Raven knocks on Finn’s door softly.
Dozer opens it a moment later.“You got ’em?”
Raven hands them over.Dozer turns and calls, “Heads up,” before tossing the bottle to someone inside the room.
Most of what I know about Dozer I’ve read from his file.Deeds also shared what he could.His legal name is Ethan Coleson, and he’s the HOC’s Vice President.One of the club’s two pseudo-princes.The other being Ty Folsom, or Edge, who’s in prison for using lethal force defending a woman who was being raped.
Supposedly, Deeds and both men had once been pretty close.They’d been brought up inthe lifetogether, but had grown apart when Edge’s father died of a drug overdose, and Cap and Griz decided to split from the GBs to start this club.
Now, Dozer and Deeds couldn’t be more different.Dozer’s an ex-SEAL who turned down football scholarships to three decent colleges so he could serve his country and follow in his father’s footsteps, and Deeds is going to find his way onto the FBI’s most wanted list if he’s not more careful.
They’re like yin and yang.
Dozer is the poster boy for Mr.All-American Biker.Good-looking, clean-cut, with dirty-blond hair and blueish-gray eyes.He runs a successful gym in Albuquerque, has a decent income, money in the bank, and received multiple impressive medals during his time as a SEAL.
On paper, he’s the total package.
He’d been my first choice when I was considering which HOC to latch onto to pull me into the club.Deeds quickly crossed him off the list.He said not to underestimate Dozer, but I think it had more to do with the fact that Deeds saw him as one of the good guys, and still considered him a friend since they’d spent the better part of their youth in San Diego raising hell.
Dozer turns back to us, and his steely gaze immediately lands on me.“Hey, Lily, right?”He says, offering his hand.I step closer and shake it, giving him my best smile.His grin turns flirty.“You had us all squirmin’ in our seats tonight.”
Laughing, I say, “Uh-mmm thanks, I think.”
He winks and motions for me and Raven to come inside.“Come on in.”
I peek into Finn’s office, hesitating for a second, not quite sure what I’m walking into.Bodie perks up when he spots me and slides off Finn’s desk.“Well, well, well.If it isn’t my two favorite girls.”
A creak sounds as the door across the room opens.Finn steps out.It appears to be a bathroom based on the fogged-up mirror behind him.There’s a towel slung over his broad bare shoulders, and he walks forward, gaze down.The only other things he’s wearing are black jeans and a metalcore belt.His wet hair is slicked away from his face.
As he moves across the room, he picks up one end of the towel, drying the water droplets on his tattooed chest.The sparse lighting in the room illuminates the sharp angles of his face.I see a side view of the massive back piece, his HOC colors tattooed in black ink.
He’s not tan, per se, but not pale either.There’s a light dusting of chest hair over his pecs.Not the solid and rock-hard body of a young soldier, but fitness is something he’s maintained since his time in the military.The battle scars littering his torso, though, those are new, so are the abstract tattoos.
The scars are hard to look at.They speak of the battles he’s endured.A piece of his history I was not a part of.The thought cuts like a razor blade when I think on it.
I shut it off, the emotion it brings, and tell myself to dwell on it later, or never.Never’s good.
Finn moves through the room with purpose, not acknowledging a soul.He’s preoccupied.His thoughts miles away.Irritated too—if the pulsing of his jaw is any sign.
I know this mood.It’s been years since I’ve witnessed it, but I recognize it.
He’s a storm waiting to break, charged with dark clouds.He’s stewing.This silence is the buildup before he unleashes.His laugh lines, which I used to adore, seem etched with grim thoughts.And the three lines that crease his forehead are more prominent at the moment.
I swallow hard, because…damn it,I can’t look away.
My gaze tumbles over the black leafless tree covering the left side of his torso.The branches stretch like wicked fingers across his pecs.A dead tree, by the looks of it.There’s a black figure standing close to the trunk and—oh fuck!Are those birds?
Please tell me those aren’t fucking birds… as in plural.
They fly outward from the shadowed figure.Some are half-bird, half-wisps of smoke as they drift up his chest.
The bird thing was our thing.But this looks like he’s taken our once beautiful story and turned it into something dark and twisted.Or maybe it was never what I imagined in the first place.
I force my mask of indifference to remain steady, even though there’s a war being waged inside me.
Before I can decipher the scripted words scrawled above the tattoo, he turns, opens a large cabinet door, and pulls out a shirt.He’s quick to stretch it over his head.When he turns, his eyes are slightly shut, tension tightening in his features.He grips his forehead momentarily, takes a couple of deep breaths, and then drops his hand.
Crossing the room, he drops onto the couch and begins to pull on his socks and boots.
