Page 53 of Courting Danger

Chapter 15

Pope

From the time they rejoined Danger and Roan in the old creamery building to hear more Flaming Betty stories until the time they climbed into Pope’s Roadrunner for the drive home, Ocean had remained by Pope’s side, occasionally slipping a finger through his belt loop and holding on so no one could separate them. Ocean’s eyes had been red-rimmed too, his face blotchy in places, their conversation having taken a toll on him.

Roan seemed to understand that and remained by Ocean’s side until it was time to mount his bike. He’d hesitated for a moment, uncertain of if he was supposed to return to the compound and his cabin there or follow them back to Pope’s place. That he was still uncertain of his welcome or the place he’d come to occupy in their lives was a cause for concern and would need to be addressed, but after the emotional upheaval of the afternoon, tonight didn’t seem like the right time to do it.

After scarfing the steak, scallops, and asparagus Pope had grilled for them when they got home, they’d retired to the den,classic rock playing, since none of them had been in the mood for a movie.

Instead of being restless and bored, Pope was glad to see Danger was as relaxed and at ease as when he was on the back of his bike, though he’d opted to sit on the other couch with Roan, who kept shooting concerned looks across the coffee table at Ocean.

“I just realized something,” Ocean said asWhite Rabbit, by Jefferson Starship, finished playing.

“What’s that?” Danger asked.

“Well, I know how my dad got his nickname, but I don’t know how you and Pope got yours,” Ocean explained. “Kinda started wondering about that when I was listening to the song.”

“His is easy,” Pope replied. “Since his ass goes from calm to losing his shit so fast there’s no warning, only destruction.”

“Says the man who got his for presiding over the longest chapel session in Rollin’ Jokers history,” Danger grumbled.

“Which my grandfather still hasn’t forgiven me for,” Pope replied. “Since it was his record I broke.”

“Pope’s grandfather was nicknamed Preacher,” Danger explained. “So when Pope outtalked him at the table, he got to be Pope.”

“It was a worthwhile argument at the time,” Pope remarked.

“I heard it was about outlawing chewing tobacco in the club house,” Danger replied, while Roan snickered.

Ocean groaned, nose wrinkling, obscuring some of the freckles that peppered the bridge. “That shit is nasty. Who the fuck wants to kiss someone who does that? I’d rather lick an ashtray.”

He wasn’t the only one with a scrunched-up nose either; Danger’s was the same way, lip curling as he shook his head.

“Nauseating is what it is,” Pope said. “The sight, the smell, the sound of someone spitting, globs of tobacco spittle clingingto guys’ beards. I was prepared to argue for another five hours if that’s what it took to get enough votes.”

“You wore them down, didn’t you?” Roan said.

“Dude,” Danger said, leaning forward in his seat. “I heard he showed up at the table with a whole fucking slideshow, from pictures of disgusting ass spit cups and bottles with sunflower seeds floating in the ick, to spittle in beards, drops on the arms of chairs and the floor, dribbles on leather, and a brown glob on the rail of a pool table.”

“Yeah, that was my ace in the hole,” Pope admitted, chuckling as he trailed his fingertip down Ocean’s neck just to make his breath hitch while he shivered. “Seeing guys cringe at themselves, I knew I’d finally driven home the point and swayed things my way.”

Even the softest caresses drew reactions from him and Roan, who seemed to melt whenever they were being touched.

Roan studied Danger like he wanted to ask something, and Pope was pleased to see Danger smile encouragingly at him. Learning that his curiosity had never been nurtured or encouraged had pissed Pope off, but once Roan had seen that his questions would be answered, and enthusiastically too, when he’d fired off several at the historical society, he’d stopped holding them in.

“Is it okay to ask what your real names are?” Roan finally asked.

“Samson William McMasters the Third,” Pope replied. “Otherwise known as Sammy whenever my grandmother is around.”

Ocean rolled enough to look up at him. “Whoa. That’s a mouthful.”

“Tell me about it,” Pope replied. “It sounds far more pretentious than uninspired, which was actually the case in this instance. Firstborn sons share the same name; it’s a whole thing.I’ve got an ancestor who was the sixth; can you believe that shit? Then he had all girls, and the name died with him, and he probably would have ended things right there had his eldest daughter’s husband not rekindled things when they had their boy. Since I’ve never had any kids and have no intention of starting, my branch is done. No more little Sammys.”

Danger scratched his cheek, snickering. “Oh man, I’ve got this image in my head now of your grandmother bellowing Sammy and all three of you rushing to answer the call.”

“I can see it too,” Ocean admitted and giggled.

“As for your question,” Danger said. “I haven’t been asked that question in years. Left the hippy-ass name my parents gave me behind when I was sixteen, the day I got the fuck out of there.”