Page 85 of The Wild Charge

“Here,” Tenny said, voice all soft, and took him by the hipbones; eased him down to sit on the closed toilet lid and dampened a fresh cloth. It was easier, Reese realized, to go where he was pressed, to let himself be moved, than to do anything active himself.

Tenny knelt down between his knees and wiped the blood away, brows knit. The process seemed to take longer than it should have.

“So that was him, huh?”

Reese didn’t need to ask for clarification, though it was an effort to speak. “Yes.”

Tenny nodded. Moved away to get the alcohol and a swab, eyes on his task the whole time. “Do you know his name?”

Again, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth; unsticking it hurt, almost. “No. I only…only ever called him ‘Sir.’”

“Hm. Yeah. That’s usually how it is.”

The alcohol stung, but in a distant way. Numbness had settled in good and deep, cold on his skin, colder in the pit of his stomach. There was a faint buzzing in his ears, quiet but persistent.

Tenny dabbed the wound dry, then sealed it with a few drops of liquid bandage. When he was done, he settled his hands on Reese’s thighs, and looked up at him, blue eyes full of worry beneath still-drawn brows. His mouth twitched, and he started to speak two times, drawing in little breaths, before he finally said, “Are you still on for dinner?”

Reese had the impression that wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, somehow.

A beat passed. Another.

Tenny squeezed his legs. “Reese,” he prompted.

Oh, right. He’d been asked a question. “Dinner…?”

Tenny ran his tongue along his teeth. “Yeah. At Walsh’s place. Remember?”

“…Yes.”

His nostrils flared, but his voice stayed calm. “Ghost is angry as all hell, but he thinks it’s best to lie low for a bit. At least for tonight. Walsh said we might as well still come.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.”

Tenny stared at him a long moment, head cocked to an assessing angle. Then he stood to fetch a second cloth, one he wet and soaped. His touch was very gentle as he gripped Reese by the chin with one hand, and began wiping the paint from his face with the other.

~*~

Walsh had enough vodka that Fox was a little worried he’d crash his bike on the way home. He didn’t move like a man affected, though, and his voice was as laconic as ever when he shrugged and said, “Might as well still come. Already bought the food, and Em says Eden and Axelle showed up an hour ago.”

Shit. Up ‘til that point, he hadn’t thought about relaying the night’s events to Eden. Her shocked look of disapproval was all too easy to imagine.

When they arrived, all the women were standing around the wide island in the industrial grade kitchen, all sipping wine, save Eden and Cassandra who’d had to make do with ginger ale.

Fox paused on the threshold a minute, just out of reach of its too-bright lights. Watched Walsh, who stepped around him, went to Emmie, laid a hand on her hip and kissed the back of her neck before he went to wash up, the gesture casual and familiar and unselfconscious.

He watched Eden take a sip of ginger ale, grimace a little at the taste, and then turn her head to search for him. He knew that he wasn’t going to do as Walsh had; no simple but loving touch, no lips on her nape. He wasn’t even sure why that was, only that it wasn’t something he’d ever thought to do, nor something she’d asked for.

As their eyes met, and she offered one of her small, close-lipped smiles, he couldn’t decide if it was something hewantedher to ask for.

Everyone else turned to regard him, then; Albie frowned, and Fox realized he was acting strange – strange for him, even. He stepped into the room and Axelle snugged in close to Albie’s side so he could settle into the place beside Eden. She knocked their elbows together in silent greeting when he did so.

“Charles,” Raven said, swirling her glass, leveling a scrutinizing look on him totally at odds with her smile. “Is that glitter in your hair?”

All eyes snapped back to him.

Walsh, who’d poured himself a larger glass of wine than a man who’d already had three vodka shots should have indulged in, glared at him over the top of Emmie’s head. It was the angriest he’d looked so far, and, belatedly, Fox realized he’d been this angry since they all walked into the clubhouse an hour-and-a-half ago, and that he’d been hiding it rather well.

His next realization was that it was bits of shattered window glass, and not glitter in his hair.

---