Chapter Three
CHRISTIAN
The bathroom smelled like bleach, and the lock on the door stuck, so Christian had to shove it hard with his shoulder on the way out. He might just have overdone the shove, as the door ended up banging into the wall, causing a few heads to turn. He ignored them. He didn’t like people much. Except for Dave. He was like a port in a storm, never demanding anything from him and always there, that slightly lopsided smile on his face as he looked at Christian.
Dave was still at the bar, a glass of beer in front of him. No one was talking to him. Christian didn’t get it. He had the kind of face people should want to open up to, calm and patient. That soft mouth of his always looked like it was just about to say something kind.
He suspected it was the shirt that had put them off. Tonight’s monstrosity was something even Hawaii would disown, in purple,turquoise and orange. Or maybe it was the crystal on a leather string at his throat. People could be small-minded.
Dave was on his phone, probably catching up the pack on their progress so far. The pack WhatsApp could go quiet for days then blow up just because Tristan had spotted something weird, or Bryce wouldhaveto share a joke.
This was the first time they’d been away from the pack, and it felt strange. Not bad, exactly, but like something was missing at the edges. The noise, the teasing, the way he always knew someone had his back. Still, it was easier like this. Things there had gotten complicated, and Christian didn’t like complicated.
He paused a little longer, watching Dave from across the room. The jukebox was playing something sad and twangy, and the low amber lights made Dave’s blond hair look almost gold as it curled past his collar. He had that Dave-slouch going on, loose-limbed and relaxed, like he didn’t even know how easy he was to look at. Sometimes it hit Christian out of nowhere how hard and cold his life had been before this, before Dave. How much he needed what only Dave gave him. How much he neededDave.
And the part he couldn’t understand, wouldneverunderstand, was that Dave seemed to want him too. Christian wasn’t easy to be with, not the way Dave was, but Dave never looked at him like he was too much. Dave made him feel like maybe he wasn’t a screw-up, that he wasn’t made wrong after all.
He was glad Dave had accepted his explanation of how he’d known the woman meant a fight ring. The illicit excitement in her eyes would have given her away to anyone who was used to spending time around underground fights, and Christian had spent more than his share of time around them. And in them. Not that he’d ever told Dave.
He didn’t talk about that part of his life. He didn’t talk about the fights, period—not the ones that had kept him fed, and not theones he’d grown up with. The nights spent waiting for someone to come home angry.
Dave had never asked about his past, and Christian was grateful. Because if he did… Christian didn’t know what would be left of him if Dave looked at him differently afterward.
Then Dave turned his head and spotted him, and Christian made his way across the room.
“You talk to anyone?” he asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Dave shook his head as he put his phone away. “A guy told me the chili fries here are a war crime. That’s about it.”
Christian scanned the room again. A few older men in trucker hats were watching baseball on the bar TV, while a couple with matching tattoos were arguing in the corner. Nothing promising.
He glanced at Dave’s glass. “Is that the local pisswater special or are you treating yourself tonight?”
Dave snorted. “This is the good stuff. Top-shelf pisswater.”
Christian flagged the bartender down and ordered the same, then elbowed Dave lightly. “Tell me again why we’re drinking rotgut when Matt’s picking up the tab?”
“Tradition,” Dave said. “Besides, if we suddenly started ordering IPAs with herbal notes and grapefruit foam, people would think we’d been body-snatched.”
Christian grinned. “You remember that time Jason let Bryce buy the wine? Fancy label with gold writing, a picture of a French castle, and it tasted like feet.”
“It was imported,” Dave said solemnly. “From the garbage.”
The pattern of old jokes and bad beer was familiar and welcome, but Christian found he couldn’t forget why they were really here. He turned his glass in his hands, staring down at the amber liquid that looked barely drinkable, and drew a steadying breath.
“You’d think someone would remember a massacre,” he said quietly.
Dave shrugged. “Even if they do, no one’s about to bring it up to two strangers who just walked in.”
“Yeah.” Christian frowned. “We probably got lucky, back at the first place. Would’ve taken longer to find out about the pack without those women. Not exactly subtle, were they?”
“And you’re so good at subtlety,” Dave said, just dry enough that Christian smirked.
Still amused, Christian took a long pull of his beer and let the silence settle. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t their usual ease either. Something in the air between them hadn’t righted itself from the last bar. He didn’t know if it was being away from the ranch, or the reason for it, or the fact that Dave had looked like someone was slowly sanding his nerves down while Christian had been enduring the barflies earlier. But he could feel it—a slight hum of tension under the skin.
“You sure you’re not mad?” he asked.
Dave looked at him sideways. “About what?”
