Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Right then.” He handed his duffel to Axelle – who actually staggered beneath the weight of it before she got it balanced – and reached to hook his hands under Raven’s arms and pull her out of the booth. She protested, but weakly, dishrag limp and barely conscious. “Can’t you hold any of your own weight?” he asked when he had her upright, one of her arms pulled over his shoulders, his own arm hooked around her waist.

  “Nope,” she sighed, and dropped her head down on his shoulder.

  “Of course not.”

  Her shoes had fallen off, no doubt still sat beneath the table somewhere, and her bare feet, her bright red nails, looked unbearably fragile against the grungy old hardwood of the pub floor. She had slender feet, the bones prominent beneath her skin; old calluses where impractical shoes had pinched over the years. Unstable as she was, she stood with her ankles turned at bad angles, terribly off-balance.

  As if reading his mind, Axelle set the bag down, ducked beneath the table, and came back out with the black pumps. “I don’t think she needs to put them back on now.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Follow me up?”

  “Yeah.”

  Slow and careful, staggering more than walking, Albie got her across the pub, and up all three flights of stairs to one of the many guest rooms. He was panting by the end, sweat gluing his shirt to his body.

  “You could help a little,” he said.

  Raven mumbled something indistinct and stumbled, nearly taking him down with her. They were of a height, and she ran heavier than he’d anticipated.

  “Fuck,” he said when, finally, he eased her down onto a sun-faded coverlet and reached to rub the stiffness from his neck.

  Axelle set the shoes down at the foot of the bed and looked like she wrestled with a grin. She went into the en suite and came back with a paper cup of water and two aspirin that she set on the bedside table – a shiny cherry wood piece older than all of them combined, nicked from years of love and abuse. When Axelle clicked on the lamp, Raven murmured a protest and pressed her face into the small mound of decorative pillows piled up at the headboard.

  “No, no, here.” Albie again reached for his dead-weight sister, maneuvering her onto her side, close enough to the edge of the bed so she could curl over and vomit into the wastepaper bin, but far enough back that she (hopefully) wouldn’t roll right off onto the floor and concuss herself. “Do you need anything?”

  She didn’t respond, her breathing evening out, slow and deep.

  “She’ll be down for the rest of the night,” Axelle said. “Unless she gets sick.”

  “Yeah.” His stomach felt as if he’d been the one to drink too much, the panic flaring again, wanting out, wanting purchase in his veins. “Would you…?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Axelle said.

  He waited for a follow-up: Not like I have anything else to do. Where am I gonna go? But none came.

  He nodded. “Thank you.” Then he cupped her elbow and steered her gently out into the hall, empty for the moment.

  He looked down that fraction of an inch that separated their near-equal heights, and paused. Just studied her a moment.

  She’d been softening toward him gradually; he’d seen her trust that afternoon, when he’d turned up the window, and her panic had turned to relief, quick, in the heat of the moment, but complete.

  Now, though, it looked like a transformation; like maybe she’d finally stopped fighting with herself, and dropped her façade. An openness she hadn’t shown before, an ease he couldn’t quite believe. Maybe it was just exhaustion, or maybe she’d picked the lesser of two evils in this battle, and would turn and flee the moment the dragon was slayed.

  Albie didn’t really care. “Charlie and Eden will be back here soon. We’ll need them to pull off the rescue. I’ve got some contacts to talk to, stones to turn over. I’ll be back by morning.” Hopefully.

  “Be careful.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not a monster.”

  “No, I never thought you were.” He squeezed her shoulder, which felt lame, but he didn’t really dare kiss her again. “Thanks for looking after my sister.”

  “You already said that.”

  “It deserves saying twice.”

  One more tight smile, another squeeze, and then he left.

  Twenty-Five

  No MC clubhouse ever really slept. Too many bodies moving back and forth, bikes and cars cranking up; beer to drink, and hash to smoke, and women to fuck, and illicit deals to bang out over cigarettes, good whiskey, and the threat of violence.

  Raven had counted on the noise, in fact. And that booth. She wondered, idly, how much vodka it took to kill a potted fern. She said a silent sorry to the poor plant and sat up on the bed where Albie had carefully arranged her, stone cold sober. She’d downed the first shot for real – to calm her shaking nerves, ease her throbbing tension headache, but not enough to dull her senses. The rest she’d sneakily dumped over her shoulder, in the dirt potted around the fern. Put on a bit of a show, played up being drunk; she wasn’t sure whether she should laugh at Albie’s gentle worry, or save the memories for blackmail purposes later.

  Probably the latter.

  Eyes shut, pretending to be good and passed out, Raven had heard some interesting things: Axelle offering to “keep an eye on her.” Albie thanking her. Some long pauses that had felt loaded…and looked that way, when she’d dared to crack her eyes open, Albie’s hand resting on Axelle’s shoulder. Careful there, Albert. You wouldn’t want to be too forward touching the girl’s shoulder. They’d eased her door shut, and she’d heard Axelle go across the hall, to the room where she was staying.

  The boys downstairs she could handle, and she even had a plan for transportation, but getting past Axelle would be the tricky part.

  She waited until half-past-eleven, when any mere mortal who’d had the kind of day they’d had would have long since grown sleepy and lax. She herself twitched all over with nerves. She’d been tempted, at the outset of Clive’s interrogation, to actually get smashed, as she’d claimed she was going to. But then the first edges of a plan had teased into view, and she’d grabbed onto it with both hands, digging in with her nails. The way she felt about Cass’s kidnapping had the ability to drown her. All that panic, that fear, that anguish – anticipated grief, more terrifying than the real thing – could render her immobile. A hostage to her own emotions. She couldn’t sit and think; she had to act. And fuck anyone who didn’t like what she was about to do. She wasn’t a member of this club; they couldn’t control her. And her little sister was in danger.

  She got to her feet at a glacial pace, trying to keep the bed from creaking, wincing when it did anyway. She made sure her phone was in her back pocket, then crept to the door barefoot. Turned the knob slow, slow, slow. Peeked out. The hall was empty. Axelle’s door stood ajar across the way; Raven glimpsed her socked feet at the end of the bed and watched them a long moment. When they didn’t move, not ever a toe twitch, she eased her own door open and tip-toed out into the hall.

  Each step sent a chill down her spine, until it was one rippling shiver, over and over. She held her breath, straining to hear. The dull roar of a crowd downstairs traveled up through the floorboards. Phillip would leave the pub open all night to keep the place from looking suspicious.

  She kept going, skin prickling, but Axelle never popped out into the hall and called after her.

  The hall hooked a right at the end, and Raven hastened her pace, walking normally now. Her destination loomed on the left, one polished hardwood door among many. The knob stuck a little when she turned it; no one ever used Michelle’s old room for guests, not ever, Phil had put his foot down about it.

  She fumbled the light switch, then turned on the softer table lamp and flicked the overheads back off, not wanting to draw attention.

  The room looked like Michelle had just skipped out of it on her way to breakfast. The soft blue quilt she’d had since babyhood, its lace edge stitched
by her mum. A series of baseball caps stacked on the bedpost: University of Tennessee, Atlanta Braves, Harley-Davidson, all gifts from Uncle King. Raven made a mental note to box them up later and ship them to her niece; it was hot and sunny in Texas, and she could use the caps to shade her fair face. There was the dressing table, and a collection of perfumes – all evaporated, their scent still lingering along with whiffs of detergent and furniture polish – old makeup, a few mementos: AC/DC concert tickets, old Polaroids of her with her uncles, bikes and cars that had struck her fancy. The closet door had never hung right, and it gapped now. All of it the same; someone kept the place clean and dust-free, but it was still every inch Chelle’s, and the sight and smell of it hit Raven full-in the face.

  No time for that.

  In the closet, she rooted out some clothes. Michelle was smaller than her in every dimension, but had always been fond of oversized hoodies and leggings. Raven found both in black and quickly traded her own now-rumpled chic clothes for them. Thick socks. They were thankfully the same shoe size, and she tugged on an old, battered pair of harness boots. Michelle lived in boots, and she’d no doubt taken her good ones to the States. This old pair might fall apart before the night was through, but they were better than pumps.

  She found a hair tie in the en suite, and pulled her hair back in a low, tight bun. Washed her face with water and the dregs of hand soap, got rid of the last of her mascara disaster from earlier. The last thing was a black bandana from the dresser, which she tied around her neck, ready to pull up over her nose and mouth.

  “What are you doing?”

  Raven spun, hands lifting – to do something. Strike, block, who knew what. Her heartrate skyrocketed.

  Tommy stood in the doorway, posture relaxed, truly curious.

  Raven exhaled. “I’m…um…”

  Tommy’s gaze narrowed. “Wait. Albie said you were passed out drunk.”

  “Did he?” She chuckled. It was forced, and he could no doubt hear it; she could taste it.

  “Why are you in Chelle’s old room? Are those her clothes you’ve got on?”

  “Oh, well, you know, I just…oh, goddamn it, Tommy! If you breathe a word of this–”

  “A word of what?” he asked innocently.

  She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t bat your lashes as me, Thomas, I’m not one of your club girlies who think it’s cute.”

  He batted his lashes extra hard.

  “I’ll pluck them right out, I swear. You know bloody well what I’m doing – I’m leaving. All of you want to sit on your thumbs and wait on Charlie to come charging in and save the day. Well, guess what? Charlie isn’t bloody Jesus. I’m a part of this, and I’m doing something. If you try to stop me, I’ll – I’ll–” She didn’t know what she’d do, but at the moment she didn’t trust herself against physical violence.

  He held up both hands, placating. “Okay, so I won’t stop you. But what if I at least come with you?”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do, actually.”

  She studied him. “You…look serious.”

  “I am. I’m tired of waiting around, too. I honestly don’t know what the hell we’re doing tonight.”

  “Thomas…are you trying to become my favorite brother?”

  He grinned. “It’d be a bonus. Come on, we can take my bike.”

  “Oh no. No, I’m not riding bitch. This is my mission.”

  “Your Rover’s still sitting in a valet lot across town.”

  “Okay. I’ll ride.” She shrugged.

  He started to protest – she could see it, the way he automatically frowned and took a breath to respond – but then he really thought about it, gaze going thoughtful. “You still know how?”

  She snorted. “I don’t forget things, darling.”

  A smile spread, slow, and he looked every inch the excited kid about to do something really wicked after curfew. “You wanna take Phil’s?”

  “God yes. Let’s go.”

  ~*~

  Phil had a brand new, all-black Triumph Bonneville Bobber. Custom wheels, wrapped pipes, matte finish. It didn’t just sit, but crouched in the garage, vicious and ready to pounce.

  The garage abutted Baskerville Hall, an old industrial building that had been gutted and converted; ambient light filtered in through the high windows, catching on the bike’s handlebars, a little flash of chrome in the engine block.

  Their footfalls echoed off the high ceiling, sharp clicks of boot heels on the concrete. Raven was caught between a mounting thrill – she had the keys in her hand, stolen off the peg by the back door, walking toward the beautiful machine, already feeling the wind on her face – and the terror of discovery. Even wrapped up in a loaned jacket, hair tied back, nighttime goggles perched on her nose, there was no mistaking her for a man. One prospect poking his head out here could blow her cover, and then Phil would take the keys, tell her how disappointed he was, and she just might throw a little kiddie temper tantrum right there on floor.

  But their luck held, and then she was right at the bike, and she swung her leg over.

  She didn’t believe in magic as a general rule. But something happened when she landed in that seat. A frisson of energy. A burst of hope. She put the key in and her nerves evaporated. She could do this. She would.

  “Helmet,” Tommy prompted, pulling her from her thoughts.

  “Right.” She buckled it on.

  He lifted the big roll-top door with its chain, just high enough for them to ride out, then dashed to his own bike.

  “You sure you can handle that thing?” he called.

  In answer, she started it up, and put up the kickstand with her heel. She and Phillip were almost the same height, and her legs were longer, even, so it wasn’t an issue of size. But once it was running, its engine chuckling and purring and vibrating so much she felt it in her teeth, the machine felt huge.

  In a good way.

  She twisted the throttle and rolled out; she thought she heard Tommy laugh behind her, and then they were away.

  ~*~

  She’d been seventeen the summer they taught her to ride. Phil had helped, but it had been mostly Albie and King; the two of them had looked almost like twins back then, save King was a little cuter, and Albie frowned more. She’d ridden behind Albie on the way out to an empty field that had once been a warehouse, one of those urban pastures with patchy grass, old bits of asphalt peeking through, crisps bags and long snarls of plastic catching in the grass like blown-down leaves, a factory belching steam and smoke just across the river from them. A gray, leaden, cold day, the air nipping at her nose, and her fingers, even through the too-big riding gloves they’d loaned her.

  That had been the start of a five-year run as one of London’s most sought-after models; she’d been thin and gangly as a colt, all legs, plenty of reach to get to the handlebars and foot pegs. She hadn’t looked like a model that day, and hadn’t felt like one either; the jaded flat stare of her work life was traded for windburned cheeks and breathless laughter as she struggled to figure out how to ride the damn thing her whole family was built around.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of it,” she’d said, and then careened right into a pile of old scrap lumber. She still had a scar on her collarbone, where a stray nail had sliced a deep gouge. She’d had to get a tetanus shot later, on the way home, but they’d finished the lesson after Phil cleaned her up with his pocket handkerchief, and by the time they left, she’d been able to ride King’s Triumph like she’d been doing it for months instead of hours.

  When she asked why it had been so important for her to learn, Phillip had said, “With this family, you just never know what might come in handy.”

  Cass had never learned. She hadn’t learned a lot of things, and now she was…

  Raven let out a breath and leaned into the next turn, the wind sharp on her face, slipping up under her sleeves and chilling her skin. She couldn’t think about that. Not now.

  Tommy hugged her flank,
but he let her lead, for which she was stupidly grateful. Some of these biker boys had to be all-macho-all-the-time, but Tommy was a sweetheart. As long as the job got done, he didn’t care who was in charge of it, or what they had between their legs.

  They settled beside one another at the next stoplight, and Raven glanced over to see that the car opposite her brother was full of passengers staring openly at them. Huh. So that’s what that felt like. She grinned, shot the gaggling idiots the finger, and took off with a squeal of tires when the light changed.

  Ryan Anders lived in a townhouse in Mayfair, and that’s where they were headed, past expensive shopfronts closed up tight for the night, window displays glowing softly, appealing to customers with deep pockets. The ring of tailpipes echoed off glass, and stone, and centuries-old brick, too loud and too uncouth for this part of the city. Raven imagined residents peering out of windows, aghast to find two bikers riding through their high-dollar neighborhood.

  She loved it, a little bit.

  They’d talked before they left, come up with a plan, and they pulled up to Ryan’s place in the mews, parking a few houses down, just beyond the reach of a streetlamp.

  They killed the engines, and waited, letting the last echoes die down, letting the alley settle around them.

  Tommy gave a low whistle. “Jesus. Look at this place.”

  As far as mews went, this was a nice one. Decorative fall wreaths on the doors, bins lined up tidy, the pavement spotless; she didn’t see one tiny bit of rubbish anywhere. The lampposts were the old-fashioned, black iron kind, their gas lamps replaced with electric ones that mimicked flames.

  “I guess,” Tommy added, quiet, a little down, “you’re in places like this all the time.”

  “Yes.” No sense lying to the boy. “But they’re not as grand as you might think.”

  “You can’t buy happiness, huh?” he teased with a bitter edge.

  “No, you really can’t. Now hush.”

  At Ryan’s house, a wall sconce flicked on, and a moment later the garage door started trundling up with a low hum.