“So get off the other side of the bike and I’ll introduce you. I promise he won’t hurt you.”
She did as he’d asked.
He climbed off. Reaching for Rambo, he gave his head a fondle. “Be nice to my girl here, okay?”
Rambo licked Carter’s hand, then wandered to Leah. Carter followed him in case he got over-friendly. “You came in here with one of us, babe, so he won’t have a problem. Try to climb over the fence, and he’ll be your worst nightmare.”
She gulped. “I have no intention of climbing any fences.” Rambo sniffed her sandals. First the right, then the left.
Carter clicked his fingers. “Enough, Rambo. Get outta here.”
Rambo almost shrugged, turned around, and trotted back to his old mattress beside the rear door to the surf shop.
“C’mon, this way. I’ll show you my pad, not quite as fancy as yours but considerably more secure.” He slid his hand around her waist and glanced about again.
It was quiet. The heat of the day had sent everyone indoors, or to Nina’s—their own on-site clubhouse.
“Where is everyone?” Leah asked as they walked past a stack of old tires, burnt-out exhausts, and a heavy metal safe with the door missing.
“It’s hot.” He steered her to the steps leading up to his place. “They’ll be indoors or at Nina’s.”
“Which is?”
“Over there.” He nodded to the left. “Behind the workshop. It’s a bar, diner kind of place, easy for us to hang out. Shoot pool and that.”
Nina’s didn’t look particularly inviting, heck, it made the restaurant in Tijuana look like the Waldorf. With its corrugated roof, door still bearing the brunt of a couple of bullet holes when shit got ugly one night a few months ago, and no windows, Carter suddenly wondered about the wisdom of bringing his bit of high-class ass to this place.
“I hope it’s got air-conditioning,” she said. “I don’t want to be as hot as the frying pan cooking the pancakes.”
He laughed, expelling some of his tension. “Yeah, it’s rigged up. We’re not complete animals.”
Or maybe we are.
They went up the metal steps, and he unlocked the door to his place, trying to remember what kind of state he’d left it in.
“M’lady.” He shoved it open and gestured for her to go in first. The less time she stared at the old car seat and the coffee mug of floating weed butts sitting next to it, the better.
She stepped in. Stopped. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Bigger than I thought.”
“You don’t have to find compliments. I never claimed to be into interior design.”
“It’s your place, and I know I’m lucky you let me in, that Razor and Rambo let me in, so I like it.”
“You’re sweet, you know that?” He pressed a quick kiss to her head then strode to the bedroom, scooping up a porn mag from the table on the way. “Give me a second then we’ll go eat.”
His bedroom curtains were drawn, the air hot and stale. The bed was unmade, the faded blue duvet a twist in the center. “Fuck,” he muttered. He’d really have to get his act together if he ever wanted Leah to stay here.
But why would she?
Quickly, he switched his boxers, then peeled off yesterday’s t-shirt and dragged another on. It wasn’t the best, but at least it was clean and the logo for a local strip club was so faded it was practically indecipherable.
Scooping up four empty beer bottles from the bedside and frowning at the brown sticky mess beside the lamp—a melted cookie—he made a promise to shape up when it came to domesticity.
“All right then, babe.” He strode into the living room, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s go get pancakes. Nina makes the best.”