Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  She gave him a fast, cold smirk. “Axelle Thomas.”

  He stared at her. “Axel?”

  “Axelle,” she repeated. “Two Es, two Ls.” She was American. Southern, at that. Her accent reminded him of the Dartmoor crew in Knoxville. “And yes, that’s my real name. Blame my dad.”

  “Um…”

  Fox was staring at him with something like open shock, whatever that meant.

  “My assistant,” Eden said, offhand, like that actually explained anything.

  “And driver,” Axelle with two Es and two Ls added, hint of a true smile breaking through.

  “Yes, and driver. I trust her,” Eden said, with a look that said they would be wise to do so too.

  “Okay,” Albie said slowly. “Brilliant. Right. So.” He turned to his father. “Who’s trying to kill you?”

  Fox snorted.

  “Stupid question, yeah,” Albie conceded. “Who’s trying to kill you this time?”

  “The same people who tried to kill me the first time,” Devin said, smiling proudly – the crazy fuck.

  “Long story short,” Fox said, “Dad’s an assassin raised and trained by some shady company and now they’re trying to kill him.”

  “Or capture him,” Eden said. “No one’s that bad of a sniper.”

  Albie took a deep breath. He took several. Waited for the disbelief to hit… “Okay,” he said. “That…actually sounds real. Considering Dad.”

  Fox shrugged. “Of course.”

  Devin said, “You brats have no respect.”

  “No shit,” Albie said. “Now, this has all been fascinating.” He gestured to the group at large. “But I’ve got a business to run. So.” He made a shooing motion toward the door.

  Someone on the other side of it knocked.

  “Great. Here they are to kill us. Thanks, Dad.”

  The knock repeated: three quick raps, then two slow.

  “That’s Mum,” Eden said, getting to her feet and going to answer it. “I called her from the car. It’s not safe for her to stay at our office right now.”

  Albie looked at his brother.

  Fox held out his hands and said, “I don’t know anymore.”

  The woman that Eden let into the shop shared her facial features, weathered elegantly by time and stress, her hair silver and swept back in a flawless French twist. She wore a fitted gray suit of a severe cut that accentuated her femininity rather than contrasting it; like he daughter, she wore clothes well.

  She touched Eden’s shoulder, briefly, on her way inside, letting her hand fall away as Eden relocked the door. It wasn’t a warm touch, to Albie’s eye, nor a lingering one.

  The woman surveyed the workshop with a critical glance and sighed quietly as she folded her hands together in front of her. “Eden. What have you gotten us mixed up in now?”

  “You’re welcome to not be involved at all,” Albie said, bristling. He wasn’t a proud man by nature – thanks, Dad – but he was very proud of his shop. The way Eden’s mother regarded it put his back up. “In fact, I’d prefer it.”

  Her gaze swept to him with impressive disinterest. “I suppose you’ll be one of the brothers, then.”

  “Mum,” Eden chided. Respectfully, somehow.

  “Half-brother,” Albie corrected. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “On the contrary.” She sniffed, dismissive, and turned her head away, gaze seeking out Devin this time. “If my daughter and my company are in jeopardy, then who you are is definitely my business. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to take this job, Eden,” she continued. She looked at Devin like she wanted to turn him to stone. “This family is a lost cause.”

  Devin flashed her his most charming smile. “Eden, love, I’m truly sorry you had to be raised by this harpy.”

  “Dad,” Fox said.

  The same moment Eden said, “That’s enough!”

  A thin, brittle silence fell.

  The other girl, Axelle, fished a crumpled pack of Marlboros from her pocket. “Mind if I smoke?” A token question; she was already shaking one out.

  “I do, yeah,” Albie said. He was all ruffled-feathers now; he sounded like someone’s grandmother, but couldn’t seem to switch it off. “The furniture’ll smell like it.”

  Axelle huffed a sigh, but put the smokes away.

  “Alright, then,” Eden said, and Albie didn’t want her here, but he had to admire her composure in the moment. Strain painted shallow lines around her mouth and eyes; the lines of jaw and cheek looked suddenly fragile and more feminine than normal. Devin, as was his infuriating habit, had hit the nail on the head: Eden’s mum was a harpy, and even as a grown woman, disappointing her stung.

  Parent/child relationships evolved sometimes. But mostly, they didn’t.

  “Everyone, this is my mother, Vivian Adkins. Mum, you know Charlie. This is his brother, Albie, and his father, Devin Green.”

  “Hmph.” Vivian turned to regard her daughter. “What happened?”

  No doubt they’d talked over the phone, but that wasn’t what she was asking. Why did this happen? Why did you let it?

  As Eden launched into a detailed recap of their escape from Devin’s apartment, Albie went to his brother’s side, took a firm hold of his biceps, and towed him back toward the front of the shop.

  “I could break your wrist three different ways, you know,” Fox protested, but let himself be dragged.

  “Yeah, you’re so fucking tough.” When they were enclosed between the two heavy curtains that separated the front from the back of the shop, only a thin crack letting in light enough to see, Albie let go of his brother and said, “How in the fuck do we get out of this?”

  Fox, master of hair-brained, impossible schemes and grifts, shrugged and said, “I dunno.”

  “Fuck you, Charlie.”

  “No, I mean it.” Fox shifted, and the stripe of light fell across his face, highlighting eyes gone unusually wide. “I don’t know what to do. Honestly? I think we should just hand the old man over. Put a sign around his neck, shove him out the door, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

  “You’re…” Albie stared at him, squinting against the dimness, and for the first time in his life saw that his brother was… “Serious.”

  “Completely.”

  “But – we can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Name one thing he’s ever done for us…aside from donating his sperm.”

  “I…”

  “He’s never cared what happens to us,” Fox went on, turning away. “I’m not going to suddenly start caring about what happens to him.”

  “Fox.” Albie grabbed his jacket sleeve, holding him back when he moved to open the curtain. “It’s not just about him anymore. What about Eden?”

  “What about her?” Fox asked, voice oddly placid, and slipped back into the workroom.

  Six

  It hadn’t really clicked into place until he told Albie, but once the words left his mouth, Fox realized exactly what needed to happen. From the moment the first bullet shattered the window glass back at Devin’s apartment, he’d been asking himself how to fix this, and so far, he’d come up with nothing. But that was exactly what he needed to do: nothing.

  “Okay,” he said, walking back into the workshop, clapping his hands together once to draw everyone’s attention. “Eden, Vivian…girl whose name I don’t remember.”

  The girl in question rolled her eyes.

  “If you would all please return to your home base, wherever that is, I’ll take care of Dad.” By which he meant he would lock the old man outside, walk down the block to the clubhouse, and get blind drunk.

  Vivian blinked, obviously surprised. “That might be the only intelligent thing you’ve ever said. He’s right. Come, girls, we’re leaving.”

  Eden didn’t budge. She shot Fox a narrow gaze. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just what I said. You can all go. I’ve got this.”

  She tipped her head to the side, not buyi
ng it for a second. “Charlie,” she said, chiding and careful at once. “What’s got into your head?”

  “A little common sense, finally.” He snapped his fingers. “Dad, you go first. There, out you go.” He made a shooing motion that was promptly ignored.

  Devin did a convincing job feigning horror. “I can’t go out there! I’ve got a price on my head!”

  “I know. You think if I hand you over myself, I’ll get the bounty?”

  “Fox,” Eden said.

  Devin’s brows jumped, and Fox thought it might have been real surprise this time. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m your dad!”

  “Theoretically.”

  Eden made a quiet, disbelieving sound.

  The other girl chuckled and said, “Damn.”

  Devin, for his part, looked wounded. Good.

  “Fox,” Albie said, coming up behind him. “You need to calm down. He doesn’t mean it,” he said to Devin. “He just–”

  “Calm down?” Fox rounded on his brother with the utmost calm. He’d never been riled up a moment in his life. Calm was his hometown; he lived in calm. “I’m being perfectly serious right now,” he said, enunciating with great care. “Let the bastard leave. If he won’t go, I’ll push him out there. He goes, and we stay, and after that, whatever. That’s his problem. If he didn’t want to get gunned down in the street, he shouldn’t have broken into some supervillain lab and stolen their shit. Actions have consequences,” he said with finality, teeth clicking together.

  It was very, very silent a beat.

  Then, slowly, Albie lifted his brows in a pointed way.

  Fox took a deep breath, and another, and another, and…

  Oh.

  Oh shit.

  He was breathing hard. Panting through his teeth, loud, rapid breaths that sounded like some kind of power saw in the silent workshop. He looked down at his hands, which were curled into fists, knuckles white, old scars standing out stark pink.

  He wasn’t calm. Not even a little.

  Actions have consequences, he’d said. Like a total wanker.

  A quiet electronic ping drew his attention, and he lifted his head to find Eden aiming her mobile at him.

  “What?” he asked, and it was a snarl.

  “You’re looking a little upset there, son,” Devin said, calm as a motherfucker by contrast.

  “I’m recording this,” Eden said. “Maybe even sending it in to the Guinness World Record people. The day Charlie Fox finally snapped.” Her voice was amused…but behind her phone, her face looked pinched. Not concerned. Troubled, maybe.

  Fox…

  Needed to get hold himself. Right now. For his own pride if nothing else.

  He spun around and marched back toward the front of the shop. Pushed past the curtain, went behind the heavy wooden desk that served as Albie’s counter, and plucked the whiskey and tumbler from their familiar places beneath the register.

  He poured himself a double with a shaking hand and threw it back as fast as humanly possible, coughing a little like a kid taking his first sip.

  So embarrassing.

  When he set the tumbler down on the blotter with a thump, Albie appeared at his elbow. Close enough to be annoying, but not close enough to get himself punched in the face. A face that was infuriatingly composed at the moment; the expression Fox had been aiming for, and missed by a mile.

  Albie leaned both elbows on the edge of the desk. “So,” casual and careful, “can we agree that maybe you’re just a little bit worked up about all this?”

  Fox poured another finger of whiskey and forced a jerky nod. His own body was betraying him for the first time in his life; he couldn’t deny it anymore: he was…having emotions. He chose to label them as furious and fed-up, because terrified and desperate hit too close to the bone.

  “Okay, good,” Albie continued. “I would like to state, for the record, that I am also a little bit worked up about this. In fact, I’m worried that at any second, shitty sniper fire could come through that window.” He nodded toward it, where late afternoon sun slanted in in golden shafts in the places the curtains couldn’t reach. “So. Since we aren’t actually going to feed the old man to the wolves, I say it’s time to hunker down somewhere actually safe, and have a real discussion about how to handle things. A family discussion.”

  Fox made a face and threw down his drink. “Family?”

  “He’s not just your dad or mine, yeah? We’ve got to come to an agreement. All of us.”

  Fox groaned.

  “I’m gonna call Phil.”

  “Of course you are.” He poured another. “What about the girls?”

  Now it was Albie’s turn to make a face. “I guess we gotta drag them with us.” He sighed and fished out his mobile. “I don’t need that on my conscience.”

  Seven

  They walked to Baskerville Hall. Or, rather, jogged, heads on the swivel. Albie’s pace was thrown wildly off the sheer number of guns he’d stashed on his person, and Eden’s mum was in heels…though she seemed to be managing better than him. Eden, in her sensible Docs and jeans, led the charge, holding her mother’s hand, Axelle keeping close behind them with her long legs, pale hair streaming behind her in a banner that caught the evening light and seemed to be a neon sign for any watching eyes. Here we are. Shoot us now.

  But a part of Albie hoped someone was watching; they needed to be seen going into the Hall, because there was no way anyone up to nefarious business didn’t know exactly what that running black dog on the sign above the door meant. If you messed with the Lean Dogs, you messed with an international crime organization with overwhelming resources and reach. These Pseudonym people, whoever they were, wouldn’t want to make that kind of rash move right now. It was one thing to attack Devin Green in his own home, quite another to lay siege to the London Lean Dogs’ headquarters.

  Heart pounding, hand ready to reach for a gun, Albie hustled down the pavement, free hand hovering at his brother’s back, because Fox had thrown down four shots in a row, most likely on an empty stomach, and he wasn’t the largest of men; he was unsteady.

  “Don’t fall,” he hissed under his breath.

  “You don’t fall,” Fox hissed back, inelegant and half-drunk.

  It seemed an eternity, but was only a few seconds, and then Eden was racing down the steps, yanking open the door, and they were all tumbling into the cool, belowground darkness of the pub. Low lamplight and the scents of smoke and hops greeted them; it always felt a bit like stepping back in time, to a London that had belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

  Eden came to a sudden halt, pulling her mother with her. Axelle trod on their heels with a muttered, “Oops, sorry.”

  Albie sidestepped them and headed for the bar, and the curious prospect wiping out a glass there.

  “Phillip in his office?” he asked.

  The kid nodded, eyes moving over their odd group. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Where else?”

  Fox climbed onto a stool and leaned over the bar, reaching toward the row of bottles along the back wall.

  Albie grabbed the back of his jacket and tugged him down until his ass hit the stool.

  “Hey!”

  “What about my other brothers? Tommy? Miles?”

  “Uh…” The prospect’s eyes widened. He was new enough that he hadn’t recognized them.

  Albie really needed to spend less time at the shop and more time around here. (If only he actually wanted to.) He rapped a hand on the bar. “Call them. Tell them to come now, I don’t care what they’re doing, and meet us upstairs in the pink parlor. Family meeting.” He pulled a grumbling Fox off the stool and back toward his chest. “Send up some food, yeah?”

  “Uh…yeah. Yes, sir.”

  “And some goddamn whiskey,” Fox said, scowling, though he allowed himself to be towed to the staircase.

  Eden, when Albie passed her, looked mildly shell-shocked. Surely she’d been here before, right?

&nbs
p; “Come on,” he said to her and the other women. “We’ll go up and let Phil know what’s happening until the others can get here.”

  ~*~

  It looked the same.

  Eden had known Baskerville Hall hadn’t changed outwardly. She’d driven by enough times in the last few years – had maybe, if she was a few drinks in and forced to admit it, slowed down a time or two so she could turn her head and take a real good look at the building’s old-fashioned façade – to know that the MC headquarters looked the way it always had to passersby on the street. She had even, once, to her great shame, parked herself at an outdoor table at the café across the street and eaten a sandwich while she stared at the place. She’d been working a job at the time, and so her hair had been dyed platinum blonde. She’d worn big Hollywood sunglasses and a frilly dress, and no one would have been able to pick her out of a lineup. Still, that afternoon she’d felt itchy beneath her skin, sure that Fox must be inside, that he would look out one of the upper windows and recognize her at any moment. That was the thing about disguises: they rarely worked on someone who’d seen you naked, who was intimately familiar with every inch of your body. Throw in the fact that he was quite the spy himself, and, well, she’d just been asking to get caught.

  So why even stop there? A question she hadn’t ever been able to find an answer to. You know, a small voice had whispered in the back of her mind. You know why you’re here. You want to get caught.

  But she hadn’t, and after that she hadn’t tempted fate again. She’d put her head down, focused on work…and then Fox had gone to America…but that hadn’t mattered, because she didn’t love him, or need him, and she’d enjoyed a few nights with a few men, and life didn’t fucking revolve around Charlie fucking Fox, okay?

  (It had, though, once. Not outwardly; just like this building, she’d always projected an unchanging sense of self, of not needing anyone.)

  Because she’d worked so hard not to dwell on the past, she was somehow unprepared for the way it would feel to step back into it. To walk into the cool, dim, smoke-smelling pub run by bikers and be slammed across the face with memories. So, so many of them, each colored with an intensity of emotion she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.