Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8)
Page 50
Ian turned toward him, and Ghost glanced over, found him deeply troubled in a way he hadn’t shown inside the clubhouse, in front of everyone. “He knew things about me – things that I don’t share freely.” His throat jumped. “I suspect he knows things about all of us, and I want to know why.”
“I do, too. I’ll be asking him that, when we start with the questioning.”
Ian nodded, and cast one last look at the prisoner. “I suppose I’m lucky,” he mused. “I had every reason to turn out just like him.”
“No,” Ghost disagreed.
“No. I had a few dark angels on my side.” He smiled, fleetingly, and pressed Ghost’s shoulder as he passed. “Goodnight, Kenny.”
“Goodnight, Ian.” The door thudded shut. To Luis, he said, “Get ready to sing, little bird. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”
In a flat voice, Luis said, “Will you let me live if I do?”
“Oh, no. You’re dead either way. But one way I put a bullet in your skull. The other, I let Mercy make gator food out of you first.”
~*~
Reese took longer than was strictly necessary in the shower, scrubbing the stink of a dead man’s clothes off his skin, working all the knots from his hair. He was pleased, warm inside with it, glad of a job well done. Fox had clapped him on the shoulder and said so, and, rather than the blank, cold sense of having done his job, he’d felt something more like pleasure. His mouth had tugged, and he’d realized he wanted to smile.
Threat neutralized, Luis captured, civilians saved – that was a whole new pleasure, one he’d never expected back in his days with Badger’s crew – and the promise of much more work on the horizon. For all that his muscles were pleasantly tired, he was eager, too, ready for more.
He shut the taps off when the water got cold – because he was someone who enjoyed hot showers now, the way the heat soothed the tension from his body and left him loose and relaxed.
He dried off, combed his hair, wrapped a towel around his waist, stepped out into his dorm–
And found Tenny waiting there, sitting at the end of his bed.
He’d showered, too; his hair was damp, and he wore a tank top, and soft, plaid pajama pants. He worked his fingers together in his lap, but didn’t seem otherwise nervous – at least, not as nervous as he had been lately.
Reese waited a moment, and then moved to sit beside him. He didn’t touch him at first, wasn’t sure…But some instinct tugged him to action. Not so much a conscious thought, because he still lacked the finer points of social interaction.
But this wasn’t a social interaction. This was him, and Tenny, and there wasn’t much he had to think about anymore, when it came to them.
He reached to place his hand gently at the back of Tenny’s neck. Tenny’s mouth opened on a soft, rushing exhale. Reese moved upward, scratching up his nape, burying his fingers in soft, damp hair, cradling his skull.
Tenny lowered his head down to rest on Reese’s shoulder. The skin of his temple and cheek was warm, baby-soft. He let out another breath, and his spine bent as that bare bit of tension left his body.
They sat like that a long moment. Reese wanted to kiss him, but not desperately; was content to pet his hair, and the side of his neck, surprised by the pleasure he found in that simple touch. He’d never been someone who wanted to touch others, before.
Tenny said, “There’s something I want to tell you – but not yet. Soon.”
“Okay.”
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
“Yes.”
Tenny laid a hand on his thigh, on the towel that covered it. “My sweet idiot,” he murmured.
And that filled Reese with warm pleasure, too.
~*~
Leah answered the door with her hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. She was the loveliest thing Carter had ever seen.
Neither of them spoke. He stepped inside, shut the door, and locked it. Then he reached for her, just as she stepped into him. He caught her face in his hands; smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks, shiny in a way that he thought meant she’d been crying. He hadn’t kissed her on the sidewalk, before, but he did now. A slow, firm press; felt her lashes flicker against his cheeks while his own eyes started to sting.
It was quiet, the apartment still. He’d thought he would be desperate, that they’d paw at one another and tear clothes off.
Instead, he pulled back, pressed their foreheads together, and they breathed, in and out, in and out.
She smoothed her hands up and down his chest, between the halves of his cut, an absent, soothing touch. “Have you ever done that before?”
“Put on a dead guy’s clothes to infiltrate their infiltration?” he tried to joke.
She flicked a humorless smile that he could just see, blurred by their closeness. “Killed somebody.”
“No. Don’t ask me to feel bad about it.”
“I won’t.” She pulled back a fraction. “If you won’t apologize for what happened.”
“But–”
“The club is dangerous. The world is dangerous. I’d rather have the club danger, and you in my life, than believe the lie that I’m safer if I’m not involved.”
He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Why did you stand up to them?”
“Because I couldn’t stand by and watched innocent people get hurt.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” He passed his thumb over her cheek again. He never wanted to stop touching her. “Do you know how brave, and stubborn, and beautiful, and wonderful you are?”
She gave him the softest look. “Do you know you’re all of those things, too?”
He sniffed, and told himself that he wouldn’t cry – though he knew she would hold him if he did.
He pulled her in close to his chest, reassured by the flutter of her pulse against his stomach, where they were pressed together. “I want to tell you that things will get better. But I think it’s gonna be crazy for a while.”
She stroked his back. “I figured. Good thing your old lady’s pretty crazy, too, huh?”
He kissed the top of her head. Full of warmth, and gratitude, and hope, which seemed so odd, after the day they’d had.
He supposed that was what it meant to be a Lean Dog – why he’d stayed one, all this time, and wanted to be one, still. Under the wild parties, and the loud tailpipes, the danger, the risk, the sacrifice; the scorn of a city, and the fear of a populace. There was something real. Something old as stone and twice as solid. A sense of taking life into one’s hands: grabbing it by the horns – by the handlebars.
It wasn’t a burden. Wasn’t falling into lockstep. It was freedom. The freedom to choose what happened next. What wars were waged; what causes were championed. The freedom to live on your own terms. With your brothers. Your lover. Your family.
He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. And felt like he’d finally come home, at long last.
THE END
About the Author:
Lauren Gilley is the author of over twenty novels, including the Dartmoor Series, and her Sons of Rome paranormal fantasy saga. She writes contemporary and historical novels with a focus on found family and surviving tough odds. She blogs, sometimes, at hoofprintpress.blogspot.com, and accepts emails at authorlaurengilley@gmail.com. When she’s not writing, she’s mucking horse stalls, or walking her giant dog.
You can also find her on:
Instagram: @hppress
Twitter: @lauren_gilley
Facebook: “Lauren Gilley – Author”
Other Titles by Lauren Gilley:
The Dartmoor/Lean Dogs Legacy Series (in reading order):
Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke
Snow In Texas
Tastes Like Candy
Loverboy
American Hellhou
nd
Shaman
Prodigal Son
Lone Star
The Sons of Rome Series
White Wolf
Red Rooster
Dragon Slayer
Golden Eagle
Lionheart (coming soon)
The Russell Series
Made for Breaking
God Love Her
Keeping Bad Company
The Walker Series
Keep You
Dream of You
Better Than You
Fix You
Rosewood
Standalones
Whatever Remains
Walking Wounded
Shelter