Blood & Bones - Dodge (Blood Fury MC 10)

He’d save his Sinatra Select for another night.

He set the bottle on the bar at the end nearest the swinging door so he could pick it up on his way back through.

Working his way around the long wood bar, he used his bare feet to push in some of the stools that weren’t aligned neatly. While mindlessly sliding his fingers up and down his dick, he checked the deadbolt and slide locks on the front door.

Locked.

He turned and headed back past the bar toward the rear door, still tugging on his softie. Since he didn’t take anyone upstairs tonight, maybe he should fire up Pornhub and—

He jumped and jerked his hand from his boxers, his heart now racing like a wildfire spreading through a forest in a drought. “Christ!”

A figure sat at one of the tables.

In the fucking dark.

Alone.

Slouched in a chair with that fucking cat-eared hood pulled up over her fucking head.

He slapped a hand over his bare chest to shove his heart back into place. “What the fuck! How d’you get back in here?”

Possum was getting his ass royally reamed if he left the back door unlocked.

“I never left.” Her words came out sluggish as if she was either drunk or half-asleep. Did she hit the booze after Possum left because he wouldn’t serve her for being underage?

“Possum would’ve put you out.”

“I hid in the women’s bathroom until after he left.”

Dodge blinked and let that sink in. “What? Why the fuck did you do that?”

Silence.

“You’ve been drinkin’ my shit?”

“I don’t drink shit. I heard it has a bad aftertaste.”

Dodge closed his eyes and pulled air in through his nostrils. Once his heart dropped from ninety miles an hour to about fifty, he opened his eyes again. “Stick to singin’. Comedy ain’t your thing.”

“You don’t know what my thing is.”

“Okay, whelp…” He pointed toward the back door. “Exit’s that way.”

“What do you have down your boxers?”

He dropped his arm. “What?”

“You were hanging onto something. Must be important.”

He barked out a laugh. “Okay, maybe you are fuckin’ funny.” He held his thumb and index finger together leaving a slight gap. “Just a little.”

“I wasn’t being funny.”

“Yeah, neither am I when I show you where the back door is.” He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “The same way you came in earlier.”

She stayed in the chair. He could hardly make out her features with the hood up and wondered if she washed all that shit off her face yet. Or even bothered to change out of what she had worn on stage. He was tempted to peek under the table to see if she was still wearing those damn, smoking hot boots.

He fought that urge. He’d be able to see that soon enough when he escorted her out.

However, she still wasn’t moving.

Good thing it was his dick and not pepper spray down his boxers because he’d be tempted to do the same things the screws did to him one day when he refused to return to his cell.

He got sprayed directly in the face. That was a hard lesson learned but one he never forgot. He would choose a taser over pepper spray any day. The shock of a taser was over as soon as the trigger was released. The burn of pepper spray lingered for a long fucking time. And it had only pissed him off even more.

“That Possum guy said you live upstairs.” She slipped the hood off her head.

“What does that have to do with you leavin’?”

He moved closer to the table and saw her lick her lips. Not in a seductive way, but more of a nervous gesture.

What the fuck was she nervous about?

He wasn’t going to call the cops on her or anything. Even if she’d been drinking his booze and was underage. He wasn’t a snitch. He’d seen plenty of times what happened to them inside. Snitches either got dead or a jailhouse C-section.

While doing time, you learned to look the other way. Even smarter, forget anything you saw or heard. “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil” was a way of life inside and a good way to keep breathing. It also helped keep your asshole intact.

“We’ve been living in the bus… and…”

Yeah, he saw the outside of it, he could imagine what it looked like inside with four people living in it.

“And it doesn’t have the same things as a motorhome…”

Was she asking him for another favor? One that was a lot more personal than asking for a shot to play in the bar?

If so, she didn’t need to finish. He got it. She didn’t need to plead her case. Not that she would.

What he did understand was how it was like to live with a lack of privacy and clean facilities. He understood that only too well. It sucked and made you feel less than human.