The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Five

Reese woke in the black before dawn the next morning feeling oddly unsettled. Unsatisfied, he supposed. He didn't feel himself owed sex – he could live without it. And he could have contacted one of the club girls; he knew that Stephanie, for instance, had written her number down on a Post-It and tucked it inside one of his empty desk drawers; had blown him a kiss afterward. But the idea, once he'd lain down on his bed last night, hadn't held so much as a shred of appeal. The idea of being with one of the girls by himself, without Tenny there, was ludicrous.

He was still trying to parse out all the finer reasons why when he left his room, stepped into the dark hallway, and found Tenny already there, dressed in workout gear as he himself was, holding a water bottle.

Reese felt an instant swell of gladness and relief; a light, buoyant sensation in his gut like when he'd had just one drink. He nodded a hello, Tenny grunted his usual response, and they set off for their typical morning run.

They didn't speak, because they never did on their runs; all their energy went toward the next stride, and the next, their long legs of a similar length, eating up the distance, shoes pattering softly against the pavement. Reese settled gladly into the rhythms of it: lungs, heart, arms, Tenny's breath deep and steady beside him. His thoughts drifted to their conversation last night.

He didn't think Tenny truly wanted away from the Lean Dogs. Like him, Tenny had always belonged to a master. No matter his training, his skills, and his undeniable ability to blend in to any social situation, all of it was a performance of a kind. He'd never lived on his own; never paid rent, or bought groceries for himself, or had to ask a noisy neighbor to turn the music down at one a.m. He could bluff all he wanted, but Reese didn't think Tenny was eager to be out on his own.

But that didn't necessarily mean he was content here, either. He'd grown good at reading Tenny's unsubtle mood swings, interpreting the true emotions that lay beneath the sneering surface...but he still doubted. Something still wasn't quite...right. And he thought Tenny going off to bed alone last night was a part of it, in some way.

When they got back to Dartmoor, the sun was breaking over the river, rose-gold on its shimmering surface, pumping a thick carpet of mist across the parking lots. Axelle's car sat parked in front of the clubhouse, and Axelle sat parked at a picnic table, yawning hugely into the sleeve of her hoodie, sitting beside Albie, both of them with steaming mugs in their hands. She offered a wave, hand still tucked into her sleeve.

Albie said, "Fox and Eden want to talk to you both."

~*~

Ghost would have said he'd been up early, but that would have implied he'd gone to bed. Maggie had tried to coax him along, but he'd kissed her and assured her he would be there in a few, after he finished his cigarette – but he'd stayed at his kitchen table all night, with Maggie's laptop and the list of names Luis had provided. He'd typed each into the search bar, and scrolled through news and gossip websites until the wee hours, before finally heading to the clubhouse.

There were seven of them:

Jack Waverly – film producer, owner of his own TV and film production company. A tall, heavyset, jowly man, he'd been photographed often with young starlets, his model wife, and more than a few politicians, including the next on the list.

Senator Terry Windmere – balding, stoop-shouldered, and serving his one-thousandth term or some such, the Rhode Island senator seemed to move in Hollywood circles, despite lacking any of the looks or charm that seemed, at least to Ghost, necessary for that set.

Then there was Sal Moretti – the owner of several high-end Italian restaurants in New York. His son was a chef who competed on those timed cooking shows Maggie liked to watch, a slimmer, handsomer version of his father, down to the slicked-back hair and the heavy accent. Sal looked like a mob boss straight from central casting, and online chatter about him revealed that he was as good as confirmed mafia; a sort of running joke that didn't seem at all funny when faced with the idea of a sex trafficking ring.