Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(77)

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Common area,” Dash answered at the same time Emmett said, “Party room.”

I’d take The Betsy over the Tin Gypsy party room any day.

“Knife’s gone.” Draven’s voice echoed in the room as he came rushing down the hall. “Given the fresh smudges in the dust on my desk, it was taken recently.”

“Cameras.” Emmett snapped his fingers, already moving for a door behind the bar. “Let me see if they picked anything up.”

Draven followed Emmett, leaving Dash and me alone.

I’d been so busy inspecting the room, I hadn’t noticed him. He stood frozen, staring blankly at a pair of double doors directly in front of us.

“Hey.” I walked to his side, slipping my hand in his. “Are you okay?”

“Haven’t been here in a year. It’s strange.” He squeezed my fingers tight. “It was easier to stay away. To shut it out.”

“Do you want to wait outside?”

“Had to face it sometime.” He pulled me to a hallway on the right of the party room, different than the one Draven had taken when he’d gone in search of his knife. “Come on.”

The hall was dim, with closed doors on both sides. From the outside, the building didn’t seem all that large, but it was deceiving. Though not as tall, it had to be at least double the size of the garage.

Dash kept hold of my hand but jerked his chin at one of the doors. “This was where some of the guys would stay if they didn’t have a house. Or if they just needed to crash.”

These were their rooms. “Did you have one?”

He stopped at the last door down the hallway, using a different key from his chain to unlock the deadbolt. Then he pushed the door aside.

The smell in here was different, still dusty but there was a hint of Dash’s natural spice clinging to the air. There was a window, boarded up like the others. And a bed covered with a simple khaki quilt stood in the middle of the room.

No pillows. No end table. No lamp. Only the bed and an old wooden dresser in the corner.

“This was your room?” I stepped in farther, letting go of his hand to flick on the light. Then I walked to the dresser, swiping my finger through the coat of dust on top.

“This was my room.” Dash leaned on the doorframe. “I thought maybe it would look different. Feel different. Thought I’d miss it.”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Maybe I would have two days ago. But not now.”

Oh, Dash. I hated standing by, watching as his heart broke. I hated that something he’d held dear, something he’d once loved—the club—had been tainted.

“What’s this?” I walked over to the bed, picking up the leather square folded neatly on top of the quilt.

“My cut.”

“That’s what you call your vests, right?”

He nodded, stepping up behind me. “When you prospect the club, you get a cut. It has the club’s patch on the back and a prospect patch on the front.”

“How long did you have to prospect?”

“Six months. But Emmett and I were exceptions. Normally it’s about a year. Long enough we knew the guy was serious. That he’d fit in.”

“Then what happened?” I unfolded the vest, laying it carefully on the bed. My fingers ran over the white patch below the left shoulder, the word President stitched in black thread.

“Then you’re in the club. You’re family.”

I turned the vest over, staring at the patch on the back as Dash looked on. “This is beautiful.”

The few pictures I’d seen of the Tin Gypsy emblem had been in black and white from old newspapers. But in color, the design was stunning. Artful and menacing at the same time.

The club name was written at the top in Old English lettering. Beneath it was a detailed and carefully stitched skull.

A skull, exactly the same as the tattoo on Dash’s arm.

One half of the face was made entirely of silver thread, giving it a metallic feel. Behind it was a riot of orange, yellow and red-tipped flames. The other half of the skull was white. Simple. Except for the colorful head wrap over the skull and delicate, almost feminine stitching around the eye, mouth and nose. It was like a sugar skull with a harsh, violent edge.

Live to Ride

Wander Free

Below the skull, the words were stitched in threads grayed from years of wear.

How long had Dash worn this cut? How many days had he put it on? How hard had it been to fold it up and leave it here, collecting dust in a forsaken room?

Dash put a hand on my shoulder, turning me into his chest. His hands came to my face. His mouth dropped to mine. And he kissed me soft and sweet, like a thank-you.

When he broke away, he dropped his forehead to mine.

“I bet you’ve kissed a lot of women in this room,” I whispered.

“Some,” he admitted. “But none were you.”

My eyes drifted closed. This was not the right place or the right time for this conversation, but questions hung between us, begging to be asked. “What’s going on, Dash? With us?”

“I don’t know. It’s more than I thought it would be.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “You kind of snuck up on me.”