his first thought. He shouldered his backpack higher and planned to walk right past them.
But Boomer called out, “Hey, Carter.”
He almost kept going. Paused, and turned.
Boomer, for all his muscled bulk, could look downright boyish at times, his face too-expressive and sweet when he was uncertain. He looked like that now, biting his lip in obvious apprehension, fidgeting with the cards in his hands.
“What?”
“Hey, man, I just wanted to. You know. Say I was sorry. For.” He pointed to his own nose, which looked like it had been broken long ago. “That.”
As apologies went, it sucked. He couldn’t even come up with complete sentences. But his face shone with sincerity, and Carter found himself sighing, shoulders dropping.
“It happens. I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize you and Chanel were serious.”
Deacon snorted. “They’re not.”
Boomer kicked him under the table.
“Still,” Carter said, and realized that his own apology kind of sucked, too. Maybe he just sucked. “Sorry.”
They traded nods – and, he thought, an understanding. They were both more or less pathetic idiots living out of an MC clubhouse.
He started to walk off, headed for his dorm, but Evan said, “You wanna be dealt in?”
His first instinct was to refuse. But he hesitated. What was he going to do besides get drunk alone in his room like a sad piece of shit?
He tossed his backpack on the couch. “Sure. Lemme grab a beer.”
~*~
Reese ate just enough to take the keen edges off his hunger, and then set his fork down. The food tasted good – everything his sister cooked tasted good, and he was even starting to appreciate food as a source of pleasure and not simply a means of fueling his body – but his stomach was unpleasantly tight, a condition he was starting to worry might be permanent.
Sorry, Tenny had said, and shut the door on his own name as Reese tried to call him back. They hadn’t spoken since. When Reese walked into a common area of the clubhouse, Tenny got up and left without making eye contact. No insults, no cutting looks, no sneers.
Fox had sent him a questioning look. “I think you broke him. That’s not a bad thing, mind.”
But it was for Reese. He wanted things to go back to the way they’d been, and he had no idea how to make that happen.
He’d said yes when Kris invited him to dinner, had even brought her a bottle of wine, after consulting Maggie. Was even having some of it himself, because Kris had insisted, and poured him one, and then another glass. It hadn’t dulled his consternation, though, like he’d hoped. The chicken and vegetables might as well have been cardboard on his plate.
And Roman was here.
Reese supposed Roman was the sort of man that women found attractive, if they cared about that sort of thing. He was in his early fifties, but didn’t look it: golden tan, with tawny hair he wore fashionably long across his forehead. Reese was convinced he dyed it, but Kris had acted scandalized when he’d asked her, one time.
Currently, Reese was studying him, and Roman was studying him in return – looking back, actually. Roman wasn’t one for scrutiny. He was frowning; Reese thought he hoped that those stern frowns made him look intimidating, but Reese could always smell that lick of fear on him. It never quite went away.
“Is the chicken alright?” Kris asked, worried. “I think I put too much rosemary on it.”
“It’s fine, baby,” Roman said, turning to her, laying a hand over hers on the tabletop, an intimate little gesture that snagged Reese’s gaze. “It’s perfect.”
She smiled at Roman, a soft, sweet smile full of gratitude and other, deeper feelings that Reese had never bothered to examine closely before. He’d only known that it was similar to the smiles Kris gave him, only a little different.
He thought he understood that difference, now. She loved Reese – she said so at every parting, when she hugged him in her careful way and wished him a safe trip – but it was a love different from that she felt for Roman. That was romantic love – the love between lovers.
Thanks to Tenny, he had a whole new perspective on that whole lover business.
Alcohol, it turned out, was not his friend. He’d had just enough wine to loosen his tongue, formerly to tightly leashed, so unnecessary to his daily life. He’d never had a need to express himself before; had never asked questions irrelevant to the op at hand.
But now,