Page 25 of Prodigal Son

She turned to him, then, brows lifting in silent question. The bar was lit with strings of fairy lights, and their little pinpricks were reflected in her eyes, a green-blue color that made him think, stupidly, of the ocean.

He nodded toward the back table, where he’d spotted Raven and Eden on his way through.

She didn’t follow his line of sight, just grimaced and turned back to her beer, swiping through the condensation with an angry flick of her thumb. “They’re marking their territory or something. I dunno. I’m not into that.”

He felt his own brows go up. “They’re fighting?”

“Maybe? Who knows. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

He snuck another glance, and saw that Raven was smiling. Granted, it her was sly, model-world, I’ve-got-a-secret smile, but they didn’t appear to be actually arguing.

Albie decided to leave it for the time being, and focused instead on Axelle. He felt a sudden wave of guilt. It was true she’d taken the job as Eden’s assistant, driver, whatever else she was, but she certainly hadn’t asked for any of this.

“Hey, I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” he said. “Dad has a way of…well, ruining everything.”

“Dads’ll do that.” She lifted her glass and took a healthy swig. She didn’t look at him, and it felt pointed.

“Yours too, huh?” He wasn’t sure why he was talking to her; it felt awkward to keep silent, he guessed. Some latent obligation that came with dragging strangers into his family drama.

Her lashes flickered as she slanted him a narrow glance. Unreadable.

“Alright. I can take a hint.” He started to slide off his stool.

Her hand darted out, landing on the bar beside his glass. She didn’t touch him, but it was still a reach.

He waited.

She turned her head slow, and he gauged her expression to be one of careful composure. She was young – younger than him, anyway – and he thought it was impressive, the way she kept her face smooth and neutral, like she’d practiced it in the mirror. Maybe she was just good – Charlie was good like that, a good actor and a smooth criminal, made for tricky jobs. But he didn’t think so. He thought, to go from Nashville to London, to wind up driving a getaway car like she’d been born behind the wheel, she’d had the sort of life that forced a girl to practice looking like she didn’t give a damn.

She met his gaze, unflinching. “For the record, I tried to convince Eden to back out of this job when we found out who she was hunting for. Before they, you know, tried to kill her.”

He wasn’t surprised. “Too dangerous?”

One corner of her mouth twitched. It looked deliberate. “When I found out every one of Devin Green’s sons was a Lean Dog, I said, ‘Why the hell would you wanna help those drug-dealing assholes?’” She shrugged. “Seemed like a waste of resources.”

Okay, thatwaskind of a surprise.

“You’re not a fan, I take it.”

She smiled, and it didn’t touch her eyes. “My father OD’d on coke he bought from the Knoxville Dogs, so…no. Not a fan.” She threw back the rest of her beer and slipped off her stool. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Albie watched her go, just…dumbfounded.

She didn’t look back.

~*~

The first glass of wine seemed to relax Raven, and the following two loosened her tongue. Feeling very much on unsteady ground, Eden resolved to sip her own drink and just listen, adding only a prompting question here and there, as Raven talked about her modeling work, its seedy underbelly, the ways she hated sitting still at photo shoots, and how she was now worried that the Pseudonym product she’d been slathering over her face might have been made of “fucking clone stem cells or whatever shit Dad was talking about.”

Finally, rosy-cheeked from the wine, but clear-eyed, Raven planted both elbows on the table, pinned Eden back against the booth with a look, and said, “So really. No games. Why in the bloody hell did you take this case?”

“I…”

“If you say it’s because you care, I’ll actually think more of you, not less.”

“Oh.” That should have been a relief, but instead it settled like a weight in her chest. She didn’tcareif she had the approval of Fox’s family. Nothing she was doing was to get in anyone’s good graces.

But she remembered years before, a late-night conversation, the lights out, her head resting on Fox’s shoulder, the two of them naked in his bed. He hadn’t been living at Baskerville then; his cramped little flat had smelled of the tea and whiskey they’d spilled on the rug, and his heart had thumped strong and steady beneath her cheek. She’d asked after his dad for the first time, because she already knew the story of his mother and his eight crazy half-siblings. “That must be quite the tale,” she’d said, mostly teasing, but he’d gone stiff and still beneath her. “It is,” was all he’d said. “He’s an asshole.” And she’d known, without him saying, that very old, very carefully sealed-off wounds lingered beneath his skin.

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