Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) Page 4

  “Break time?” Cami suggested to Rose. “Let’s leave Earl and Bren in charge of the booth and take a walk around.”

  The other woman blotted her forehead with the back of her wrist then swiped up a bottle of water. “You go ahead. I’m saving my energy for when we have to break down the booth.”

  Cami grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. “Or for when your blond Adonis, aka my handsome brother, returns to get himself some more of your extra special sugar.”

  In mock-anger, Rose threw the empty bottle at Cami which she caught in her hand, grin widening.

  “Be nice.”

  She was still smiling as she set off down the aisle, scanning the area for booths of interest. Then her gaze snagged on a familiar head set on a familiar pair of shoulders in the distance. Her stomach twisted and her smile died.

  “No,” she murmured. “I’m seeing things.”

  This is an Eamon-free zone. This is an Eamon-free day.

  It’s what she’d been telling herself since he’d left her house three days before. I now have an Eamon-free life.

  She blinked a couple of times, then took a second look in the same direction. No dark hair, no wide shoulders up ahead. Her breath came easier. Her feet began moving again.

  Just my imagination.

  As she walked, she took in exhibits and items for sale. T-shirts. Leather jackets. Equipment to detect police radar. Additives to improve fuel performance. Herbal supplements to improve male performance.

  That particular booth had no interested parties hanging around, Cami was unsurprised to discover. Who in this crowd wanted to admit they suffered from that sort of problem? The visitors weighed heavily on the masculine side, ranging in age from twenties to sixties. There were bandana-wearing, bearded dudes in leather jackets displaying colorful rocker patches, as well as biker babes in ribbed tanks and jeans so tight you could practically read the tattoos on their asses. They mingled with an obviously well-off, more conventional crowd in sleeker leather and silk instead of cotton.

  Cami’s stomach growled as she caught another whiff of deep fat doing its thing, and she decided she deserved a churro for her hard work. The food truck on the outskirts of the aisles of booths provided her with one hot and crispy strip of fried dough, drenched in cinnamon sugar. After paying, she took a bite and continued her stroll in this much quieter corner of the grounds. As she finished her treat, the noisiness abated, the sound of voices and the heavy metal rock that had been pumping from one of the booths receding.

  Another sound—tiny whimpers?—caught her attention.

  Puzzled, Cami glanced around, searching out the source. Empty boxes were piled up nearby, and a scruffy-looking toy dog lay face-down in the powdery dirt beside them.

  Cami moved toward the boxes, and the noise cut off. She paused, started forward again and then bent to pick up the dusty toy.

  “Mine!” A small voice choked out.

  “Okay.” Cami took another step, then went on tiptoe to peer into a nest made of cardboard. A little girl sat huddled there, her skinny arms around her bent legs, the knees of her pink pants filthy. “Are you…lost?”

  The child stared at her from big eyes in a narrow face and then she began to cry in sobs that were only made more pitiful by the way she tried to stifle them with a dirty hand.

  In alarm, Cami glanced around. The nearest gathering of people was around the truck she’d eaten from, and nobody near it or anywhere else that she could see appeared to be searching for a missing child.

  “Why don’t we get you out of there,” she said, pulling away one of the boxes from the hiding place.

  The child buried her face against the long sleeve of her T-shirt and cried harder.

  Cami hunkered down and held out the toy. “Here, kiddo. Take a hold of your dog. It is yours, right?”

  “Spoon.” The kid hiccupped and grabbed for the stuffed animal. “Doggie is Spoon.”

  “Cool. I have a cat named Floyd.” What’s a little lie between a missing person and her well-intentioned savior? “Is your Mom around?”

  “Left,” the girl said. “I got Daddy.”

  Hmm. Something they had in common. “Maybe we should get you up so we can find Daddy. I bet he’s worried about you.”

  The child clutched Spoon to her chest. “You seen Daddy?”

  “Uh…” She glanced around again. “Not at the moment, but I’m sure we can find him.” Standing, she held out her hand. “Come on…can you tell me your name?”

  “Sweet Pea.”

  Cami had to smile at that. “What a beautiful name, Sweet Pea. My name is Cami.”

  “Tammy,” the little girl repeated.

  Good enough. Cami smiled again. “Let’s see if we can locate Daddy. He’s got to be out of his mind wondering where a pretty girl like you might be.”

  The child rose and put her gritty hand into Cami’s. A weird emotion rolled through her chest. She’d never babysat, and the only kids she knew were those that belonged to Cleo, who was in love with Reed Hopkins, another of the Rock Royalty. But they were older and boys, and she didn’t know what to say to this strange creature who was…two? Three?

  She felt both out of her depth and…and…charmed.

  Sweet Pea took another step, then stopped. “Tired,” she declared. “Tired, Tammy.”

  “Uh…” Cami swallowed. “Do want me to carry you?”

  Instead of answering, the girl held up her arms.

  It was the most natural thing in the world to swing the child up against her body. Sweet Pea looped her arms around Cami’s neck and pressed her head to her shoulder. Spoon was tucked beneath Cami’s chin, and she swallowed the sneeze brought on by the toy’s dusty fur.

  Thus entwined, the little trio headed toward the more populated area of the event. “We’ll find Daddy or an organizer or even a police officer.”

  Sweet Pea stiffened. “Cop? No cop.”

  Cami glanced down. “Uh, the um, cops are our friends.”

  Though they hadn’t been welcome at the Laurel Canyon compound.

  “Daddy,” Sweet Pea said, relaxing again. “Find Daddy.”

  “As soon as possible,” Cami murmured.

  She was one-third of the way down the first aisle when a thunderous voice made her jump. “Why the hell do you have Sweet Pea?”

  Alarmed, Cami tightened her hold on the kid, hunching around her in protection from the huge, hulking man striding toward her. He had a full bushy beard, long hair, and wore a leather biker’s vest atop his dingy white T-shirt. The patch over the breast proclaimed him as a member of the Savage Sons Motorcycle Club.

  Cami was acquainted with guys in MCs. She spent too much time at the salvage yard and in bars and music clubs not to have met a few. But they were jovial, hail-fellow-well-met, let’s-get-roaring-drunk types, and this person barreling down on her was more dangerous marauder than man who liked his bike and his brothers.

  She swallowed to lubricate her dry throat.

  Then Sweet Pea perked up, though she didn’t loosen her hold on Cami. “Daddy! Hi, Daddy!”

  The man still looked primed for murder as a woman dressed in ragged biker chick-chic raced up. “I just spent a second looking at tees, Gene. I don’t know how she got away from me!”

  Gene swung toward the new arrival. His voice lowered, making it all the more frightening. “Are you saying you lost my little girl, Cinny?”

  Cinny placed placating fingers around one of his arms. “But she’s found, Gene. She’s right here.”

  “I’m right here, Daddy,” Sweet Pea repeated, and launched herself in his direction. “Me ‘n’ Spoon.”

  He caught his daughter in a deft movement, then ignored Cami to take the other woman by the upper arm.

  “We need to get going,” he said, then began dragging her toward the exit.

  Nonplused, Cami watched them leave. The only person who seemed to remember her was Sweet Pea, who looked over the marauder’s shoulder and curled her fingers in babyish goodbye wave. “Bye, T
ammy!”

  “Wow,” she murmured to herself and hauled in a deep breath.

  That was an odd cap to a long day. To orient herself, she glanced around, determined to get right back to Rose. Payne would be returning for them soon.

  And halfway down the aisle, she once again spied that familiar figure.

  No. Oh, no. It was supposed to be her Eamon-free day. But now there was no doubt it was that man, relaxed in jeans, a wrinkled chambray shirt, and a pair of running shoes. He stood at the entrance to a booth she remembered passing before. It featured intricate, Goth- and bohemian-inspired jewelry displayed in trays and hanging on tiered holders.

  His expression gave away nothing, and he was gazing into the distance, seemingly unaware of her presence.

  While she could feel him along every sensitized nerve.

  His insouciance infuriated her. Tired from a long day, unnerved by her rescue of Sweet Pea, and upset that she still wasn’t over the man, she felt a red haze came over her vision. Once again he was intruding on her life! Fingers curling into fists, she marched toward him, her boots sending up poofs of dust with each step.

  Halting just behind him, she narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you can’t fool me.”

  He whipped around.

  She had to give him credit for managing a credible expression of surprise. “Cami.”

  How easy it was to hate him. He looked gorgeous and muscled and everything a woman could want while right now she felt sweaty and disheveled, and she was pretty sure Sweet Pea had transferred more than a little of her dirt to Cami’s clothes. With sudden self-consciousness, she started brushing at them, even as she continued to glare at him.

  “What’s this all about?” Cami demanded. “Why are you following me?”

  His brows rose. “Following you?”

  She fought back a wave of doubt. “I’ve been feeling eyes on me for days. Weeks. Then you showed up out of the blue at the music club.”

  He glanced around. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Keep my voice down? Maybe you should tell me to relax, too.”

  He shook his head as if frustrated, then took a step closer. “Listen to me, Cam.”

  His hands lifted and his fingers clamped her upper arms.

  Instantly, heat and awareness rocketed through her. How could that be? Why wouldn’t that reaction go away? A burning sting of tears pricked the corners of her eyes. How come he affected her like that, even though he’d dumped her? And then there was the way he’d dumped her! His voice cool, his dark eyes level, his expression betraying not the slightest hint of remorse, not the slightest bit of caring.

  She wrenched free of his hold. “The only listening I’m going to do is to your promise not to follow me ever again.”

  Eamon shook his head once more. “I didn’t follow you here. I swear.”

  “What?” Cami folded her arms over her chest. “Are you trying to claim it’s just some coincidence that you happen be at the motorcycle show today when I’m here, too?”

  He dropped his head back to stare at the sky, sighed, then looked to her again. “It is a coincidence—though not all that coincidental.”

  Steam felt as if it was coming out of her ears. “Stop talking in riddles.”

  “Cami…” Eamon’s voice drifted off as his gaze moved over her shoulder.

  Before she could glance at what had captured his attention, a woman emerged from the jewelry booth and plastered herself to him. “Baby, is there a problem?”

  Glancing down, Eamon wrapped an arm around her waist. “Suze.”

  The woman shifted her adoring gaze from his face to Cami. “Did you run into an old friend, love?”

  Cami couldn’t speak. Not that she had a clue about what kind of female might be Eamon’s type, but never in a million years would she have guessed the brassy blonde in the skinny jeans with eyelashes that nearly rivaled her busty boobs in heft would be the next to share a bed with him. But the pair was definitely familiar, given the ease with which he stood beside her—that arm around her waist—and the bemused but affectionate expression on his face as he once again looked down at her.

  She was beautiful, if you liked teased hair and full, glistening lips, and the kind of knowing aura that said she’d made many a man beg.

  Then there was the tiny leather vest she wore over her cut-to-the-nipples tank top. The patch on this one read “Property of the Unruly Assassins.”

  Next to her, Cami felt like a piece of laundry that had been left out on the line. Dusty, and forgotten. Unwanted.

  Still, she tried to gather her dignity and power through.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said to the other woman then directed her attention once again to Eamon.

  “Coincidence, coincidental,” she said. “I still don’t believe how that makes any—”

  “Campbell.”

  She started at the sound of the new voice, then realized Payne had come up beside her.

  “Time to go, sis,” he said, sliding an arm over her shoulders.

  “What?”

  “Time to go.” He looked at Eamon.

  “Yeah,” the other man confirmed, as if the two were conducting a silent conversation. “It’s time for her to go.”

  Cami looked between them. “What’s happening?”

  Eamon didn’t take his gaze off Payne. “You’ll explain.”

  “Sure,” her brother said, easily. “But the next time I see you near her, I’m going to break your face.”

  With a small smile, Eamon nodded. “Fair enough,” he murmured, then turned Suze back in to the jewelry booth. “Let me find you something special, beautiful.”

  Now even more confused, Cami could only gulp like a fish as her brother directed her in the direction of the exit.

  “We’re all loaded up,” Payne said.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” She shook her head. “No. I mean, what are you supposed to tell me?”

  “I’m getting to it,” Payne said calmly, “and then you’re going to put that fucker out of your life once and for all.”

  Then he laid it out for her. The coincidence that wasn’t coincidental was because of the Unruly Assassins MC. Of course the expo would attract the area motorcycle clubs—like the Savage Sons, she thought, and the other guys she’d seen that day sporting their various leather cuts.

  “The Unruly Assassins?” she echoed.

  “Brody found out that night at the roadhouse. Eamon was there with some of the Unrulies.” Hesitating, Payne ran a hand over the back of her hair.

  “Just say it,” she told her brother.

  “They’re an outlaw MC. A one-percenter.” Before she could ask, he elaborated. “It refers to the MCs that aren’t averse to criminal enterprise.”

  “Not…‘averse’?”

  Payne gave a short nod. “Okay. The word is, they’re involved in criminal enterprise.”

  Cami looked around her, the booths being broken down, the people moving about a blur. “What are you trying to say?” But of course, she could guess. “He’s one of them?”

  “He’s the president’s son.” Payne took an audible breath. “And if you want to hook up with someone more dissolute than the Lemons—the debauchery plus knives and guns and who the hell knows what else on the side—then Eamon’s it.”

  Cami shuddered. The memory of feeling so alone, so much even less than an afterthought, was something that had shaped her forever. All because the next party, the next woman, the next high was a more pressing concern to the man who was supposed to care for her.

  Okay. Fine then.

  She pounded one fist against her thigh. Get this.

  Not only did Eamon Rooney no longer want her—hadn’t he made that perfectly clear once again?—he also wasn’t the kind of man she ever, ever should want.

  Chapter 3

  The Unruly Assassins clubhouse was a three-structure compound surrounded by cyclone fencing squatting in a transitional zone between warehouses and small manufacturing facilities and several blo
cks of beat-up homes. The residential section might be gentrified in another twenty or so years. Perhaps sooner, Eamon thought, reconsidering from his place on a picnic bench in the shadows of the regular Saturday night party.

  As usual, the Assassins and guests gathered in the courtyard space between two buildings. Portable fire pits and a few security lights washing the walls of the buildings dimly lit the space. In one corner stood a couple of grills and a table heaping with food. Across from it sat a collection of coolers filled with water and sodas for the younger crowd. Taps trailed from a few different kegs of beers, but bottles of micro-brews chilling in slushy ice appeared popular, too.

  If the trend for craft beer continued, then hip breweries might move into the industrial section and, within half a decade, the tasting rooms/brewpubs springing up around them could change the future of the neglected properties and the shoddy single-family homes.

  Already a couple of the Unrulies were making beer out back for club consumption, and Eamon could see his father, “Irish” Rooney as he was known, pushing to make that process a commercial enterprise. Maybe that was also why his dad had purchased several of the crappier houses in the surrounding blocks as they came up for sale. Irish was a clever man who liked money and who also liked to survive.

  When interclub feuding had turned lethal and the cops ever more diligent, Eamon’s father had insisted on diversification. It wasn’t easy, even as president, to persuade the members to give up running drugs and guns, especially when there wasn’t an alternative as profitable. But turning barley, water, hops, and yeast into an authentic MC alcoholic beverage was rather brilliant when he thought about it. A livelihood for the club that could provide real stability and income.

  The guys who didn’t have the temperament or the talent for babysitting the ingredients from malting to bottling could do a variety of other tasks, up to and including rehabbing the shitty homes as the whole neighborhood came to new life.

  Of course, then the clubhouse would likely move. The Unruly Assassins were a group of bikers, not a country club, and they were better suited for seedy environs. Fix up the area and the guys would have to find a new place to party hardy on Saturday nights—and any other time that suited them—and hold church when the president decided he had an issue requiring he pound the gavel.