by Tessa Bailey
“I’m really overdue for an oil change.” I gave them an exaggerated frown. “I’m not great about making car stuff a priority. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could fit me in this morning?”
The men shared a look and a nod, but before either could answer, a deep voice came from behind them. “Mornin’.”
The mechanics stepped apart, revealing none other than Dash Slater stalking my way. His strides were purposeful. Potent, even. I’d expected to meet him here, hoped for it even, but I hadn’t been mentally or physically prepared.
Our eyes met and my heart boomed, stealing my breath. My mind went blank, unable to concentrate on anything except the way his dark jeans draped over his long legs and those thick, bulging thighs.
I’d never seen a man move like Dash, with confidence and charisma in every step. His hazel eyes, a vibrant swirl of green and gold and brown, threatened to lure me under his spell.
My body betrayed me, the quiver in my core irritating my rational senses. I was here for a story. I was here to steal this man’s secrets one by one, then plaster them across the headlines. This raw, animalistic response was asinine.
But damn, he was hot.
Dash’s black T-shirt strained across the muscles of his chest. It pulled tight around the swells of his biceps. The skin exposed on his arms was tan and smooth, except for the array of tattoos that snaked up both forearms.
Scorching. Smoking. There was another s word somewhere in my mind but as he stepped into our huddle, I lost my advanced vocabulary.
Seriously . . . damn.
I’d always preferred the clean-cut look. Day-old scruff wasn’t my thing. He wasn’t my thing. I liked blue eyes, not hazel. I liked short hair, and Dash’s brown mop had been overdue for a cut weeks ago.
This reaction was purely chemical, likely because I hadn’t been with a man since, well . . . I’d stopped counting the months when they’d hit double digits.
“What can we help you with, miss?” Dash asked, planting his legs wide as he took up the space between the other two men.
“My car.” I rolled a wrist toward the Audi. “It needs an oil change.”
The sun must have inched closer to Earth because it was sweltering. Sweat beaded in my cleavage as his gaze dropped momentarily to my breasts. He didn’t stare at them for more than a fraction of a second, but they’d caught his attention.
Score two for the tank top.
Dash looked to the long-haired man and jerked his chin toward the garage. The man nodded, gave the short-haired man a grunt and the pair left, returning to work without a word.
Was that how they communicated around here? Chin lifts and grunts? That would make an interview difficult. And short.
Dash glanced over his shoulder to make sure we were alone, then he gave me that famous sexy smirk I’d seen from afar. In person, it was dizzying. “We’ll take care of the oil change. Do a full work-up too. On the house.”
“That would be great.” I tried to keep my voice even and cheerful. “But I’ll pay for it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Dash stepped closer, his six-foot-something frame blocking some of the sunlight.
My natural urge was to scoot back and maintain my space, but I didn’t move an inch.
Maybe he only wanted to stand closer. But I’d learned years ago that arrogant men often tested the strength of their presence over a woman. They’d make little gestures to see how far they could push her around, especially when that woman was a reporter.
They’d touch a lock of my hair to see if I’d flinch. They’d stand tall to see if I’d cower. And they’d move in too close to see if I’d step away.
Either Dash knew exactly who I was and wanted to see if I’d tuck tail and run, or he was so cocky that he thought a grin and an oil change would make me drop to my knees and undo his belt to pay for my on the house services.
“You new around here?” he asked.
“I am.”
He hummed. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before.”
“I don’t get out much.” The air was heavy around us, like a brick wall had gone up in place of my personal bubble and the spring breeze couldn’t get through.
“That’s a shame. You feel like getting out, stop by The Betsy. Maybe I’ll buy you a beer sometime.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe not.
The Betsy was Clifton Forge’s infamous dive bar and definitely not my scene.
“You guys must all be into motorcycles.” I turned and pointed at the row of them behind me.
“You could say that. Most of us here ride.”
“I’ve never been on one before.”
“Yeah?” He grinned. “There’s nothing like it. Maybe before I buy you that beer, I’ll take you for a ride first.”
The way he stressed the word ride made my breath stutter. I locked my gaze with his, a flare of heat passing between us. Were we both picturing a very different kind of ride on that motorcycle? Because, despite my best efforts to block it out, the image of me straddling his narrow hips was now the only thing in my head. From the hungry look in his eyes, he had a similar mental picture.
“Which bike is yours?” I asked, shoving the sexual thoughts away.
He raised an arm, his wrist brushing against my elbow in a movement that seemed accidental but had definitely been done on purpose. “The black one in the middle.”
“Dash.” I read the name emblazoned with flames on one panel. “Is that your name?”
“Yep.” He held out a hand between us. “Dash Slater.”
I slipped my hand into his, refusing to let my heart flutter at the way his long fingers engulfed my own. “Dash. That’s an interesting name.”
“Nickname.”
“And what’s your real name?”
He smiled, dropping my hand. “That’s a secret I only tell a woman after she’s let me buy her a beer.”
“Pity. I only drink beer with a man after I know his real name.”
Dash chuckled. “Kingston.”
“Kingston Slater. But your nickname is Dash. Does anyone ever call you King?”
“Not anyone who lived to say it twice,” he teased.
“Good to know.” I laughed, carefully slipping my phone from my pocket in case a photo opportunity came up. Then I fanned my face. “Is it hot out here? Do you have a waiting room or someplace cool I could sit?”
Maybe a place where your soon-to-be-incarcerated Dad is hanging out? If the cops ever showed up. What was taking them so long?
“Come on.” He nodded to the office door. “You can wait in my office.”
We made it three steps when a police car came racing into the parking lot, lights flashing but no siren blaring. Yes! I resisted the urge to victoriously throw my arms in the air.
Dash halted, holding out an arm to shield me from the police. It was a protective gesture, certainly not what I’d expect from a former criminal. Shouldn’t he be using me as a shield from the authorities, not the other way around?
The two officers in the patrol car were out of their cruiser in a flash. “We’re looking for Draven Slater.”
Dash stood taller, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you want with him?”
The cops didn’t answer. They marched toward the office door and disappeared inside just as another police car pulled into the parking lot—this one carrying the chief.
Marcus got out of the passenger seat and walked over to Dash and me, lifting his sunglasses as he approached. “What are you doing here, Bryce?”
“Getting an oil change.”
“I thought I told you to stay away.”
“That car is brand-new, Chief.” I smirked. “I want it to last and I’ve heard car care is key.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his mustache turning down. So that’s what his annoyed face looks like. I’d never mistake it for a smile again.
“What’s going on, Marcus?” Dash asked, looking between us.
“We’re bringing
in your dad.”
“Why?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
Dash grumbled something under his breath. “Then what can you tell me?”
“With her present?” Marcus tossed a thumb my way. “Not much on the record, at the moment. I hope you didn’t tell her anything you don’t want in Sunday’s Tribune.”
“What?” Dash’s jaw went slack.
“She’s the new reporter in town.”
Dash’s face whipped my way. “You are the new reporter? I thought they hired a man.”
“Yeah, I get that sometimes. It’s my name. It always causes confusion.” I shrugged. “Bryce Ryan, Clifton Forge Tribune.”
Dash’s nostrils flared. My invite to The Betsy for a beer had just been revoked.
The garage’s office door flew open and the two officers came out with Draven Slater handcuffed between them.
I fought a smile, casting up a thank you to the journalist angels who’d blessed me today.
“Call our lawyer,” Draven ordered Dash, his jaw set in an even angrier line than his son’s.
Dash only nodded as Draven got shoved into the back of the cop car.
A woman with a white pixie cut came running to Dash’s side, having followed the parade outside from the office. The two mechanics from the garage were jogging our direction.
I hurried to snap a picture with my phone before the cruiser reversed and sped away. We didn’t keep a full-time photographer on staff at the newspaper, not that we really needed one when smartphones were so convenient.
The moment the cruiser and Draven were gone from view, Dash whirled on the chief. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Dash, I’d like you to come down to the station for questioning.”
“No. Not until you tell me what this is about.”
The chief shook his head. “At the station.”
The pause that hung in the air was as stifling as the tension between the men. I didn’t expect Dash to budge, but finally he nodded.
“The station,” Marcus repeated, shooting me another one of those frowns before walking to his cruiser.
“What’s going on?” The woman from the office touched Dash’s arm. “Why did they arrest him?”
“Don’t know.” Dash stared at the chief’s taillights as they disappeared down the street, then he turned his attention to me. “What the hell do you want?”
“Your father is a suspect in a murder investigation. Do you have a comment?”
“Murder?” The woman’s mouth dropped as the bulky mechanic cursed, “Fuck.”
But Dash only hardened at my question, his expression turning to stone. “Get off my property.”
“So you don’t have a comment to the fact your father might be a murderer?” The might was generous. “Or did you know that already?”
“Screw you, lady,” the woman spat while Dash’s hands fisted at his sides. His expression remained stern, but behind his icy stare, that mind was whirling.
“I’ll take that as no comment.” I winked and turned for my car, ignoring the angry glares that prickled my neck.
“Bryce.” Dash’s voice boomed across the parking lot, freezing my steps.
I looked over my shoulder, giving him only my ear.
“I’ll give you one.” His voice was hard and unyielding, sending chills down my spine. “One warning. Stay out of this.”
Bastard. He wasn’t going to scare me away. This was my story. I was telling it, whether he liked it or not. I spun around, meeting his level gaze with my own.
“See you soon, King.”
Chapter Three
Dash
What the fuck just happened?
As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes.
After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame.
I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story.
And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker.
How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I?
Because I was out of touch.
Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life.
I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down.
And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck.
“Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention.
I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?”
“What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?”
“Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.”
Presley scowled but stayed quiet.
“She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?”
Yeah. “She said murder.”
Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.
“Call Jim,” I ordered Emmett. “Tell him what happened.”
He nodded, walking to the garage with his phone pressed to his ear as he called our lawyer.
Emmett had been my vice president, and though the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club might be extinct, he was still by my side. Always had been.
We’d grown up in the club together. As kids, we’d played at family functions. He was three years younger, but we’d been friends all through school. Then brothers in the club, like our fathers had been.
The pair of us had broken countless laws. We’d done things that would never see the light of day. We’d joked last week over a beer at The Betsy about how quiet our lives had become.
Guess we should have knocked on wood.
“Isaiah, back to work,” I ordered. “Act like it’s any other day. If someone comes around and asks a question about Dad, you don’t know shit.”
He nodded. “Got it. Anything else?”
“You’ll probably be covering for the rest of us. You good with that?”
“I’m good.” Isaiah turned and went in the garage, a wrench still in his hand. We’d only hired him a couple of weeks ago, but my gut said he’d handle the extra work just fine.
Isaiah was quiet—friendly enough. He wasn’t social. He didn’t join us for beers after work or bullshit with me and the guys for hours in the garage. But he was a good mechanic and showed up on time. Whatever demons he was battling, he kept them to himself.
I’d taken Dad’s title as manager of the garage when he’d retired years ago, but since I hated anything to do with human resources or accounting and Dad hated to sit home alone all day, he came in and helped often. When I’d tasked him with finding me another mechanic, he’d found Isaiah.
I hadn’t even bothered interviewing Isaiah because when Draven Slater approved of someone, you trusted his instincts.
“What do you want me to do?” Presley asked.
“Where the fuck is Leo?”
>
“My guess?” She rolled her eyes. “His bed.”
“Call him and wake his ass up. Go to his house if you have to. When I get back from the police station, I expect to see him working. Then we’ll all talk.”
She nodded and headed for the office.
“Pres,” I called, stopping her. “Make some other calls too. See if anyone in town has heard anything. Discreetly.”
“Okay.” With another nod, she hurried to the office as I strode to my bike.
Along the way to the police station, a white car streaked past going the opposite direction, and my mind immediately jumped to Bryce.
Emmett had told me there was a new reporter in town. But his name was Bryce Ryan. I hadn’t been expecting a woman, certainly not one with full, rosy lips and thick chocolate hair.
Any person besides Emmett would have suffered a broken nose for letting me think the reporter was a man. Though based on the shock on his own face, Emmett hadn’t expected a woman either.
Served me right for disappearing any time Presley wanted to dish small-town gossip in the office. Being out of the loop, that was my fault. Not to mention Bryce . . . well, she was good.
She’d played me for the fool I’d become. Hell, I’d even told her my real name and she’d been at the garage for all of five minutes. Isaiah didn’t even know my real name, and we worked side by side every day.
One flash of her white smile, those pretty brown eyes sparkling, and I’d loosened my tongue. I’d acted like a horny teenager desperate to get into her pants instead of a thirty-five-year-old man who had plenty of women to call if he needed to get off.
Fucking reporters. I hadn’t worried about the newspaper or their reporters for decades. But Bryce, she was a game changer.
The previous owners of the newspaper had been too dumb to be a nuisance. The new owner, who had to be Bryce’s father, had come into Clifton Forge years ago, but Lane Ryan missed all the newsworthy stuff.
He’d come to town when the Tin Gypsies were no longer in the drug trade. When our underground fighting ring had become more of a boxing club. When all the bodies we’d buried had long since cooled.
Lane had left us alone. The times he’d brought his wife’s rig in for a tune-up, he hadn’t once asked about the club. He was content to let the past stay there.