off later when she found out it wasn’t a serious thing. He didn’t do that. Playing with club whores was a no-go for him. It was one of the few limits he had.

This one though, Pixie cut, she’d caught him in a good mood. He was on a road trip with his best friend. Granted, to a shitty place, but hey, it’s about the company. And he could use some better memories in Ohio. So, he’d play along a little. He liked games, and maybe, if she played her cards right, and he’d had enough beers, Dash could get his dick wet. It’d been a while since he’d tapped some ass.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he pressed, twisting at his waist to put the beer down. “We’re all friends here.” Dash unzipped the leather jacket. “I’ll start.” He winked as he peeled it along with his cut from him, revealing the navy Henley beneath, ripe with body odor. God, even he could smell it. It had to be bad if he could smell himself. Once he yanked the shirt over his head, he stood for a moment, separating his cut from the leather jacket. Once done, he flexed, grinned, and put everything but his club colors on the bar. He kept his cut in his hand, remaining bare chested—peacocking a little bit.

Dash didn’t have a six pack. He was thick, with a broad chest, rock solid arms, a bald head, and blond beard. With clothes on, people often mistook him for fat. He was solid muscle, but not a model.

Making his pectorals bounce, he let Pixie Cut take him in for a few minutes before he slid his cut back on. It’d been a long cold ride, but the amount of people in the clubhouse made it balmy. He’d been over dressed, and she’d given him an excuse to shed the layers.

“Whose are these?” she asked, reaching for his dog tags.

Automatically, reflexes kicked in and his arm shot forward. His fingers curled around her wrist, preventing her from touching them. “Mine. Either get naked or get out of my face.”

Releasing her, he shoved her back. A dark cloud of a foul mood filled him. His features hardened as he stared at her, making it very clear he didn’t want her touching those.

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