Page 11 of Courting Danger

“A dark day that was,” Dalton said. “It was a wreck out on Highway 17. Not much different from what happened today,really. The car was in the wrong lane; only this one swerved to avoid a deer. They never stood a chance.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m all out of family members,” Ocean muttered.

“Not anymore,” Mark declared. “Welcome home, kid, stick around as long as you’d like. We’ve got a few empty cabins if you need a place to stay and some diehard surfers who’d be happy to show you where to find the best waves.”

“To answer your question, Ocean, your grandfather was a founding member,” Dalton explained. “Which makes you club royalty.”

For the first time since they’d met him on the road, Ocean’s gaze betrayed some emotion, widening a fraction, before the set of his jaw relaxed.

“It’s really cool if I stick around?” Ocean asked.

“We’d be insulted if you didn’t,” Dalton said. “Now, I might not get over here to the clubhouse as often as I’d like…”

He paused and shot a glare at Wreck, who worked at the care facility Dalton resided in.

“But you’re always welcome to drop by and visit me. Unlike some of the old codgers up on the hill, I don’t spend my days napping. I’d welcome the chance to tell you more about the club’s history and your grandfather’s part in it since there’s no way we can cover it all in one day.”

“I’d love that,” Ocean replied, eyes lighting up like Dalton had just handed him a first-place trophy and a check, rather than an opportunity to hang out with a grumpy fucker whose cane managed to unerringly connect with the shins of people who pissed him off.

There was no faking his sincerity, either. He was genuinely excited at the prospect.

Mark hastily jotted on a scrap of paper and slid it to Ocean. “That’s the code to the gate. Enter it wrong, and you’ll be metwith more firepower than you want to see aimed at you, so don’t fuck it up.”

“I won’t,” Ocean said, eyes skimming the paper several times, before he dragged an ashtray closer, pulled out a lighter, and torched the piece of paper it was written on, drawing several approving looks.

“Your mind’s a steel trap when it comes to numbers, isn’t it?” Mark said. “Just like your old man’s.”

“Yes, sir,” Ocean replied, the soft smile that creased his lips making his eyes shine brighter, or maybe it was just that Pope had always been a sucker for green eyes like those. “My brain locks in on them and doesn’t want to let them go, though it will mix them up if there are too many of them. Just glad I could write the numbers down before it did that with the license plates.”

“Well, let’s just kick in another dose of irony then,” Pope said. “Since it was our numbers guy you were patching up out on the road.”

“No shit?” Ocean said.

“No shit,” Pope replied. “Danger keeps the finances straight for the whole operation. Every building, every expansion, right down to the charity donations and making sure none of us fucks get audited, so thank you for not letting him bleed out.”

“It really wasn’t that bad,” Ocean said, squirming, just enough for Pope to pick up on the fact that he wasn’t exactly comfortable about receiving direct praise, unlike the accolades he racked up on the surf circuit.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dalton said. “You helped when you didn’t have to. That’s what counts.”

Around the table, heads nodded, folks murmuring affirmations in support of Dalton’s words, as a double knock echoed through the room.

“Enter!” Mark barked.

Roan did, wheeling a pushcart laden with food carefully labeled with the slips he’d written. One by one he handed out everyone’s meals and beverages before working his way back to Pope’s side and standing silently, awaiting his next instruction.

“Grab a cushion,” Pope told him, pointing to the pile in the corner used by the service subs, littles, and pets during game night activities.

He did so without a word, arranged it beside Pope’s chair, and sunk to his knees gracefully, hands resting on his thighs, head bowed, the picture of submission as he settled at Pope’s side. Soft as a whisper, Roan sighed when Pope’s fingers glided through his hair, silent praise for a job well done. Here Roan would remain until someone needed something, though a small piece of Pope longed to keep him there on a more permanent basis.

Him and the man whose hip Roan was supposed to be glued to.

The only thing standing in their way was the decade-old bone of contention that had yet to be resolved and Danger’s outright refusal to be honest with Pope about what he wanted. Age may have mellowed the man’s hair-trigger temper and willingness to go to war at the drop of a bandana, but he was still a stubborn little shit. Maybe more so than when he’d been Pope’s pup, which was irksome at times.

Pope sunk his fingers deeper into Roan’s hair until he could brush fingertips over the nape of his neck while Sunshine posed a question to Ocean. Roan quivered at his touch but never made a sound, further convincing Pope that what he needed wasn’t to be ordered to spend his time cast off to run errands, at least not until he felt secure in his place in the club and as a companion to the Dom he desperately needed.

If Danger didn’t want the honor, then Pope hoped he was prepared to step aside or join in because if he didn’t step up soon, Pope was taking over.