Page 23 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

The club apartment had one bedroom set up not as a bunk room, but as a real bedroom: double bed, dresser, even a nightstand with a lamp.

That was where Shep had been sleeping while he stayed in the city.

He was having trouble falling asleep tonight, however.

He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that he probably ought to call the super about.

In the relative safety of a private room with a closed door, with night pressed down on the city, dark and heavy as a quilt, unnatural light from the building across the street throwing slatted blind shadows on the far wall, he could admit, at least to himself, something he could no longer pretend wasn’t happening: he wanted Cassandra.

To be crass, he wanted to fuck, yeah. But not because he was bored, or curious, or because she was convenient.

She was nineteen, and very in convenient considering her dad and brothers were trained assassins, and she was club family besides.

Hooking up with her was not, could not be a one-time thing, not given his level of emotional investment, but it would cause the kind of scandal that fractured families and upended MCs.

He had the stupid, teenage butterflies, sure, the sweaty palms, but it was more than that.

He wanted to watch terrible reality TV with her.

Wanted to put food on her plate and watch her nod her approval when she ate what he’d made for her.

Wanted to hear her deep-breathing on the neighboring pillow and know she was safe; that he could close his eyes, and drift off, and that he’d be between her and whatever terrible thing might kick down the door.

Wanted her on the back of his bike. Wanted his name inked on her somewhere that others could see it, and know she was taken.

He wanted her to be his. In every way that counted.

And he damn sure didn’t want to have to drop her back off at her dorm, even if that was the best thing for her.

Damn. He guessed he loved her.

He knew he did. Of course.

But he guessed he was in love with her.

He’d never experienced that before, and so it had taken him a stupidly long time to realize that was what he was doing: falling. Like an actual, physical fall, he expected the landing to hurt.

How was he going to explain himself to Raven.

Yeah, so, I’m in love with your sister, and, no, it totally doesn’t matter that she’s nineteen, and still in school, and listens to Korean pop music.

Age is just a number or whatever, right?

Promise I won’t cheat on her or knock her up too soon.

Toly, the dumb shit, couldn’t afford a pair of jeans without holes in them, but he’d put a rock the size of a Mini Cooper on Raven’s finger—to make up for his joyless personality, Shep had always assumed.

That thing would tear his face open when she slapped him.

Jesus. Like he had room to call Toly a dumb shit.

He punched his pillow, rolled over, and told himself to go the hell to sleep until he finally did so.

~*~

Cass’s first class of the day wasn’t until two, so she didn’t understand why her phone woke her while the sky was still orangey pink with dawn.

She hadn’t slept well, plagued by distracting thoughts of her last glimpse of Shep before she’d gone into the bunk room.

His threadbare white t-shirt, low-slung gray sweats cut off raggedly at the knees, his bony, oddly graceful bare feet on the beige carpet.

He’d scratched at his stomach, which made his shirt ride up a little more—proving he didn’t shave his treasure trail like the guys on her favorite dating show—and said, “Need anything?”

The first thought that sprang to her mind wasn’t one she could say out loud, so she’d said, “Nope, night,” and caught his bewildered expression before she shut the bedroom door.

She tossed, and turned, and when her alarm blared, she flailed over the side of the bed so long the alarm finally snoozed itself. She nabbed it, rolled over with a groan, and blinked her eyes mostly clear so she could see to shut the alarm off properly.

Then she realized it hadn’t been the alarm, but an incoming call. From a local number she didn’t recognize.

As she peered blearily at the screen, it rang again. “What the hell?” she muttered, and answered with a swipe. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Whoever this is, are you aware that it’s six-forty-five in the morning?”

“Cass, wait, don’t hang up!” The voice was male, youthful, vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Sig; she at least could tell that much.

“Who is this?”

“Bryce. Bryce Wells.”

Huh. She hadn’t known his last name.

Cass pushed her covers off and moved, careful of the upper bunk, to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Okay, Bryce. Why are you calling at six-forty-five in the morning? And how did you get my number?”

“Uh…my friend gave it to me,” he said, which was vague, and not reassuring, and probably a lie. “Okay, that’s a lie,” he said, sighing. “Sig left his phone unlocked and I texted it to myself.”

“And then deleted the text, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Of course . Like any part of this phone call was somehow expected .

“Okay,” she said, rubbing grit from her eyes. “Why six-forty-five?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want my roommate to hear me, so I snuck out to the roof.”

That explained…not a lot.

Cass yawned and got to her feet. “Hold on. I need coffee if I’m going to have an actual conversation.”

“Okay,” he said, readily, eagerly.

The sunrise smoothed soft, sherbet colors across the walls of the living room, and turned the bland box of the flat almost pretty.

She didn’t like waking up, but this was a lovely time of the day to be awake.

A time for quiet thinking, and strong coffee, and fresh canvases ready for paint.

She shuffled into the kitchen, put the phone on speaker, and got down the coffee grounds.

“I didn’t wake Jamie up, did I?” he asked, voice tinny and crackly in the close confines of the kitchen. “Sorry.”

“No, she’s not at the dorm. And neither am I, for that matter.” She wasn’t offering further details. “It’s fine.” She scooped the boring old Folgers that Shep always bought into the boring old water-stained machine, added water, and switched it on.

“Oh,” he said, and paused, giving her room to say more.

She took the phone off speaker, put it back to her ear, and leaned back against the counter so she could watch drops of water cut pathways through the orange-glow condensation on the living room windows.

“What’s up?” she asked. She sounded tired, and impatient, but there was nothing to do about that until the coffee was ready.

Again, he hesitated, and the cynical, club-raised part of her wondered if it was genuine, or if he was trying to endear himself to her through feigned anxiety.

He took an unsteady breath. “So…Detective Contreras called me last night and asked if I could come in this morning and give my official statement, for the record, right? I’m supposed to meet with the D.A.

’s office and talk about testifying. And I said, ‘Sure, okay, cool.’ And then ten minutes later, Sig called me. ”

Forget the coffee: Cass was suddenly wide awake. “Coincidence?”

“That’s what I figured, after I got done having a heart attack. I tried to play it cool. ‘Hey, man, what’s up? How’s being out on bail?’ You know, just fucking around with him, like normal. But he was, like, spooky. Real serious.”

“Does he know you talked to the police?”

“He didn’t say he did, but he asked me if I knew whether anybody had talked shit about him with the cops. He said, ‘I have no idea how this could have happened. Do you?’”

“Shit. He knows.”

“Yeah. And he…Cass, he talked about you. He said some really shitty things. He was really worked up, but, again, spooky. Really calm, but really pissed off. He kept saying this was all your fault.”

“How could it be?” she asked, heart pounding.

“He said…” She could hear that he was wincing, his tone apologetic. “That the NYPD was corrupt. That the Lean Dogs controlled them. And that you were a Lean Dog.”

She sighed. Really, she’d expected this, but had hoped they’d never have to address the elephant outlaw in the corner. She turned around to take down a mug and pour herself some coffee. “First off, I’m not a Lean Dog. Women don’t patch into the club.”

More silence. He likely hadn’t understood a word of what she’d said.

She elaborated: “Women can’t be members of one-percenter motorcycle clubs, Bryce. I’m not a Lean Dog.”

“Then…how do you know that about them?”

No sense lying, she supposed. “Because all eight of my brothers, and my brother-in-law are Lean Dogs.”

“ Oh .”

“Don’t freak out about it,” she ordered. The cream in the fridge was out of date, so she dumped an extra spoon of sugar in her coffee and carried it over to the couch.

“I’m not! Totally not.”

“And the Lean Dogs don’t control the NYPD,” she said. “Sig’s lying, as usual.”

“Yeah.” His voice was faint, shocked. He was freaking out. “But you also said you knew some cops.”

“I do.” She was going to leave it at that. “Bryce, why did you call me?”

“I’m scared.” He sounded it, and he raised himself fractionally in her estimation for being honest. “You were right when you said that this was going to be tough, and that Sig was going to come after me. I think he’s going to. And I definitely think he’s going to come after you .”

“I can handle myself,” she said. You worry about you. This is too important to back down.”

“I know that.” He took a deep breath, and then said, in a rush, like he was worried what her answer might be, “Will you come with me? To talk to the cops?”

“I…” She didn’t want to. The idea of him leaning on her for support left her uneasy. But if that support carried him all the way to the witness stand and helped land Sig behind bars, then she’d offer it. “What time?”

He let out a deep, relieved-sounding breath. “Ten. Can you make it?”