Page 8 of Misguided
The hairs on my neck prickle, and I realize that while I’ve been watching the boys unload the van, Dog’s been watching me. I turn my head and fix him with a frown.
“Words, Dog.”
He shrugs again, both hands jammed in his pockets. “Never seen you without makeup is all.”
“Well, now you have.” I lift my shoulders a little, hoping my sweater will hide me some.
“Still as gorgeous as ever, though.”
He reaches out and brushes my hair from my face, which results in my back going a stiff as a board. His is the first non-platonic touch I’ve received in over a year, and I’m not too sure how I feel about that. Especially since I made a promise to myself to only ever be friends with the guy.
Too many memories of awkward failed kisses for this tender ego to handle right now.
“Seriously,” I snap. “Stop before you really embarrass yourself.”
“Come on, Mel. Don’t be like that.” He ducks his head a little to level our gazes. “I’m still on a fuckin’ high from seeing my girl here in the flesh when I thought she was gone for good.” He sighs, twitching a small smile. “I missed you, missed our chats. Missed seein’ your smile.”
I shake my head and back up a step. ”Dog, we went there. It didn’t end well, remember?”
“Went where?”
I peer out from under my lashes at him, giving my best “don’t fuck with me” stare.
“Can’t fault a guy for tryin’.” He shrugs.
“Except your timing is way off.” I’m not even home yet, still on the way back to the club after being hidden from everyone I love for the past year. He could at least let me have a damn shower and sleep before he starts on with this.
He could at least give me time to catch my breath.
“Well,” he snaps. “Good to know you didn’t feel the same way, then.”
“Don’t, Dog. I’ve missed everyone, I just …”
“Didn’t miss me that much.”
“I missed my friend,” I stress. “I want my friend here right now, okay?”
I expect the usual brush off, the “I wasn’t interested anyway” bullshit that comes when you wound a man’s pride. I don’t expect the absolute shutdown that happens right before my eyes.
Dog’s gaze falls to the ground, his shoulders curl inward, and he jams his hands in his pockets as he walks back to his bike.
I almost feel sorry for the guy.
Almost.
“Dog giving you grief already?” King asks as he approaches.
I look over to the man in question as he flops dramatically onto his bike and stares at the wall with his arms folded.
“He seems more sensitive than I remember.” I pull my chin back, making a mock “oops” face.
King frowns. “Something’s up with him these past few days. Don’t let it bother you. I’ll have a quick word.” He pats me on the arm and follows after Dog to have a quiet conversation in the corner of the barn.
I turn my attention to the prospects that unload an unmarked stock standard bike from the back of the van. They wheel it over next to Hooch’s, transfer his gear over, and then wheel Hooch’s custom bike into the van in the spare bike’s place.
All the while my brother makes cutesy with his new plaything. I’m happy for him, honestly, but damn, talk about feeling like the fifth wheel.
I hover on my spot, trying to decide what to do. I can’t get on Dog’s bike yet because King is still having words with him, and I can’t help the prospects because that would undermine their job; take away their pride in doing what they’ve been instructed to by the president.