Fox sighed. “I hate you.”
Phillip finally smiled. “Think of it as a compliment. If anyone can keep the bastard breathing, it’s you.”
“Hey,” Devin protested.
~*~
Fox was not sulking. He was not forcefully shoving socks and t-shirts into his duffel, and he was not cursing under his breath, and he definitely didn’t have a tumbler of whiskey sitting on the dresser as he gathered his things. (He was definitely sneaking sips from it, though; there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to make this situation more tolerable.)
“You know,” an amused voice said from the doorway, “I used to think you never got angry, because I never saw it. Now I just know you’ve stored up all your anger so you can direct it at your dad.”
He chose to ignore the smattering of chill bumps that broke out down the back of his neck and didn’t turn to look at Eden.
She came into the room. Sat down on his bed like that was okay, like that was a thing they were doing now: sitting on each other’s beds. He was tempted to ask if she would allow him to do that in her borrowed room, and wisely kept his mouth shut.
“What’s that they say about glass houses and throwing stones?” he asked, adding a hoodie to the pile inside his duffel. “If I had your mum…” He trailed off, and glanced up to see her lean back and brace her hands on the coverlet, rolling her eyes.
“Fair point.” Her expression softened. “You’re leaving.”
“Are you asking? Or have you already talked to Phillip?”
“He said you and Devin were going hunting for the others from Project Emerald.”
“Probably gonna take the sniper kid, too.” In part because he didn’t think there was a way to keep him properly contained at the clubhouse for any length of time. And also, because if he could be taught, maybe hone his craft a little, he might prove an asset.
Eden took a deep breath and said, “I’m coming with you.”
He laughed.
When she didn’t say anything else, he lifted his head again, hands resting still on top of his folded clothes. She stared back at him without flinching. Unusually open, but firm.
He found he didn’t have the energy, or the will to fight with her. A part of him was still stinging from this morning’s fight in the kitchen – which now seemed weeks past, rather than hours.
He should have told her about the risks, about how it wasn’t safe to go with them to God knew where, to find twelve people who were lab experiments gone horribly rogue. That he couldn’t do what he was setting out to and look after her at the same time.
These were the things his lizard brain wanted to shout at her. The part of him that still clung, stupidly, to slow mornings with rain sliding down the window, warmth and weight under the blankets beside him. He was a man, and he had a man’s shortcomings: the urge to protect the people he cared about.
But he was a professional, too, and so was she. Eden already knew all the risks; she’d always known the risks, and she’d always been better about stepping neatly over them than he had.
He said, “Alright, convince me.”
She lifted her brows. Surprised. She had her arguments ready. “Because with your dad, and a sniper kid who jumped ships like that” – she snapped her fingers – “you won’t have anyone you can trust on your side. You can trust me.”
“True.”
“No one else here trusts me, so I doubt they’d let me be of any use.”
“Also true.”
“And…” She bit her lip. “I’m worried about you.”
“You what?”
“I’ve never seen you not in control. At least, not until this week. It’s not like you.”
Fooled you, didn’t I? he wanted to ask. All that time I let you believe I didn’t give a shit about anything.
“When you’re at the top of your game,” she continued, “you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and anyone you’ve been charged with. But right now? Forgive me, but I don’t have much confidence.”
“Gee, thanks, darlin’,” he drawled, dripping West Texas.
“I’m serious, Charlie.”
“Then I seriously accept your oh-so-kind offer,” he said, still with the accent. “Who am I to turn down the little lady’s company?”
“You’re terrible,” she sighed.
He resumed packing. “What about your mum? Your little getaway driver girl?”
She made a face. “They won’t like it, but it’s safer to leave them here for now. If that’s alright with Phillip.”
“He won’t care. But.” He grinned. “Can I be there when you tell Mummy Dearest?”
“No.”
“Shame.” He zipped up his bag. “Be ready in a half hour.”
She stood. “Roger that.”
And his pulse was not tripping in his veins. It was not.
~*~
When Eden was nine, she told her mother she wanted to quit ballet. Not because she disliked dancing, no, but because she’d grown bored with the pomp and circumstance. The recitals, the costumes, and makeup, the buns that pulled and pulled until she thought her hair might peel away from her head, all along her scalp. She hated the gossip, and the backstabbing, and the cliques, and the way the other girls were vicious when they had no reason to be. She liked ballet fine…but not all the things that came with it.
(As an adult, she’d once constructed a parallel metaphor that dealt with her relationship with one Charles William Fox.)
Her mother’s face then, when she was nine, and refusing to let her tears fall, white-knuckled fists clenched in her pink tutu, had looked a lot like it did now. The Great Pinch of Displeasure and Disappointment.
“Oh, honestly, Eden,” she said, closing her eyes a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose with a stage-worthy performance. Where-did-I-go-wrong had nothing on Vivian Adkins. When she opened her eyes, she fixed them on Eden like rifle sights and said, “You’re a grown woman. You’ve served in Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Do you really mean to tell me that whatever kind of – kind of illicit sex you have with that man is worth risking your life and your livelihood?”
The night she met Charlie, she though to herself, oh no. Because the pub was dark, and the music was just a little too loud, and she’d had just a little too much to drink, and his smirk over the rim of his whiskey glass was devastating.
She hadn’t told her mother about him – not then, and not the next five, ten, twenty times she met him. She’d known that what she was doing was stupid – objectively. But she’d felt uncharacteristically selfish. She’d found something she wanted, and she didn’t want to share it. Worse, she didn’t want to let it go.
Eventually, Vivian found out, because that’s what she did for a living. And she hadn’t yelled; she’d been patently disappointed. “Really, Eden?” But then they’d split up, and it hadn’t mattered…
Eden was having ballet flashbacks now. And after the last two days, she wasn’t in the mood for them – or her mother’s…well…bullshit.
“Mother,” she said, and Vivian cut off mid-tirade. She had to take a steadying breath. “I love you, and I respect you, but you have got to stop. Yes, I am an adult, yes, I have served in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and it’s with that experience that I’m telling you – not asking for permission – that I’m seeing this case through to the end. Whatever’s happening here, whatever this company – whatever this government – did to these thirteen men, it wasn’t ethical, and it looks like they’re willing to keep that secret.
“I need you to stay here, where you’ll be safe. Watch over Axelle for me, because she has no one else in the world. But I’m leaving with Charlie. I’ll ask you to kindly keep your opinions of my sex life to yourself, because this is about work. The kind of work I do best.”
She was breathing too hard when she finished, shaking a little at the edges. It was the most insubordinate thing she’d ever said to her mother, and while that left her vaguely sick, it was also thrilling.
/>
Vivian stared at her a long moment. “Well, I suppose I can’t stop you.”
It wasn’t approval, but that had never been anything she’d given freely.
Eden went to pack her things.
~*~
Because they were the kind of family who tamped down their feelings about one another until the last minute, Fox was expecting someone to take him aside just as they were leaving. He just wasn’t expecting that person to be Albie.
“You?” he asked when his brother hauled him into the empty cloakroom at the front of the pub.
Albie frowned. “Me, what?”
“Nothing. So. Last words of wisdom, is it?”
The frown deepened. “No, I…” He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Okay, so, maybe, yeah. You need to check in.”
“Yeah, I–”
“No, Charlie. I’m serious.” He was always serious; Fox could count his smiles on one hand. But he looked extra serious right now, blue eyes wide, chin tucked down imploringly.
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I just said I was, didn’t I?” He softened. “You’re possibly the most dangerous person I know–”
“Possibly?”
“We do both know Mercy Lécuyer, yeah?”
“Fair point.”
“But you’re only one man. And not a very tall one at that.” He did crack a smile then, and had to speak over Fox’s “fuck you” riposte. “I’m sure Eden’s competent, but–”
“Christ, don’t let her hear you say that.”
Albie sighed. “Your sniper is incompetent at best, working for the other side at worst. And Dad is…look.” He made a face. “I don’t trust him, alright? Not about any of this.”
Fox felt his brows shoot up. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were one of the ones who wanted to save his sorry ass.”
“I was, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I like any of us having to rely on him.”
Something very much like nervousness made itself known in the back of Fox’s mind; a high, squeaky little voice, but one that couldn’t be quashed. Project Emerald he believed because he’d seen the file; had picked shattered window glass out of his hair. But did he trust Devin with his life? Trust him to make the calls that would ensure the success of their mission as a group? Or would he bail on them the moment things went south and flee for parts unknown?
He’s left everyone, that little voice said. He always bails. That’s what he does. Every wife and girlfriend, every child. In the history of their unlikely family, Devin was famous for one thing: leaving.
Fox blew out a breath. “Yeah, well, he’s just an old man. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Albie gave him another smile, this one tight in the corners, sad around the eyes. He clapped a hand on Fox’s shoulder and squeezed. “Call if things get fucked. We’ll send in the cavalry.”
A half-dozen snarky comebacks formed in the back of Fox’s throat; dismissals, flippant jokes. But what he said was, “Thanks.”
Twelve
Axelle was no stranger to being left behind. When she was little, Daddy was always leaving; short little trips. And then Mama left and never came back. The slap of the screen door shutting that last time, Mama’s silhouette straight-shouldered on the other side, sun hat hiding her face, still haunted her dreams. There were some things you never got over, and your mother throwing all her earthly possessions in the trunk of the Buick and driving off when you were seven was one of them.
Daddy tried to do better after that. She didn’t begrudge him his efforts. He stopped driving, which always made him miserable, but he filled the free hours between diner jobs and construction gigs with long hours in their garage, poring over the guts of a Fastback, or a Charger, or an Impala with her until she could diagnose a knock in the engine as well as him – maybe better, since her ears were sharper. He taught her how to drive; taped Styrofoam blocks to her feet so she could reach the pedals. Taught her how to clutch, and shift, and be the first one off the line.
She thought they were happy; looking back, she recalled the constant sadness in his eyes.
Friends left, and boyfriends left, but nothing cut quite as deeply as parents leaving. After Daddy died, she’d assumed she’d developed a tolerance for abandonment.
Eden leaving her here with these assholes stung more than it should have.
The pub on the ground floor of the MC headquarters – Baskerville Hall the hanging sign out front proclaimed it, which she had to admit was charming – was full of what looked like a civilian lunch crowd. A few suits, some day laborers, college age kids. A mix of regular folks filling up the place with murmuring voices and orders of deep-fried pub food. It surprised her, to be honest, seeing an illegal organization running a legal business like this with such a deft hand.
Then again, the Dogs were good at what they did. They handled themselves…unlike her dad.
“What can I getcha, lovey?” the bartender asked the second she slid onto a stool.
He wasn’t wearing his cut, but she recognized him as a Dog. One of the young prospects. She said, “A bartender who doesn’t call me ‘lovey.’”
“Ooh,” he chuckled. “Careful with that tongue, pet. There’s plenty of guys around here who might like you to use it on them.”
Before she could respond – and oh was she ever going to respond – someone climbed onto the stool next to her and said, “Fuck off, Luke. Go get the lady a sandwich.”
Albie.
The prospect did indeed fuck off, and Axelle turned a frown on her would-be rescuer. “Gee, thanks.”
He had the decency to look chagrined. At least a little. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
“I didn’t ask you to step in.”
“Yeah, well…” He stared at the back of the bar, the bottles lined up in orderly rows. His expression didn’t change – mouth still pressed into that neutral line that managed to look mildly displeased about everything – but she thought she caught a faint flush along his cheekbone. His hand fidgeted, thumb and forefinger rubbing together.
The problem was – and sitting beside him, noting that he smelled faintly of varnish, and that his fingertips held the dark slashes of deeply buried splinters, it truly was a problem – he didn’t much resemble any of the other Lean Dogs she’d met. Clean-shaven and tidy, yes. But he didn’t carry himself like a man overcompensating for anything. Didn’t flash sly grins, or winks, or generally suck up all the oxygen in the room like some of these jackasses.
And he had very blue eyes. And, well. She was only human.
Not that she would ever tell him that.
Luke returned with a fish sandwich, and a Coke, and a little grimace of apology.
Axelle nodded back. She could be forgiving.
She took a too-big bite of sandwich – the cod was fried to perfection – and said, “So what’s the plan now?”
“Pardon?”
She swallowed. “There is a plan, right? Eden and your brother aren’t just gonna, you know, handle it. So, what’s happening on this end?”
A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “No faith in your boss?”
“Oh, I have faith. Faith that they’ll get involved in some kinda stupid romantic subplot and fuck up the case.”
He laughed and it did…interesting…things to his face. “They’re pretty obnoxious,” he admitted.
“Dude. Understatement.”
He waited until she’d taken her next bite to say, tone softer, “I know this doesn’t make it any better to hear, but Eden left you behind to protect you.”
She set her sandwich down. Carefully chewed and swallowed. “Don’t take this the wrong way – or do, whatever – but I don’t need anybody’s sympathy.”
He looked at her levelly. “I didn’t say you did. I just thought I’d offer it anyway.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Alright.” He motioned toward Luke and a beer was set down in front of him. “You asked about the plan?”
&nb
sp; “Yeah.”
“The plan is for you to stay here–”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
“–while we work on Pseudonym.”
When she was twelve, she punched a boy at school because he called her dad a washed-up junkie loser who’d never been a good driver anyway. She wasn’t proud to admit that she hadn’t telegraphed the blow; it had been a fast sucker punch, right to the throat. He’d gasped, and wheezed, and had to be helped to the nurse’s office. She’d had five days OSS. Not that it mattered. Fuck school anyway, seriously.
Daddy had said, “You’ve got to control your temper a little better than that, Ellie girl. Being hotheaded won’t get you anywhere in life, and you’ve got too much talent to let it go to waste because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.” But he’d smiled, and ruffled her hair, and she’d known he was secretly proud that she’d laid up a boy half again her size.
She’d tried to learn some patience in the intervening years. And that was the reason she counted to ten in her head, took another methodical bite of sandwich. Sipped her Coke.
Then said, calmly, “You biker boys really don’t think much of women, do you?”
He drew in a breath to respond–
And a woman’s voice shouted, “Ah! You. Getaway driver girl. You’ll do.”
Axelle twisted around on her stool and found Albie’s sister standing in the center of the pub, all done up in a sleek black dress, heels, and the kind of artfully slouchy jacket that sent regular people into bankruptcy.
Raven pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, grinned like a predatory creature, and crooked a finger. “If Eden’s not around, you can be my assistant.”
Axelle took a moment to consider her alternatives. Sitting around, doing nothing, feeling helpless, (waiting on someone else to leave her) had always made her skin itch. There wasn’t much of a choice to make.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 10