“You ever get a word in edgewise when Mason’s on a roll?” the other man suddenly asked, his deep voice hoarse from lack of use, and Sam snorted at the pithy response.
“Touché,” he said, chuckling.
“It was easier just to be quiet with Mason around. He spoke enough for both of us. Besides, you hear more, see more when you’re not always mouthing off about insignificant shit.”
“Hear and see what?” Sam asked, and Spencer reached for the remote and paused the movie. Then he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and watched Sam for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“You and Lia. You disappeared from the stag party and the wedding together,” Spencer shocked him by saying.
“Didn’t know you were so interested in my movements, big guy,” he joked weakly, and Spencer lifted a heavy brow in response to that.
“Couldn’t give a fuck about your movements, bro. But Lia’s going to be my sister. She’s already family, and I take care of my own.”
Sam cleared his throat.
“She can take care of herself,” he said quietly.
“Hmm.” The sound was nothing more than a deep rumble, and Sam had no idea what it was supposed to mean.
Spencer leaned back, still not taking his eyes off Sam’s face, and took a long drink from his beer. Sam, who had been trained in both interrogation techniques and resistance, had never felt more uncomfortable in his life before. This guy was good. He was wasted peddling sporting goods in this tiny town. A shame he lacked that military edge—with it he would definitely have made an excellent addition to Sam’s team.
“You’re not ambidextrous,” Spencer observed, waving his bottle at Sam’s injured arm, and Sam was thrown by the abrupt change in topic. Seriously, Spencer Carlisle was good at this.
“I’m not,” Sam agreed, waiting to see where the man was going with this.
“But you’re not as helpless as you want to seem. You’re comfortable enough with the use of your left arm, even if it’s not your dominant arm, to manage small tasks. So why do you need Lia’s help?” Sam cleared his throat, and this time he took a long, thirsty drink from his beer. It was such a transparent delaying technique he was embarrassed by it. He preferred Spencer when he was silently observing and not delivering an opinion. That guy was manageable; this one was . . . Well, he was a fucking big brother. An overprotective, intimidating big brother.
“That’s between Lia and me,” Sam finally responded, and Spencer narrowed his eyes, not happy with the answer—that much was clear.
“I don’t like to waste words,” Spencer said heavily, and Sam snorted at that obvious statement. “So consider everything said.”
“What do you mean?”
“The warnings and the threats. Consider them said.”
Ah.
Well, that was much more effective than any of the words Spencer might have used, because with Sam’s much too extensive knowledge of torture techniques—anything his own mind came up with to fill in the gap was probably a lot worse than whatever Spencer could devise. Although Sam had seen the lengths even the mildest of men would go to in order to protect their family.
Right then.
“Noted.”
“Hmm.” The sound was filled with satisfaction, and Spencer reached for the remote and unpaused the movie. He went back to his previous relaxed demeanor as if the exchange hadn’t happened, and Sam watched him for a moment before sighing and refocusing on John Wick’s implausible ass-kickery.
The rest of the evening passed amicably; they didn’t speak much, and after his previous unsettling conversation with Spencer Carlisle, Sam was okay with that. Instead they exchanged manly grunts and growls, and that was that. It was all quite satisfying, actually.
They watched another movie after John Wick, and Spencer got up to leave before the credits started rolling.
“Do you think the coast is clear?” Sam asked when he saw Spencer check his watch.
“No idea. How long does this kind of shit last generally?”
“How the fuck would I know, mate? I don’t exactly go for regular mani-pedis and bikini waxes.” Spencer paled comically at that, and Sam fought back a grin. The badass he’d encountered earlier was nowhere to be found.
“You don’t think they’re waxing their . . . down theres, do you? They’re kids.”
Sam laughed at that—the guy looked positively squeamish at the thought. He took pity on Spencer and shook his head. “From what I gathered, it would be facials and makeup and pretend cocktails. Unfathomable girlie shit.”
“Great. I should be getting back.”
“Thanks for the company,” Sam said sincerely, and Spencer waved his thanks aside.
“I’ll pop around tomorrow to see if there’s anything you need . . .”
“Actually, Spencer, there is something,” Sam said on a wince as he ran his hands over his unruly stubble. The other man stopped, stared at him, and then grinned as understanding dawned.
“Guess we’ll be doing our own manly makeover,” he said unexpectedly, and Sam was startled for a moment before he started chuckling.