Gypsy king

No pillows. No end table. No lamp. Only the bed and an old wooden dresser in the corner.

“This was your room?” I stepped in farther, letting go of his hand to flick on the light. Then I walked to the dresser, swiping my finger through the coat of dust on top.

“This was my room.” Dash leaned on the doorframe. “I thought maybe it would look different. Feel different. Thought I’d miss it.”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Maybe I would have two days ago. But not now.”

Oh, Dash. I hated standing by, watching as his heart broke. I hated that something he’d held dear, something he’d once loved—the club—had been tainted.

“What’s this?” I walked over to the bed, picking up the leather square folded neatly on top of the quilt.

“My cut.”

“That’s what you call your vests, right?”

He nodded, stepping up behind me. “When you prospect the club, you get a cut. It has the club’s patch on the back and a prospect patch on the front.”

“How long did you have to prospect?”

“Six months. But Emmett and I were exceptions. Normally it’s about a year. Long enough we knew the guy was serious. That he’d fit in.”

“Then what happened?” I unfolded the vest, laying it carefully on the bed. My fingers ran over the white patch below the left shoulder, the word President stitched in black thread.

“Then you’re in the club. You’re family.”

I turned the vest over, staring at the patch on the back as Dash looked on. “This is beautiful.”

The few pictures I’d seen of the Tin Gypsy emblem had been in black and white from old newspapers. But in color, the design was stu

The club name was written at the top in Old English lettering. Beneath it was a detailed and carefully stitched skull.

A skull, exactly the same as the tattoo on Dash’s arm.

One half of the face was made entirely of silver thread, giving it a metallic feel. Behind it was a riot of orange, yellow and red-tipped flames. The other half of the skull was white. Simple. Except for the colorful head wrap over the skull and delicate, almost feminine stitching around the eye, mouth and nose. It was like a sugar skull with a harsh, violent edge.

Live to Ride

Wander Free

Below the skull, the words were stitched in threads grayed from years of wear.

How long had Dash worn this cut? How many days had he put it on? How hard had it been to fold it up and leave it here, collecting dust in a forsaken room?

Dash put a hand on my shoulder, turning me into his chest. His hands came to my face. His mouth dropped to mine. And he kissed me soft and sweet, like a thank-you.

When he broke away, he dropped his forehead to mine.

“I bet you’ve kissed a lot of women in this room,” I whispered.

“Some,” he admitted. “But none were you.”

My eyes drifted closed. This was not the right place or the right time for this conversation, but questions hung between us, begging to be asked. “What’s going on, Dash? With us?”

“I don’t know. It’s more than I thought it would be.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “You kind of snuck up on me.”

I smiled. “You snuck up on me too.”

The next kiss wasn’t soft or sweet. Dash crushed his lips to mine, his hands leaving my face to band around my back, pulling me tight into his firm body. He needed this, like he’d needed me last night. He’d gotten lost in my body, seeking comfort.

I looped my arms around his neck, angling my mouth so I could get a deeper taste. I’d gotten lost in him too. He made everything an adventure. Even watching him fold my laundry or do the dishes was exciting. How was I ever going to let him go? I knew right there, in that moment, I wouldn’t be able to walk away from Dash.

He’d ruined me. He’d changed the game.

We were seconds away from ripping at each other’s clothes when a throat cleared from the doorway, forcing us apart. With swollen lips, we both turned to see Emmett.

“Dash.” He nodded down the hallway. “Better come and see this.”