Page 5 of My Older Biker

Footsteps move down the hallway, and then the distant creak of bedsprings when Dean finally lies down in the next room. Twenty feet of wall and empty air between us. I could walk through his door if I wanted to.

I don't move.

Not because the want isn't there. It's there. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, the rough way he kissed me against the wall, how his palm felt cupping my breast through my thin shirt.

But I meant what I said about knowing what this would cost. My father's friendship. The easy distance I've kept from the MC world even while living at its edges. The safety of not being someone a rival club could use as leverage.

Eight months ago, Marrow pulled me out of my bedroom window while my father was at the clubhouse. They put a gun to my head for two hours. I've been in therapy since, and I know exactly what it means to be close to someone in this world.

But lying here in the dark, I'm not thinking about therapy or complications or my father's reaction. I'm thinking about the way Dean looked at me. Like he'd been holding himself back from something he wanted desperately, and the restraint had finally broken.

Around six I give up. The sky outside is starting to lighten. I get out of bed and run my fingers through my hair, still wearing the same shorts and oversized shirt from last night.

Light spills from the kitchen when I walk down the hallway.

Dean is standing at the counter with his back to me. Shirtless, jeans slung low enough that I can see the dimples at the base of his spine. He's making coffee in a french press with the focus of someone who needs the ritual more than the caffeine.

I stop in the doorway and let myself look at him.

His shoulders are broad, muscles moving under scarred skin when he reaches for the kettle. There's a tattoo across his left ribs—Vigil's reaper, dates underneath that I can't read from here. His back tells stories I don't know yet. Burns. A long pale scar that looks surgical. The kind of body that's been used hard and kept functional through sheer will.

He turns and sees me. Goes completely still.

We stare at each other across his kitchen. The silence stretches until it becomes its own kind of conversation.

"Coffee?" he finally asks.

"Yeah."

He pours two mugs and hands me one. I lean against the counter and take a sip. Black, strong, exactly how I make it for myself.

"So," I say. "Are we going to talk about last night, or pretend it didn't happen?"

"We should probably talk about it."

"Okay." I wait. "Talk."

He leans against the opposite counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. The muscle in his jaw works like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say.

"This is complicated," he finally says.

"I know it is."

"Your father is my best friend. Twenty years. If he finds out about this, that friendship might not survive it."

"I know."

"We'll have to tell him," Dean says. "Soon. I can't keep this from him."

"I know that too." My throat is tight. "And he's going to be angry. At both of us."

"Yeah. He will be." He looks at me. "And you're still okay with this? Knowing what it'll cost?"

I set my mug down and walk closer, stopping just outside the space he's holding around himself.

"Remember when Marrow took me eight months ago?" My voice is hard. "When you were at the clubhouse and they pulled me through my bedroom window? I sat with a gun to my head for two hours. So yes, I know what this world is. I know the club comes first. I know people die. I'm not naive about what choosing you means."

Dean's expression doesn't change but his hands tighten against his ribs.