Another gunshot.
Dare gasped awake.
For one heartbeat, his brain remained unaware enough to hope it’d all been a dream. And then reality came crashing back down. Kyle and Mom were dead. And Dare hadn’t done a single thing to save them.
CHAPTER 4
When the horror of the dream faded away and his heart finally stopped hammering, Dare became aware of the silence. No music or voices came from the direction of the rec room, which probably meant the party had finally wrapped up. He woke up his phone to see that it was nearly 2:30 A.M.
At this rate, he might as well just spend the night right where he was.
He settled back into his chair, but the second he closed his eyes, another silence suddenly loomed large. Haven’s humming. Gone.
Dare shifted his boots to the floor and leaned toward the window, but he couldn’t tell if she remained out there. Probably not, given the late hour, but not knowing was going to bug his ass until he found out for sure. On a weary sigh, he hauled himself up and made his way through the mostly dark clubhouse. Brothers had passed out here and there, but Dare was the only one vertical.
Just as he stepped out onto the back porch, thunder rumbled in the distance and golden flashes of lightning lit up the night sky. And in the next light show, he spotted Haven. Curled up in a ball in one of the cushioned lounge chairs.
Should he wake her? Or should he just leave her alone?
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Rain fell, softly at first, then in a steadier downpour that drummed against the aluminum roof. A gust of wind whipped warm, humid air through the porch and the rain started blowing at an angle, wetting the railing and chairs along it.
Well, hell. Dare couldn’t leave her out there in this.
He leaned over the chair, using a hand on her shoulder to shake her. “Hey, Haven.”
Thunder boomed so loud it shook the porch floor under Dare’s boots.
Haven’s eyelids flew open and her eyes went wide with terror. She screamed and scrabbled backward, but the reclined back of the chaise lounge kept her from getting very far away from him. “No, no, no!” she yelled, her arms and legs striking out.
“Shit. Whoa, Haven. It’s okay,” he said, reeling back. “It’s just me. Dare. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her breathing was nearly hoarse it was so labored. Her gaze darted around. “Dare,” she finally managed, looking up at him.
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing to the rain. “Just thought we should get you inside.”
Thunder crashed and lightning lanced the sky.
Haven flinched, her hands white-knuckling it around the arms of the chair. “Yeah,” she said with a quick, jerky nod. “I’m sorry.”
Her propensity to apologize for things that either weren’t her fault or didn’t require apologies made him feel protective of her—even more protective than he normally felt of the women who sought the Ravens’ help. Dare knew from the firsthand experience of having a controlling dickhead of a father that someone had ingrained that knee-jerk reaction into her. “Don’t worry about it.”
The downpour became torrential and the wind whipped water under the cover of the porch roof. Long tendrils of hair blew around her head, and Haven gathered them in her fist as she rose.
She seemed shaky on her feet, and Dare leaned down and put his mouth near her ear so she could hear him over the deluge. “Are you okay?”
A quick nod. “Yes,” she said, though he just barely heard her. A fantastic explosion of thunder kept him from hearing her next words at all. She shrieked in fright and buried her face against his chest.
The contact shocked him, and it wasn’t often that that happened. She’d given some pretty good cues earlier that she didn’t want to be touched, and Dare had been around enough people with bad histories to know to respect their boundaries. Yet Haven touched him, taking shelter against his body.
Another clap of thunder had her pressing harder against him. One hand clutched at the edge of his cut.
Probably made him an asshole, but something about the way her hand fisted around the denim shot heat through him. Not that she’d meant to do it, of course. Not that she was probably even aware.
Shaking away the whole train of thought, Dare debated and then finally put an arm around her shoulders. When she showed no signs of minding the contact, he hugged her in tighter. God, she was a slender little thing in his arms. “Come on,” he said, his lips against her ear. Keeping his arm around her, he guided her into the kitchen.
Inside, he secured the door and hit the kitchen lights.
Her shoulders sagged like she’d just been freed of a great weight. “Thanks,” she said, hugging herself. “It’s stupid, but I’m afraid of thunderstorms.”
Dare looked at her, at the way her eyes skated away on the admission. Another story right there, no doubt. “We’re all scared of something, Haven.”
“Even you?” she asked, that electric-blue gaze filled with what looked like hope.
He gave a tight nod. “Even me.”
HAVEN WAS COLD, wet, and embarrassed for freaking out in front of Dare. Again. Waking to a dark figure looming over her, she’d been sure her father had found her, would drag her back to a life she’d hated, would never let her go.
But her fear had given way to curiosity—about what a man like Dare could possibly fear. She was dying to know . . . but she chickened out of asking, and then he was heading toward the mess hall door.
“You heading up?” he asked, turning to peer at her over his shoulder.
The way he paused there perfectly highlighted the square edge of his jaw and had Haven thinking back to Cora’s assessment earlier in the evening. Dare was hot. And his kindness made him even hotter, though he still intimidated the heck out of her. “Uh, yeah,” she said. “In a minute. I need to get something to drink first.”
With a nod, he disappeared through the door. Haven released a long breath and sagged into one of the chairs at the table. Something occurred to her in the quiet stillness. She’d burrowed against Dare’s chest. She could still smell his scent, all leather and warm skin. And he hadn’t flipped out on her. Or taken advantage of her vulnerability.
How sad was she that his decency made him noteworthy?
From there, her thoughts quickly spiraled. How long would she and Cora be welcome there? How would they get the resources they needed to start a new life, one where her father couldn’t find her? What would that new life even look like? God, she was almost twenty-three years old with no skills, no money, and not even a high school diploma, since her father hadn’t thought it important to officially withdraw her from public school or do anything to create an actual home school experience for her.
Between the storm and her troubling thoughts, Haven knew she had absolutely no chance of falling back to sleep. Her brain was wide awake and going a mile a minute. And there was only one thing that helped when middle-of-the-night anxiety settled in. Baking.
She loved cooking and was good at it, but baking was the thing that made her feel the best. That calmed her. That took her away from all the crap. Growing up without a mother, Haven had become responsible for cooking as soon as she’d been old enough to do it. In her father’s quest to look respectable, they had a big, beautiful kitchen in their big, beautiful house, which he’d stuffed it full of his collections—of guns and knives, of World War II collectibles, of Atlanta Falcons memorabilia, of rare books he never read. She thought of him that way—as a collector. And she was just one more thing he owned. For her, the new plantation-style house, complete with pretentious white columns along the front, had been nothing more than a gilded cage.
Poking around in the pantry, Haven gathered ingredients until she decided what she’d make—cinnamon rolls. Bunny had told Haven to make herself at home in the clubhouse’s kitchen, so she didn’t feel like she’d upset anyone by baking away her troubles. Made from scratch, the rolls took a while because the dough had to rise, but that was one of Haven’s
favorite things about them. Besides how rich and decadent they were.
Slowly and methodically, she prepared a double batch of dough, then buttered and covered the dough balls and left them to rise in mixing bowls. Her father’s intolerance for messes had taught her to clean up right behind herself, so once she’d tidied up, she set about making the filling with all its buttery, brown sugary, cinnamony goodness. Taking a peek at the dough, she found it risen, which meant it was time for the fun part. Haven dusted the counter with a healthy covering of flour and worked the dough out with her hands and a rolling pin until she had a big rectangle in front of her. She brushed melted butter over the dough and sprinkled lots of the cinnamon-sugar mix over it, then she rolled and stretched it until she had one superlong log of dough. She cut the log into slices and repeated the process with the second dough ball, giving her three dozen buns total.
The dough needed one more resting period before baking, which gave her plenty of time to clean up errant flour, wash dishes, and make her killer cream cheese frosting. An hour later, she slid the buns into the double ovens, already in love with this kitchen and planning what she’d make next. Assuming no one minded her using so many supplies.
One day . . . one day she was going to live in a place with an amazing kitchen where she could bake to her heart’s content. She might not know what her future held yet, but she promised herself that much. She could dream, right?
The gray light of dawn was rising as she pulled the rolls out to cool. They smelled incredible and filled the entire kitchen with the warm aroma of cinnamon. After being there for a few weeks, Haven knew there were usually at least some Ravens around for every meal, but most especially on the weekends. Last Sunday hadn’t been too busy because a lot of the club had still been in Baltimore, but now with everyone back, maybe there’d be more.
As she slathered on the icing, Haven decided she really liked the idea of the club sitting down to a Sunday breakfast that included her rolls. It was a small way to give back to them for taking her and Cora in. When she was done with the icing, she left the rolls to cool on the big stove top, plating one to take for herself.
And then, before it got much later and she chanced running into anyone, she slipped out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room, more than a little delighted that the whole clubhouse smelled good. In the solitude of her room, she bit into the warm roll on a sigh, and the creamy icing and buttery cinnamon nearly melted in her mouth. Haven didn’t know how to do many things, but these were perfection.
And in a life where so very little was ever good, let alone perfect, it gave her some solace to be able to make something good—to do good—with her own two hands.
HAVEN WASN’T ENTIRELY sure why Cora ever knocked, since her knock happened at the same instant that she opened the door and walked on in. But it was pure Cora, so it made Haven smile even though it chased away the last vestiges of the nap she’d been trying to take.
“Hey,” Haven said.
“You’re still in bed,” Cora said, stretching out next to her. “Was that because you were up all night baking the world’s best cinnamon buns?”
Haven wrenched into a sitting position. “You didn’t tell anyone it was me, did you?”
Cora rolled her eyes. “Knowing you’d probably ask me that question in that very tone, I refrained from sharing that you are a goddess of all things sweet and ooey-gooey.”
“Good,” Haven said, reclining back onto her elbow. “They were good, weren’t they?”
“Your best yet. Seriously. But why don’t you want anyone to know? The guys were nearly fighting over them. Two guys arm-wrestled for the last one. I’m not even kidding.”
Shrugging, Haven finally said, “I do it because it makes me feel good and I enjoy it. I don’t need anything more from it than that.”
“Well,” Cora said, reaching up and swiping her fingers over Haven’s eyebrow, “you might want to get rid of the flour-y evidence, then.”
“Oh,” Haven said, scrubbing her hands over her face. She’d been so tired after eating her bun that she’d lain down and fallen immediately asleep. At last.
“Besides, Bunny said she’d take us to the mall to get some clothes and so I can get this stupid hair fixed.” Cora fingered at the choppy, blunt ends of her hair. When they ran away, Cora’s hair had been halfway down her back, and one of the first things she did was take a pair of scissors to it. Haven had been shocked at how violently Cora hacked at it at a truck stop along I-95, but Cora laughed off her concern. It signified the new her, she said. So far, Haven had declined the offer to lose her long locks. It was one of the few parts of herself she thought was truly pretty. “Maybe you should get yours done, too?”
Haven fingered her hair, the thought of going out in public taking her belly on a loop-the-loop. There was no way her father could know where she was—heck, she barely knew where she was—but that didn’t keep her from worrying. “Maybe. You really think that’s wise? Going out, I mean?”
Cora twisted her lips, her expression going serious. “I think it’s okay. We’re a long way from Georgia here, and Ike said no one has any way of knowing that we’re with the Ravens anyway.”
“I guess that’s right,” Haven said, wishing she shared Cora’s certainty. But Haven knew her father well enough to know he had to be livid that she’d defied him—and that she’d gotten away with some of his money to boot. No one crossed him. Or, at least, no one remained around to tell the tale if they did. “Okay. Well, I should grab a quick shower if we’re going out.”
An hour later, they were at Frederick’s mall with Bunny McKeon, an older firecracker of a lady who’d gone out of her way the past few weeks to make them feel at home at the Ravens’ compound. The mall was bigger and busier than Haven expected. The compound was so secluded that it made it feel like they were in the middle of nowhere, when in reality they were less than an hour away from the cities of Baltimore and Washington.
Haven hadn’t been out in public like this in years. Her father’s controlling possessiveness of her had started when her body began to visibly mature and worsened when he discovered she’d slept with her first and only boyfriend. Once her father had pulled her from school, he’d slowly but surely walled off her life until she could only leave the house with his permission and in the company of one of his drivers, usually Jack Carter. On the positive side, Jack was never mean to her, but the fact that he followed her everywhere revealed that his true purpose was to make sure she didn’t run.
Not ready to cut her hair, Haven declined an appointment at the salon, but she enjoyed watching her friend’s excitement as the stylist shaped Cora’s blond hair into a cute and sassy shoulder-length cut full of soft waves and long layers.
“So, I have two questions for you,” Bunny said as they waited in the chairs nearest the stylist’s station. As Dare’s great-aunt, Maverick’s mother, and Doc’s sister, Bunny had earned a ton of influence and respect from the club. She was also married to one of the Ravens—an older guy named Rodeo. And she was the person Haven had gotten to know best during their two-week stay with the Ravens.
But that didn’t mean Haven had a clue what Bunny could want to ask her. “Okay,” Haven said, equal parts curious and nervous.
“Were those your cinnamon rolls, and, if so, what do I have to do to get the recipe?” The older lady gave her a knowing smile.
Heat filled Haven’s face as she nodded. “I don’t really work off of written recipes, but I can probably write it down.”
“That would be lovely, hon, because I haven’t stopped thinking about them all day. The guys treated me like royalty thinking I made them and hoping I’d do it again soon, but now that I know it was you, I’ll make sure to give credit where it’s due.” Bunny patted her arm.
“You really don’t have to do that,” Haven said. “I mean, I’m happy to make them again. And, in fact, helping in the kitchen makes me feel like I’m earning my way a little, especially with all this.” Haven gestured at the salon
and the three big shopping bags of clothes that sat at their feet.
Bunny’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you don’t mind if I don’t tell anyone or that you don’t want me to tell anyone?” As usual, she saw right through Haven. Haven just hadn’t decided yet if she really liked that about Bunny or wished the woman wasn’t quite so perceptive.
“I guess I’d prefer no one knew. I just like to do it, not get, I don’t know, praised for it.”
Bunny laughed, and it made her look younger. Haven guessed the lady was probably in her sixties, but between her wavy pale blond hair and the jeans, black T-shirt, and black ankle boots she was wearing, she made sixties look good. “See, that’s where we’re different,” Bunny said with a wink. “I love to get praised.”
Haven couldn’t help but laugh, too. “I’ll remember that.”
Cora joined them at the chairs, her face bright with happiness. “What do you think?”
“Fun and flirty, hon. She did a real nice job,” Bunny said.
Rising, Haven gestured for Cora to spin around. Her new style hung in soft waves to just above her shoulders. “Oh, Cora. It looks so pretty. Do you like it?”
Cora beamed. “I do. Now it’s your turn.” She grabbed Haven’s hand.
“Not today,” Haven said, laughing and trying to resist Cora’s pull toward the hairdresser’s chair.
Finally, Cora stopped pulling her and planted her hands on her hips. “Okay, here’s the deal. You either get your hair cut, or you have to go back and get those outfits you tried on.”
Haven had picked out two cute but conservative summer dresses, two pairs of shorts, a few T-shirts, a pair of sandals, and some underthings. But she’d resisted the clothes that Bunny had picked out—skinny jeans with a sparkly pattern on the back pockets and the clingy black V-neck shirt that actually made her look like she had some boobs. That outfit seemed to scream Look at me! when Haven was used to doing almost anything to blend into the background. More than that, not dressing in a way that attracted attention had become a survival skill in her father’s house, where some number of his goons were always hanging around. So she’d taken to wearing boring clothes that were too big, keeping her face plain, and letting her hair shield her expressions.