I gave him an insolent stare of my own. “What you expect me to eat.”
“Erm... pasta, chicken, vegetables.”
“Vegetables?”
“You thought I was a slaughter the pig in the garden kind of bloke?”
“Maybe.” I stretched up to peer over Cam’s shoulder to his sleek range cooker. It was jet black—like his motorbike—with five burners and built into a stone alcove, and though clean, was clearly well used. “You really live here, don’t you?”
Bemusement danced in Cam’s dark gaze. “When I have time. After we left Ireland, I grew up here. This was my nan’s house once upon a time.”
I forgot sometimes that people—even MC presidents—had normal families. Ties that bound them together in mundane ways that just... were. “It’s nice that your grandmother left it to you.”
“It’s not just mine. My brother owns half of it, and I’d let him have it if he wanted it, but he doesn’t want to be—fuck, sorry. You don’t want to hear that shit.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“I’m making an educated guess, seeing as I don’t give a fuck about anyone else’s family drama.”
“I am not you.” I ducked out of Cam’s hold and stepped around him, too curious about how he lived away from the club to mourn the loss of his touch just yet. “Tell me about your brother—he’s your blood brother, yes? He does not ride?”
“Oh, he does. Just not with me or the club.”
“What is his name?”
“River.”
By chance, I stopped in front of a framed picture on a wooden shelf built from thick, dark oak. The photograph was black and white by design, not age, but I could still see the man it featured had the same obsidian eyes as Cam, the same inky hair. He had tattoos and a scruffy jaw too, but he was slimmer than Cam and his stance as he straddled a stripped-back Street Bob was passive. Gentle, almost, though the resemblance to Cam was too strong for me to believe this man didn’t possess the same grit and aggression. “You are not close.” I made an educated guess of my own.
Cam sighed. “Not at the moment.”
I spared him a glance. “But you want to be?”
“I want him to be happy. Safe. And to make his own choices. If that means he’s a million miles away from me, I have to live with that.”
There was a story there, I could tell, but I hadn’t come here to dig into Cam’s pain. I’d come for two reasons: to learn more about whatever business was putting him in danger, and because I wanted to see him—an affliction, strange as it was, thatIwas learning to live with.
I took his vague hint and wandered around the ground floor of the cottage he called home. Outside of the modern kitchen, the rest of what I found was likely as it had been when it was built. Hardwood floors, dark beams, ancient windows. Clean white walls were punctuated by the occasional family photograph or piece of MC memorabilia, and a deep leather couch sat amongst the vintage dressers and side tables.
It was... adorable and light years away from the style of living I’d have imagined for my biker friend if I’d pictured him outside of the bedroom.
I drifted back to the kitchen. Cam was perched on the marble countertop, two plates of food at his side, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. “I have vodka in the freezer,” he said. “But it ain’t the posh stuff.”
“Posh stuff?”
“I got it at the supermarket.”
“Youwent to the supermarket?”
“Do you see a maid around here?”
“You have prospects.”
I meant the MC interpretation of the word, but Cam chose the other meaning, and his gaze darkened as he shook his head. “Nope. Never did. This was always gonna be my life whether I wanted it or not.”
“Either way, I am trying to picture you in Tesco and I cannot do it.”
“Where can you picture me?”
