Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Is that a mugging?”

  “Hey,” a man called, “what are you doing? Break that up!”

  Carter wended his way through the growing crowd and spotted a tangle of dark clothing in front of Bell Bar. Reese and Tenny, with their all-black tac gear and grease paint, had two teens in hoodies pressed face-first against the boarded-up front window.

  Behind him, Leah grabbed at the edge of his cut, a gentle pressure, and let him tow her along, taking advantage of his wake to slip through the bystanders. “Your guys?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  A woman turned and noted his cut, her eyes widening in alarm.

  Hopefully, she would change her tune in the next few minutes.

  He turned to look at Leah – she bubbled with excitement, failing to hold back a smile. Crazy girl, he thought, with a sudden swell of fondness. No one could have been Ava’s best friend and be the type to shy away from danger. “Stay here,” he told her.

  She let go, and nodded, right at the edge of the crowd – still growing; pedestrians had crossed from the other side of the street, the low roar of voices getting louder.

  He faced forward, took a deep breath, and shouted, “Hey! What’s going on here?”

  Four faces, two streaked with black and green stripes, turned toward him; the teens’ cheeks were smushed into the plywood, their eyes wild and white-rimmed.

  “Please,” the nearest begged, “we didn’t do anything!”

  “Walk away, biker bitch,” Tenny said, and, wow, his American accent was flawless. “This isn’t your business.” He’d projected his voice on purpose: overloud and theatrical for their audience.

  An audience to which Carter was keenly aware he was showing the back of his cut: his patches, his designation as a Lean Dog. “That’s club-owned property,” he said, projecting his own voice, drawing on all his meager one semester’s worth of Intro to Drama. “So, yeah, it actually is my business. What the hell are you doing? These are just kids.”

  Tenny shoved the kid he held, grinding his face into the rough surface of the plywood. “Get lost.”

  He heard the exclamations behind him, the shouts and gasps and curses. He said, “Fuck you,” and charged in.

  They’d rehearsed this earlier today, at the clubhouse. Carter went in with a swing that Tenny blocked – after he’d let go of his victim. It was choreographed, a few fake punches, some fake grunts on Tenny’s part.

  A very not fake glancing blow against Carter’s jaw that snapped his head back and had bright pain sparking through his skull. With real anger, he delivered the last attack: a flurry of blows, and then a kick – it didn’t connect, because Tenny was too fast and too good. Carter caught a glimpse of his wicked smile of delight before he went into a fake tumble that had him rolling out into the street.

  Carter squared off from him, hands clenched into fists.

  Tenny stood, making a show of it, feigning dizzy and hurt. He even added a limp, and wiped at nonexistent blood on his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, smudging his grease paint.

  They locked gazes, and Tenny ducked his head, and started limping down the street, as practiced.

  Carter glanced back over his shoulder at the teenagers, still covering. Reese was nowhere in sight, now. “You guys okay?”

  They nodded, darting glances toward the crowd.

  “Go on, get out of here. Those guys won’t give you any more trouble.”

  They didn’t wait; bolted down the sidewalk and around the corner.

  The crowd milled; the gasps and shouts had given way to hushed conversations, a low rustling like paper. Carter found the gaze of the woman who’d been startled by him only moments ago, and the fear had given way to thoughtfulness.

  Carter lifted both hands in a disarming gesture. “Sorry, everybody. It’s okay.”

  “Who was that?” one man asked, covering his fear with lots of bluster, chin and chest thrust outward. “Those guys with their faces painted.”

  “I don’t know.” Carter made a grim face, and shook his head. “But we’re gonna try to find out. Nobody should be terrorized on the street like this.”

  “The Lean Dogs bought Bell Bar?” someone else asked.

  And another: “What are they gonna do with it?”

  Why me? Carter had asked earlier, vaguely queasy with panic. I don’t think I’m the best person for this. Not someone bred and born in the club; hardly a mascot.

  But Ghost had said, You were a hometown hero for a while there in high school. Some people remember you. And, even better, you’re pretty. He’d grinned. You still look like a prep, and not a tatted-up monster. No offense, Merc.

  Mercy had shrugged and grinned.

  His face was still a bruised mess, but there was nothing for that. He said, “Yeah, the Dogs bought Bell Bar. It was full of mold and bad wiring, and the old owner couldn’t afford to fix it up. So we’re doing a full reno, and it’ll be back open to the public soon, better than ever.”

  That earned him a few considering looks; some head tilts.

  “This bar has been a staple for decades, and it needed a facelift. The Dogs are going to give it that.” God, he felt like a politician.

  Someone said, “What about these other stores here?” An arm reached up out of the crowd and gestured toward the neighboring storefronts.

  “One of those is going to be a boutique furniture store. All handmade originals. I know the craftsman, and he’s been really successful in London, where he was born. The café is being revamped, too. It’s gonna be Southern home cooking. All these businesses” – he gave a sweeping gesture – “will be locally-owned and operated. They’ll be hiring soon, so if you know anyone who’d be interested, tell them to be on the lookout for online job postings.” He offered what he hoped looked like a sincere smile. “Sorry for all the trouble tonight, everyone. Enjoy your evenings.”

  When he rejoined Leah, she was beaming, eyes sparkling under the streetlights. “Oh my God,” she whispered, delighted. “You totally practiced all that beforehand, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. I’m not an idiot.”

  She laughed. “The whole thing was a PR setup. Nice. Were the kids in on it, too?”

  “Actually, no.” He frowned. Around them, the crowd was dispersing, talking amongst themselves, providing a kind of open-air privacy. “I have no idea who they are, but they don’t look like the guys we saw on the surveillance footage.”

  “Ah. You let them go, though.”

  “Technically, yeah. I did. But Ten and Reese are following them.”

  “Ooh, spy shit.”

  He made a face. “God. I hate the spy shit.”

  She laughed again, and looped her arm through his – a move that surprised him in its casual intimacy. “Come on, number twelve.” No one had called him that in a long time; it filled him with a pang of longing for the old days – and a bit of hope that, maybe, through helping Elijah, he could reconnect with his former football life, at least a little. “I’ll buy you a latte.”

  ~*~

  The kids were fast, slender and leggy and young, and fueled by fright, too. But though they skirted down a couple alleys, and finally clambered into a beat-up Toyota, they were painfully easy to follow.

  “There, in that blue car,” Reese said as he slid into the passenger seat of the nondescript blue club truck, and slammed the door.

  Tenny was pulling away from the curb before the latch even clicked. He’d wiped his face mostly clean, and handed over a rag without taking his eyes from the road. “If someone looks through the windows, and sees us with our faces camouflaged, that’s going to draw undue attention,” he explained, when Reese hesitated.

  He took the rag and started wiping. “They’re heading for the marina.”

  “That was my thought.”

  After a few more turns, the buildings gave way to the diamond glitter of moonlight on water. Long, floating docks extended out into the river, flanked by tied-up boats: everything from small ski boats t
o the big, expensive yachts that Tango had explained were often anchored outside the stadium at the university and used for on-the-water tailgating. Reese understood that in practical terms, but not in theory. Humans had such strange rituals…

  Ahead of them, the Toyota slowed and turned into one of the many parking lots along the river’s edge. A large lot, with a small, squat office, and, in back, a boat ramp, and a warehouse big enough to back a boat trailer inside. Flash Customs, the sign marked it.

  There was no other traffic on the road, so Tenny slowed to a crawl. Slow enough that they could see the two teens scramble out of the car and go pelting inside the office. It had to be closed for business for the night, but the door was unlocked, and Reese glimpsed the faint glow of a light on somewhere deeper inside.

  The truck came to a halt.

  Reese noted another car in the parking lot, a dark pickup. “They were sent to do that.”

  “Which means they aren’t the brains of the operation.” Tenny pulled out his phone; put it on speaker when it started to ring, and Fox’s voice crackled through the cab.

  “Status?”

  “The op was successful,” Tenny said. His voice went very flat and official when he was talking to Fox about business. “The marks weren’t the ones from the video. Two males, late teens, highly anxious. We followed them to Flash Customs, and they went inside to rendezvous with someone.”

  “Should we engage?” Reese asked.

  “No.” Emphatic. “Pull back. Ghost and I’ll go tomorrow and have a chat with the shop owner.”

  Tenny sighed. “Fine.” He disconnected the call and sat a moment, hands on the wheel, lips pursed in clear disappointment.

  Headlights flared in the mirror, a car slowly pulling up behind them. It flashed its brights.

  “Go,” Reese urged. A moment later, the horn honked.

  Instead, Tenny turned toward him, slowly. Just as slowly, a grin broke across his still-smudged face. One that inspired a faint flutter in the pit of Reese’s stomach.

  “If we can’t fight…” Tenny drawled, and laughed, darkly.

  In the past few months, Reese had come to know exactly what that laugh meant.

  Ten

  Leah was surprised that Carter came back for that offered latte, and then accepted a ham and swiss bagel sandwich, too.

  “When did you guys start doing savory food?” he asked around a mouthful, taking an appreciative glance at the sandwich in his hands, dripping spicy mustard and frilled with balsamic-dressed arugula.

  “About a year ago, Dad said.” She had her laptop open again, filling out more job applications. It was less daunting when she had someone sitting across from her, keeping her distracted. “Customers were coming in for a coffee, and then going somewhere else for lunch, so they added some soup and sandwiches to the menu.”

  He took another bite, nodding.

  She leaned forward, whispering. “Do you think Maggie’s café is gonna be too much competition? You said Southern home cooking, right?”

  “That’s what Ghost said. But he still hasn’t told her about the place yet.”

  “Right. Ava said it was gonna be a Mother’s Day surprise.”

  “That place will serve whatever Maggie wants it to.”

  They shared a mutual snort of amusement.

  She bit her lip, after, and glanced toward the counter, where her dad, and one of their young employees, Doug, were mixing complex coffees. “It’s not, though, is it?”

  When she glanced back, she found his brow notched with concern. He set his half-eaten sandwich down. “Your folks are doing okay, right? The shop?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” She thought of her mother earlier, that quick glimpse of her in the sunlight that had screamed something’s not right to her.

  “What?” he prompted.

  “I got the impression earlier that my mom was worried about something. But she didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “You think they don’t want you to be worried?”

  “If something’s wrong, then yeah. What with my whole” – she gestured – “situation.”

  He looked like he wanted to ask for details, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. She didn’t blame him. It was only natural.

  Which was why, when he picked his sandwich back up, and he’d left his questions unasked, she lobbed one of her own. “So, your nose.”

  He froze, teeth sunk into bagel.

  “Are you some kind of sex fiend or something?”

  He choked.

  Leah managed not to laugh – but it was a struggle. With what she thought of as admirable poise, she plucked a napkin from the dispenser on the table and offered it. He took it, pressed it to his mouth, and coughed for what seemed like a solid minute, red in the face, eyes tearing up. Finally, he drained off half his latte in one gulp and let out a deep breath. “Um.”

  She lifted both hands, palms toward him. “Hey, I don’t know all the down and dirty. But I was in the office with Maggie that day. Something about someone named Jasmine, and someone named Chanel, and a Stephanie, too, I think.” She couldn’t hide her smile anymore, and his face flushed a deeper shade of red – not from choking, this time. “Holy shit,” she said on a laugh. “You’re a total player, aren’t you?”

  “No.” Not one of Aidan’s dishonest refutations, accompanied by jeers and elbows from his brothers. But a true, emphatic denial.

  It had her laughter dying away. “Okay. Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  He wiped his mouth again, head ducked, and looked up at her through his lashes, guilty now. It was easy to forget sometimes, when he wasn’t looking at you, how very blue his eyes were. If he was in a fact a player, it was all his pretty face’s fault.

  “It’s…” He made a face. “It’s just kinda weird. I have – a girlfriend.” Lots of hesitation there; an uncertainty. “And she’s kinda wild. Free spirit, you know?”

  She nodded. “Club life. I get it.”

  “No, it’s not…” He chewed at his lip a moment. “I mean, wild stuff does go on. We’re not a bible study group.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Shut up,” he said, blushing again, but he sat back in his chair, less tense. “It’s like…okay. So. I can’t believe I’m talking about this.” He scrubbed at his face with both palms. “In the club, there are girls who–”

  “Have casual sex with the bikers. The Lean Bitches.”

  He stared at her.

  “It’s like you think I’m a regular civilian or something. In high school, I was at a Dartmoor party with Ava, and Aidan was literally getting a blow job in the middle of the common room. I get it, okay?”

  But he shook his head. “I’m not…” Another sigh, this one belly-deep and exhausted. In the span of a second, his face fell, and she saw the lines that hadn’t been there when they were younger. Some from sun, she knew, but there were frown lines, too. A deep, defeated sort of sadness etched into his skin. His gaze dropped to the table, and his fingers fiddled with his wadded-up napkin. His voice came out low, and flat – so much so that she felt instantly bad for poking at what was, she now saw, a sore spot.

  “When I first joined, when I was a prospect, and just starting to hang around the club – yeah, I admit that the girls were…” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’d never seen anything like that before. In college, there were some wild parties, but at the clubhouse it was just…it was so casual. It wasn’t this big, scandalous thing, you know? Sex? It was just something you could have, and everything was on the table, and it was okay.” His face was beet red, but his expression was still troubled – and determined. She had the sense he felt like he needed to say this.

  She was willing to listen. God knew she’d vented plenty in her life.

  “I always thought, when I was a kid, that I’d get married. Find a nice girl, and we’d go on dates, and we’d get hitched, and have kids. The whole white picket fence thing. But then I came back home, and everyone else had moved on. Everyone I went to high scho
ol with was off at college, or already settling down, and I was just…floating.”

  Like she was now. She understood all too well.

  “Then I was prospecting, and dating is a whole other thing when you’re a part of the club. You don’t just bump into someone at the grocery store and ask her out for a fancy dinner. It’s like…” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, finally, imploring, and it had her chest clenching in sympathetic sadness. This boy was depressed, and she wondered if anyone else had noticed it.

  “The couples I know: Maggie and Ghost. Ava and Mercy. Even Aidan and Sam…that’s not, like, ‘hey, we met on eHarmony’ or some shit. Hell, Emmie was pretty much forced to marry Walsh. It worked out okay, but…”

  “I get it,” she said, and saw relief flicker across his face. “I had front-row seats to the Ava and Mercy show back in the day. That was some epic, world-ending, soap opera stuff.”

  He nodded, and looked like he almost smiled. “Most people don’t want to be associated with the club. Not civilians, anyway. It’s too dangerous, and too messy.”

  She could see how a girl from a calm, law-abiding family would struggle with so many aspects of the club. She nodded.

  “Jasmine – she’s my…” He didn’t say girlfriend again. There was pain there, appearing in the faint grooves that bracketed his mouth. “She was in a bad place, when we first got together. And she’s doing a lot better now – she’s doing great. Getting her GED. Ghost is giving her the manager position at Bell Bar. She’s great,” he repeated, voice fading.

  “But you’re not.”

  He took a quick breath, like he was startled. “Um. Well.” He glanced back at the table. “Not really, I don’t guess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged, and the movement looked more like his cut didn’t fit than the casual, dismissive gesture it should have. “It is what it is. Everybody goes through times when they’re not happy. Right?” His brows lifted on the last, not quite daring to hope.