Crash (Evil Dead MC 2)

“Liar!”

“Truth or Dare?” she asked, changing the subject.

He wanted to call her out on her bu

llshit answer, but he let it slide. “Since your questions aren’t very dirty, I’ll say, dare.”

“Okay. Show me all your tattoos.”

Grinning, he tossed the socket wrench aside and began wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes never leaving hers. “All of ‘em, huh? How many you think I got?”

She shrugged. “That’s what I mean to find out.”

Crash reached behind his head grabbing two fistfuls of fabric and yanked the tee shirt over his head, letting it drop to the cement floor. “Well, come on over here, and count ‘em up, babe.”

Her eyes dropped to his muscled arms, shoulders and rock hard abs. Swallowing, she hopped down off the bench and moved toward him. He watched as her eyes moved over his body. Her mouth parted, and the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Show me,” the words barely a whisper.

He tapped a large tattoo on his left shoulder that ran down to his elbow. It was a pair of feathered wings with a cross in the center. Just below the cross were a set of initials. “This one? The wings and the cross, that’s for my brother.”

“What do the wings represent?”

“He was in the 82nd Airborne.”

“Oh.”

“Those are his initials.” He met her eyes as she studied the intricate artwork.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I had a good friend of mine lay the ink, but I came up with the design.” He tapped another tattoo lower down on his forearm. “This one’s for the club.” He watched her gaze run over the skull and other symbols, knowing she didn’t really understand any of their meanings

Twisting, he showed her the one high on his right shoulder blade, an eagle, and then he lifted his right arm to show her the tribal scroll that ran down along his ribs under his right arm. “That one was the worst. The ribs hurt like a bitch.”

Her hand reached out, her finger tips brushing along his skin, tracing the ink on his ribs. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, and then as if just realizing she’d touched him, she stepped away.

He reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her back. “There’s one more.” Her eyes met his, and then dropped to his hands when she realized he was unbuckling his belt. They flew back to his eyes. “You said all of ‘em, Princess.”

“If you’ve got one on your-”

“Relax, sweetheart, it’s just low on my belly.” He opened his jeans, the plackets falling to reveal a V of skin and watched her eyes drop to it, drawn.

There, in an arching scroll across his lower belly it read, Show No Mercy

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grinned. “Truth or Dare, Shannon? Come on, babe,” he taunted as he did up his pants. “Take a dare.”

“Fine.”

Crash got a lascivious grin on his face. “God, I was hoping you’d say that.”

“So what’s the dare?” she asked.

“You let me do a belly shot off you.”

Her mouth fell open.

He grabbed her by the hand, and they went upstairs. Walking over to the bookcase by the pool table, he got down a bottle of Tequila. Turning back to her, he nodded to the pool table. “Hop up, babe, and lie back.”