Joker (Hell's Ankhor #8) - Aiden Bates Page 0,41

those things, either. We didn’t have that kind of relationship, no matter how much I wanted it. He’d have to get that validation from his club. But I didn’t have any doubt he would. With a grin, I clapped him on the shoulder.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “They loved the design plans, remember? And they loved your ideas for the clubhouse reno.”

Joker nodded, but he still didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, I know they saw the design, but that’s different than seeing the final product.”

“They’ll lose their minds. I’d put money on it.” I caught Joker’s eyes, smiling, and his offered me a small smile, too. His gaze flickered over my face, lingering on my lips. We were standing so close together, both our hands on the sign. Close enough that it wouldn’t take much for me to fold my hand over his.

Joker swallowed, then cut his gaze back down to the sign. But he didn’t move away.

“If I keep doing serious shit like this, they’ll have to change my club tag,” he muttered.

“Is that a thing that happens?” I asked. “I’m still learning the ins and outs of club life, but the guys seem kind of attached to their tags…”

“I was joking,” Joker said with a coy smile.

I knocked my shoulder against his again. “Should’ve known. You get your tags when you’re patched in, right?”

“Yeah,” Joker said. “Part of the transition from prospect to real member.”

“What’s your real name, then?” I asked. It was like I suddenly realized I didn’t know anything about his pre-club life, really, other than his brother, and his bad relationship with his parents. And I wanted to know, without prying. Maybe this would open the door. “I mean—if you’re okay with me asking.”

Joker huffed a laugh. “Only if you promise not to laugh at me.”

“Laugh?” I asked. “Why would I? It’s your name.”

“Not really. Joker’s my name. But my driver’s license says Lawrence.” He cringed.

My eyes widened a little. “All right, I see what you mean. You don’t really seem like a Lawrence.” I grinned. “Like, at all.”

Joker rolled his eyes, smiling, and shoved me playfully. “I know! That’s why I usually don’t tell people.”

I caught his hand, my fingers wrapped around his wrist, and I tugged his hand to my chest. Joker’s eyes widened. We were facing each other, and a flush spread across Joker’s cheeks.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Good reflexes.”

His pulse pounded under my thumb. But my grip wasn’t tight—he could easily pull away. Or step back. Anything to reset the delicate balance we’d established, to take things back to normal. And that would’ve been the responsible thing to do. But suddenly, in the chilly shop with the music playing low and the sun setting, I just…

I didn’t want to let go.

And from the way Joker’s mouth dropped open, and the way his breath caught in his throat, I knew he felt the same.

I tugged at his wrist, and pulled him in closer, and he stepped forward willingly, that cute, shocked expression still on his face. God, the cool fall air carried the distant smell of campfire smoke, and this close, I could smell the edge of it in Joker’s cologne.

That cologne. It made me so stupid. Made me reckless and impulsive. I tucked my face into the crook of his neck without thinking and inhaled.

Joker shuddered hard, like the contact shocked him. He tugged his wrist from my grasp, but only to rest his hands on my hips instead, so we were pressed flush together, chest to chest.

“Brennan,” he said in a slightly strangled voice.

He smelled so good: that woodsy cologne, the crisp distant fall campfire scent, the fresh wood, an edge of warm sweat. I suppressed a groan—it made me want to get my mouth all over him. I curled one arm around his waist, keeping him close. Our legs slotted together easily, and I felt his cock half-hard against my hip. The pressure made him exhale hard as he skated one hand up my back to grip my nape.

“Your guard dog won’t be happy about this,” Joker murmured.

That phrase was like a bucket of ice water down my spine. I pulled back so I could see his face, but I kept my hands at his waist. “What? You mean Dawson?”

“Course I do,” Joker said quietly. “He made it pretty clear what he thinks of me.”

I sighed. I’d hoped what Dawson had said at Ballast wouldn’t linger with Joker, but clearly, he’d made an impression. “Dawson’s been my friend