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Caine blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. First on the box, then on his brothers, who were watching him like he might be a bomb about to detonate, and then, finally, on the petite woman standing in front of him. Her expression as innocent as a fucking newborn babe.
He was being played here.
He knew he was.
But he wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of a reaction. So he shrugged one shoulder and dug back into his soup. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Which translated in McKannonese to when hell freezes over. The others just didn’t realize it.
“Okay,” Haven said, excitement plain in her tone.
So fucking played.
He gulped the soup down, pocketed the crackers, and paid his bill. Then, just barely swallowing back a groan, he took the fucking box of cookies, too.
Not once did he let himself examine why their little ploy made him feel like a layer of his skin had been flayed off, exposing all his nerves to the slightest excruciating touch. And no way was he actually going to Emma’s. Instead, he went home. Worked on his bike for a few hours, blaring rock music drowning out the voices in his head. Then he fell into the couch with the TV playing, knowing there was every likelihood he’d end up sleeping right there—for however long his brain would actually allow him to shut down.
Which turned out not to be very long. Because that cookie box was sitting on his coffee table. Taunting him. Tormenting him. Tempting him.
Problem was? Caine wasn’t a very strong man. And the things someone good and wholesome and, just, normal like Emma Kerry might tempt him with were the kinds of things that would break him if he ever let himself imagine—for even one second—he could actually have them.
Caine knew that in his gut, in his long dead heart, and in his memories. Jesus, he could hear the sound of the breaking even now. The sick wet crunch of it.
So he turned over and faced the back of the couch. And ignored that box like a motherfucker. It was safer that way.
Chapter 7
Caine spent nearly all day on Friday helping Jagger handle a maintenance issue at the club’s racetrack. Green Valley brought in the biggest part of the Raven Riders’ revenue—through avenues both legal and less so—and they all pitched in to help Jagger, their Race Captain—whenever he asked.
Today, Caine had appreciated the distraction.
From the fact that he’d slept like shit. And from the fact that he knew exactly what had kept him staring up at the dark ceiling all night.
Those damn cookies. Or, more specifically, the thought of taking those damn cookies to a certain pretty blonde.
Riding home after a long day’s work out in the cold, Caine forced his thoughts to focus on more immediate concerns. A hot shower. Maybe some food, because the saltines he’d eaten for lunch weren’t really cutting it. Yeah, he’d have one of his protein shakes, at least.
Suddenly his phone started blowing up, judging by the constant vibrations in his pocket.
As soon as he parked in the gravel drive in front of his trailer, he checked his cell.
His gut started a slow fall. He should’ve known he’d only be able to outrun this situation for so long. Though, when Jagger hadn’t teased him at all about it, a part of him thought he might’ve skirted the issue for today. No such luck.
Haven wants to know if Emma enjoyed the cookies, Dare had written about eight minutes before. Making it clear there would be no skirting.
A minute later: Did you take them?
Two minutes after that: Tell me you took them.
And one more, from just a minute ago: Dude.
Caine dismounted his bike and made his way inside, his fingers moving as he typed and deleted and typed again. Finally, he replied, Not yet.
Dare’s response was immediate. When? I know you’re not thinking about wasting those fucking cookies, right?
Those. Fucking. Cookies.
Caine didn’t have to ask why Dare was making a federal case out of them. First, because Haven made them, and the sun rose and set in her eyes for Dare. Second, because Haven had specifically asked Caine to do something for her, and no way was Dare going to allow that favor to go undone—even if it’d been a total set-up.
Right Caine? popped up on his cell.
“Aw, sonofabitch,” Caine bit out under his breath as he let himself into his place.
On a sigh, he resolved to do what he had to do. Tonight, he replied. He’d take the fucking cookies and be done with the whole thing. Once and for all.
Good man, Dare messaged.
Caine rolled his eyes. Fuck you, he messaged back.
LOL asshole was Dare’s only reply.
He made straight for his bedroom and shed his clothes and the Under Armour base layers that were a necessity for winter bike-riding onto the low futon bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, not counting the row of milk crates that held what clothing he owned. Extreme poverty as a child had made him a saver and a minimalist as an adult. For years now, he rarely spent money on anything unless he absolutely needed it. Not to mention that he was half convinced that, somehow, the bottom would fall out of his life again just like it had when he was a kid. And when that happened, at least the money he’d socked away from what the club paid him to run security for its protective services, not to mention his cut of the Ravens’ off-the-books activities, would be there to catch him.
