Page 45 of Obsession
“Of course they will. They’d be stupid not to. I don’t think he’s feeding them, but that doesn’t mean they won’t keep pulling on whatever family guilt they left in him.” Bricks leans one shoulder against the wall, voice rougher now. “He’s too damn transparent for spy work, and he looks at you like lying costs him skin. That doesn’t make him safe from them.”
“I know.”
“Then act like you know without acting like anyone who says his name wrong needs a closed-casket funeral.”
I glare at him. Bricks claps a hand on my shoulder. “See? Leadership advice. Free of charge.”
“Your advice is worth exactly what I pay for it.”
“Then you’re overpaying.”
I just shake my head as I step into the main room, the chaos of the clubhouse hitting me all at once. However, there’s only one face I’m looking for. Oisín is sitting at the bar near Tally, a half-finished plate in front of him and a beer held with both hands. Demo is on his other side, talking with the breathless commitment of a man explaining something far more urgent than it probably is. Two younger patched members linger nearby, one from Ash’s garage crew and one from Pike’s gate rotation, both careful with their distance and tone. Tally’s presence keeps the whole thing from becoming stupid, but Oisín isn’t folded inward the way he was when he first arrived. He listens. He answers. When the garage kid says something I can’t hear, Oisín’s mouth softens into a real smile before he hides it behind the rim of his mug.
He’s uncomfortable, but not lost.
I see the tension in his shoulders, the small hesitation before he speaks, the way his thumb rubs along the glass. I also see the room making space for him without being ordered to. My father sees a product. Canon sees an asset he failed to value. The club sees a question.
Oisín glances up and his eyes find mine, everything in his face changing by a fraction. As I pass, I drag my hand across the back of his neck, slow enough for everyone at the bar to see. His eyes lower, color brightening his cheeks.
Tally watches me with one eyebrow raised. Demo stops mid-sentence, then starts again in a quieter voice. “So anyway, the point is Halo says the nickname is historically inaccurate, which I think makes it funnier, but Pike says I’m too fragile for another headlock, so I’m not allowed to tell him that anymore.”
Oisín answers him, but I don’t catch the words.
I keep moving toward my office, Bricks still following me. He waits until we’re out of earshot of the bar before speaking. “You watch him like he’s the product.”
I push into my office. “Shut up.”
He steps in behind me and closes the door with his boot. “No.”
“That wasn’t a request, Bricks.”
“You’ve been giving a lot of orders today. Figured one of us should keep count.”
I cross to the desk and set Moth’s printed report on top of the files already waiting there. The buyer complaint stares up from the first page, all clean formatting and rotten implication. I need to call Harlan. I need to review broker history, pull camera access from the Friday pickup, verify whether the counterfeit angle has legs, and decide how much pain the new buyer needs to feel for putting the word quality anywhere near a complaint about my product.
“He’s more than an asset to you,” Brick says, breaking the beginning of the silence.
I don’t bother looking up. “He’s useful. Tally likes him. He pisses off the Rogues. I call that a win.”
“That’s a list, not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“Bullshit.” Bricks moves closer to the desk, the humor gone from his voice now. “We can all see it. I’m not even saying that like it’s a bad thing, Saint. He’s good for you.”
I laugh once, short and empty. “You sound like Demo.”
“Demo would say it with more stuttering and worse timing.”
“Then don’t make me compare you.”
Bricks plants both hands on the back of the chair opposite my desk and leans his weight into it. “You slept last night.” My eyes cut to him. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
“You monitoring my sleep now?”
“I monitor things that make you less likely to break someone’s jaw before breakfast. Helps with clubhouse morale.”
I lean back against the desk, arms crossed. “What do you want?”
