Devil's Game (Reapers MC, #3)(88)

All of them were pigs.

I turned to look at Skid, who stood in the doorway behind me.

“Got any suggestions?” I asked. “I need somewhere cheap that doesn’t smell like feet.”

He sniffed, then gave me a puzzled look.

“It doesn’t smell like feet in here.”

“No, in here it smells like mildew.”

He shook his head, frowning.

“Did Kelsey talk to you?”

“About what?” I asked.

“Her place,” he said. “She’s got a spare room and she’s having trouble making rent. I had to buy her groceries this month. She was going to see if you wanted to move in.”

“She didn’t say anything.”

“I wonder if Hunter told her not to,” he said slowly. “He’s worried she’ll be a bad influence on you. He might’ve mentioned something to her about backing off and leaving you alone. If you ask about the room, I bet she’ll say yes.”

“What the hell is up with you two, anyway?”

“Me and Hunter?”

“No, you and Kelsey.”

“Fuck if I know. When she’s horny, she comes to see me. Sometimes. Pretty sure she has at least one other guy on the side.”

“And you’re cool with that?”

He shrugged.

“I can get laid other ways, too,” he said. “No shortage of *. But I don’t like seeing her struggle—sharing a place would be a good solution for both of you. You should talk.”

“I will, thanks.”

Huh … That was almost … nice?

Skid nodded and took off down the hallway. Weird guy. I wasn’t nearly as scared of him these days, but I wouldn’t mind seeing less of him. I closed the toilet seat, setting my stuff on it while I grabbed a chunk of toilet paper to wipe down the counter. That’s when my phone started ringing. I glanced at the Caller ID.

Dad.

I swallowed, trying to decide if I should answer. Things were a little awkward between us, although he kept tabs on me through Kit. To say our initial conversation about Hunter hadn’t gone well was an understatement. A big understatement.

Fortunately, nothing new had happened in the whole Reapers/Devil’s Jacks/cartel triangle since the original shootings, but people weren’t exactly breathing easy these days. I think we all assumed it was just a matter of time.

I sighed and grabbed the phone. I didn’t want him worrying about me, and I knew he would if he couldn’t track me down.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, Emmy,” he said. Thankfully, I could tell from the tone of his voice that there wasn’t an emergency. Lately my default assumption was disaster. “I’m just calling to find out if you’re coming home for Thanksgiving. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm tonight, figured I’d check in. You’ll want to drive during daylight tomorrow, if you plan to be here …”

I smiled despite myself. No matter how weird life got, some things about Dad never changed.

“It’s killing you that you’re not here to check the tire pressure on my winter tires, isn’t it?”

He stayed silent for a minute.

“Not gonna answer that,” he said finally. “But since we’re talking vehicles, when’s the last time you changed your oil? I think it’s just a matter of time before that car starts burning it. You should really be thinking about getting something newer.”

“My car is fine, Dad,” I said, feeling a little squishy inside. Sure, he drove me crazy. But I also loved the way he was always watching out for me. I missed him, I realized. I wanted to go home for the holiday.

“I need to talk to Hunter about Thanksgiving,” I said slowly. “We’d discussed cooking something here, with his brothers.”

Silence fell.

“You could bring him to Coeur d’Alene,” Dad said.

I almost dropped the phone.

“Can you repeat that? I think I heard you wrong. Did you just invite Hunter for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Not to the Armory, of course. I know you’re convinced he’s all innocent and shit, but a lot of the guys don’t buy it. But I’ll let him into the house if you come home.”

I tried to process this.

“Where would he sleep?”

I heard a strangled noise on the other end of the line.

“He could stay in your room with you.”

“Dad?” I asked carefully. “Are you dying?”

“What the f*ck is that supposed to mean?”

“Like, do you have cancer or something? This isn’t you. You’re being … nice.”

“I want my daughter home for f*cking Thanksgiving,” he snapped. “If that means I have to put up with her douchebag boyfriend, I will.”

“He’s my old man, and he’s not a douchebag.”

“Talk to your sister,” he said suddenly, and then Kit was on the phone.

“I think Dad’s about to have a stroke,” she told me, her voice excited, the words tripping out almost too fast to follow. “Seriously. He’s clenching his fists and his face is all red.”

“He just told me Hunter could sleep in my room for Thanksgiving.”