Reese relaxed a little, letting the warmth of Brantley’s hand on his neck settle him. He leaned in, took that kiss Brantley was offering. He let it linger for longer than he’d intended, and when he came up for air, he was ready for the second option.
Brantley’s hand lightly massaged the back of his neck as he pressed his forehead to Reese’s.
“How about this? We’ll go to the range, then grab some lunch. After, we’ll head back to the house. I’ll fuck you, then we’ll do some more research on who this guy is that Toby owes money to.”
“Okay,” Reese said softly, running his hand over Brantley’s arm. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t affected by the fact Brantley wanted to take care of him, even if it was by providing a way to get his mind off the aftereffects that still lingered in his brain from having been shot point-blank. Since that day, he’d had a different outlook on guns than before. More specifically, on being on the bullet end of one.
“I’d kiss you a little longer, but I think we’re drawin’ an audience,” Brantley whispered.
If he’d said it to get a reaction out of him, he failed because Reese responded with, “Let ’em watch,” before he kissed Brantley again, lingering a little longer this time.
When they pulled apart, Brantley groaned, adjusting himself as he sat back. Reese glanced out the window, noticing Brantley hadn’t been lying. They did have an audience. It was the guy from the club—Ronny, he believed his name was—and two more goons. They were standing near the wall, glaring daggers in their direction.
“Maybe Matt’ll let us shoot the AKs,” Brantley mused.
Reese couldn’t stop the grin as the last of his trepidation faded away.
At least for the time being.
Three hours later, they were walking into the diner, and Reese was feeling like himself again.
A nudge on his arm had him glancing over to see Brantley silently gesturing for him to look at something. He followed his gaze and found Luca Switzer sitting in a booth with Honor Anderson, one of Brantley’s many cousins. They appeared to be in a heated conversation, neither looking pleased to be in the other’s company.
“Are they seein’ each other?” Reese asked, following the hostess who was leading them to their table.
“No idea. But it damn sure doesn’t look like he’s workin’. I gave him somethin’ to do. He should be doin’ it.”
Wanting to avoid a scene, Reese urged Brantley to keep moving. “It’s Saturday. Everyone deserves a day off. I’m sure he’ll get to it when he’s finished here.”
Because he could feel Brantley’s curiosity, he took a seat, leaving the other side of the booth available for Brantley so he could keep an eye on things from afar. He probably shouldn’t be enabling him, but he could tell there was more than curiosity burning in Brantley’s gaze. Reese didn’t know Honor well, but he did know that she and her three sisters—Whitney, Violet, and Amanda—were kinda like the Rapunzels of the Walker clan. Rather than let the witch get her hands on them, though, the Walkers had formed a metaphorical protective wall around the women to keep their magical powers protected from evil almost from birth.
Granted, they didn’t really have magical powers, nor did they appreciate the overprotectiveness of the bunch, but it didn’t change anything.
“He’s a good guy,” Reese reminded Brantley before grabbing one of the menus from the slot on the table and shoving it toward Brantley. “And you’re starin’.”
Brantley cleared his throat, his gaze swinging over to Reese. He at least had the decency to appear sheepish.
“They’re both adults,” Reese said when Brantley’s gaze swung over to the table again. “She’s not a fairy princess in need of savin’.”
“According to my family she is,” Brantley grumbled.
Although he was curious as to the reason behind the family’s protectiveness of the women, Reese wasn’t sure he was in the right mindset to hear it at the moment. Every time he tried to think about something else, his thoughts drifted back to Toby and his mother and whatever convoluted relationship they’d had going on back in the day.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked as she stepped up to their table.
Grateful for the interruption, Reese glanced at Brantley. He grinned when the man acted as though he wasn’t sure where he was or what the waitress was offering.
“Two sweet teas, and I’ll have the chef salad,” Reese told her when Brantley didn’t speak up. “Ranch dressin’ on the side.”
Brantley’s eyes slid toward him, and amusement replaced the confusion. “And I’ll have real food. Double bacon cheeseburger, well done. Double order of fries.”
With a smile, the waitress jotted it down and then sauntered off.
“Rabbit food?” Brantley asked, settling into his seat.
“I think I’ve put back on all the weight I need to,” he admitted. He’d been working on adding back the pounds he’d lost after he’d gotten shot. Being back with Brantley had made it easier than it would’ve been otherwise. Not only because Brantley’s diet was the equivalent of a teenage sports player but also because he’d found peace in being home.
But now that he was healed and healthy, he figured it was time to stop acting like he was a growing teenage boy. Brantley got away with it because he had the metabolism of a hummingbird. Reese wasn’t so lucky.
