Page 95 of The Wild Charge

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The office door cracked open, and Reese’s face pressed to the gap, searching.

Tenny felt a smile tug at his lips, sudden and unstoppable. He was an idiot, sure, but he was a cute idiot, most of the time.

“Come in.”

Reese eased the door open only as far as necessary and slipped inside. His Scotch had been replaced with a glass of wine, Tenny noticed.

Tenny felt a bit scooped-out; hollow and achy in a way that, for once, had nothing to do with a fight or physical exertion. Yes, he’d engaged with someone tonight, someone far too well-trained for his liking – then again, if Marshall Hunter had trained Reese, it stood to reason he’d trained others, too, and just as well – but it wasn’t bruising or physical fatigue dragging at him now.

“The drinks helping?” he asked.

Reese set the glass down on the desk – and then kept coming, crowding into Tenny’s space so he was forced to lean back, leaning down to cup his face and kiss him.

That’s a yes, he thought, and didn’t think about much of anything save for how nice it felt to be kissed, to be on the receiving end rather than be the initiator.

When Reese drew back, his face was mostly his own. Thank Christ. He brushed Tenny’s cheek with a thumb, and, to his horror, Tenny saw that it came away damp.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” God, he’d had too much to drink. He was too…emotional. Or something. Shit. “Come here.” He wrapped both arms around Reese’s waist and dragged him closer so he could press his face to his stomach; he blamed that on the alcohol too.

I’ll kill him for you, he thought.I’ll break him into a hundred pieces for you.

The door opened again, and Fox’s voice said, “Dinner’s ready, if you’re interested.” A beat, one in which Tenny stayed stubbornly hidden. “Also, Emmie says you’re to crash in one of the guest rooms. Take it up with her, if you don’t like it.”

There were a dozen things he needed to do; a dozen things heshouldhave done – but Reese dragged fingers through his hair, and he thought all of it could wait ‘til morning.

Twenty-Five

An only child from a broken family, Emmie loved now being part of a big, loud, colorful family of so many siblings. Having (almost) all of them under one roof like this was a rare occurrence, but a welcome one – she just wished the circumstances were different. At least Walsh’s mother was safely out of town, halfway to Alaska on the cruise they’d gifted her for her birthday.

As for the rest of them…

She shivered as she stood over Violet’s bed, watching her lowered lashes flicker, dreaming innocent dreams of ponies and rainbows and ice cream. She was old enough now to know that her daddy had a motorcycle, and that he was a Lean Dog – though she had no idea what that meant aside from playdates with the other club children and a profusion of leather-clad uncles. She couldn’t have understood the threat hanging over them now; wouldn’t have shared the dread slowly gaining momentum in the pit of Emmie’s stomach.

She tucked a shining golden curl behind a little ear, clicked off the lamp – unicorn nightlight shining over on the dresser – and slipped from the room.

Reese was in the hall, a glass of water in one hand, poised in front of the guest room she’d offered him and Tenny.

He’d always been hard to read – harder to read than Tenny, at least, or Fox, or Albie – but she could tell something was off. The drive-by? No, probably something else, she figured. But she didn’t know how to broach the subject with him.

So she said, “Do you guys need anything else? Some aspirin, maybe?” She nodded toward the door. Tenny had been…more than tipsy at dinner.

Reese opened his other hand to reveal two white pills. “Eden had some.”

“Ah. Good.” It was awkward. Awkward couldn’t really be helped with Reese. “Well, then. Walsh and I are at the end of the hall if you need something. Goodnight.”

He nodded. “Goodnight.” For a moment, when he opened the bedroom door, a panel of light from the hallway fixture slid across the carpet and over Tenny, lying face-down and stripped to his underwear on the bed, one leg dangling off the side. There were scars on his back, shiny and long-healed, evidence of violence. Both of them looked so young, but they’d seen so much – too much. More than anyone ever should have.

Then the door closed, and she was alone in the hall, in her robe and pajamas, the faint murmurs of low, couples’ conversations seeping from under the doors around her.

She went to find her husband.

He still owned his old place out on the railroad tracks, the cottage that, while it had its own rustic charms, she thought of as his “depression shack.” It was a solitary place, one where he’d lived alone save Dolly, long nights on the porch waiting for the trains to roll by, smoking too many cigarettes. He went there, sometimes, still, when his thoughts got loud enough that he didn’t want her to be able to read them on his face. Bless his heart – fatherhood had left him wanting to feel invincible, and she knew it troubled him when that wasn’t possible.

He wouldn’t be there tonight, she knew, not with the threat they faced, and the amount he’d had to drink. But the too-many cigarettes part still stood.

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