****
Carter headed southeast. It was getting late for breakfast, but he was sure Nina would rustle up pancakes for him—if nothing else because she’d want to have a nose at Leah.
They all would.
When had he last brought a woman to the compound? Not for a long time. Singledom had been suiting him since he’d split with Skylar, not that he’d been abstinent, a guy had needs, but no woman had piqued his interest enough to want to spend time with her in the daylight.
Until now. Until Leah.
And right now, she had her little arms hugging him tight and her chest pressed against his back. He could get damn used to her riding with him.
Unless shit was going down of course, then he didn’t want her anywhere around. She wasn’t of his world and he had no intention of dragging her into the shit and the garbage he had to wade through.
He drove past House of Pancakes.
She tapped his abdomen over his t-shirt and pointed.
He shook his head. Took a left, continued for half a mile, then turned right and weaved along a street lined with parked cars and vans.
The surf shop came into view and he pulled up alongside it.
“I thought we were going for pancakes,” she said by his ear.
“We are. Here.” He honked his horn.
“At the compound … your home?”
“Yeah, believe it or not, I need fresh underwear and a T. I might be a dirty biker but I have standards.”
She laughed. “Ah, okay.”
The tall metal gate slid open six feet—Razor operating it from inside the surf shop.
Carter rolled in, his engine a low growl. The gates closed behind him.
He looked around, seeing it anew, as if through Leah’s eyes. He’d bet good money she’d never been in a place like this before.
Perhaps it appeared chaotic. A large concrete area dotted with bikes, jet skis, trailers, a couple of wagons, and a black van with dark windows, currently in the process of having a new wing, owing to it taking a few bullets the week before.
Behind the van was a kids’ play area, nothing fancy, a few swings constructed on site, and a green plastic slide. There was a sandpit, too. The kids liked the sand. Carter had played there when he was a youngster until he’d been allowed to tinker with engines. He’d always preferred oil to sand.
Running along the back of the compound was a complex that could be likened to a motel, yet all fifteen rooms were fitted with kitchens and perfectly liveable for the long term. Carter had called the one at the end, with the black door and the old car seat out front, home for over ten years. Sure, it looked scruffy, he could see that now, but the wonky saloon seat was comfortable when he was smoking a joint and killing the time of day.
The high metal fence with the roll of barb attached to the top went around the entire compound, encompassing the workshop—a large, low warehouse-like structure that contained, somewhere within it, everything they could possibly need to fix up a bike. A big arched sign over the top held the hand-painted wordsDEVIL’S BARBARIANS.
Movement to his right caught his attention. It was Rambo, the compound’s resident dog. He trotted over the way he always did when the gate slid open. He took his detail as first-line-of-defense security very seriously.
“Eek, big dog.” Leah hugged Carter a little tighter.
“He’s friendly.” Again, Carter looked at Rambo as Leah would see him. It was true, he was an enormous dog, even for a German shepherd he was big. Plus, it was a hot day and he was panting, showing off an impressive set of sharp canines. “Don’t panic.”
Carter removed his helmet.
Leah appeared frozen to his back.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
“I’m not a huge dog fan.”