Atom shrugs in that laid-back way of his. “You want Wren taken care of, but you don’t really want to do it. You want them cooped up in a way that means any protection is the absolute minimum irritation to the club. And I guess if King cares so much about Wren to go this far out on a limb for them, he probably wants to know they’re happy enough with the setup. Then, the poor kid passes out like they did yesterday, and you don’t have to be a doc like Greer to know a panic attack when you see one. But I will say, Wren looked like a person experiencing a bit of peace for the first time in their life when I saw them on that horse. So maybe we find ways to help them find that more often.”
Grudge steps back to the kitchen stool, sits on it, then lowers his head until it rests in his hands. “I’m fucking processing.”
The coffee smells good, so I move to grab a cup. Guess we’re talking and not fighting. “That’s a phrase I’ve never heard you say.”
“Fucking Lucy. I get mad, she just says, ‘Do you need a moment to process that?’”
Atom chuckles.
Grudge flips him the bird. “Fine. I fucking processed. Greer said the same thing to me yesterday. Seeing I seem to be biased in this process, what do the two of you suggest we do?”
“I have a plan,” Atom says. “Move Wren into my old man’s place on the ranch. I know King felt this place is too exposed and thinks that given the resources at the disposal of whoever is out for Wren, it leaves them wide open. But does it really? I mean, if Wren’s so fucking smart and bored, let’s give them an easy day job. Make this place secure. Perimeter alerts. Video cameras. Let’s give them some fucking peace so they can track down the rest of the cash.”
“You think we should do it?” Grudge asks, turning to face me.
“If it means them moving into a place where they can get some space and some air, then yes. But I’m going with them until we find out where all the money went.”
Grudge eyes me carefully. “Can I trust you to keep your hands off them?”
“I’m insulted you have to fucking ask,” I say, instead of lying to my president.
12
WREN
“We’re moving,” Catfish says when he returns to his room, a euphoric smile on his face.
“We are?” I wonder why disappointment laces my tone. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent the last twenty minutes vacillating between worry about River’s safety and concern for his longevity, partnered with a deep need to pick up where we left off, just before he was called away.
While I showered, I imagined the way his hands would feel on my naked body if he fucked me. And despite already having one orgasm, resisted the growing urge to touch myself to find a second one.
He comes to the bed and climbs over the top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His hands come up to cup both my cheeks, but he kisses me tenderly.
Not with the blast of high energy he kissed me with earlier.
This is softer and unexpected.
“We are. I mean, I made a deal I hope you agree to, which is that you secure this place up tight like King’s clubhouse in New Jersey. But hopefully, you think the deal is worth it, because inreturn, there are much nicer beds in the ranch house across the field over there.”
He points out of his bedroom window.
I think about all the beds I’ve slept in. Some of them soft, some hard. Some with blankets, some without. Some on my own, some with others. “They all feel the same when you have to sleep with one eye open.”
“We’ll find you some peace, Wren. I promise.”
I place my hands over his ass and roll my hips up against his. “What if peace wasn’t what I wanted right now?”
Catfish chuckles at that. “Then, I’d tell you that the sooner we get you packed up from the bakery and moved into the ranch house, where we will have an around-the-clock guardoutsidethe building, the sooner I’ll let you rip all my clothes off.”
I kisshimthis time. “Fine. I’m moving.”
My attempt to shove him off me is met with laughter. “You might think you’re tough. But there’s no way you’re pushing me around.”
In a move akin to a push-up, he lifts himself easily off me, hovering, arms bent, to kiss me one more time before bouncing off the bed.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re dressed, in Catfish’s truck, on our way to the bakery with a prospect escort. It feels like a lifetime since we left there yesterday. And I feel like a different person.
Maybe it’s the power of someone else knowing you’re drowning. Maybe it’s someone else noticing what you’re emotionally carrying and offering to help carry it without you having to ask.
