The Road to Redemption (27 page)

“Nothing,” he
replied. “She won’t say anything because she’ll never know. Once
Kane takes over, we’ll slip away. Our job here—both the one she
‘hired’ us for and the one Kane sent us on—will be done.”

His conscience
pricked as he considered how he’d deceived both Sam and the pack
members. It was nothing new; he’d done it many times during his
days working for Deirdre, and even a few times as an Enforcer when
he’d gone undercover. But this seemed different somehow. It
shouldn’t; it was just another job. Or so he kept telling
himself.

He rolled over
and plumped his pillow, his gaze falling on the bedside table and
his wallet that sat there. Reaching out, he flipped to Beth’s
picture and studied it. How would she feel about what he was doing?
She’d never approved of Deirdre; her spirit had always gently
chided him during those dark days.

“What do you
think, Beth? Is Sam being unreasonable? Am I doing the right thing,
informing on her to help Kane?”

No voice
echoed in his mind. Beth’s image didn’t change. Her eyes stared out
at him from the photograph, focused on some distant point, her
smile soft but vague. There was no approval, no reproachful look.
For once it seemed to be only a picture, an image printed on paper
using various shades of ink.

It
was…unsettling.

Damien frowned
and slowly closed the wallet.

Beth? He sent
out the mental message, but beyond the faintest wave of warmth
brushing over him there was no other response.

He pushed
himself upright, a restlessness invading him not unlike what he’d
felt during his days as a complete rogue. The room suddenly seemed
too confining and he moved to the window, pushing it open and then
leaning out. Arms braced on the frame, he breathed in the air that
spelled freedom, but did he want it?

The need to do
something, anything, was building inside him like a pressure cooker
waiting to explode. He could go hunting for Dante. Since the
incident in the warehouse, he’d not heard from the man. Maybe the
bastard had been injured by the barrels…or maybe he was tormenting
some other victim. Like the after effects of a greasy pizza, the
man would be back again. It was only a matter of time and there
wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

Moist night
air touched his skin, the slight breeze ruffling his hair. The moon
had started to wane but was still bright enough to illuminate the
small yard below. His gaze fell on his motorcycle and without
thinking, he swung himself out the window and shimmied down the
drain pipe.

A ride with
nothing but speed and open highway was what he needed right now.
The wind in his face, tugging at his clothing, wiping all thought
from his mind.

Lightly, he
dropped to the ground, then padded silently across the dew drenched
grass. The house was in darkness, the windows like blind eyes not
noticing his passing. There was no point in waking everyone, so he
planned to push his motorcycle to the street. Mere yards from where
he’d parked, he froze at the sound of a voice coming from the
shadows.

“Going
somewhere?”

He turned to
see Sam a few feet away. She was astride her own bike.

“Yeah. I need
to take a ride, blow the cobwebs out of my brain.” His answer was
terse; he didn’t feel like talking.

“Really?”

He could sense
her watching him and soon realized why. He’d been showing Chris how
to clean the carburetor and his ride was still in pieces.
“Damn.”

She cocked her
head, amusement in her eyes, a dare evident in her voice. “Wanna
share?”

He eyed her
and her bike, the need to get away warring with his need to be
alone. Finally, he gave a shrug. Once they were out of the city, he
could always shift and go for a run. With a nod he walked over and
climbed on behind her.

His thighs
cradled her hips, her back brushing his front. It was an intimate
position, but he did his best to ignore it, his hands lightly
resting on her hips to steady himself. She was short enough, that
he could almost rest his chin on the top of her head, but of course
he didn’t. Instead, he studied her back; her straight spine, the
muscles playing under the thin tank top she wore. He could see the
nape of her neck and frowned, realizing she had a tattoo there. Two
words in a swirling script. Before he could make them out, she
moved and the edges of her hair hid them from view.

Sam started
the engine, apparently not caring that most of the neighbourhood
was sleeping, and steered the bike out on to the street.

“Where you
headed?”

“A little
place about ten miles from here.”

“Another
bar?”

“An all-night
ice cream parlor.”

“Ice cream?”
He wasn’t sure he’d heard right over the roar of the engine.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope. I need
ice cream. The good stuff, not frozen yogurt or ice-milk. I need
the kind made with real cream and smothered in hot fudge.”

Despite his
mood, Damien found himself chuckling softly. Sam Harper, the
bad-ass, leather-clad, motorcycle-riding Alpha, needed a sugar
fix.

“You want
some?”

“Can’t I steal
some of yours?”

“You do and
I’ll break your arm.”

Through the
rearview mirror, he was able to catch a glimpse of her expression.
She was smiling, her eyes crinkling in the corners, as the wind
whipped her hair away from her face. It wasn’t a look he often saw
on her; she was usually serious, caught up in taking care of the
pack. He smiled, pleased that she was able to find a way to relax,
even if it was only for an hour or two.

When they
arrived at their destination, Damien looked around with interest,
noting the number of people sitting on benches near the shop. Who’d
have thought eating ice cream in the middle of the night was so
popular.

“They’re only
open until Halloween,” Sam explained as she dismounted. “After
that, they close up shop and head to Florida where they have a
similar place.”

“Seems like
they do a good business.”

“Quality
product and good service.” She approached the takeout window and
placed her order, then glanced his way. “What’ll you have?”

“You choose.”
He wasn’t an aficionado and figured whatever she ordered he could
handle.

In a matter of
minutes she was leading him towards an empty bench, a bowl of ice
cream in each hand.

“Here.” Sam
sat down and handed him his bowl. He stared at it. The concoction
was blue with colourful chunks of some candy-like substance showing
here and there.

“What is it?”
He sniffed the ice cream suspiciously and poked it with his
spoon.

“Bubble
gum.”

“Bubble gum
ice cream?”

“Yep. See
those coloured chunks?” She pointed with her spoon. “Real bubble
gum. When you’ve finished the ice cream you can chew it.”

Damien made a
face but gamely took a bite and then nodded in approval. “Not bad.
What do you do with the pieces of bubble-gum?”

“Tuck them
between your gum and your cheek. Or you can spit them out into your
hand until you’re done eating the ice cream, then chew them.”

Damien
considered his options while watching Sam enjoy her own treat. She
scooped up a bit of ice cream onto her spoon and then dipped it in
a pool of hot fudge, swirling it around before popping it into her
mouth. Her eyes closed as her lips curved upwards, a blissful
expression settling on her face. As she drew the now empty utensil
from her mouth, a low moan of pleasure escaped her. Opening her
eyes, she beamed at him.

“Heavenly.”

“Really?”

“Definitely.”
She kept her gaze fixed on his as she licked a trace of fudge off
her spoon, a mischievous glint in her eyes. His body hardened in
response and he shifted in his seat.

“Uncomfortable?” She blinked innocently and he growled at her.

“You’re
playing with fire, Sugar.”

“I like the
heat,” she countered.

He was
tempted, so tempted, to reach across the table, cup the back of her
head and kiss her until she was aching as much he was. Instead, he
took another bite of his ice cream, willing the cold food to cool
his ardour as well as his mouth. A change of topic seemed in
order.

“Tell me about
your tattoos.”

“My tats?”

He nodded. “I
saw you had one on your nape but didn’t have a chance to get a good
look.”

She turned and
bent her neck so he could see the two words. Duty. Strength. Each
was written in an elegant script that somehow contrasted with the
meaning of the words and yet also fit. He traced each with his
fingertip and Sam shivered at his touch. She turned to face him,
her cheeks lightly flushed.

“Nice.” He
didn’t comment on the fact that his touch appeared to have affected
her. “Why’d you choose those particular words?”

For once she
didn’t meet his eye, instead idly watched a group at a nearby
table. “They represent the qualities of an Alpha. Grandfather said
there were three, but I had to discover them for myself. Each time
I figured one out, I had it tattooed on.”

“Which came
first?”

“Duty. That
one was obvious.” She flicked a glance at him. “An Alpha has to put
the needs of the pack above his, or her, own wants. No matter how
tired or pissed off you might be, you do your duty and make sure
everyone is safe, has food and shelter. A pack has to work together
like a well-oiled machine; that can only happen if the Alpha sets
the example.”

“And
strength?”

Sam ate
another spoon of ice cream, swallowing before she answered. “That
one took a bit longer to figure out, but I eventually realized it.
Strength is important. Not just physical strength, though you need
that in order to keep the wolves in line, but strength of mind and
character.” She spoke with such conviction that Damien felt
strangely proud of her. He cleared his throat.

“Makes sense.
And the third one…?”

She scowled.
“I don’t know. Every time I think I have it figured out,
Grandfather says no.”

“Maybe he’s
stringing you along?”

“No. My
grandfather doesn’t joke. There’s a third quality and he says when
I finally figure it out, I’ll automatically know it’s the missing
piece.” She thoughtfully scraped the last drops of ice cream from
the bowl. “Every quality I’ve come up with has been good, but I
never get that ‘this is it’ feeling.”

Without
meaning to, he found himself reaching out to gently squeeze her
hand. “I hope you find it one day.” He meant the words. Being Alpha
was her life. And it made him feel like crap.

“Thanks. For a
rogue, you can be pretty nice, you know.”

He looked away
and didn’t answer.

Damien dreamed of Beth. Not of the fire or the
pain of losing her and his unborn child. Instead, pleasant memories
invaded his sleep. Small snippets of daily life that brought a
smile to his face and left him relaxed and refreshed upon waking.
He showered and dressed, humming under his breath and then went
about some of the chores he’d set for himself, the first of which
was putting his bike back together.

Luckily the
task was easily accomplished. He chuckled thinking how much faster
it went without having to explain each step to Christopher. It
wasn’t that he minded the boy hanging around him; it just slowed
things down a bit.

Wiping the
grease from his hands with a rag, he studied the pack house. It had
been solidly built and the basic structure was still sound, but
wouldn’t remain that way much longer unless repairs were made.
Today, he’d decided to caulk the windows to keep water from seeping
in. If it wasn’t dealt with soon, there’d be plaster damage. With
any luck, he could have the bottom floor windows done before it was
time for his sparring session with Sam.

They’d
arranged to meet in the cellar and, while he worked, he mentally
prepared a list of moves to practise. It was strange being on the
instructing end and made him think of the Enforcer sessions he’d
had with Reno. The man had been tough and had expected the men
working under him to be equally so. An unexpected urge to talk to
Reno came over him and he actually paused, wondering if he dared.
How did you start a conversation after so long and what would the
other man say?

Damien
scowled. He sucked at social niceties. Should he act as if nothing
happened or should he apologize? And what exactly would he be
apologizing for? Yeah, he’d made some crappy decisions, but at the
time, they’d seemed the right thing to do.

Hell. He set
down the tools he was using and pulled out his phone. Dithering
made him edgy. Might as well just do it.

He punched in
the numbers, then leaned back against the house, and began to
mentally count the rings. Thankfully it wasn’t too hot yet because
making this call was causing him to sweat. Wiping one hand on his
pants, he exhaled loudly, then shifted from one foot to the
other.

“Smith.”
Reno’s voice rumbled in his ears.

At the sound
of his old friend’s voice, Damien felt tongue tied. He glanced
about wildly, randomly noting facts. The old picket fence was
weathered and needed painting. A nearby tree had only a few
coloured leaves despite the fact that it was now autumn. White
puffy clouds were marring the bright blue sky. Damn, he was an
idiot.

He cleared his
throat and spoke. “Hey, Reno. What are you up to?”

Now the
silence came from the other end of the line. Damien held his
breath, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Would Reno reply or
hang up? A second ticked by, then another. Finally, an answer.

“I’m doing
damned paperwork. What about you?”

Damien closed
his eyes and exhaled in relief. The hardest part was over; the
first words had been spoken. “I’m caulking windows.”