Mal’s curled leg slides away from my waist, his hands leaving my bare skin. “I know. It’s not why I yanked you back.”
I’m not sure I believe him. But it doesn’t matter. The moment’s passed and we’re back to whatever brings a hardness to his eyes that almost eclipses the exhaustion I see now we’re not so tangled in each other. “What else do you want to know?”
Mal puts even more distance between us, returning to his lean against the wall. “I want to know what Sol’s hiding. And ifit’s got anything to do with the dent in his boat and the hood rat I chucked back over the wall the other night.”
Any heat lingering in the tight space dies as much as it’s ever going to. “The scrotes are after the bottle crates. So they can break them up and sell them on the beach. They can’t get to them unless they get in when we’re open, but they keep coming.”
“The scrotes on the beach are kids.”
“And?”
“I didn’t boot a kid. It was an adult with designer kecks hanging out of their posh jeans, and the pub was fucking shut.”
“You see their face?”
“No.”
The next logical question is how he can be so sure how old they were, but I don’t bother. Mal’s a special forces operator. If he says it was an adult, I believe him.
“I don’t know who it was, but it makes no sense for them to come over the back if they were trying to get to Sol’s boat.”
“Why would anyone want to get to Sol’s boat?”
“It’s mackerel season.”
“So?”
“So, you know how fucking feudal this town is. And Sol doesn’t get on with the newer boat gangs out there either.”
“Gangs?” Mal cocks a brow. “That a colloquialism or are we talking about actual fucking crime?”
“What do you think?”
“I think in this shithole, it could mean anything. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Then you need to ask Sol yourself.” I’ve said as much I’m going to. “And do it when Jack’s not around. He worries about Sol being out on the boats as it is.”
“Why?”
“It’s a dangerous job.”
Mal’s gaze intensifies, belying the tone he’s kept casual until now. He leans forward again, but this time, it’s not to tug me closer and wreak havoc on my self-control. “If someone hurt Sol, I want to know about it.”
“So you can form a one-man crusade to save him?”
“You think he needs saving?”
“I don’t know. Sol doesn’t tell me much about what happens out there. All I know is that it’s been tough since whoever was controlling the waters pulled out and disappeared.”
“It wasn’t the bikers?”
“No.”
“Then who was it?
“How the fuck would I know?” I speak quietly, but the snap lacing my words feels unnaturally loud. And unnecessary. What I’m saying isn’t unreasonable. So why the fuck is Mal studying me like a surgeon waiting to cut? And why does my gut feel like the blade is already there?
I need to get away from him. Before he peels my skin back for real and exposes the cracks. Before I tell him I’m worried about Sol too, and that whatever’s happening out there on the water…