"You hired security?"
"Of course I did." Eden looked affronted. "They'll arrive in the morning to escort us to the private airfield."
"Private airfield?" Albie asked.
Raven huffed. "Are you just going to parrot everything I say, Albert? Honestly. Yes, I have security, and yes, they'll be escorting Cassandra and I to the private airfield, where we'll be taking a private jet to New York. Ian's taking us."
Walsh blinked. "Our Ian?"
"I said family – he's club family, is he not? Or has your trust in him waned?" She sent a challenging look around the island, daring them all to deny that Ian had, despite everything, become a valuable and trustworthy member of the extended Dogs family.
"It's not the worst idea," Fox said, finally, when it became apparent no one else would.
She nodded, and calmed a little. "I called him last week and sorted everything. I knew that all of you had too much to worry about already, and that Ian had plenty of money and resources at his disposal. It seemed like the perfect solution."
"Key word being seemed," Walsh said.
"Oh, what do you know?" she said. "You're drunk."
~*~
Tenny gave up on pacing, and took his bottle to sit in the plush leather chair behind the desk, elbows braced on the blotter. Hunter. The name scrolled through his brain like a newsfeed ticker. Breaking News: Your Boyfriend's Old Handler Might Be His Father.
Blame it on the alcohol in his system, but he needed to know if that was true or not. He needed to know when he killed this guy if he was Reese's blood father. Not that it would matter either way, but he craved the knowledge. It felt important, somehow.
What he did next could also be blamed on the alcohol. With far less hesitation than he would have had while sober, he dialed Ian.
"Shaman," he answered, crisp and efficient. A voice sounded in the background, indistinct; kitchen noises. Ian was at home.
Once again, Tenny found his throat tightening, speech oddly difficult. "Ian."
Immediately, Ian's voice shifted – became more real, but also uncertain. Questioning. Only a few people knew his real name, and Tenny's number wasn't one of the ones programmed into his phone. "Yes? Who is it?"
He swallowed. "It's Tennyson."
"Oh." A hand over the phone, hushed conversation, then footsteps. A door clicked, and then it was quiet. Ian said, "What do you need, darling?"
The word choice struck him as strange. What do you need? There was an assumption there that Tenny wouldn't have called to chat, that it was out of need. (Well, that wasn't untrue.) He supposed probably no one called Ian to chat. At least he had his husband...
Tenny dragged a hand down his face and said, "I need information. I'm looking for someone."
"Hm. And your club hacker can't find him?"
"I haven't asked him."
"Ah." A rustle, like he'd sat down. "Are you alright?"
Tenny ground his teeth. He didn't want...whatever Ian was trying to do. He wanted answers. He wanted to get off this bloody phone, pick himself up, and go make sure no one broke into this house tonight to kill them all.
"Tennyson," Ian prompted, patient, kind.
"We saw a man tonight," he found himself saying, without meaning to. Bloody vodka. "A man from Reese's past. Someone who–" How to explain this to a civilian, that was an issue. It was hard to swallow. "Who hurt him," he settled on, far less graceful and exact than he would have been sober.
"Oh, darling," Ian said with feeling, "I'm sorry," and Tenny found that his eyes were burning.
He blinked hard and said, "I have a name. And I need..." To kill him; to push my thumbs into his eyes; to take him apart bit by bit. "Information."
"Well, not to self-aggrandize, but you did come to the right person."
"Marshall Hunter. I need to know everything about him."
"Marshall Hunter," Ian repeated, memorizing it. "Give me twelve hours."
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Tennyson. Are you okay?"
Tenny thought about pouring all the ugly, black emotion sitting like a bomb in his chest out onto the desk, and down the phone line. Thought about saying I'm scared and I care too much, why does caring have to hurt? He said, "I will be when that bastard's six feet under."
~*~
The second time Reese moved to go after Tenny, Fox let him go.
And then wished he hadn't, had perhaps used him as a human shield instead, because Walsh pointed to him and said, "Outside."
"That sounds rather dangerous," Fox drawled, as he followed him through the house and out onto the front porch.
Walsh didn't speak again until he'd shut the front door a little too forcefully, and then the porch lights provided enough light to illuminate his ugly, Tenny-like snarl as he whirled on Fox. "Nothing's going to happen tonight. That would fuck up their plan."
Fox leaned a hip against the rail. "Oh, so you know their plan, now? Care to share?"
Walsh closed the gap between them, fuming. "Tonight was nothing but a psy-op for them, and you know it."
"Who's 'them', King? Abacus? This other guy?"
"It's all of them, it's – no, you know what, fuck you. Fuck you, Charlie."
It was an effort not to laugh. "Raven was right," he deadpanned. "You are drunk."
"Yeah, I fucking am. Ghost has been letting you run point on this, letting you play Secret Agent, and look where that got us. The whole city's going to wake up tomorrow" – he flung an unsteady arm toward the darkened pasture – "and think the Dogs have brought street violence right into the heart of downtown. None of us'll be able to get a cup of coffee without getting stared at. The bar's supposed to have it's grand opening in a few weeks, and who do you think's going to want to come drink at a place we very publicly own, huh?"
Fox folded his arms. "You're worried about the bar?"
"I'm worried," Walsh snapped, somehow bristling up even more, "that my wife and kid are going to get fucking killed because we pissed off the wrong people!"
There it was.
Fox straightened, and laid a hand on his shoulder – after which they both froze, because he'd never done that before. He shook off the surprise at himself and said, "I know you're scared about that. And I know none of this is ideal–"
Walsh took a swing at him. One that Fox easily dodged – and then watched Walsh stagger and catch himself against the rail, breathing in harsh, loud pants that steamed in the chill air.
All of Fox's amusement drained away. After Phillip, Walsh was the most responsible of all of them. The one with the stern looks, and the long-suffering eye rolls; the one who thought things through, and never indulged in impulsive, stupid reactions. The sane one – the sober one...usually.
Fox couldn't ever recall seeing him this intoxicated, and it struck him as terribly sad, suddenly. Painfully.
"King," he said. "I'm sorry."
Walsh's hands flexed on the rail a moment, and then he turned and leaned back against it, some of his composure restored. "Do you understand how bad this is?" He sounded defeated. "Do you really?"
"I do."
Walsh's brows lifted.
"I'm going to fix it. We – we're going to fix it. Me and the boys."
Walsh sighed. "That's the problem, though – you and the boys. We haven't been handling things as a club. Ghost has just been sending you three emotionally stunted idiots out after every lead. It's not working."
"We have some leads," Fox defended.
"Do you? Or do you have Robot Number One so fucked up over Robot Number Two's existential crisis that they're useless?"
He frowned. "They're not robots, asshole."
A beat passed – then Walsh snorted. Shook his head. "Nice to see you take an interest in someone."
"I take interests."
Another snort. Walsh scrubbed his face with both hands. "Fuck me, I'm drunk."
"Yeah. You are."
They regarded one another a long moment.
"They really aren't going to hit us tonight," Fox said.
"I know. But."
"Yeah."
"I meant it before. I'm going to fix this. You aren't the only one with skin in the game, King – you're not the only one worried about the people he loves."
A single brow lifted. "Love, huh?"
"I am capable of that emotion, you know."
"Uh-huh." Walsh moved toward the door. "Love your way into dinner, then."
A bit of the weight across his shoulders lessened, Fox said, "What are we having?"
"To quote my old lady: spinach artichoke dip pasta. There's chicken in it, apparently."
"Damn. Can she teach my old lady to cook?"
"Cook yourself, shithead."
"Fair."
~*~
The office door cracked open, and Reese's face pressed to the gap, searching.
Tenny felt a smile tug at his lips, sudden and unstoppable. He was an idiot, sure, but he was a cute idiot, most of the time.
"Come in."
Reese eased the door open only as far as necessary and slipped inside. His Scotch had been replaced with a glass of wine, Tenny noticed.
Tenny felt a bit scooped-out; hollow and achy in a way that, for once, had nothing to do with a fight or physical exertion. Yes, he'd engaged with someone tonight, someone far too well-trained for his liking – then again, if Marshall Hunter had trained Reese, it stood to reason he'd trained others, too, and just as well – but it wasn't bruising or physical fatigue dragging at him now.
"The drinks helping?" he asked.
Reese set the glass down on the desk – and then kept coming, crowding into Tenny's space so he was forced to lean back, leaning down to cup his face and kiss him.
That's a yes, he thought, and didn't think about much of anything save for how nice it felt to be kissed, to be on the receiving end rather than be the initiator.
When Reese drew back, his face was mostly his own. Thank Christ. He brushed Tenny's cheek with a thumb, and, to his horror, Tenny saw that it came away damp.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." God, he'd had too much to drink. He was too...emotional. Or something. Shit. "Come here." He wrapped both arms around Reese's waist and dragged him closer so he could press his face to his stomach; he blamed that on the alcohol too.
I'll kill him for you, he thought. I'll break him into a hundred pieces for you.
The door opened again, and Fox's voice said, "Dinner's ready, if you're interested." A beat, one in which Tenny stayed stubbornly hidden. "Also, Emmie says you're to crash in one of the guest rooms. Take it up with her, if you don't like it."
There were a dozen things he needed to do; a dozen things he should have done – but Reese dragged fingers through his hair, and he thought all of it could wait 'til morning.