“Yeah, it is,” Cara argued. “But there’s a four-year age gap between them. When Wilder’s eighteen and thinking with his dick the same way all eighteen-year-old boys do, Imogen will seem like a kid to him.”
“What about whenshe’seighteen?” Donovan challenged as we reached the upstairs hall.
“By then, Wilder will have learned respect and be old enough to handle her with care. He’ll also know better than to hurt her because I’m his mom, and that’s what I’ll teach him,” Cara replied gently. She headed to a door further up the hall and quietly turned the handle, leading us into a bedroom.
The walls were dark blue, and the matching blinds and curtains were the kind that blacked out the light. In the middle of the room was a queen bed, and in the middle of the queen bed, Immie was curled up, fast asleep.
My eyes drifted over to Wilder, who was lying on the floor on top of a sleeping bag. He knifed up to a sitting position, glared at us, and whisper-shouted, “Sshh. Immie’s sleeping.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Donovan muttered.
Wilder’s eyes narrowed on us, and he repeated, “Sshh.”
“Immie has to go home, Son,” Cara whispered. “We need to wake her up.”
Wilder jumped to his feet, his little fists balling, and he whisper-shouted, “No! Immie’s tired.”
Cara sighed the type of sigh that only a mother could sigh.
“Jesus,” Donovan cut out.
“Let her sleep,” Wilder demanded, his voice low and quiet.
Cara turned to us and shrugged defeatedly. “She could stay here.”
Donovan’s face paled. “I’ve just caught a fucking PI taking pictures of us, and I’m still trying to ascertain whether he’s investigating my daughter or me. There’s no fucking way I’m letting her have sleepovers.”
“She’s safer here than anywhere,” Cash’s voice interjected from the direction of the doorway.
I craned my neck to see him entering the room, taking in the scene. “You lookin’ after Imogen, Son?” he asked Wilder quietly.
Wilder nodded. “She was tired, and she cried. I don’t like Immie crying.”
Donovan stared down at the kid, seemingly lost for words.
“We’ll look after her,” Cash assured him. “We’ve still got Wilder’s old crib, and Cara won’t mind throwing her clothes through the laundry. This room has more cameras in it than Fort Knox. We’ll turn ‘em on tonight.”
“You’ve got cameras in a kid’s bedroom?” I asked.
“Well, yeah,” Cara confirmed, jerking her chin toward Wilder. “Mini Houdini here is a master escape artist. He was caught trying to climb out of the bedroom window when he was three. We were a hairsbreadth away from putting bars on them when, praise be, he grew out of that phase.” Her eyes went big, and she tagged on, “Thank God.”
Donovan’s head tipped back, and he cursed under his breath.
“We’ll look after her,” Cash reiterated.
“I don’t know, brother,” Donny argued gently. “With everything that’s going on, I’d feel more comfortable having my girl close.”
“Jesus,” Cash exclaimed. “We live in a gated community that’s monitored twenty-four seven by more cameras than the fuckin’ White House. My neighbor is Imogen’s future uncle and the SAA of a biker club, which I’m the prez of. What do you think’s gonna happen, huh?”
“I’m just nervous being away from her,” Donovan muttered.
“If you think a PI could get within a mile of this place without gettin’ shot in the head, then you’re fuckin’ crazy,” Cash stated, folding his arms across his chest. “She's safer here than anywhere.”
A tiny mewl came from Imogen as she stirred in her sleep.
Wilder’s face twisted angrily, and he hissed at us. “Sshh!”
Cash held his hands up defensively. “It’s okay, Son, we’re goin’.” His stare turned on Donovan. “Aren’t we?”
