6. Mal
The bike engines cut off as I jump from the single-storey section of the roof, and the riders set their boots down like they own the place. Or at least like they used to.
I land in front of the nearest Harley, already knowing he’s my guy—the one Jack recruited to babysit my mental health. Still not sure why I reached out to him, but here we are.
He tugs his helmet off, revealing a good-looking fucker around Jack’s age who’s so clearly from my fucking world he might as well have Regiment inked on his forehead.
Not Regiment. He’s a swimmer, remember?
Whitlock. That’s his name.
He extends a hand that’s a few degrees warmer than Skylar’s, but lacks the potent heat. “Folk. Nice to meet you.”
“Folk? That a fucking road name?”
The biker closest to him snorts as he lifts his helmet, and he’s a handsome bastard too—all inked and beardy, if you like that kind of thing.
“It’s not a road name,” Folk tells me, a wry grin creasing his face. “But you can call me whatever you want, I don’t much care.”
I can see that. This fella has an ease to him I desperately need, one that stops me paying too much attention as the third rider dismounts and moves out, surveying their surroundings, like they’re guarding an actual king.
“They give them out when they pack you off?”
I flick a glance to the bearded biker. He’s eyeing my shorts, comparing them to the near identical ones Folk Whitlock wears.
Whitlock chuckles. “Maybe.”
But the bearded hottie is already distracted, his attention straying beyond me, to the roof, and something tugs my gut, a thread unspooling.
Skylar.
I glance over my shoulder, already sensing he’s gone, but not why , and I fucking know it’s more than calling time on the crazy moment we carved out beneath his bedroom window.
It’s him .
I turn back to the biker. He’s already averted his stare from the closed window, his gaze pinned on me instead, friendly and open, but something else lingers there.
Regret, maybe.
But for what?
These are thoughts that should meander. But they pass through my head so fast I feel like I’m somewhere else, and the brisk summer air becomes acrid. Thick with the sulphur of spent gunfire.
I blink, aware of Folk Whitlock absorbing every synapse my brain fires, knowing I possess that skill too. But this place…Porth Luck. I meant it when I told Skylar I feel fifteen again.
“You need work?”
That comes from the bearded one.
Answer the question.
“What kind of work?”
The biker shrugs, all Irish and shit. “HGVs, mechanics, construction. We’ve got some security gigs too, but we’re winding that down.”
“Because you’ve gone legit?”
“Yeah.” He lights a smoke. “You grew up in Porth Luck, right? So you probably remember my dad. But we don’t recruit men like he did anymore. Working for us is boring these days. You might find it more lively around here.”
The biker shoots a pointed stare at the Joker, then tips me a nod as he backs up, rolling his bike to where their third man waits.
It leaves me with Folk. “Cam O’Brian,” he says before I think to ask. “He’s a good bloke.”
“Good for him.”
“Good for all of us. I’d be dead without him.”
“Why’s that then?”
Folk gives me a steady look. “Because it took me a long time to realise I hadn’t handled the impact leaving active combat had on me. I was too busy. Other things were more important and too many years passed before I saw it in myself.”
“Saw what?”
“Empty space.” Whitlock jams his helmet back onto his head, reaching for the handlebars of his bike. “If you don’t fill it with the right things, the wrong things find you.”
“Nice waffle.”
He gives me a final knowing smile. “It’s not waffle. And I’m not far away if you ever need anything.”
There isn’t much left to say. I step back as Folk readies to move off, but change my mind before his bike sputters to life. “Can I ask you something?”
He pauses, signalling to his friends to wait.
“My brother.” I resist the urge to glance behind me. “Does he know you?”
There’s nothing harsh about Folk, but somehow his expression softens and I fucking hate how it makes me feel. “We were in the same place for a while way back when. If he hadn’t had that blast to his head, then yeah…I’d expect him to know me.”
Folk speaks gently, but I hear his words as if he’d shouted them in my face. And I shouldn’t. Jack’s already told me what I needed to know, but maybe I wasn’t listening hard enough.
“I don’t remember.”
I tip my head in thanks. Folk returns the gesture and guns the engine of his bike. Then he’s gone, taking the rest of them with him, and leaving me wondering what else my brother has forgotten.
Engine noise fades and I hear footsteps behind me.
Jack .
His presence is warm at my back, not searingly hot like Skylar. “You called him?”
Whitlock . I turn to face my brother, fighting my brain as it tries to default to Skylar and his dirty words to avoid the shitshow of emotion ploughing through me. “I sent him a vague text. Wasn’t expecting the biker parade in response.”
“It’s been a while since they came through.” Jack rubs a hand through his beard, the scattering of silver catching the light of the half-moon now the pub has shut. “Skylar doesn’t know Folk that well, but he has a lot of history with Cam.”
“What kind of history?”
Jack shrugs. “More than I know about. How are you sleeping?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“You’re always awake.”
Irritation swamps me. “How the fuck do you know?”
Jack shuts one eye and turns away from me.
What I’ve learned from Folk tonight digs in deep and I catch his arm, drawing his focus back, torn between telling the truth and giving him something else to worry about, and spitting bullshit he should sniff out in a heartbeat, but maybe he won’t.
My brother has ink all over his body, rough etchings nothing like the refined art I’ve glimpsed on Skylar. The one on the forearm I’m clutching is from the regiment we both joined straight out of school and the insignia bleeding into his skin snares me, like a fist throttling my ribs.
Wind roars in my ears.
Vinnie’s voice.
“ Go, go, go!”
We jump before I remember he’s gone forever.
I blink. The tattoo is still there, beneath my palm. My breath is steady and I know my face is as blank as an unwritten letter. But my chest knots like rusted razor wire and the need to be anywhere but here is so potent I almost shove Jack away.
“It’s quiet at night,” I say eventually. “And I’m not used to my life being so fucking slow.”
Understanding floods Jack’s gaze. I hate it as much as I hated it in Folk, and I turn away.
But he’s quick to stop me, his hands firm on my shoulders, strength in his grip.
Purpose. As if my fucked-up silence has given him enough time to regroup and knock me off balance all over again.
“You should talk to Skylar about that. He’s the same after too many night shifts. ”
Skylar .
I bite my tongue, reminding myself Jack doesn’t know the heady thrum of his friend’s presence in the room next door is the only thing stopping me jumping out of my window and running till I drop dead.
Or until dawn, whichever comes first. That even when Skylar’s not there, listening for his footsteps on the stairs keeps me occupied all night long.
My brother doesn’t know it’s taken me barely a week to nurture an unhealthy obsession with someone I’ve shared three questionable conversations with.
More than a week .
Jack definitely doesn’t know that , but whatever he sees in me now has him holding onto me, his stare so intense I almost fucking squirm. Before the eye that seems to bother him flickers again.
He curses, pulling back, and I’m too relieved to do anything but let him go, even as he grinds the heel of his hand into his eye socket.
Sol stumbles outside.
He’s drunk.
Jack lets his hand drop and darts his gaze between us, torn, and this time I make it easy for him.
I leave before he can catch me.
I don’t get far. There’s nowhere to go unless I want to fight every dickhead local weaving their way home from a night on the juice.
Slipping around the building leads me to the bins.
There’s no one around to see me, but it’s habit to move with stealth.
I spoke truth to my brother. On is more natural than off and I ghost through the shadows, close to the wall.
It’s how I hear some fucker scale it before he’s set a foot to the brick.
Jack.
Sol.
Skylar.
They’re all inside. Oscar’s gone home and Sev, if he’s not in London where he should be, he has a fucking key.
I’m bone-tired, but my body reacts to the faint shot of adrenaline like it’s go-time on the jump ramp, dragging me back to the ghost reaching out with both hands from Jack’s paratrooper ink. I feel a literal chute strapped to my shoulders, hear the roar of the wind again, and it pisses me off.
I leap, reaching the top of the wall first, barrelling out of the silence into the path of whoever’s on the other side.
Recklessness steals over me. I don’t give a fuck who it is. I deck them back to earth and they land with a dull thud.
The hooded figure scrambles to their feet and darts away. I watch them go, fighting the temptation to chase them down, a distant doctor’s voice ringing in my ears a hundred decibels lower than the aircraft noise still haunting me.
Moderate exercise.
An hour ago I didn’t give much of a shit, but that was before I almost face-planted off the roof, and sprinting after some kid who probably hid a weed bag behind the bottle bin isn’t high on my list of ways to die.
You’re not dying.
Not from this, but as the sharp shock of adrenaline fades, I don’t feel all that alive.
I track the figure as it disappears into the night.
Male.
Adult.
By now, he’s too far away for me to tell if he’s armed, and I try to remind myself that I’m in fucking Cornwall, not?—
A door shuts somewhere inside the pub. It startles me. The interloper vanishes from view and I swing my gaze to the only window left open.