She was studying a photograph on the sill. It had been taken five years ago, when he’d been at a rally with the Barbarians. The picture showed him and his father astride bikes, side by side, the sun beating down on them. It was one of only a handful he had of them together.
“Who is this?” she asked, still looking at it.
He came to an abrupt halt. “My father, he was president of the Barbarians. He died not long after that photo was taken.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She finally looked at him. “Really I am.”
“Not your fault.” He shrugged and tried to shake off the ache he always got in his chest when he thought of his father. He’d been taken too early. Robbed of making memories with the club and his family.
“I know it’s not my fault.” She turned to the window and stared out.
He got the feeling she wasn’t really looking at anything. It was the sag of her shoulders and the long, quiet sigh.
“Hey, what is it?” He set his hands on her upper arms and squeezed. It was almost as if she needed holding together.
“I meant.” She paused. “That I’m sorry that you had to go through losing him. I lost my mother a few years ago. That kind of pain is soul crushing.”
He kissed the top of her head, the ache in his chest increasing. He hated that she’d been through an experience she described as soul crushing.
For a moment, they were silent, then he turned her around, hooked his finger under her chin, and tipped her face. “Well, at least we have one thing in common.”
“Because we haven’t got much else, right?” She tried to smile.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to admit their compatibility status was in the minus numbers. How could he after the night they’d had? And he still wanted more. As much as he could get before she high-tailed it north again. “I suppose we have the need for pancakes in common, too.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Ah, yes.” She touched her lips to his. “So feed me, big boy.”
“Big boy.” He laughed.
She laughed too. “Well, you can’t deny you are.”
Nope. He wasn’t going to deny that.
Chapter Twelve
Two minutes later, Carter pulled open the bullet-peppered door that led into Nina’s and walked inside. He was holding Leah’s hand tight. He felt like he was taking a lamb into the wolves’ den, and he was entirely responsible for the safety of that lamb.
It always took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he paused and glanced around.
It wasn’t busy. There were no out-of-compound Barbarians lurking from what he could see. That was kind of usual on a midweek afternoon.
Wyatt was at the pool table with his scantily clad chick, Belle. They lived next to him, fucked noisily most nights. Taff was at the bar nursing a beer, likely his tenth of the day, and chatting to Nina who was winding a cloth around a whisky glass and looking bored.
In the far corner, beside the entrance to the office—the one place only fully-fledged, bonafide Barbarians could enter unless specifically invited—sat Hudson, chatting quietly to Brooklyn as he often did.
They were close. Always had been. Carter sometimes wondered if it would become more one day. Or if both still had so much loyalty to his father that it never could.
“C’mon.” He urged Leah to the pool table.
“Hey, stranger.” Wyatt slapped Carter’s shoulder. “Thought you’d been dropped into the ocean wearing cement boots.”
“Not yet.” Carter chuckled. “Hey, Belle.”
“Hi.” She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Leah and chewing her gum with her mouth open. “Who’s this?”
“This is Leah.” He gave her a squeeze. Her body was tense.
“Hey, Leah. Where you from?” Wyatt asked.