Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8)

by Lauren Gilley

If she didn’t know any better, she would have said he’d been surprised to see her here tonight – and just now, even, in the seat next to his.

  “Hey,” she said, easily, though she got that funny, squirmy feeling in her belly again.

  Unlike him, she hadn’t been surprised to see him walk through the door, had been almost waiting for it, actually, but she’d still had that sudden pulse of oh when he walked in. Setting sun coming through the window and catching in the summer wheat of his hair, shirt bunching around heavy biceps as he lifted his bottles in offering. It had been – a sight. Worth looking at. Definitely.

  He smelled nice, too, she could tell now, beside him: a woodsy sort of grown-up cologne far different from the Axe spray she’d expected.

  The club table was always a loud one, tonight’s no exception. All save Reese – who sat silently down on the far end with a spare plate and what Leah thought might already be his third beer. Conversation swelled, and overlapped, and murmured around them, laughter punching through in bursts.

  “…and then I was like…” Aidan was telling a story about an irate customer at the bike shop that had everyone in stitches. Everyone but Reese…

  And Carter. Quiet beside her.

  It was the sort of rowdy dinner table that offered pockets of relative privacy, for two people sitting close.

  “You didn’t bring your girlfriend?” Leah asked, cutting into her barbecue chicken.

  He coughed. Recovered with a swallow of beer. “Uh, no. Not really my girlfriend, remember?”

  “Right, right.” She tried and failed to bite back a smile. “Sex fiend.”

  “Oh my – don’t say that,” he hissed.

  A glance proved that his gaze bordered on panicked, and she snorted. “What, like your bros don’t know?”

  His cheeks flushed. “Look, just – change of subject?”

  “Sure.” She felt her own smile dim as he glanced back down at his plate. She wasn’t sure why she’d brought his not-girlfriend up; they’d already had that conversation, and he clearly wasn’t comfortable talking about his sex life.

  Which she shouldn’t have cared about in the first place.

  She groped for something more benign to say – and he beat her to it. “Did you make the corn?” he asked, scooping up a spoonful.

  “I did. It’s not fancy, but it was the best I could do at work.”

  He nodded, appreciatively, she thought, swallowed, and spooned up another bite. “I remember it. I think.” He frowned, thoughtful.

  “It was what I always took when Maggie invited me to something. I can’t cook like her, but I can whip up a mean salad.”

  He nodded again, serious against her self-deprecation.

  There was a lull down the table.

  “Speaking of Maggie cooking,” Leah said. “Ava, what’s the news on the restaurant?”

  “I keep telling Dad to go ahead and let her know about it,” she said, “but he’s insistent on it being the best Mother’s Day present ever.”

  “Here, honey, I got you a buncha work and stress,” Mercy said, to chuckles. “Nah, she will love it.”

  “And she’s going to want to plan every tiny detail,” Ava said. “Which I’ve expressed to him repeatedly.”

  “Ooh, you know,” Whitney said, “your mom’s been taking Kris under her wing. Maybe she’ll let her help.”

  Ava waved a fork in her direction. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  “Just admit you don’t wanna be involved,” Aidan said.

  “Oh, I’ll be involved, I’m sure. But. Kris needs something to be excited about. And doesn’t have a floundering writing career and three babies.”

  “Yet,” Mercy said with a snort. “And it’s not floundering, fillette, don’t say it like that.”

  Ava shook her head, lips going momentarily tight, and Leah made a mental note to ask her about it later.

  “Are Kris and Roman getting that serious?” Sam asked, and then glanced down the table toward Reese, shoulders tucking a little.

  Warm breath against Leah’s ear startled her, as did the press of a warm, hard shoulder against her own.

  “Kris is Reese’s brother,” Carter whispered, too soft and close for anyone else to overhear. “It’s a very long, very weird story, but she’s a little more normal than him.”

  At the other end of the table, Reese picked his beer up again and drained it, giving no indication that the rest of the table was discussing his sister.

  “Okay, a lot more normal,” Carter conceded. “She actually lives in your building.”

  “Oh, so that’s…” She turned her head – why, she didn’t know. Instinct. When she did, their faces were a hairsbreadth apart. Close enough that he was just a blur of blue eyes, and tanned skin, and white teeth.

  They both froze.

  Then his breath rushed warm across her face as he pulled back.

  “The Kristin Maggie meant,” she finished, voice faint. She swallowed, her throat tight. “I haven’t met her yet.”

  Carter didn’t respond at first; stared at her, lips parted, expression unreadable, the blue of his eyes only a thin ring around his pupils.

  Unreadable, maybe, but shocking all the same. So unexpected that it sent a quick, hard pulse of heat through her; it washed down her face, and throat, her chest, pebbled her nipples and landed deep in her belly with one final, clenching throb.

  Holy shit.

  He turned his head, finally, and she forced herself to do the same, looking down at her plate, her cheeks feeling traitorously pink. “So maybe I’ll see her soon,” she said, voice flat.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Leah glanced up, and her gaze collided with Ava’s: wide and shocked. Slowly, Ava grinned, small and sideways, but encouraging.

  Leah ducked her head again and stabbed at her chicken.

  ~*~

  After dinner, Mercy ordered all the guys into the kitchen. “If they cook, we can clean up.” It was one of his standing rules, and everyone, even Aidan, had long since stopped trying to wheedle out of it.

  Aidan loaded the dishwasher while Tango packed all the leftovers away and found room for them in the fridge; stacked Tupperware containers on the counter for the rest of them to take home.

  Mercy washed the pots, pans, and bigger casserole dishes, and Carter took up a towel and stood beside him to dry.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about that moment at dinner. It had started innocently on his part, leaning in close to share pertinent information, only thinking about the fact that Reese – who was acting even weirder than normal tonight – might come cartwheeling down the table with a knife clenched between his teeth if Carter said the wrong thing about his sister.

  But then a few silky strands of Leah’s hair had brushed his cheek, and her perfume had filled his senses: soft and floral, a hint of vanilla. He’d known she was too close for him to turn his head, but he’d done it anyway, an impulse he hadn’t been able to check. And then she’d been right there, and his gaze had gone straight to her mouth, and for one breathless moment, he’d thought he would close the last distance and kiss her. Another impulse – pure instinct – but one he’d restrained. Barely.

  She’d looked as startled as he felt. Like she couldn’t take her next breath; like her heart was pounding.

  Holy shit.

  He’d turned away, face flaming, pulse throbbing in his ears. A heated embarrassment that he still couldn’t shake. A distraction.

  Beside him, Mercy gave a short, sharp whistle, and he started, and took the clean, dripping skillet from him.

  “Sorry.”

  “Looking a little preoccupied there, QB,” Mercy said, all deceptive mildness.

  Carter shot him a sideways glance, not fooled for a second. Mercy picked up on much more than his usual happy-monster persona indicated.

  “Wishing Jazz had shown up? Or glad she didn’t?” He held a bowl under the tap, and turned a knowing, arched-brow look toward Carter.

  “I have no idea what you’
re talking about,” Carter deadpanned.

  Mercy grinned, white teeth flashing like a predator’s. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  “I don’t–”

  A crash sounded behind him. Glass breaking.

  They both turned, and found Reese standing in the center of the kitchen, staring down at the shattered remains of a beer bottle. Foamy amber liquid was spreading across the floor tiles, and Reese wore a perplexed frown unlike anything Carter had ever seen on the guy.

  “Reese?” Mercy asked.

  He lifted his head, and he was gone. Gaze glassy and detached. He swayed a moment, as if pressed by a breeze. He was drunk off his ass.

  “Uh…how many beers did he have?” Tango asked.

  “I saw him with at least six,” Aidan said. “He’s shitfaced.”

  Reese turned toward him slowly, hair falling from behind his ears, falling across his eyes.

  It would have been a hilarious sight if Carter wasn’t sure that he could still kill all of them in a matter of minutes, drunk or not.

  “Reese, let’s get some water, kiddo,” Mercy said, drying his hands and reaching for a glass up in the cabinet. “You can sleep on the couch.”

  He froze, halfway to the tap, they all froze, when Reese said, voice slurred, “I kissed Tenny and now he hates me.”

  Silence reigned a few seconds.

  Aidan breathed, “Shit.”

  Tango’s eyes got wide, and white-rimmed, and frightened-looking.

  Mercy nodded, filled the glass and turned to what was essentially his charge, his expression patient and kind. “Alright.” He moved to lay a hand on Reese’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go get some fresh air, and you can drink this down.”

  Carter traded looks with Aidan and Tango, both varying degrees of shocked and panicked.

  When Ava poked her head into the room and said, “Carter, can we talk a sec?” he went gladly.

  Carter had suspected that something like that was going on with Tenny and Reese – something romantic. And he didn’t have a problem with it; didn’t care what they did. Honestly, both of them freaked him the hell out, and he couldn’t decide if a romantic entanglement made them twice as scary – or spared some poor civilian girl having to deal with their special agent, human weapon bullshit. But dropping that kind of bomb in mixed club company…dropping it while being Reese…that was a whole can of worms Carter wanted no part of right now.

  So he followed Ava, and didn’t think, until they were out on the front porch, amidst the fluttering moths and the cool spring breeze, that this was a strange request.

  She sat down in one of the three rockers there, crossed her legs, casual and unbothered. She gestured to the one next to her, and he sat, warily.

  “What’s up?”

  “That was actually going to be my question.” She rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, and propped her chin on her fist, gaze trained on him. “How’ve you been lately?”

  A benign question, but not her expression. He wanted to squirm beneath the weight of her dark eyes; her dad’s eyes. He’d thought her so pretty back when they were in school, and she was still, but the crush he’d entertained senior year had wound up on the bloodied floor of Hamilton House, wiped away by an image that still haunted his nightmares, occasionally: Mercy crouched over a screaming, bleeding Mason, Mercy’s hand still on the knife buried in Mason’s leg, Ava leaning against his back, her arms draped around his broad shoulders, hands on his chest. Totally trusting. He’d known then, in that moment, the air scented with iron and copper, that she was a whole different creature from he himself. He was not of her species, not like Mercy was.

  But, lately, he couldn’t classify himself, if pressed; he sensed she knew that, and so the question landed heavy, a dropped load of bricks between them. He didn’t know which to pick up first, or which would prove a lie.

  He took a breath, a little warm and too-honest thanks to the two beers he’d had with dinner. “I don’t really know how to answer that, to be honest.”

  She nodded, not seeming surprised. “I thought you might say that. I feel awful that I haven’t bothered to talk to you about it before now.”

  He felt his brows go up. “Why would you?”

  Her brows went up in turn. “Because I’m your friend, and I care about you.”

  “I have a club full of friends,” he said, a little meanly, and she frowned. Almost a smirk.

  “Really?”

  And here he was worried about being mean.

  “Yeah, okay,” she relented. “They’re your friends. Your brothers,” she amended. “But I don’t think you go telling your deep, dark secrets to my brother.”

  “You think I have deep, dark secrets?”

  “I think you looked at Leah tonight like a guy who didn’t have a sexy woman of his own waiting on him at home.”

  “I don’t,” he blurted, and then checked himself.

  Ava’s smirk smoothed out into a smile. “Things not going so well with Jazz?”

  “No. Yes, I mean – no, things aren’t bad.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Things are…” The back of his neck prickled unhappily, and he reached to scratch at it. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing, if you don’t want to. But I wanted you to know that you could say something – anything – if you need a friendly ear. I never imagined you ending up with someone like Jazz.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he bristled – but it felt obligatory. Like he was supposed to be offended. Inwardly, he just felt tired.

  She sighed. “I like Jazz fine. Considering.” She shook her head a moment, expression one of marveling at this life they were both a part of. It was a comfort to know that even Biker Princess Ava could hit mental roadblocks, sometimes. “But, for one, she’s a good bit older than you.”

  “You wanna talk about age gaps? Really?”

  “Totally different situation,” she said with a dismissive wave. “What I mean is: Jazz isn’t anything like the girls you used to go out with in school.”

  “Like you were paying attention,” he scoffed, surprised by the bitter note of his voice.

  Ava was surprised, too, if the way she blinked was any indication. “I’m a writer, dude, I notice things. And the kinds of girls you dated were spending a hell of a lot of time trying to make my life at school miserable. So.”

  He ducked his head a fraction, anger fizzling out.

  “I thought,” she continued, gentler again, “that you were the kind of guy who’d end up with a high school sweetheart. That you were the wife and picket fence type.”

  He snorted. “You saw the house where I grew up. I told you about my old man.”

  “What does that matter? Is Mercy his mother? Or his father, even? It doesn’t matter where you’re from. I always thought you’d be the romantic type. The spoil-a-girl type.”

  He couldn’t think of an answer that wasn’t either insulting to Jasmine, or damning to himself.

  “If you tell me that you’re perfectly happy with Jazz, and that you aren’t missing out on anything, then I’ll leave you alone.”

  Again, he couldn’t answer.

  “Are you interested in Leah?”

  “I don’t…know.”

  “Because if you are, and you’re ready to break things off officially with Jazz, then I think that’s great. I think you guys could be good together. But if you’re just looking at her because she’s so different from what you have…because you’re tired of the wild side…” Her voice took on a warning tone.

  “I’m not. I mean, that’s not what I’m doing. I…” He huffed out a breath and remembered being a teenager, and Ava helping him write his English papers so he wouldn’t fail and get kicked off the team. Years later, and he still didn’t have a way with words. “I don’t know, okay?”

  She sat back in her chair. “Fair enough.” Pressed her boot soles to the floor and set the chair to rocking.

  He pushed off with his feet, too, and the
y rocked in silence a few moments.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, after a while, “from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look like you’re happy.”

  “Hm.”

  “Even Tango’s worried.”

  “He is?” Though he’d seen the worried looks from that quarter himself.

  “Tango’s been down in the pit,” she said, voice growing soft with old sadness. “He knows how hard it is crawl back out if you get down too far.”

  His chest tightened, as he thought of the white walls of the hospital, and Tango’s wildly uncharacteristic screams coming down it. The nurses rushing in with sedatives, the grave looks on everyone’s faces. They’d almost lost him, and no one had known he was on the brink until it was nearly too late. Aidan had pulled him out of a bloody bathtub; tears had slipped down his cheeks when he related the story, later.

  He and Tango had never been close, but Carter had been shocked; had been hurt. It had felt like a betrayal, Tango trying to leave like that, permanently; like he was abandoning them all.

  That old you don’t know what you have until you lose it thing.

  “I’m not in the pit,” he said, and knew it the moment the words left his lips. Yes, he’d been depressed, felt aimless, felt like he was drifting and perhaps didn’t belong in this club. But he wasn’t ready to end it. He wasn’t despairing. He hadn’t been through anything like the torture, mental and physical, that Tango had endured.

  Ava stared at him.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I’m not. I’m just…” He shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t guess–” Honesty was always painful when it came to self-reflection, but he found it was easier to tell her than it had been to tell anyone so far. Ava might give you a verbal ass-kicking if you needed it, but she didn’t hold judgement the way some people did. “I don’t guess I feel like I fit. Sometimes.”

  “Here? With the club?”

  He nodded.

  She regarded him another beat, and then glanced out across the yard. It was too early in the season for cicadas or fireflies, but despite the cool currents, the air had begun to smell of warmth, and grass, and growing things. “You’re probably not the only one who feels that way,” she said.

  He hummed in faint disagreement.