Whitlock chuckles. “Maybe.”
But the bearded hottie is already distracted, his attention straying beyond me, to the roof, and something tugs my gut, a thread unspooling.
Skylar.
I glance over my shoulder, already sensing he’s gone, but notwhy, and I fucking know it’s more than calling time on the crazy moment we carved out beneath his bedroom window.
It’s him.
I turn back to the biker. He’s already averted his stare from the closed window, his gaze pinned on me instead, friendly and open, but something else lingers there.
Regret, maybe.
But for what?
These are thoughts that should meander. But they pass through my head so fast I feel like I’m somewhere else, and the brisk summer air becomes acrid. Thick with the sulphur of spent gunfire.
I blink, aware of Folk Whitlock absorbing every synapse my brain fires, knowing I possess that skill too. But this place…Porth Luck. I meant it when I told Skylar I feel fifteen again.
“You need work?”
That comes from the bearded one.
Answer the question.
“What kind of work?”
The biker shrugs, all Irish and shit. “HGVs, mechanics, construction. We’ve got some security gigs too, but we’re winding that down.”
“Because you’ve gone legit?”
“Yeah.” He lights a smoke. “You grew up in Porth Luck, right? So you probably remember my dad. But we don’t recruit men like he did anymore. Working for us is boring these days. You might find it more lively around here.”
The biker shoots a pointed stare at the Joker, then tips me a nod as he backs up, rolling his bike to where their third man waits.
It leaves me with Folk. “Cam O’Brian,” he says before I think to ask. “He’s a good bloke.”
“Good for him.”
“Good for all of us. I’d be dead without him.”
“Why’s that then?”
Folk gives me a steady look. “Because it took me a long time to realise I hadn’t handled the impact leaving active combat had on me. I was too busy. Other things were more important and too many years passed before I saw it in myself.”
“Saw what?”
“Empty space.” Whitlock jams his helmet back onto his head, reaching for the handlebars of his bike. “If you don’t fill it with the right things, the wrong things find you.”
“Nice waffle.”
He gives me a final knowing smile. “It’s not waffle. And I’m not far away if you ever need anything.”
There isn’t much left to say. I step back as Folk readies to move off, but change my mind before his bike sputters to life. “Can I ask you something?”
He pauses, signalling to his friends to wait.
“My brother.” I resist the urge to glance behind me. “Does he know you?”