Caine McKannon eased his naked body off the bed, doing his best not to disturb the couple entangled next to him. He retrieved his jeans from the floor and stepped into them, then repeated the process with his boots, shirt, hoodie, and leather-and-denim Raven Riders cut-off jacket. He’d shower the ménage off of his skin when he got home. Fucking he could always handle. Talking, not so much.
So it was time to fly.
Caine had perfected ghosting through his life before his age had hit double digits—silence had been a survival skill given the way he’d grown up—so he was surprised to find a pair of eyes on him when he turned. The man was older than him, early fifties maybe. Elliott was his name, not that it mattered. But he’d been the one to contact Caine about being a third with him and his wife through the message boards, one of the main ways he found partners who wouldn’t have expectations for more.
Because Caine didn’t do more. Not with women. Or men. Or even with the couples for whom he served as a twisted fucking fantasy fulfillment. Hell, Caine barely had friends, let alone anything more intimate. And he never had. Sometimes, he could hardly believe his brothers in the Raven Riders put up with his anti-social bullshit. Actually, calling him anti-social would’ve been generous.
But distance made him good at his job. Distance provided perspective, ensured dispassionate reasoning, kept everyone safe. Himself included. And that was his job for the club: Enforce the rules. Keep everyone safe.
Punish any sonofabitch who dared cross him or the club.
Tugging the black beanie down over his shorn hair, Caine gave the man in the bed a last look.
Elliott met his gaze and acknowledged him with a single nod, before pulling the sheet over his much younger wife’s bare legs and ass like he was done sharing her. Caine had…absolutely no emotional reaction to the gesture at all. Sex wasn’t about finding a place or making a connection. It was about getting off. Fulfilling a need. Scratching an itch. Finding a release. He’d been used and had used in return, and that was fine by him. But now, he’d fulfilled his purpose with these people, and they were as done with him as he was with them.
He left the McMansion like a whisper in the night and found his Dyna Fat Bob in front of the three-car garage. There wasn’t any moon, so the bike was barely more than a shadow in the darkness. Working with one of his brothers who owned a custom chop shop, Caine had had the bike almost completely murdered out with a mix of black finishes that gave it a lean, brooding industrial feel, like it was more tactical weapon than motorcycle.
He got astride and heaved a sigh. It wasn’t quite eleven and despite the sex, restlessness rattled through his veins, telling him sleep wouldn’t find him any time soon. No sense going home. And he wasn’t up for the Saturday-night partying no doubt going down at the clubhouse.
So he’d do what he always did when he couldn’t sleep. Ride a circuit around town – swinging past the Ravens’ big compound, the racetrack the club operated, his brothers’ places, and the homes of the Ravens’ protectees who weren’t currently living in the cabins near their clubhouse. Patrolling wasn’t something he was expected to do, or that anyone even knew he did. Just something that filled his time. Just a routine that gave him something to think about besides the lame-ass woe-is-me bullshit narrative that sometimes filled his head.
You’re a fucking waste of space.
You’re a worthless piece of shit.
You should’ve been the one to die.
Wah wah whatthefuckever.
His bike came to life on a low rolling growl, drowning out the ancient voices and the memories. He donned a matte black helmet and tugged a mouth mask up over his face, and then he was pulling out onto the street and making his way through town, past quiet homes and closed businesses. Glowing Christmas lights hung in trees and around rooflines and in darkened windows, not that the holiday meant anything to him.
Every time he made a left turn, his shifting weight reminded him that he’d been shot through the left wrist less than three months before. The memory of that night was part of the bullshit that pinballed around his skull—not because he’d been hurt, but because three others had been, too. And it was his fucking fault.
The only saving grace was that all three had survived, but clearly he needed to step up and do better watching over the members of the closest thing to a family he’d ever had. Because next time they might not be so lucky.
Nearly an hour into riding the circuit, Caine made his way into town to the row house of the last of their protectees, Ana Garcia. She’d been receiving death threats ever since filing a sexual assault charge against the pastor at a big church on the outskirts of town. One of those places that was as much fundraising machine as it was a house of worship. Powerful and connected, where the woman was not. Which was why she’d come to the Ravens, and why they’d agreed to take her on. It was what they did—protecting those who couldn’t defend themselves, and it’d been the main thing that’d drawn Caine to the club ten years before.
He parked at the curb about a half block away from the client’s house and cut his engine, content to keep eyes on the place for a while despite the December cold. The Ravens had offered to let her stay at one of their cabins, but she didn’t want to be chased from her own house, so they’d been doing regular drive-bys and providing escorts around town, most recently during her courthouse appearance. The show of potential force was frequently enough to make the kind of cowardly shitheads who’d threaten a woman stand down, and so far that seemed to be the case for her.
On a sigh, Caine hung his helmet on the handle bar and got off the bike to walk the block. He moved like a shadow, quiet and quick, a black wraith in the night. Eyes wide open. Ears on alert. Instincts tuned to the tiniest threat. It was just how he was wired—or maybe it was how life had rewired him.
He was almost at the intersection across from their client’s house when he heard it. A woman’s shriek, abruptly cut off, quickly followed by the snarling, aggressive barks of a dog—and then a sharp yelp. Not from the direction of their protectee’s place, but closer, from around the corner of the row houses right next to him.
Instincts screaming, Caine darted to the corner of the house closest to the intersection, his hand already at the small of his back…reaching for the gun he hadn’t brought when his whole plan for the night had been the threesome. Fuck.
He peered around the corner and saw two people locked in physical struggle, a small dog barking and growling at their ankles. One person wore a mask, and the other a halo of long, blond hair.
Aw, hell no. He drew a switchblade from his boot and bolted toward them. He didn’t speak, didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate. He popped the blade open and swung, catching the mask-wearing shitbag on the arm.
The guy hollered and reared back, suddenly off balance, the woman’s purse in his hands as he went down on his ass. It was the perfect opportunity to pin him, except the woman lost her balance, too. She fell back against Caine’s chest and, as he caught her, their feet became entangled in the dog’s leash as the little thing jumped and yipped. It was all Caine could do to keep them upright.
And it allowed the attacker to recover. Her belongings spilling from the purse, he scrabbled off the ground and hauled ass up the street before disappearing down an alley.
“Sonofabitch,” Caine growled, holding the woman by the shoulders as he tried to step out of the winding cord.
“Wait, wait,” she said in a shaky voice. “Let me just unhook—”
“Be still,” Caine said, frustrated as all hell that the man had gotten away.
“But—”
Finally, he got free of the leash, free of the heat of the woman against him, free of the dog scratching at the legs of his jeans. Bending down, the woman picked up the little puff ball and dropped the leash, allowing her to step out of the tangle, too.
She pressed her face to the thing’s fur, her breath hitching. “Are you okay, baby?” The dog answered by licking her face, and then she ran her hands over its furry body. “Did he hurt you?”
Restless and agitated, Caine shifted feet. His gaze scanned the street, swung over all the shadowed places around them, took in the way the woman’s wavy, sunny-blond hair spilled down over her long dark-blue coat. He folded and pocketed the knife. “You’re the one you should be worried about.”
Her gaze cut to him, allowing him to really see her for the first time. Bright eyes the shade of the summer sky. Delicate features, almost stunningly pretty. A little gap between her two front teeth that added an endearing quality to all that pretty.
If Caine had been the type to find something endearing, which he wasn’t.
She unleashed a shaky breath. “I…I can barely believe that just happened. Or that you helped me. Thank you.”
He shook his head, not wanting the gratitude. Not when the man who’d jumped her had gotten away. “Why are you out alone at this hour anyway?”
Irritation replaced the gratitude in her gaze. “First of all, should that matter? Second, because dogs have to be walked—”
Her annoyance was easier for him to deal with. “At eleven at night?” he asked, suddenly angry that she’d seemed more concerned for her dog than her own safety.
“Wow. Okay.” She rubbed a hand against her forehead as if he’d pained her. Turning away, she put the puff ball down and crouched to retrieve her scattered belongings from the cracked sidewalk. Pens, lipsticks, a package of mints. She reached for something farther away and a little moan spilled from her throat as she suddenly curled in on herself.
“What?” he asked, warily coming up beside her. “What’s the matter?”
Hand against her forehead, she gave a little shake. “Nothing. I have a migraine. Was on my way back from the convenience store when he…he…” Another little shake, and she braced her free hand against the sidewalk. Whimpering, the puff ball tried to climb into her lap. “That’s why I was out.”
Fuck. Aren’t I the asshole?
Always.
She unleashed a little laugh, but the sound was full of despair.
Caine gave the street another one-eighty scan, then crouched.
Those bright blues cut up to him. “Except now that guy has the medicine I just bought…along with my wallet and keys.” She pressed her fingers into her forehead again. “Oh, God, what a mess.”
Unsure what to say or do, Caine just watched her expressive face. Pain and unnamed emotion flickered across it, making him wish for just one moment that he was the kind of person who knew how to make things better.
On a sigh, she stuffed her loose belongings into her coat pocket. “Oh! I still have my phone.” Her expression brightened as she pulled the device from her coat and stared at it like she’d won a prize. “I should call the police.”
“They won’t be able to help,” he said.
She frowned and her shoulders fell. “You don’t know that. And shouldn’t I at least report it?”
Caine mentally kicked himself for dousing the little bit of happiness she’d latched onto in finding her phone, but he’d never been one for hiding from the truth. That only resulted in the truth finding you first. “Did you get a look at his face?”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “No, he wore a mask. You saw him, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “And did anything else about his appearance strike you as noteworthy? Something the cops could use to identify him?”
“Oh.” Her frown deepened, and then her eyes went wide. “You cut his arm.”
“Not deep enough that he’ll seek treatment,” he said. At least, that’s what Caine would’ve put his money on. Still, he had to give her credit for thinking of that detail.
“So then…I’m just out of luck.” She stroked her hand over the brown, gray, and white little dog which now lay in a ball at her hip. “At least I still have you,” she whispered as the puff ball raised its silly head. She looked so small sitting there, curled in on herself, head in her hand, but still able to find joy in the animal…
Out of nowhere, a memory surfaced. Of Grace, a few nights before the fire… Already at ten, Caine hadn’t slept soundly, his body having of necessity developed a state of constant alertness he still possessed. So he’d often gotten up to check on his friends. Henry, who he shared a room with; Shawn, who was in the other boys’ room; and little Grace, who’d taken to following Caine around from almost the first day she’d arrived, no matter how often he’d told her not to.
Grace hadn’t been in her bed, and Caine had found her hiding in the closet of the girls’ bedroom with a mangy white cat.
“Grace, you can’t have that in here. You know if they find you—” His gut fell as he took in the bowl of milk. If they realized someone had helped themselves…
“I know,” she said, six-year-old blue eyes peering up at him. “But he was on the fire escape, and he needs me. Isn’t he cute?”
Caine sighed. “Stay off that fire escape. You know it’s broken.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “I wasn’t on it. I just opened the window.”
Most of the other kids were too scared of Caine to talk to him at all, let alone to back-talk to him. Yet the littlest one of them all loved to give him a hard time. Resisting a smile, Caine had knelt down in the open doorway. “He is cute. But, Grace, you gotta look out for yourself first.”
Petting the cat’s rounded back, Grace shook her head. “That’s not what you do, Caine. You always look out for me. Will you help me hide him?”
“Mister?”
The memory was like a punch to the gut. Caine sucked in a breath as the woman’s voice pulled him out of it. “What?” he asked, rushing to his feet when he realized the blonde was standing over him, her little dog tucked against her chest.
Her gaze was wary. “I asked if you were okay.”
A single shake, because his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest. Where the fuck had that memory come from? He hadn’t thought of that night for years. “Yeah,” he said, “but you’re not.”
And not just because of the migraine and the mugging, like those weren’t enough. But the asshole had gotten away with her driver’s license and her keys, a combination that had every one of Caine’s internal alarms blaring.
She gave a little shrug. “It’s over now,” she said, taking a step away. “So thank you again. I’m gonna head home and call a locksmith.”
He watched her, his instincts torn between helping and keeping out of something that wasn’t his business.
Will you help me…?
Goddamnit, between the echo of Grace’s long-ago plea still ringing in his ears and the fact that he’d let this woman’s mugger get away, her plight now kinda was his fucking business, wasn’t it? Whether he wanted it to be or not.
“So…okay, bye,” she said, turning away altogether.
“Wait,” Caine said, foreign words on the tip of his tongue. And then they were spilling free. “I can help you. With the locks. That is, if you want.”