Joe nodded. “I used your login to gather the tax information from Records Management. I figured you had more pull than me. Don’t be pissed. I’m waiting to receive all of Fox’s tax forms for the last five years. Also Dixie, Daphne, and Diesel’s records. I’ll add Twiford. Who else should I ask for? Ray-Ray…” Joe didn’t wait for input as his fingers flew over his keyboard. He was off.
Cash let him go as he logged into his laptop.
If he could manage to trust the process and stay focused on the intelligence, not the crazy, addicting tattoo artist who had soundly ignored him until he’d passed out, then maybe he could, in fact, solve this case.
Chapter 17
Being back on his bike, balancing the weight and absorbing the rumble between his thighs felt right as rain. Dev lifted his gaze to the sky as he considered the possibility of actual precipitation. Since last night had been one of the most relaxing nights he’d had in a while, he figured rain would follow. He was always up for a good thunderstorm.
No. That wasn’t quite right.
He had a good, relaxing time every night he spent with Cash. But since Cash had the magic ability of silencing the incessant chatter in his head, of keeping the racing thoughts at a distance, it was cool to learn that ability now held whenever Cash was in a general vicinity. It hadn’t always been that way. The quiet was fire. He had a really good time hanging out at home, drinking beer, shooting the shit with Trace about nothing important at all.
No pills or smoke.
How often had that happened?
Never. Not one time since he’d started smoking, whenever that was. Hell, he could have been born with a blunt sticking out of his mouth.
He didn’t normally obey the laws of the road, especially in a place where the Disciples owned local law enforcement, but he absently turned on his blinker to indicate to Trace that their turn was ahead. He suspected Trace, a man who was on top of his game, probably knew the route and entrance pattern to his ink parlor.
The normalcy of returning to work felt damn good. He was glad to be back at his business full time. He wasn’t sure how Ollie’s son, Pecker, who he tapped to take a chunk of his business when shit went south—a.k.a. hurricane Cash had blown in—would feel about losing such a high paying gig, but he didn’t give a shit about that either.
Seconds later, he pulled up to the front of the warehouse doors, relieved to see his old man hadn’t arrived yet.
Millie was there though. She stepped out the front door of his parlor. The curiosity on her face grew as Trace pulled in next to him. She came all the way out the door, staring hard at Dev.
“What’s changed? I thought this was Pecker’s shift.” As she asked the question, her attention shifted to Trace. Though Millie was a mom, she’d had her kid young, which meant she wasn’t that old. He spotted the second she sucked her tummy in and pushed out her boobs. He couldn’t help the chuckle. Probably a reaction Trace got from the ladies on the regular. No doubt due to his heavy dose of swagger, but that pretty face and rocking body weren’t bad either.
Had he not found Cash, he might have tried to tap Trace’s ass. He suspected there were some bisexual tendencies in Trace’s DNA, but Cash was far more attractive.
He cocked his head at the idea of being faithful. When had monogamy become his thing?
Of course, he and Cash were monogamous.
Right? They’d had that conversation. He furrowed his brow. Maybe not.
But he sucked on Cash’s cock every single day like it was a fucking Blow Pop. That equaled monogamy. Right?
He nearly groaned out loud as he realized the flaw in his assumptions.
Cash had to know they didn’t mess around on each other. Ever.
Red hot anger flashed through him at rocket speed, and he fisted his hand. Cash better fucking know they were faithful.
Oh shit, the racing thoughts were back in his head.
He looked over at Trace.
Trace-the-bodyguard was hot. Annoyingly nice looking, especially with the grin he gave Millie.
“Meet Trace. He’s takin’ the second chair.”
“Does Cash know?” Millie asked as if that should even matter.
He was his own man.Devilman to be precise. Nobody told him what to do. Not ever. He dropped the kickstand in place and tore off his sunglasses.
Goddamn. The fucking curse words were all right there at the tip of his tongue.
