Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (42 page)

              “Dad.”

              Ghost gave him a look that was laid-bare, stripped of all presidential or paternal authority. “You made the right call.” He grinned. “Coulda gotten us all killed, but it was what you had to do. What we all had to do. You don’t leave a brother behind.” He nodded, growing serious again. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

~*~

A strip of light shone beneath the door of the bathroom and Aidan heard the rush of water running. Across the hall, Sam was just stepping out of Ava’s old room where they’d put Tango.

              “He’s asleep,” she whispered. “And, um, so is Whitney.”

              “She’s in the bed with him?”

              “Yeah.”

              “Shit. What has she got, Stockholm Syndrome?”

              “It’s only Stockholm Syndrome if you attach to your captor. Not your fellow captive.”

              “Oh.”

              “I feel bad, though,” Sam went on. “I want to call someone for her, but I don’t want to wake her up. Someone has to be worried about her.”

              “One more night won’t make a difference,” Aidan said, and she nodded.

              “Yeah. Guess not.” She scrubbed at her forehead with one hand and that was when he realized just how alert she’d been pretending to be.

              “Baby, you need to get some sleep.”

              She gave him an exhausted smile. “Yeah. Are we on the floor?”

              “Fold-out couch, actually.”

              “Ah. Fancy.”

              Why was this awkward? It was, though.

              “I already unfolded it and there’s sheets and blankets,” he said. “I’m gonna check on Kev and I’ll be out there in a minute.”

              “Okay.” She shuffled down the hall, yawning, leaving him alone with the doorknob…and a suddenly-clammy hand. It wasn’t as if there were any surprises waiting for him on the other side of the door. And yet, something cold settled in his stomach, made him hesitant as he slowly opened the door and eased inside.

~*~

No fold-out sofa bed had ever looked so lovely. Aidan had indeed dressed it with sheets and blanket, though sloppily. Sam gave them a few quick tugs in an attempt to straighten them, gave up, and slid under the covers. She pulled in a deep breath, let it out on a sigh…and realized she was shaking all over.

              She sat up. Lifted her hands to her face and saw the violent trembling in her fingers. It radiated up her arms, tightened her chest and rattled her insides.

              “God,” she whispered.

              “It’s the nerves.”

              She jumped. Ghost stood at the foot of the makeshift bed, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. She hadn’t seen or heard him come into the room; how like his club name of him.

              “I’m sorry?”

              “Your nerves,” he repeated. “It doesn’t matter that it’s over, now. They’re all shot to hell and they’re gonna make you shake for a little while.”

              She nodded. “Well that’s…fun.”

              “Here.” He held the glass toward her. “In my experience, time and a little of this is all that helps.”

              She took the glass, nose wrinkling as she caught a whiff of its contents. “What is this?”

              “Bourbon.”

              She took a sip and managed not to choke, but he grinned when he saw her face.

              “It gets easier the farther you go.”

              “I’m sure.” She added, “Thanks.”

              Ghost gave her a nod and turned for the hallway. He paused, though, and glanced back at her. “Hey, Sam.”

              “Yes?” The glass clicked against her teeth as the shaking intensified.

              “In case shit gets crazy, and I forget to say it. Welcome to the family.”

~*~

Tango looked like a corpse laid out in Ava’s old bed. Aidan resisted the urge to lean over him and check that he was breathing, but it was a strong impulse.

              The guy’s bedmate didn’t look much better. Whitney lay on her side, not touching Tango, but very close, her face pale and her brow creased with a worry that had chased her into sleep. Aidan felt like he ought to wake her, ask her where her parents were and drive her home. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

              Plus…

              He spotted a face in the window.

              “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, recognizing the narrow features the moment panic struck.

              They’d left the lights on in the room – previous experience had taught them Tango wouldn’t want to wake up in the dark after his ordeal – and Ian Byron’s expression was a study in elegant concern on the other side of the glass.

              Aidan crossed the room, yanked open the window, and whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with you, you goddamn creep-ass?”

              Ian was still dressed up in his black catsuit, secret agent costume, whatever the fuck it was. He didn’t react to Aidan’s question, but glanced around him, into the room. “How is he?”

              “Asleep.”

              “Obviously. But
how is he
?”

              Aidan sighed. “My best guess is pretty awful. But we’ll know more in the morning.”

              Ian exhaled loudly and slumped sideways against the window frame.

              “He’s where he belongs, Ian.”

              The other man’s pale eyes lifted, luminous with anger. “You think I don’t know that. I…” As quick as it had come, his temper faded. “My God,” he murmured to the open air.

              “Yeah,” Aidan said. “I know the feeling.”

              It was the coldest part of the night, the hour when the frost lay thickest and the air seemed to become a solid crystalline sheet. A car started, somewhere down the street: someone headed in for an early shift, or trying to beat the sunrise after a late night.

              “What will you do with the girl?” Ian asked.

              “Find out where she belongs.”

              The Englishman nodded. “I tried to call in my favor with your father, you know. The one he owes me.” His tone was eerily conversational. “I told him to release Kevin from the club.”

              “Huh,” Aidan said, a cold knot forming in his belly.

              Ian’s eyes flicked over. “I won’t insist on it. No. But I want your word that if he wants to leave, you’ll let him.”

              “He won’t want to leave.”

              “He might.”

              Aidan gritted his teeth. It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea, Kev wanting out of the club. In his heart, he wasn’t much of an outlaw. He wasn’t the sort of guy who lived for the thrill of it. But he loved them all, Aidan was sure. Needed their fraternal support.

              “You have my word,” he ground out. “There, you happy?”

              “No.” Ian shoved away from the wall. “That’s the thing, darling. I’ll never be happy.” And he melted away into the darkness.

              Aidan closed the window and slipped out of the room without making a sound. Sam was waiting for him, sitting up in their makeshift bed, sipping a glass of something that didn’t look her speed.

              “Your dad said bourbon would help with the nervous shakes.” She extended a steady hand for him to inspect. “He wasn’t wrong.”

              Aidan plucked the glass from her grasp, drained it in a fast gulp, and climbed in beside her. “You gonna turn into a hardcore liquor drinker now?” he teased, but his voice fell flat.

              “I might.” Her voice was flat too.

              They stared at one another a moment; he searched her face and felt her doing the same to him.

              Then he put both arms around her and pulled her into his chest. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

              “Yeah.”

Thirty-Eight

It was delicate business, coming into the house at three-thirty in the morning. He had to be quiet enough not to wake the baby, but loud enough not to scare the living hell out of Holly. After he’d locked the door behind him, Michael went straight to the washing machine, stripped off everything he was wearing and started a load with an extra capful of detergent. He couldn’t stand the idea of staying in blood-flecked clothes a second longer.

              The lights were off in the bedroom, but he saw that Holly was awake, her silhouette a darker shadow backlit by the soft ambient light from the window.

              “You’re home,” she said, voice full of relief.

              “Yeah. I gotta take a shower, baby.”

              Of the many improvements Holly had made to his bachelor pad, the bathroom was probably his favorite. It was the same old utilitarian plumbing and fixtures, but she’d painted the walls a warm suede color and bought a whole set of new cream towels that matched the also-new shower curtain. Scented candles, a potted plant, luxurious soaps that, for reasons unknown to him, had
coffee beans
in them.

              “It’s like some kinda spa,” he’d told her, nose wrinkled.

              “I know,” she’d said, smiling. “Isn’t it nice?”

              Truth be told, it was nice, and as he stepped under the hot water and reached for some of her ridiculous coffee bean soap, it felt like Holly was there alongside him, her warmth and light wrapping around him, more soothing than the water and steam. His hands were steady as he washed, his nervous reaction to the night firmly in check.

              The lights were on when he left the bathroom, naked save the towel around his hips. Holly was waiting for him, her expression evidencing relief as her big green eyes tracked across him and found him uninjured and whole.

              Her gaze came to his face. “Is everyone else okay?”

              “Yeah. Tango’s back. Everybody’s good.”

              Her lips twitched, like maybe she wanted to ask for a better summary than that. But then she opened her arms. “Come here.”

              He frowned.

              “You look like you need a hug. Come here, Michael.”

              “Hol, that’s real sappy.” But his feet propelled him forward and when he sat down on the edge of the bed, Holly snuggled up to his side and put her arms around his neck.

              He closed his eyes and breathed deep: the soft scents of her shampoo and the soap they shared, the sweet cherry of her chapstick. He felt the brush of her hair, the press of her breasts, the beat of her heart, and his nerve endings tingled pleasantly.

              “I’m very glad you’re okay,” she whispered against his throat.”

              He looped an arm around her waist. “Me too, baby.”

~*~

All done. At clubhouse if you need me
. Walsh’s text came in around three, and Emmie chewed on the words, reflecting that they were the words he always used.
If you need me
. Was there a subtext she didn’t get? Only call him if she really needed him? Was it the equivalent of a Do Not Disturb Sign? Only bug me if it’s an emergency?

              What about if she just wanted to see her husband?

              At five, she gave up on sleeping, rolled out of bed, and fired off texts to Fred and Becca, asking them to cover the morning feeding. She dressed, left a note for Bea downstairs by the coffeepot, and headed for Dartmoor.

              A sleepy hangaround stood sentry outside the gates and waved her through when he recognized her. A sense of tired peace enfolded her when she climbed out of her truck. Yes, it was dark and shadows lurked between the pools of light thrown by the overhead lampposts. And yes, it was cold, and she shivered. The air stank of the river and frost rimmed the roofs of the club cars and trucks. But there was no charge, so sense of danger or doom. Perhaps it was her own exhaustion; perhaps it was Dartmoor taking a deep breath after completing its mission of the night.

              The clubhouse was open and warmly lit by lamps. Candyman lay snoring on one of the sofas. Behind the bar, Colin was pouring a liberal amount of whiskey into a steaming mug of coffee. And her Walsh sat at one of the round tables, fingers gliding over the keys of his laptop.

              Colin gave her a nod as she crossed the room and she nodded back.

              Walsh glanced up when she pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “You’re up early, love.” He sounded only a little surprised to see her. “Or late.”

              “Both.” She reached to scuff her knuckles along his stubbly jaw. “I’m guessing I look better than you, though.”

              “Obviously.”

              She withdrew her hand and folded it together with the other in her lap.

              He noticed, and did a double take. “Something wrong?”

              “No, I…” She smiled, out of reflex, a little embarrassed now that she’d come all the way down here at five in the morning. “I was worried about you,” she said. “I guess I just wanted to see you with my own eyes and know you were okay.”

              He pulled his hands away from the computer and stared at her. “I just…” A shifting behind his blue eyes, curiosity, wonder maybe? “I didn’t want to bother you.”

              “Bother me?” she echoed, frowning.

              “Well,” Colin announced loudly. “I’m going to bed. Wouldn’t want to accidently overhear anyone’s relationship bullshit.”

              Walsh snorted.

              “Night,” Emmie said dryly.

              “Morning,” he returned, and was gone down the hallway.

              Walsh was still staring. “Yeah. Bother you.”

              “King, why would calling me to let me know you’re alive be a bother? If our roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want me to call you?”

              His expression didn’t change, but his Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

              She sighed. “I’ve gotten clingy, haven’t I?” She hadn’t been at first, right after their disastrous sham of a wedding. But as she grew more comfortable, as she came to love him more, she was acting more and more wifely, and she didn’t suppose, what with his apparent aversion to children, that Kingston Walsh wanted a wife in the true sense of the word.

              “I’ll go home,” she said, starting to rise. “I know you’re busy.”

              He grabbed her knee and squeezed, holding her in place. The blankness fell away from his face and he looked distinctly worried this time.

              Emmie had to smile as she covered his hand with her own. “I’m not pitching some kind of girl fit, I promise. Horse chick, remember?
I’m
the one bothering
you
, so I’m gonna go home and help with feeding. You have important bad guys to take down.”

              “Em,” he said, tone serious. “I didn’t…ah, shit. Look, I’m forty. And this is my first time being married.”

              She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. “I know that.”

              “So I’m not any good at being married,” he said, tone apologetic. “I don’t – I dunno. Sometimes I don’t act like a husband. It’s not that I mean it–”

              She cut him off with a smile. “It’s alright. You do a pretty good job.”

              Baldly, without malice or agenda, he said, “I haven’t ever thought about kids. I don’t hate them, but I didn’t figure I’d have them. And the things that have been going on with the club, bringing babies into that scares me shitless.”

              Emmie nodded, a heavy stroke of tenderness and understanding passing across her heart. “I know, baby. It scares me too. Probably not as bad as you. But still.”

              “I’m not a tyrant, lovey,” he said, quietly. “If you really want them, I’ll make it happen.”

              “Gonna knock me up with one wave of your magic wand?” she asked with a quick laugh. She sobered, though. Sighed, overwhelmed with love for him, touched with reality and sadness. “It’s okay,” she assured him. “Who knows if I’d even be a decent mom anyway.”

              “Emmaline.”

              “I
hate
when you call me that. Kingston.”

              “I hate when you talk bad about yourself,” he countered. “Put all those stupid ideas out of your head. It’s just one question, pet. Do you want them, yes or no?”

              She stared at his face, his strange pale eyes and the deep lines the sun and wind had pressed around them. She didn’t really have to ask herself; it was all just anxiety talking. “Yes. I want them.”

              “Then we’ll have them.”

~*~

He was back at The Nest. The slinky black and white interior, the low lights filtered with blue, and red, and pink. He could smell the cigar smoke and hear the deep rumbles of male laughter. He was at the edge of the stage. A hand curled around his ankle.

              He screamed.

              His eyes opened.

              Daylight. Ceiling. Food smells. Flat on his back.

              Not The Nest.

              But he was in fact screaming. He closed his mouth and when his teeth clenched together, pain shot through his skull, bright flashes of agony.

              “Oh God,” a female voice said, and suddenly there was a face hovering above him.

              He recognized that face. Through the increasing fog of pain that closed over him more tightly by the second, he registered the big blue eyes, the dark hair, the petite features.

              “Whitney?” His voice was an awful croak.

              An uncertain smile brightened her expression. “Yeah. Hi. Are you okay? What can I get you?”

              He licked his lips – they were dry, split; he tasted blood. “Where are we?”

              Quick breath of sound: a door opening. Not the angry clang of the cell door sliding back, but a regular house door, gliding over carpet. And then: “I heard him scream. Kev, you alright, baby?”

              “Mags,” he said, and the panic began to ebb.

              She joined Whitney, looking down at him, pretty face lined with maternal concern. “You’re at my house,” she said, as if anticipating what he needed to know. “You’re safe.”

              He closed his eyes. “Jesus.”

              “And,” her voice became wry, “it’s Thanksgiving. How about something to eat?”

~*~

Despite the total chaos of the night before, the girls managed to throw together a Thanksgiving dinner that made the dining room table groan. Tango stayed in the bedroom, and when Maggie returned from taking him a plate, she shook her head, expression troubled.

              Walsh had found out that Whitney – Whitney Howard, she told them – was the sister of someone named Jason Howard…who’d been found dead two nights before in an alley downtown. She buried her face in her hands when Ghost broke the news. Carter offered to drive her to her sister-in-law’s house.

              Sam left early, Aidan going with her, so she could get back to her mother and sister.

              Mercy sat at the cleared table across from his father-in-law, both of them nursing drinks. “Just you and me, old man,” he remarked, trying not to grin.

              Ghost’s brows lifted. “That’s where we’re at?”

              “Yep. Respectfully. Obviously.”

              “Obviously.”

              Ava came into the room, preceded by the heady scent of the food they’d just consumed. Mercy hadn’t thought he could eat another bite, but the smell of cornbread dressing still made his mouth water.

              “We packed up some of everything,” she said, setting a stack of sealed foil pans on the table at his elbow. “You wanna run it to the clubhouse for the Texas boys?”

              “You’re trying to feed my brother again, aren’t you?”

              She gave him a blinding, sweet smile. “You can take my truck.” She set the keys on the topmost pan. As she left the room: “Thank you, baby.”

              Ghost snorted in obvious amusement.

              Mercy looked at him.

              “I’m enjoying the fact that it’s not just me anymore. Old man.”

              Traffic was light, the typical stuff of holidays. Mercy made good time getting to Dartmoor and the four Texas bikes lined up out front were a truly sad sight. Mags had wanted to do a big party for everyone, but after last night, everyone had begged off, wanting to be with their families, keep things calm and quiet.

              Inside, the Allman Brothers were playing softly on the sound system and Candy and Jinx were shooting pool, drinks sitting on the edge of the table.