“What happened to your face?”
“Hmm?” I blinked and Logan was glaring at me again. “Where?”
“Your eyebrow. Looks like you got punched.”
“Just a bumper jumper. Hit my face on the door frame.”
“In the wagon?”
“Orla’s motor.”
Logan’s brow twitched the way it always did when Orla and Nash came up in conversation. “She okay?”
“She wasn’t in it. Just me.”
My brother’s frown deepened. He never asked about club business—a habit left over from the old days—but he knew I was Orla’s bodyguard for a fuckin’ reason. “Something happen?”
I chanced a glance at Saint. He’d left it too late to skulk out of the room and had stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, but I knew better than to believe he wasn’t listening. Or to think he was a nosy arsehole for doing it. “Nothing happened,” I lied. “Some idiot on the A38 fucked up on the slip road.”
It still made no sense to Logan. When I wasn’t guarding the queen, I drove for a living—cars, bikes, HGVs. Fire engines back in the day. It’d take more than a twat in a hatchback to force me off the road.Like three goons on hogs pulling guns.
I’d evaded them. Just. But it had cost Orla her car for however long it took River and Nash to fix it.
“Where are you, anyway?”
“Cam’s house.”
“Why?”
“Dinner.”
Logan grunted. “He’s a nicer boss than the last cunt you worked for.”
“How is that news?”
Logan shrugged, tipping a beer bottle to his lips. From the quiet around him, I deduced that he was alone—his boys with their mum, and his lover elsewhere, which probably accounted for his foul mood as much as the awful shift he’d survived to reach his kitchen table and give me a hard time. My sweet twin had grown used to being happy, and it looked good on him. Only troubleformewas that it made it obvious when he wasn’t happy, and that shit hurt.
We talked for a little longer. I showed him pics of Willow’s car and he brightened up. Then Remy came home and we said goodbye.
I clicked out of the call. Messages from Folk and Ranger waited for me.
Ranger. Fuckin’ hell. It had reached me that he’d checked in with the club, but I’d missed out on the details.
I tapped out replies, aware of Saint sitting up.
“People like you.”
I finished texting and set my phone down. “I like people.”
“Not what I meant.”
I waited for him to explain, but he got up and left the house entirely.
In a brotherhood of quiet men—Folk, Decoy, Alexei—Saint was maybe the quietest of them all. His departure went unnoticed until Cam and Orla emerged from the kitchen sometime later.
Cam treated me to his deepest glare. “Where the fuck did he go?”
“Didn’t say.”
