Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Does it need to charge?” Dev mocked Cash’s tone.
“I don’t sound like that.” The line between Cash’s brow pulled together in a deep furrow. The iPad was placed on the cushion on the other side.
“I don’t sound like that,” he repeated in exactly the same teasing tone.
Dev changed his position, lifting to stand between Cash’s parted thighs. His palms went on either side of the sofa, caging Cash between his arms, coming face to face with his sophisticated guy. Cash looked every bit the part of a male model. The harness for his weapon strapped in place but the firearm was absent.
They played the staring game. Dev could look at Cash forever, but he won the contest when his pretty boy gave a shiver that turned into a full body shake.
Yeah, he liked the way Cash reacted when he got close. A make-out session was in order. His latest prerequisite before they landed in bed for the night.
Dev stopped a good six inches from placing a kiss on Cash’s lips and moved back, judging Cash’s reaction again. He raised an eyebrow as he tried to decipher between Cash being turned on and actually chilly.
=♥=
Since Cash complained endlessly about the lack of climate control in the entire building, he got why Dev pulled away, questioning the reason behind his shiver. The chilly air was a real problem because his cheap roommate kept the thermostat in their apartment set to sixty-five degrees.
Cash furrowed his brow further, waiting for some verbal redirection, guiding him to what his biker was thinking.
After the first few days of moving in, Cash had suggested he be the one to pay the electric bill, out of his own pocket. Dev teased him, making fun until Cash gave in and let the idea go. He’d just wear more clothes. But he’d sat on the sofa for too long. The lack of movement and the cool air got the best of him.
Dev was either going to kiss him or continue teasing him. “For someone who makes three-quarters of a million dollars a year, you’d think we could have a sounder structure to live in.”
The gauntlet was thrown.
Dev grinned and dipped lower, finally giving him the kiss only to jerk backward again. “Where the fuck did you get that I make seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year? That’s what you’re sayin’, right?”
His guy leaned farther back, giving Cash an off look. Cash narrowed his eyes, gauging the sincerity of Dev’s words.
“Your taxes last year. It’s what was reported to the Internal Revenue Service.”
Dev pushed off the sofa, standing to his full height as he stared down at Cash. The quick shifts in Dev’s alluring eyes spoke of processing quickly and a determination to hide whatever he couldn’t fully grasp.
Questions zinged through Cash’s head and spouted out his mouth. “So you didn’t make that much money? Then how much did you make? Are all the club businesses inflated like yours? Did you make half that amount?”
Cash lifted the pad, swiping a finger over the screen to draw up the information. As Dev backed off, Cash rose to follow the retreat while tapping the different folders inside the organizational system of the DOJ. He pulled up Dev’s tax records to make sure he was correctly relaying the information. Yep. Dev had reported an income of just shy of three-quarters of a million dollars.
In retrospect, it did seem quite a bit for a single tattoo artist no matter how Dev represented his artistic skill. He turned the screen to Dev who read the content then started to turn away.
Cash reached for Dev’s forearm, halting his retreat.
“You didn’t make this much money?” Cash asked cautiously, not wanting Dev to shut down on him, and they were most certainly there.
“I guess I fuckin’ did if that’s what it says,” Dev murmured, but his tone was all wrong.
“Tell me. I promise this stays between us,” Cash encouraged as Dev twisted his arm free of the hold.
“Does it?” Dev said in a complete non-answer, giving Cash his back.
“Who does your accounting?” Cash followed after Dev the two or three feet he moved around the apartment.
“I don’t know,” Dev answered and opened the refrigerator, putting the door between the two of them. He stood there, staring inside, purposely ignoring Cash. He suspected Dev was trying to find a reasonable answer.
“Your mom?” Cash remembered the role she was assigned in the club.
Dev snapped his gaze toward Cash, shaking his head as if the implication were crazy. “She does the bookkeepin’. She pays our bills and gives us our salary and takes the club’s portion out. We have CPAs for heavy tax liftin’. She doesn’t have access like that.”
“How much did you make last year?” Cash asked.
Dev clammed up again.
“Just tell me.”
“About half that and half of that went to the club,” Dev answered, turning away, sending the fridge door flying shut behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped back without looking until his ass hit the counter’s edge, showing his willingness to talk, or not. Cash wasn’t entirely sure but didn’t back down.