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“More or less. Guys inside will stab you over a cup of Jell-O. Especially if they’re looking at doing hard time.”
“What wereyouaccused of?”
“Accused of,” he repeats. “Not,what did I do. An important distinction.”
“Innocent until proven guilty is the bedrock of our legal system.”
An invisible mask seems to slip over his features. As if Dex, the amazing orgasm giver, has left the room, and Dex, member of a motorcycle club, has entered the conversation. “I was accused of being involved in the disappearance of a very bad man.”
“And?”
He lifts one shoulder. “They didn’t have a case and had to let me go.”
Not exactly a declaration of innocence.
“I told you, I was an angry shithead when I was a teenager.” He rests his hand over mine. “But I’ve never hurt anyone I care about. People who’ve hurtmyloved ones, though,” he shrugs, “that’s a different story. I’m not ashamed of that.” He taps his finger against the scar. “But the reminder to be smarter about it remains.”
A sane woman would have gotten up quietly and run away by now.
But I’m still here.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Emily
My father must be spinningin his grave.
Too bad. He didn’t exist on a moral high ground himself.
Am I nuts? Nothing Dex said scared me. And no lingering embarrassment from sharing my story with him follows me into the kitchen either.
While Dex is in the shower, I put my teakettle on the stove and flick the burner on.
I haven’t always had the best judgment about men. Is that what’s happening here? Shouldn’t the fact that he openly admits to hurting people who’ve wronged him be a giant red flag?
Somewhere around here I have a French press and a bag of coffee beans. On tiptoes, I reach for the shelf where I think I stashed the coffee.
“Now,thatis the perfect morning view,” Dex says from behind me.
I turn, realizing my T-shirt isn’t covering my ass. “You’re tall. Come here and grab this bag for me so I can make you coffee.”
Regret flashes across his face. “I have to get going.”
“What?” Disappointment spills into my voice. “Why?” Damn, that sounds so clingy and needy. Just because I have no life, doesn’t mean he has nothing to do on the weekend.
“I probably should’ve done it yesterday.” He hesitates. “But I need to talk to my president about some work stuff.”
“What’s the work stuff?” Why am I being so nosy? We’ve shared enough personal info for the day. His club stuff isn’t my business. And yet, I plow ahead with the question. “Your ex-girlfriend? The stripper who came back from the dead?”
His eyes narrow. “She isnotmy ex.” He snorts a humorless laugh. “But yeah, I need to warn him about that, and it needs to be in person.”
I sense it’s important that he came here to talk to me last night. Then he spent a very patient morning listening to me share some dark shit. I dial back my disappointment that he’s leaving.
“Do you want to come up to the clubhouse with me?” he asks slowly, as if the question feels foreign on his tongue.
My heart jumps. I don’t think it’s an invitation he issues often. But I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet, either. “I can’t. I need to get my hair done.” I twirl a piece of my hair around my finger. “And I have to be at the school to pick Libby up when her bus gets in later.”
Disappointment flashes across his face, followed by what looks like relief? Maybe he’s not ready for that step either. “All right.”
