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He rumbles with laughter. “That’s what we pay him to do.”
I touch his leather vest. “His vest is kind of like yours, but I didn’t see the same patches.” I tap my finger under his Lost Kings MC patch.
He flicks his gaze down to where I’m touching and I snatch my hands away. “Sorry, am I allowed to touch your vest?”
He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips, dusting a kiss against my knuckles. “You’re allowed to touch anything on me, firecracker.” He presses my palm against his chest to demonstrate.
Something tickling at the back of my mind says this is a big deal. Didn’t I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to touch a biker’s patches? We lock eyes and whatever I might’ve read doesn’t seem important anymore.
“You just made my night a thousand times better,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead. “And to answer your question, Malik’s still a prospect, so he doesn’t have all his patches yet.”
I can use the context clues to figure out what a prospect is. “How is that mountain of a man not fully patched?” I ask.
“Takes more than size,” he answers.
“I’m kidding. Sort of.”
“We call the patches ‘colors,’” he says.
“Colors,” I repeat.Easy enough to remember. They’re colorful.
A hard clack from the front of the club draws my attention to the stage. One of the girls is holding her body in a horizontal line away from the pole. She makes a wide “V” with her legs and snaps them together, knocking her high-heeled platform shoes together.
“Dear God,” I mutter, resting my hand on my stomach. “I can’t even imagine the core strength it takes to dothat.” The physics of the movement alone hurts my brain. And yet, the woman swings her body upside down and repeats the foot-clap movement. All while making it look effortless. My breath catches in my lungs, waiting for her to spin herself right side up and safely return to the stage. A few seconds later, she does, executing a number of drops and graceful spins before landing in a split at the bottom of the pole.
Men cheer and throw money at her. She crawls seductively over the stage to collect the cash and that’s when I lose interest in the performance.
“That takes a lot of…athletic skill,” I say to Dex.
His gaze briefly shifts to the stage, then back to me.
“The pole work,” I clarify. “Seems insulting she has to crawl around on the stage after performing such complicated moves.”
He tilts his head. “Not a lot of people recognize the skill it takes.”
“Peopleor male customers?” I arch a brow.
His lips quirk. “Good point.” He glances at the stage again. “She was a finalist in last year’s national pole fitness championships.”
“Wow.” I blink a few times. I had no idea pole fitness championships were even a thing. “That must be a big draw for your club.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know how many of our customers keep up on the world of pole fitness.”
The dancer has moved on to removing what’s left of her minuscule red lace outfit, which seems depressing and banal after the earlier part of her performance.
“She should be in the Olympics, not showing her tits and bits to greasy strangers,” I say.
Dex bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to agree with me. Or trying not to laugh. I can’t tell.
“Have I mentioned how happy I am to see you?” he says instead.
I curl my fingers in his shirt, tugging him closer. “Yes, but I don’t mind hearing it again.”
He kisses my cheek, lingering for a moment. “I am.”
Even though his attention is mostly focused on me, every few seconds, he turns his head to scan the room, checking out the crowd.
“Do you need to get back to work?” I ask. After all, I did ambush him, and I understand he has responsibilities.
