Page 200 of The Wild Charge

“No, no. I’m awake.”

Ghost stared at him.

“Really.” He leaned forward to snag his coffee off the desk. It had gone cold, and he fought not to make a face. “Right. So. You were saying about the FBI?”

Ghost rolled his eyes, but sat back and took up his own mug; Fox could smell the whiskey in it from here. Maggie probably ought to do something about that, he figured, when the dust settled.

“Well,” he said, “with Jansen out of the picture, we haven’t seen much of the others. They’ve been poking around downtown, talking to shop owners. Grilled my contractors over at the bar and the restaurant. But the Waverly news hit the whole country like a fuckin’ bomb. Nobody’s looking at the Dogs right now, not with movie producers kidnapping and auctioning off college kids.

“They’ve not been able to dig up anything on us, so my guess is they’ll pack it up soon. Maddox already went over to the hotel and told them he’d tried warning Jansen about Abacus, but that he wouldn’t listen. Hopefully they’ll think Waverly’s people disappeared him – or, better yet, that he was in on it.”

“Hewasin on it.”

Ghost lifted his mug in a salute. “Regardless, we seem to be yesterday’s news for the moment.”

Fox nodded. “And Maddox?”

Ghost’s brows twitched in mild surprise. “Sticking around, I think. I told him he can keep that prospect cut and come on full-time if he wants. We’ll vote on it this week sometime.”

He nodded again. It wasn’t the first time someone had crossed over from the other side of the law, and wouldn’t be the last.

“I figure,” Ghost went on, “if we’re gonna be the big dogs on the block, no sense turning warm bodies away.” He smirked a little, proud of his club, of what they’d accomplished.

Fox wanted to sleep. “Right,” he said, standing. “I guess I’ll…” He trailed off when he caught Ghost’s look.

“Shane!” Ghost shouted.

The office door cracked open and Fox’s mildest brother poked his head through. “Yes, sir?”

“Drive your brother home.”

“I live here,” Fox said. “Unless you’ve given my room away.”

“Dumbass. Gohome. To your old lady. This is just a place you stay.”

Since he was his president, Fox resisted the urge to flip him the bird.

“I’ll drive you,” Shane said, helpfully, keys spinning on his finger.

Fox did fliphimthe bird…but trudged out to the truck anyway.

Home. It struck him, on the way there, that he hadn’t had a proper one of those since he was a boy.

~*~

Reese had never gone so long without being able to exercise. Even if there wasn’t an op to run, during quiet spells for the club, he got roped into helping at the bike shop, or mopping a floor somewhere. In his spare time – and he’d probably had more time to himself than any prospect in Lean Dogs history – he’d filled his day with long runs and sets on the weight benches; with stretching, and yoga, and knife practice. Sparring with Tenny or attempting to teach Evan how to spar properly. Kris would call and ask him to come move a piece of furniture, or unload a trunk full of potting soil, or help put a flat-pack bookshelf together.

But for now, he was told to rest.

Resting was…foreign.

Kris had come by the first day, unshed tears in her eyes and a careful hug. She’d brought him a whole shopping bag of gun and motorcycle magazines, as well as a stack of novels: science fiction, historical, and romance, she explained, because she knew he didn’t like all the impossibilities of spy books and action thrillers. She fussed over him, fingering tangles from his hair and asking over and over if he was warm enough, until she finally left for work with another barely-there embrace, as if afraid she’d break him.

He read a lot, sometimes propped up in bed, but mostly sitting on the benches placed strategically across the farm: overlooking the arena, at the top of a pasture, beneath a maple tree turning orange with the onset of fall. He walked the runs between the paddocks, slowly, too conscious of the eyes on him: Tenny, mostly, but Emmie, and George, and Becca, and Walsh, if he was home. People who would say “take it easy,” and “don’t rush it.” He carried sugar cubes and apple slices and baby carrots in his pockets; the horses started to expect him, jockeying along the fence, bumping shoulders with each other, wanting a treat. Their whiskers tickled his palm, their breath warm and sweetly scented of clover across his face.

It was peaceful. He woke to sun gathering in the corners of the skylight, and went to bed with Tenny warm and real beside him, brow too often crimped as he slept, tossing and rolling and waking before Reese, the sheets already gone cool on his side.

Emmie spent most of the day teaching lessons, but she worked the young horses in for training in the evenings, and that was when Reese would set aside the day’s book and wander down to the arena, and the low bench under the trees, and watch.

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