My stomach roiled as I remembered seeing Ryan in the ICU all bloody and bruised.
All the levity left Dylan, and I swore I could see tears shimmering in his hazel eyes. “It’s a long story. And I know I owe you an explanation, but please just let me do it over dinner. I’ll cook for you, and then I’ll tell you everything. I just…please?”
He did that pleading thing with his eyes that always got me. “Fine.” I bit out. “You can tell me after dinner. I have a feeling that I won’t be able to eat once you get going. I’ll go take a shower.”
“Thank you.” Dylan shouted at my back as I walked out of the room.
Somehow, I felt like I’d lost the battle. No matter how much I tried, I always turned into a doormat—letting anyone and everyone get their way.
Which was how I ended up homeless, living on my friend’s couch with no answers about what the heck happened last night.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to enroll in accounting school. Sure, I’d probably hate my life, but at least I’d have a roof over my head and money in my pocket.
When I opened the door to the spare room, the sight that met me had me sighing in exhaustion. Three easels took up any space my suitcases had left. Despite the drop cloth on the floor, I could see splotches of paint on the carpet. Dylan was never going to turn this into a bedroom for me. I’d be sleeping on the couch forever. Or maybe that was the turpentine fumes.
Gagging, I grabbed some clean-ish clothes that no doubt smelled the same as the bedroom and hightailed it for the shower.
Life had to get better soon, right? It had to stop kicking me in the teeth at some point.
* * *
Dylan had gone all out. Cleaned off the table—although judging by the pile on the coffee table, I had a suspicion where it’d all ended up. Lit some candles. Got out placemats—I didn’t even know he had those. It was all so pretty.
And it made my stomach burn. It had to be bad if he’d gone to all this trouble.
“Sit, sit.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just waiting on the potatoes in the microwave. How about a glass of wine? Red okay?”
“Sure.” I smiled uncertainly. Dylan was more of a beer guy, so I had my doubts about the wine, but he was trying.
“So how was work?” He asked as he popped the cork.
The pseudo-date atmosphere had me unnerved. Or maybe that was the reminder of work. Swallowing hard, I crossed over to the table, and pulled a chair out. “Work was work.”
I didn’t want to get into my precarious position at the library. Because given half a chance, Dylan would draw the conversation out until I forgot what we were here for. And I wanted answers.
I gave him a slightly bitter smile. “I reshelved books while Elaine played Candy Craze on her phone and Neil hid in his office. Typical Friday. What’s with the easels in your spare room? Slow day at the shop?”
Dylan worked with his brothers at Badass Builds making custom motorcycles, while filming a reality show about their dysfunctional relationship. The guys would argue, occasionally fight while the cameras recorded it all. Unlike most shows, theirs was unscripted because their lives were so crazy, they didn’t need to make anything up. Dylan was one of the more level-headed brothers, partly because he worked by himself doing the paint jobs, but also because that was Dylan.
Which made his behavior and unlikely alliance with the Kings so bizarre. This wasn’t the Dylan I knew.
Dylan avoided my eyes as he set the potatoes, salad, and steaks down. “I took the day off. Had to think some things through.”
“Which you usually do with a paintbrush in your hand. Right.” The turpentine smell lingered in the air. Or maybe it lingered on my clothes. Either way, it didn’t pair well with the steak or the wine. I felt kinda nauseous. I watched in silence as Dylan loaded my plate with food.
“Also, I didn’t want to run into Nathan and answer awkward questions about your love life.” He laughed down at his plate like it was a freaking joke.
I didn’t know if he found the thought of my love life funny or me with a biker hilarious, but I was annoyed. And more than a little hurt.
“So, you got my texts.” But hadn’t bothered to reply to a single one. I dropped my fork with a clank. “I can’t do this, Dyl. You gotta tell me what the hell is going on. Now.”
“Fine.” Dylan heaved a huge sigh and pushed his plate away like he couldn’t stomach the thought of eating either. “It’s kinda long though, so let me get through it before you ask any questions.”
Because I owed him in this situation. I shook my head and contradicted it with a quiet, “Sure.”
“Back in high school—”
“High school?” How far did this crap go? Did I ever really know Dylan?
“Yeah. High school.” A muscle flexed in Dylan’s jaw. “You gonna let me tell the story or what?”
My eyes went wide at his terse tone, and I jerked my head in a quick nod.
“As I was saying. Back in high school, money was kinda tight, and Austin and Nathan were trying to set up their own shop. I wanted to help out, so I got a little side job. While you and Sabby were at volleyball practice, I started delivering packages for the West Coast Kings.”
Delivering packages? I knew what that meant. Everyone knew the West Coast Kings were deep in the drug trade. It was the main reason the network wouldn’t let the guys show who their clients were in the first season of the show. Before the Kings
