Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) (8 page)

His chest felt tight, and he was panting as he neared her home. Pausing far from a streetlight, he forced his breathing under control.

Be cool
, he admonished himself.
Keep your emotions locked down.

Steady again, he continued toward his destination.

Cami’s porch light was off, the front curtains drawn. That would have been Bart’s doing, Eamon thought, though he couldn’t see the man’s truck anywhere nearby. The Unruly member had been providing regular updates in the forty minutes it had taken Eamon to travel from the compound to Santa Monica. During that time, the police had been called, a report had been given, the officer had departed.

But Bart promised that he and Si wouldn’t leave Cami alone. They waited with her inside, the lights dimmed to make them less of a target.

Target.
His heart seized at the thought, and his footsteps faltered. He drew in a sharp breath and tried calming his frantic thoughts. She was all right. She was okay.

Get.
Fucking. Control.

He turned onto her walkway, head swiveling as he surveyed the area. More quiet. His anxiety easing, he reached the front door where his gaze snagged on the dark droplets scattered on the porch.

Blood.

The smell of it paralyzed him.

…Gunshots echoed in his ears, followed by a scream, shouts, rubber peeling off tires as cars sped away. He wanted to crouch into a ball and put his arms over his head, but he couldn’t. He had to do something. He had to save someone…

Cami.

Cami.
A voice in his head repeated the name, yanking him out of the old memory. He wasn’t fourteen years old like he’d been then.
You are here to help Cami.

“Yes,” he whispered and inhaled a deep breath. “Yes.” As he reached for the doorknob, it turned.

Bart stood in the entry and Eamon pushed past him. “Where is she?”

“Kitchen.”

Eamon wanted to run to her, so instead he ignored the urgent thrum of his pulse and stopped in the hall.

“Cops?” He glanced over his shoulder at the older man.

“Like I said on the phone,” Bart rumbled in his low voice. “Took a report. They guess it was teenagers going wild with a pellet gun—and it could be. Some street signs in the neighborhood were damaged, a fence, a rubber trash can left out on the curb.”

“But this was the only house targeted.” That fucking word again.

“
If
it was targeted,” Bart said. “And not just random kid mischief.”

Eamon wanted to believe that. He so wanted to believe that. With a nod, he continued on, only to have his feet fail him as he reached the entry to the kitchen and caught sight of Cami. His hand grasped the doorjamb, knuckles going white.

She sat slumped on a chair, her head down, her tangled hair covering her face. A blanket thrown over her shoulders concealed her arms, hands and torso but revealed the hem of a skirt that hit at mid-thigh. A deep mossy green, it was edged with a delicate line of silver embroidery that matched the silver sandals on her small feet.

He’d never seen her wearing a dress, let alone high heels.

Fairy.

Movement over her shoulder caught his attention, and Eamon saw that Si was dumping a dustpan filled with shards of glass into the garbage. He met his gaze.

“Thanks,” he mouthed.

The younger man shrugged. “No problem,” he said, his voice low. “I’m gonna find some cardboard. Me ′n′ Bart will make a temp fix to the broken panes.”

As he walked out, his eyes flicked to Cami who looked as if she might be sleeping, then back to Eamon. He nodded.

As the other man passed, Eamon pried his cramped fingers from the doorjamb and stepped into the kitchen to crouch at Cami’s feet.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey there.”

Her whole body jerked, the blanket sliding from her shoulders, and her head shot up. She blinked at him, her eyes the same green as her dress, looking like a startled kitten.

He smiled at her, then felt it die as she lifted one bandaged hand to push her hair from her face. The gauze was stained red.

Blood. Gunshots. Screams. Shouts.

Before that memory could take hold again, Eamon shot to his feet. “Bart!”

The older man hustled into view. “Yeah?”

Eamon gestured toward Cami. Bandages. Blood. His heart slammed against his breastbone. “Do we need a hospital? A doctor?”

“You could ask me,” she piped up. “I’m right here.”

His gaze bore into the grizzled man’s.

“I took care of it myself,” Bart said. “Nothing serious.”

“Okay.” Eamon shook out the tension in his arms. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Hello?” Cami said again, and her voice held a peevish edge. “Right here.”

“Yeah.” He sucked in another long breath and turned back to her.
Control.
“How are you doing?”

“Fine.” She brushed her hair with her hand again, and he steeled himself at the sight of the wrapped layers of cotton covering her injured flesh. “It’s all kind of bizarre, though.”

“How about if I make you some tea?” he offered, already turning toward the cupboard where she kept her dishes. “And you can tell me about tonight. What have you been up to?”

“I went out to dinner and drinks with the girls. Cilla, Rose, a bunch of others.”

He carefully a filled a mug from the tap. “Not a date?”

“You mean with a man?”

His gaze flicked to her face, but he found her expression unreadable. Keeping his own impassive, he crossed to the microwave. “Yeah.”

“No. Like I said, it was a girls’ thing tonight.”

The microwave dinged, and he dumped the teabag he’d found into the hot water and crossed the floor to put it near her elbow on the small kitchen table. “But you didn’t drive yourself home.”

“Tequila shots.” She made a face.

He grinned. Not only was she a lightweight, but that particular distilled beverage was her nemesis. “So you were having a little too much fun.”

“Sure.” But she didn’t meet his gaze and instead focused on her tea, bringing the mug to her mouth so she could blow across the surface of the hot water.

He focused on her lips, pursed in the position of a kiss, and remembered them dropping dozens on his chest as they lay naked in bed, in lazy, blissful afterglow. His fingers had sifted through the glorious colors of her hair, and then she’d made her way lower, so that her mouth found his cock. He’d gone hard again as she rained kisses there, too.

“I took a car service home,” Cami continued, interrupting that sweet memory. She sipped at the tea. “And when I neared my front door, I saw…”

“Someone?” he offered, keeping his voice casual, even as he felt himself tense. “You saw a car or some strangers?”

“What?” She looked up. “No. The light coming through the glass looked weird because, well, because the glass was broken. I guess my, uh, impairment made me not notice that right off.”

“Okay.” Could it be that it
was
merely a random piece of bad luck? The thought should make him easy, but the uncertainty still had fire ants crawling over his skin.

“And then your friends showed up.” Cami said, tilting her head. “What a coincidence.”

He ignored that last word. “I trust them. They’re good men.”

“Yes. They’ve been very nice.”

“I’m glad you let them stay.”

A little smile played over her pretty mouth. “Did I have a choice? Mr. Simpson seemed very adamant about remaining here until you arrived.”

“Mr. Simpson?” He smiled. “Bart.”

“I thought he said his name was Bruce Simpson.”

“It is. But we call him Bart.”

“Ah. Si calls you A-Man.”

“He does.” Eamon decided a change of subject was necessary. “They’re going to tack some cardboard over the broken glass and then they’ll be on their way.”

“I appreciate it.” Setting down the tea, she drew the blanket around her shoulders again. “I’ll get one of my brothers to replace the panes for me tomorrow. Or Bing or Brody will do it. They’ll have the right tools.”

Eamon opened his mouth to volunteer his services, then closed it sharply. His agenda hadn’t changed. Especially when it looked as if the incident wasn’t anything to do with him and his situation with the Sons, but was just a chance happening caused by some dumb kids on an ill-conceived lark.

The more he thought about it, it didn’t seem plausible that the other MC would go so far as to obscure their intent by taking shots at other shit in the neighborhood that night as well—what had Bart said? Signs, fences, a trash can. They’d want to make certain Eamon got the point.

If they were involved, they’d want him to get the message loud and clear.

Yet the fire ants were organizing another tap dance, and he could feel the itch of them everywhere. Rubbing his hands through his hair, he cleared his throat. “We should figure out where you’re going to stay tonight. Ren’s?”

Her brows rose. “I don’t need to go anywhere. I appreciate your friends fixing the broken panes. That’ll do until tomorrow.”

“Payne’s house, then.”

She stared at him. “I’m not disturbing Payne and Rose at this time of night.”

“It’s not safe—”

“The patrol car will be coming by every so often.”

She’d looked sleepy and confused when he’d first arrived, but he could see she was becoming more awake by the second. The muzziness of the tequila wearing off, he supposed.

“What’s this all about, Eamon?”

“Just looking out for you, honey.”

Her spine snapped straight.

Whoops. Wrong thing to say.

“I’m here,” he hastened to say. “So if you need me to help you pack a few things, drive you someplace…”

“But you don’t want to be here,” she said. “You broke up with me, which is a clear statement you’re not interested in ‘looking out for me’ either. Though I assure you I don’t need a keeper.”

Eamon shoved his hands into his pockets.
Stay cool. Stay in control.
Don’t give any emotions away.
“Just because we’re not together doesn’t mean I don’t care about your welfare.”

Her eyes narrowed to green slivers of ice. “Why does that sound like I’m a stray dog you once tossed a bone?”

Frustration made his fingers curl. “I don’t mean it that way. I’m just saying—”

“You hurt me by breaking up with me out of the blue, Eamon.”

He deserved that. It had killed him to do it, but he’d thought—still thought—it was for the best.

“You humiliated me that night at Satan’s Roadhouse.”

“I know.” It had seemed the safest thing to do for her, turning his back. That way, if anyone happened to be watching, they’d be convinced she meant nothing to him. “But still, if you came across me and I had a problem—”

“If you were on fire, I wouldn’t waste my spit.”

Ouch.

Her voice rose. “If you were starving, I’d put my leftovers down the garbage disposal.”

She really had it in for him.

“If you…if you…” She jumped to her feet. “If you were cold, I’d send you ice cubes. If you wanted water…”

Her rant continued, but he didn’t hear a word, because Si had come to the kitchen doorway, one of Cami’s guitars in his fist. Eamon had seen it cradled in her arms dozens of times, her partner in imagination and in her art. If truth be told, he had almost been jealous of it on occasion, because he’d wondered, if given the choice, whether she’d choose the instrument over him.

Staring at what had happened to it, he lost all pretense of cool and control as rage burned in his gut and a freezing hand closed over his beating heart. His eyes going dry, he ran his gaze over the wooden body, taking in each of the holes some shooter had drilled into its surface. They were ragged and splintered and ugly.

The symbol of Eamon’s life touching Cami’s. The symbol of him caring too much for her.

It was ruined, the guitar, and no longer a rival for her attention.

Instead, it was the message. For him.

Cami shuffled out of the hotel bathroom wearing baggy sweat pants and an oversized flannel shirt she’d grabbed from her closet at home. As she tugged at the hem, she belatedly realized that it was one that Eamon had left behind. Damn. What had possessed her to grab the thing?

She should have torn it into shreds once he dumped her, she thought, glaring at the man in question, who sat propped against the headboard of one of the two queen beds in the room.

He ignored her as she made her way past him to the other white duvet-covered mattress, his attention on his phone. The room was illuminated only by the light she’d left on in the bathroom and the screen of his cell, its glow accentuating the masculine bones of his face.

If he felt her gaze on him, he ignored that, too. All night he’d found a real talent for disregarding her—her wishes anyway.

From the instant he’d seen the destruction of her guitar, he’d turned into a force of nature. His body rigid and a muscle ticking in his jaw, he’d grabbed her arm with implacable fingers, towing her from the kitchen toward her bedroom.

“Pack a bag,” he’d ordered. “You’re not staying here tonight.”

Unnerved by his reaction, she’d found herself obeying and soon enough she was hustled into the passenger seat of his car, her small tote tossed onto the rear seat.

“I guess it’s okay,” she’d told him, sneaking a glance at his stern expression as he settled behind the wheel. “Until I get that glass installed tomorrow.”

He’d pulled away from the curb, his gaze focused out the windshield, driving as if he was alone in the vehicle with no company other than his dark mood.

She’d tried once again to cut through the tension. “You can take me to Ren’s. He stays up late.”

His eyes had slid her way for a moment, but he still hadn’t said anything.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she’d gone ahead and given Eamon directions to her brother’s, which he hadn’t acknowledged except to adjust the controls on the heat blowing out of the dash. Her leather seat must have been heated, too, because all of her became pleasantly warm…and pleasantly sleepy.

A stomach full of Mexican food and tequila followed by an adrenaline chaser had done a number on her. She’d already been crashing, half-asleep in a kitchen chair, when Eamon arrived at her house. Though she’d rallied upon his appearance, now drowsiness overwhelmed again.