Page 132 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

“Who, Eoin?”

We both laugh out loud.

“No, Ty.”

“No.”

“Dyl asked if Ty had been important to you in the past is all. I said yes. I didn’t mention he was your first.”

“You mean like I was his?”

“Who, Ty’s?”

“No, Dyl’s.”

There’s a pause.

“So, Dyl was a virgin?” She sounds surprised.

“Well, that’s what he said. Not that anyone would have been able to tell. He pretty much earned that well-deserved title of Dirty Dylan from the get-go. Why? Do you think he lied to me about that too?”

“No, of course not. I’m just a little shocked, is all, given his age and the fact that his siblings have fucked half of Manhattan.”

She sounds distracted. I can almost hear her brain whirring. I’m not too sure I’m buying into this reply of hers.

“Anyway, I’d best go and not keep them waiting.”

“Jessie.”

“Yes, partner?”

“Any problem, you call me straight away.”

“Yes, Mom! You’ve said that already. Are you expecting there to be any?”

“Nope, but that’s typically when it comes calling. My phone’s right beside me. You so much as sniff trouble, you let me know.”

“Will do. Listen, I’ve really got to go, Jaine.”

“Later.”

The Ghost Whisperers’ Clubhouse, Colton, Nevada

It’s been just over twenty-four hours since I was last here and, in that time, the perimeter fencing has been fully erected with just a space left for where the entrance gates will hang. Like most other clubhouses, they’ll be electric, connected to the security system and keypad entry so the numbers can be changed every other day. It’s Saturday, so they probably won’t be fitted now until next week.

Everyone’s standing outside as I approach. When I say everyone, I mean the people I’m meeting. The clubhouse isn’t ready for outlaw party time just yet. Give it a week or so, and I’m sure some biker will christen the place by fucking a cum slut over the pool table.

Most likely Ghost himself.

Swinging my hog through the gap in the fence it roars toward the front of the building kicking up a trail of dust into the air as it does.

Having acknowledged me with a single nod, Eoin continues his conversation with my daddy and brother.

Molly doesn’t even glance in my direction. She’s wearing a business suit and standing out like a sore thumb. I watch as she tries to inject herself into the menfolk’s conversation. Does she not realize that bikers are chauvinist pigs? That they seldom, if ever, listen to a female?

I kick down the stand on my hog, switch off the purring engine and take in Dylan covertly through my closed visor.

It’s been months. He looks different, somehow. More worldly-wise. Maybe he’s started living life and stopped hiding away in that apartment of his. His hair’s gotten too long again. It’s curling over the neck of the white short-sleeved Henley that’s gracing his toned torso. My eyes drift down to take in the dark blue denim caressing his slim hips before shifting to his face. Strong pale features, pouty lips that don’t belong on any man, and familiar eyes of sapphire blue. He looks good. Too good.

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