Chapter 5
Danger
“Alright, enough sulking; get your ass out here,” Pope demanded, fist beating against the door at a more rapid pace than the beat of the Iron Maiden song Danger had blaring from the smart speaker.
“I’ve got work to do,” Danger grumbled, attempting to ignore the man, which he should have known wouldn’t work; it never did when it came to Pope.
“Bullshit, Mark already told me the claims had been submitted.”
“Doesn’t mean there isn’t other shit that needs tending to.”
“Oh, so now you expect me to believe you intend to become a regular paper pusher?” Pope snarled. “Save your breath. I’m not buying it.”
“Was there something you needed?”
“You to put the goddamn ice cream bar down and get the hell out of that office,” Pope declared. “Thought Kat cut you off from those?”
“She did. Are you planning on telling her I snuck some in here?”
“What do you think?” Pope asked.
Glaring, Danger silently finished the bar he’d been eating, stood, and grabbed his jacket.
“Wise choice,” Pope said as he pulled the door shut behind them.
“It’s not like you gave me one,” Danger grumbled.
“Oh, I did,” Pope said as Danger followed him up the hall. “You could have stayed in there, in which case your next visitor would have been Kat, since she’s sick of seeing Roan up at the bar fetching all your meals.”
“Needed something for him to do.”
“More bullshit.”
“Where are we going?” Danger asked when, instead of rounding the corner at the end of the hall and leading him to the bar, Pope headed for the door that led to the parking lot, boots crunching over gravel as he headed for the row of bikes.
Instead of answering, Pope paused beside his machine and eyed Danger up and down. “To get your mind right, now get on.”
Danger did as he was told, straddling the machine behind Pope, who grabbed his arm and tugged it around him. He didn’t kick it into gear until Danger relaxed and pressed his cheek against Pope’s shoulder.
Wind therapy was wind therapy, whether he was doing the driving or not.
The scent of Pope’s leather was the same as it had been when Danger rode with him last. Sea salt, whiskey, and the cherry cigars Pope occasionally smoked with a glass of brandy.
He sunk into familiar memories of Pope swirling the amber liquid around in the glass, smoke curling lazily around his head, as he shared some bit of history he’d come across with Danger, Jethro Tull on the record player because Pope refused to replace his old man’s vinyl collection with CDs.
“Wouldn’t be the same sound,” Pope said, eyes heavy lidded as he basked in the slight raspiness emanating from the player.
“No, it would be cleaner,” Danger insisted.
“Clean doesn’t always mean good.”
No, no it didn’t. The fifteen years between them might as well have been fifty back then.
Pope had always been an old soul with a burning appreciation for the evolution of music, motorcycles, and surfing.
Somewhere along the line, he’d fallen in love with folklore too and filled Danger’s head with stories of the Boo Hag and the Maco Lights.
Danger lay sprawled on the rug beside Pope’s chair, shivering when Pope grazed the back of his neck as he carded his fingers through Danger’s hair.
Back then, he hadn’t been able to appreciate the stillness of those moments or the way his mind had drifted into a peaceful haze without the aid of weed or alcohol.
It wasn’t until he saw the house looming on the horizon that he realized he’d been seeking that in the weed and ice cream bars he’d been tearing through back in his office.
The last time he’d been here…
Danger sat up straighter, already pulling away from Pope as he drove the bike into the garage and parked it beside the classic Plymouth Road Runner Superbird he only brought out for car shows and the SUV he used on days when it rained too hard for him to ride in all weather gear.
“Thought we were riding,” Danger said when Pope killed the engine.
“We were. Now we’re here.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t get your head out of your ass on your own,” Pope declared, smacking his sore leg.
“Fuck, watch it,” Danger grumbled as he got off the bike.
“Then you should remember how to move without being told to.”
“What is wrong with you tonight!” Danger snapped as Pope dismounted and immediately crowded into his space, ice-blue gaze blazing with intensity as he stared into Danger’s eyes.
It might have evolved into an epic stare-down if Danger hadn’t felt his throat grow tight and the little voice in the back of his head hissing at him to lower his gaze and give in to his Dom.
Not my Dom anymore!
Clearly, he and his thoughts weren’t on the same page tonight, because that glaring voice piped up to say that Pope would always be his Dom. The problem was that Danger had epically lost his shit and thrown it all away.
And yet Danger swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinked, then lowered his head the way he always had when Pope reprimanded him about something.
“You’re going to talk to me and tell me what’s been eating at you,” Pope declared, “and don’t try passing it off as you being bent out of shape about having to wait a few more days before Lucky can finish restoring your paint job. It’s more than that.”
Danger sighed and reached to brush the hair out of his eyes only to have Pope beat him to it before cupping his cheek and raising Danger’s head until their gazes met again.
“It’s a lot more, isn’t it?” Pope asked.
Danger tried to shake his head, to deny it, but the pressure of Pope’s palm against his cheek kept him from lying to the man he’d never lied to before. Instead, he nuzzled against that calloused palm and let himself breathe without thinking about anything.
“Thought so,” Pope murmured. “So inside you go, and we’ll talk about it.”
Nodding, Danger moved with Pope’s hand when he began to withdraw it, only to admit defeat when he dropped it back to his side and turned away. Danger followed as Pope led him in through the mudroom, jackets, kuttes, and boots left in their appropriate places before they entered the kitchen.
“You hungry?” Pope asked.
“Nah, I’ve been pigging out on Night’s wings and garlic bread all afternoon; had Roan grab me a couple batches of fried mushrooms too.”
“Uh-huh, a sure sign you were smoking too much,” Pope said. “Your munchies were getting out of control.”
“Wish people would learn to mind their own business.”
Pope snorted at that and shot Danger a look over his shoulder before pulling a couple beers from the fridge. He popped the cap off one and passed it to Danger before cracking the second one open for himself.
“I swear, people around that clubhouse gossip more than the ladies’ knitting circle,” Danger muttered after he took a swig.
“And how would you know how much gossiping the ladies’ knitting circle gets in when they’re in session?” Pope asked.
Huffing, Danger grumbled something beneath his breath until Pope cocked an eyebrow at him.
“My great aunt,” Danger finally admitted, but only after downing a third of his beer.
“She didn’t see so well, so my cousins and I would take turns driving her wherever she wanted to go.
She’d tell us to pick her up at four, and we’d still be standing inside listening to them chatting at a quarter till five, and you best not point out the time, either.
Better to just wait it out with a smile and nibble on whatever snacks they had left. ”
Chuckling, Pope jerked his head in the direction of the den, and for a moment, Danger balked, because that was the room he missed the most out of everywhere in the house, meaning he’d much rather have this conversation at the kitchen table.
Unfortunately, Pope didn’t seem to care that he hesitated; he kept walking, meaning Danger had no choice but to follow him into the room where his whole world had always been reduced to a soft, lazy dream.
And there was the scent of cherry tobacco again.
Lamplight glinted off the row of decanters that lined the corner bar, everything in here a deep, rich mahogany hue, much like the rest of the house.
Bookcase shelves lined the walls, carefully organized by subject matter.
Danger should know; he’d watched Pope painstakingly arrange new books each time they arrived, sometimes creating subgenres on the shelves, while muttering about how he should have done it that way the first time.
“Get comfortable,” Pope said, gesturing to one of two couches positioned on opposite sides of a high, wide coffee table often used for playing cards on.
While Danger parked himself on plush, overstuffed leather and snagged a throw pillow to rest his aching arm on, Pope crossed the room, and soon an old, familiar tune came on.
Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic, as Pope flopped in the corner of the couch across from him and propped his feet on the coffee table.
“How are you going to play this after insisting I leave my weed in the office?” Danger grumbled.
“Check the drawer in front of you,” Pope told him. “The shit in there is way better than the crap you had stinking up your office. Spark up and start at the beginning.”
At least Pope was letting him smoke. Sucking in a long drag, Danger let it fill his lungs, the mellow aroma confirming Pope’s claim that it was better quality bud than the stuff Danger had stashed in the smoke box back in his office.
Roark, the club’s weed man, had some serious explaining to do the next time Danger saw him.
“I don’t fuck up paperwork,” Danger declared.
“I know this, so does Mark, so who’s claiming otherwise?”
“I am.”
Pope held up his hand, regarded him for a moment, then reached for his beer, scowl deepening the longer he pondered Danger’s words.
“You think you should have caught on that something was off at the strip club sooner?” Pope surmised.