Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) (26 page)

“I think it comes in all three forms,” Veronica finally answered. “Before, Wick gave me pills, but I think you can inject a liquid.” Pulling open the refrigerator door, she perused the contents, made a disgusted noise. “Typical man. Don’t they know beer makes you fat?”

The two of them continued rummaging and ruffling for the next several minutes, while Cami held back her growing anxiety and shuffled through sensible options, trying to think of a safe and expedient way out of this predicament. When she found a supply of various-sized plastic baggies and then a drawer bursting with “junk” that included a bottle half-filled with allergy caplets, she decided a gamble might not be such a bad idea.

Crouching down, she pretended to inspect a low corner cupboard and the lazy Susan filled with mixing bowls inside, while with shaking hands she poured the contents of the pill bottle into the plastic bag. Still wondering just how she was going to pass off the over-the-counter medication as the desired contraband, she heard noise coming from the direction of the front door. A lock clicking open. The barely-there squeal of hinges.

Her heart leaping to her throat, she straightened. Then a familiar voice called her name.

Eamon. Oh my God
, Eamon.

“Cami!” he called again.

Her pink firearm still firmly in hand, Veronica sent her a significant look from her crazy eyes, then ducked out of sight around the corner to the laundry room.

“Cami, where are you?”

Shoot. Heck. Darn.
Then her mind amended the words to real curses. Shit. Hell. Damn. And…

Fuck!

What to do? How to warn him away?

“Cami!” Was that impatience or alarm in his voice?

“I’m in here,” she managed to get out, hoping she didn’t sound strangled. “The kitchen.”

He walked in, his gaze snapping to her face. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” She scowled at him.

Today he was dressed as Business Eamon—dark slacks, white shirt, striped tie. No way was he carrying a weapon while in that get-up.

“I expected to be alone, that’s all.”

If she acted mad enough, annoyed enough, perhaps he’d go away. Far away from Veronica and her hot-pink gun.

He forked a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I get that. But I thought…”

“Really, I’d prefer to do this by myself.”

“I realize now the kitten was a bonehead farewell gesture.”

Yes, but she didn’t even bother rolling her eyes because he needed to go. Now. He needed to put distance between him and the cracked lady with her maybe-not-for-play lady gun who seemed to have a chip on her shoulder at the moment. “Eamon—”

“We didn’t leave things well, I get that. And I get that I can’t make everything right.”

“No, you certainly can’t.” Desperation added a hard note to her voice. “You swept into my life—
twice
—and you didn’t even try to act like a responsible human being. Instead, for your own selfish reasons you…you made me promises. Maybe not with words, but in other ways, Eamon. And when things got sticky, you walked out on me.
Twice
.”

He winced. “I tried never to imply—”

“Oh, you fucking implied.” Tears stung her eyes, as she worried she couldn’t shoo him on his way. “You implied with…with satin and leather and with every second of my trust you took.”

He closed his eyes in obvious pain.

She hardened her voice further and lifted her shaking arm, pointing toward the exit with an imperious finger. “Now leave!”

But the beautiful, stubborn man held his ground. His gaze narrowed, and he seemed to be studying her now instead of feeling real regret. Oh, hell. Did he sense something was amiss?

Panic churned in Cami’s stomach.

“Go!” she shrieked.

When he remained rooted to the spot, his expression now changing from concerned to suspicious, Veronica whipped into the kitchen, her gun at the ready.

Cami’s fingers curled into fists as Eamon’s his whole body tensed and his expression was wiped clean.
Why didn’t you leave when I said?

And what’s my back-up plan?

“You bastard,” the older woman said to Eamon, obviously seething, so angry her gun hand was shaking. “Just another man messing with a good woman. If I can’t kill Grant, I should shoot you for getting him that cushy cell in prison. I should murder you for what you did to…to…” Her gaze flicked to Cami. “Who are you again?”

She swallowed, then made a quick decision, opting for her one and only idea.

“I’m—” she held up the baggie, an inch of allergy meds across the bottom “—the person who found the V you are after.”

Then she tossed it in Veronica’s direction, but a little over her head so the woman had to rear back to reach for it.

As she did, both Eamon and Cami sprang.

She was closer. She tackled the taller woman, taking her down with heavy thump. The gun discharged.

Cami froze for a second, the loud noise echoing in her ears. But then, terrified, she scrambled up Veronica’s supine body, determined to get the weapon no matter what.

Her hand, poised to grab the gun, encountered Eamon’s elegant business shoe instead. The sole, with the help of his weight, pinned the other woman’s wrist to the ground. Leaning over, he plucked the weapon from her slackened grasp.

His gaze met Cami’s. “Are you okay?”

Instead of getting to her feet, she decided to take no chances and straddled the woman’s waist to make sure she stayed in place. Veronica blinked, clearly confused by losing her breath or her precious V or her control of the situation.

“I’m good.” Cami realized she was panting and her pulse continued to race.

“A request,
a ghrá geal
.” Calm and unruffled, Eamon poked at his phone, his attention on the screen. Calling for the authorities, Cami supposed. “One time, could you let me take the risk and rescue you?”

“I was mad,” she grumbled, as a sudden adrenaline-drop made her skin go cold. Her body trembled. “And scared. So I channeled my
Real Housewives
franchise fatigue and took the leap.”

The next night, Eamon stalked across the crowded parking lot of Satan’s Roadhouse in Topanga Canyon, ready for a brawl. He’d been in a mood to hit something since the morning he’d left Cami’s, and nothing since then had served to evaporate his temper. Veronica Healy in custody for trespass and weapons charges hadn’t helped.

Seeing Cami climbing into her car after clearing out her Malibu bedroom hadn’t done a thing for his mood, either. He’d offered to drive her himself if she felt shaky. He’d mentioned calling one of her brothers for escort.

Instead, she’d brushed him off and sped away.

Only to leave him alone to replay those moments in his kitchen time and again.

Watching her launch herself at the crazy woman had made him livid.

Hearing that gun go off had caused him to lose several years off his life.

Realizing the threat was neutralized and Cami herself was left unharmed had just barely given him the strength not to tear his hair out and howl.

Instead, he’d shut down, going into just-the-facts-ma’am mode. But the fucking top of spinning emotions inside him wouldn’t slow down. Regret-alarm-dread-terror. Regret-alarm-dread-terror. Regret-alarm-dread-terror.

Now he’d been called to another fucking sit-down with Deuce, the son-of-a-bitch Savage Son. Irish had been hazy on the details when Eamon demanded them. Late the day before, his cousin Wick had taken the plea agreement—probably because he figured his customer, Veronica, was prepared to sing her way to a lesser charge by spilling what she knew of her dealer’s operation.

So that situation was settled, and as far as Eamon was concerned, let the chips fall where they may.

Yanking open the door, he stepped inside the dimly lit saloon. Chatter, music, and memory assailed him. Did the meet just have to be here of all goddamn places?

Sure, it was a popular watering hole, and not just with bikers, but it was also the place where he’d publicly turned away from the most lovely, talented, and precious woman he knew. Though he was still convinced she needed more from a man—like commitment, like a guy who wouldn’t expose her to danger just by virtue of his family and his profession—Eamon hated recalling that night. How he’d felt as if she’d reached into his chest and clawed out his heart as she sang “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”

He’d known then that he’d lost her for good.

No going back. No do-overs.

Not that he wanted either, of course.

Because he couldn’t wish for Cami taking a chance on becoming scarred—outside or inside—like his mother. Irish had confessed he’d told her about the firefight—when Eamon had been unable to save Samantha.

You couldn’t expect a woman to swear allegiance with that kind of possibility—and past failure—on the table.

Across the room, his father got Eamon’s attention. He headed that way, noting, thank God, that none of the Rock Royalty or their entourage were in evidence that night, even though the roadhouse was owned by Ashlynn, the main squeeze of prince Brody Maddox.

Some country-rock tune poured from the speakers, fueled by the famous jukebox near the dance floor. Deuce seemed to be enjoying himself, Eamon thought as he dropped into an empty chair. His toe was tapping along with the beat, and his gaze was glued to the ass of a jean-clad girl bending over a table on the other side of the room.

“Hey,” he said, acknowledging the others present—Irish, Bart, and Linc.

They lifted beers his way. Bart filled a spare glass from the pitcher on the table and his dad passed it to him.

He took a long swallow, then slid his gaze toward Deuce, who’d paid him no mind whatsoever. Eamon set down his beer with a clack loud enough to rouse a few ghosts.

The bearded man glanced over.

“You made the call,” Eamon said, lifting his hands. “What’s this about?”

Deuce’s gaze shifted away, shifted back. “Uh, a favor. A favor got called in.”

Oh, shit
. That could mean anything in the biker world where deals and counter-deals were typical and left people who initially owed Cain fifteen bucks now on the line to Abel for a fishing trip, a case of marshmallows, and a promise to break a rival’s leg.

Eamon swung toward Irish. “Dad, what mess are you in now?”

“It’s your problem this time, son.” His eyes looked to Deuce.

Deuce was ogling prime ass across the room again. Eamon returned his attention to his dad, then jerked his head back to take a second perusal of the prime ass.

That’s Cami’s ass!

He couldn’t explain how he’d missed it at first, except that she remained bent, none of her glorious hair in view and that he really, really didn’t want to see her tonight.

He really didn’t want to see her ever again.

Regret-alarm-dread-terror.

But he also really couldn’t go another moment without ensuring himself she was all right.

Shooting to his feet, he hardly felt the hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa, partner,” a man said. “Sit down.”

Eamon glanced around, only to see Ren Colson a second before the other man shoved him back into his chair. “What the hell?”

Payne Colson, looking as if he’d just stepped off his surfboard and into jeans and a vintage Hawaiian shirt, appeared behind his brother. “Our sister has something you need to hear.”

“Fuck me,” Eamon muttered. “She arranged this?”

“With a little help,” Ren said, looking at Irish.

“I told her you would need more incentive than dear old dad wanting to share a beer,” Irish added. “So she contacted Deuce.”

“Owe her for finding Sweet Pea,” the bearded biker said.

Eamon dropped his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least it wasn’t MC trouble—not for the moment anyway.

“But you and me are going to have trouble again,” Deuce added, “if you put less than a smile on that girl’s face.”

“Great,” Eamon muttered.

Seeing that Cami was strapping on her guitar, he figured she wasn’t going to be beaming at him at the end of whatever she planned. This had to be her public payback for the set-down he’d given her weeks ago.

It had been a shit thing for him to do, no matter how well-intentioned, and now she needed to sweep away the shame of it by kicking him in the teeth in front of a roomful of strangers, family, and friends. Because he spotted the latter two in the audience now, or maybe they’d just come in—Cami’s entire tribe and each of their romantic partners.

All of them looked a little bloodthirsty, he decided, as if they couldn’t wait to see him get his comeuppance at the hands of their tribal sister.

Well, good for them and especially good for Cami. If this would help her recover and move on from him, he was all for it.

If by “all for it” he meant feeling as if he’d swallowed his motorcycle’s gearbox.

The song currently playing on the jukebox cut off. The talk around the room dribbled down to silence.

Cami’s voice carried into the quiet. “Sorry everybody. You’ll be back to your normal scheduled roadhouse experience in just a couple of minutes.”

Then she pulled her hair out from beneath the tooled leather strap of her guitar and strolled over to face Eamon. He saw her inhale a deep breath, her expression serious. On her feet were her favorite cowboy boots, and she wore them with jeans that clung to her legs with love. A flowing top went next, sleeveless, so he could see the tattoo crawling up her arm.

She stood near enough that he could make out the curved leaves and flowers with their dew-fresh petals. As before, the tiny bird, surrounded by thorns, tore at his heart.

He was still afraid he’d caged her spirit.

But maybe she could find freedom in this last live performance he’d be privileged to attend. He knew he’d never get to watch her face like this as she sang again.

Her throat cleared. Her fingers began to strum, and she looked down at them, then up at him, her expression wary.

Don’t worry about me
, he urged her silently.
You go, girl.

Do what you’ve got to do.

Pinning on an encouraging smile, he nodded, ignoring the heavy grind in his belly.
A ghrá, don’t hesitate to pull out the mass of metal and grease right through my navel.