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The man peeked up and smiled at me, warming my insides. If he suspected that I shouldn’t be out here, he didn’t say anything.
“You got a request?” he asked.
Not this, I wanted to mutter, but I said instead, “Anything... newer?”
He threw a hand over his heart and let his jaw drop. “What? Not an Eminem fan?”
Wrinkling my nose, I shook my head, and we both chuckled.
Using one of those tattooed knuckles, he nudged my chin. “Sorry, kiddo. The playlist for club bonfires is fixed. The most I can do is remix some of the songs.”
I scowled at him.
With a laugh, he focused on the screen in front of him. “How ’bout this?”
After a second, the song continued, but it changed. The existing heavy beat blended with a more modern song, something I should recognize. But no matter how hard I thought, I couldn’t put my finger on it.
After a second, I thought I might have it. “Is that?—”
“Yup. Miley Cyrus.”
“It sounds surprisingly good.”
Graff gave me a smile that erased all worry written on his face. He approved, and it lit a spark in the pit of my stomach. What the hell?
My lips curled up too, but I broke eye contact and drew my gaze across his exposed tattoos. “Nice ink.” I reached forward and ran my fingers over the circle on the top of his middle finger with three tiny branches inside. Then, I let my finger drift across the other fingers, each decorated with a branch like inside the circle.
He froze, brows lifted, as he flicked his attention up and down from where I touched his hand to my face. Red splotched on his cheeks.
“Does it have meaning?”
“Yes.” He balled his hand into a fist and dropped it to his side. The clipped word and his action made it clear he wouldn’t say more.
“I don’t have any tattoos,” I said, following his lead and curling my fingers away from him. “My father would never allow me.”
“Your uncle has them.” Graff tilted his head as the next song started.
He had been acting like he didn’t know who I was, but he knew. Furthermore, he probably knew everything about me. If the MC was like the Mafia, they had their own intel about me. So Graff probably already knew that I didn’t have any tattoos.
Had he seen the bikini pictures from our last family vacation to Sicily? Did the MC care about my grades in college or my degree in criminal justice? Or my MBA? Did they know about all the guys I’d dated in college—always a jock with a business degree. The hockey players had been my faves. Too bad I never let any of them in my pants, because now, it seems like I would be losing my virginity to a biker bastard.
Although, if I thought long and hard about it... or if they did... they would probably have more interest in my bank account or if my father told me anything about his business. He didn’t, but I knew. Growing up in the Mafia with one of the highest-ranking capos for the Gambinos gave me access to lots of intel.
Not that I planned to share.
“Yeah, so does Papà.” I snorted. “One of his many double standards. But Rafe wasn’t under my father’s thumb when he got his.”
Graff clicked away on the equipment, the blue light casting ghostly shadows around his eyes. “Your father’s probably just being protective. Women leaders are better at keeping things equitable.”
“Equitable?” I questioned, but he just kept his focus on the screen. Not a word I would have expected from a rough biker with ink for days. And women leaders?
I studied Graff under my dark eyelashes until he pointed at the screen with gun fingers, then curled his thumbs. The screamy heavy metal song blended with something lyrical.
“You’ve got quite an ear.”
“Thanks.” He winked at me and leaned onto the table with one elbow. “He wasn’t?”
I furrowed my brows at him.
