Page 9 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)

Dylan

I checked my phone for the fifth time in two minutes, which was absolutely not pathetic at all—just diligent. Responsible, even. Gael would be here any minute, assuming he didn’t chicken out.

Fuck, why was I so nervous? This wasn’t even a date. This was me being a good friend, showing Liv’s brother the ropes, helping him figure out his sexuality. Community service, really.

The fact that I’d spent twenty minutes picking out these painted-on jeans and this muscle tank that showed off my tattoos was purely coincidental.

And jerking off in the shower thinking about his hands on my body—well, that was just…

preparation. Getting it out of my system so I could think clearly tonight.

“Dylan!” A cheerful voice made me spin around. “What are you doing lurking outside like a creep?”

I spotted my friend Mike bouncing up to me, a blur of glitter and enthusiasm in a sparkly purple jumpsuit that would’ve been ridiculous anywhere else. He looked like a disco ball had exploded on a very attractive blonde twink.

“Not lurking,” I said, grateful for the distraction. “Waiting for someone.”

“Ooh, a date?” Mike clapped his hands.

I rolled my eyes. Mike had been trying to jumpstart my love life since we’d met at Pride three years ago. “It’s not a date. I’m just showing a friend around.”

“Uh-huh. Hence the ‘fuck me’ jeans.”

“This is just how I dress.”

“Honey, you dress like a straight man in a biker bar. This is you trying to get laid. So who’s this friend you’re waiting for?” Mike asked, pulling out a compact mirror to check his lip gloss. “Anyone I know?”

“Doubt it. He’s never been to a gay bar before.”

Mike gasped dramatically, snapping the compact shut. “A baby gay! How delicious. Is he cute?”

“He’s…” I started, then stopped. How did I even begin to describe Gael? Hot as fuck? Built like a goddamn superhero? “He’s alright.”

“Liar. You’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush.”

“You’re doing it right now!” Mike bounced on his toes, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is perfect. You have a crush!”

“Fuck off.” I checked my phone again. “And keep it down. The whole point is to help him feel comfortable, not scare him away with your… you.”

“My charming personality is an asset, thank you very much.”

I looked up, and my breath caught. Gael was walking our way, and he looked incredible.

He wasn’t dressed for the clubs, not really, but his jeans were dark-wash and perfectly fitted, showcasing his long legs and the curve of his ass.

His T-shirt was simple black cotton, but it stretched across his broad chest and shoulders in a way that made my mouth water.

His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d run his fingers through it.

“Holy shit. Incoming.” Mike was already taking a step forward. “Hope he likes purple.”

Something hot and possessive flared in my chest. I grabbed Mike’s arm, pulling him back. “He’s taken.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “That’s your baby gay?”

“Yep.”

“He doesn’t look like a baby at all. And I thought you said you were just friends.”

“We are.”

“You have zero self-control. On what planet are you going to dance with that man and not try to fuck him?”

“I have self control. And besides, he’s not my type.”

“Ooh, a top?” Mike perked up.

“Nah, he’s a bottom.” That was a bald-faced lie. I was almost positive Gael was a top—another reason we’d never work out. But there was no reason to give Mike hope.

“Fuck, why are all the muscle hunks bottoms? It’s a damn shame. I love a big strong guy whose only mission is to wreck me properly.” With that, Mike spotted someone else and rushed off to chat.

Gael spotted me, and his face lit up, his smile sunny and warm enough to make my knees weak. Time slowed as he closed the distance between us.

“Hey!” Gael’s voice was warm and slightly breathless. “Sorry, I hope I’m not late. I got turned around trying to find parking.”

“You’re perfect,” I said, then cleared my throat. “I mean, right on time.”

Gael’s eyes did a slow sweep of my outfit, lingering on my bare arms and collarbone. When his gaze met mine again, there was heat there that made my skin prickle.

“I should apologize,” he said, gesturing to his own clothes. “I don’t really have anything sexy. This is pretty much the nicest outfit I own.”

I almost laughed. If Gael thought he needed different clothes to be sexy, he was delusional. The man could wear a garbage bag and still have guys lining up to take him home.

“Trust me,” I said. “You’re doing just fine.”

The bass hit me in the chest the moment we walked through the doors of Under Colfax, the music so loud I felt it in my bones. Colored lights swept across the packed dance floor, and the air was thick with sweat, cologne, and the kind of sexual energy that made even straight guys question things.

This was exactly what Gael needed. A full immersion into gay culture, surrounded by hot guys who’d be more than happy to show him a good time.

So why did the thought of anyone else touching him make me want to punch something?

I forced myself to focus on the practical shit as we approached the cover-charge table.

This was about friendship. About helping Liv’s brother figure himself out.

The fact that I’d been half-hard since seeing him in those jeans was irrelevant.

I could handle a night of casual fun without turning it into something deeper.

I was Dylan fucking Kim—king of no-strings-attached hookups. This was just sexy fun between friends.

“Twenty each,” the guy at the table said, stamping our hands with UV ink. “And if you want to join tonight’s color-coded fun, temporary tattoos are five bucks.” He waved his hand across the display of little bandanas.

Gael looked confused, so I leaned closer to explain, trying to ignore how good he smelled. “It’s like the old bandana code from back in the day. Different colors mean different things you’re looking for.”

“What kind of things?” Gael’s voice was curious, but I caught the nervous edge underneath.

“We’ve got twelve different options tonight. Right hand for top, left for bottom, black for leather play, yellow for watersports…” He rattled off the list like he was reading a menu.

“Watersports?” Gael whispered as the man kept talking.

“I’ll explain it later,” I whispered back.

“…and lastly, orange is for if you’re just cruising and not interested in a hookup.”

Gael cleared his throat. “Orange sounds good,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Left hand.”

I swallowed hard. Had Gael clocked the left/right thing correctly?

“I’ll skip it,” I squeaked, my eyes dropping to Gael’s thickly rounded ass. If he was a bottom, I was so fucked.

Then again, he’d never even hooked up with a man, so how could he know, really?

A petite person with rainbow hair applied the temporary tattoo to the back of Gael’s left hand with a wide, flirty smile. The orange bandana design was small but visible, and I wondered if it would give people ideas.

“Drink first, or straight to dancing?” I asked, raising my voice over the music.

Gael glanced toward the bar, then at the dance floor. “Dancing. I think I need to jump in before I lose my nerve.”

I grinned, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the floor. The contact sent electricity up my arm, but I ignored it, weaving us through the crowd until we found a spot with enough room to move.

The song was something with a driving beat that made it impossible to stand still. I let the music take over, rolling my shoulders and moving my hips, feeling the familiar rush of letting go. Dancing was one of the few times I could shut off my brain.

The club was warm, bodies pressed close together, and within minutes I was sweating. Without thinking, I grabbed the hem of my tank and pulled it over my head, stuffing it into my back pocket. Half the guys on the floor were shirtless anyway—it was practically expected.

When I turned back to Gael, he was staring at my chest with an expression that made my cock twitch. His eyes traced the lines of my tattoos, lingering on the geometric design that wrapped around my ribs.

“Your turn,” I said, nodding at his shirt.

Gael’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it off in one smooth motion, revealing a torso that made my mouth go dry.

Motherfucker.

I’d known he was built, but seeing him bare-chested was something else entirely.

His shoulders were broad, his chest defined, with thickly muscled pecs and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans.

His abs weren’t magazine-perfect, but they were close.

And they were real—the kind that came from actual physical work rather than gym vanity.

And then I saw the scar.

It was small, puckered pink against his golden skin, maybe two inches below his left collarbone. The sight of it hit me like a physical blow, reminding me that this beautiful man had been shot. Had bled. Had almost died doing his job.

I reached out before I could stop myself, fingertips tracing the edge of the scar tissue. “Does it still hurt?”

Gael’s breath caught at my touch, but he didn’t pull away. “Only if I move a certain way, like yesterday when I crashed into that desk. I’m still dealing with scar tissue and range-of-motion issues. The PT wants me to stop babying it and do a lot of movement, so consider this therapy!”

The music pounded around us, but I barely heard it. All I could focus on was the warmth of his skin under my fingers, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath as worry pressed hard at the back of my throat.

“I’m okay, Dylan. Really.” A new song started, something with a heavier beat, and Gael grinned, stepping back and starting to move. “Come on, I thought you were going to show me how this works.”

I forced myself to focus on the music, on the reason we were here. Gael was an excellent dancer, and I could see his Latin heritage in the way he moved his hips—clearly someone, somewhere along the line, had taught him salsa.