Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) (29 page)

              The world tilted around her, and Candy was taking her down to the floor, laying her out flat on the rug, mounting her. His hands were shaking, clumsy as he worked the button and zipper of her jeans, dragged them down her legs. Yanked her boots off.

              Her pulse was a high, fast pattering in her temples, and she closed her eyes, kicked her head back when his hand went between her legs. He kissed her again, filled her mouth with his tongue, filled her down below with his fingers.

              He was silent. No filthy, flirty, whispered endearments in her ear, no grin, no wink. When he pulled back from the kiss, his face was harsh, lined, a stone mask. He spread her thighs wider and she undid his jeans for him, guided him to her entrance.

              It was one brutal thrust, and she lifted into it, breathless.

              He bore down on her, spread her a little wider, grabbed her right hand and cranked her arm up over her head, pinning it to the rug –

              Her right hand. Her bad hand. Fresh out of the brace today.

              Pain arced through the narrow bones, shot up her wrist, her arm, electrifying and sharp and terrible. A strangled shout caught in her throat and tears flooded her eyes.

              “Oh,” she whimpered. “Oh, oh, shit, ohhhh.” It hurt so badly. It hurt so much she thought she might black out. Had he broken it again? Had…

              She realized he’d stopped moving. Stopped breathing, too, it sounded like. The room was silent around them.

              He released her hand and braced both of his on the floor, pushed up so he was suspended above her. “Shit.” All the fury had bled right out of him, and his face was open, pale with shock, with fear, with horror. “Oh, God. I didn’t…Did I…Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Is it okay?”

              She pulled her hand in, hovering it above her face, trying not to cry. It looked the same as it had before, too-pale, a little mangled, but okay. She wiggled her fingers and they all worked. The pain began to fade, from the stab of an icepick to the dull throbbing of a burn.

              “I didn’t mean to,” Candy said. “Oh, Christ, I swear I didn’t. I forgot. Did I hurt it too bad? Is it broken again? Chelle. Baby doll.”

              She slowly lowered it down to the floor by her head, arm curled at the elbow. “It’s okay, I think,” she said. “It’s okay…” The tears overflowed, scalding hot against her cheeks.

              With a pained, ragged sound, he buried his face in her throat, broad shoulders bowing. “Shit,” he whispered, breath hot on her neck. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

              They were still joined, and she wrapped her legs around his denim-clad hips. Reached to push her good hand into his hair, holding him to her. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”

              “I’m sorry. God, I’m
so
sorry. So sorry.”

              “Shh. I know you didn’t mean it.”

              His hips flexed, and a hard shudder moved through his body, but she could feel his cock softening inside her.

              “I’m sorry, too,” she said.

              His voice came out like a sob. Right in her ear. “I love you. And I want you to stay. And God,
God
, I’m sorry.”

~*~

“What did the doc say about it?” They were in his chair, snuggled together, her legs hooked over his, and he pressed an ice pack oh so gingerly to the back of her hand, holding it steady in his large palm.

              “To do my exercises, and that it should be fine eventually. Barring another break, of course.”

              He pressed his lips together and his high cheekbones went scarlet. He shook his head a fraction. “Damn…”

              “Don’t say you’re sorry again,” she warned. “You’ve used up half your allotment of sorrys in the past half hour.”

              His mouth twitched and his eyes came to hers, absolutely sorrowful, and beautiful, and heartbreaking. A little red from crying.

              She knew hers looked the same.

              “How about I make you a deal?” he asked, quietly.

              “What’s that?”

              “You sit tight and be my right hand girl while we get this cartel shit sorted. And when I know it’s safe here, I’ll take you back to London. And I’ll personally rip the heads off of the assholes who put Tommy in the hospital.”

              Damn it, she was going to cry again, wasn’t she?

              “Do you mean that?”

              “I love you, don’t I?” He said it like a joke, but she saw the lingering doubt and hope in his eyes.

              She leaned forward to kiss him.

Yes
, she said silently, brushing her lips to his, feather-light.
Yes, I know you love me, but…

              A little shiver of doubt skittered down the back of her neck. She didn’t want to call it fear – she couldn’t be afraid of him – and yet…It felt so much like that, the clutching in her stomach and the tightening of her lungs. He hadn’t…she couldn’t allow herself to mislabel what had happened before. She couldn’t. She just…

              His hand cupped the back of her head and he drew back from her, voice warm and tender. “Chelle. We can just go to bed.” His mouth quirked in a little sad pretend smile, eyes full of guilt. His thumb swept forward to brush the vulnerable skin beneath her ear, and she knew what he was trying to do – what he was trying to give her.

              She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be afraid.”

              His woeful, ashamed expression made her want to cry.

              “Just kiss me.”

              He did; he pulled her in close, the gentlest pressure at the back of her head, and fitted their mouths together. Michelle closed her eyes and told her body to relax. If they didn’t get past this right now, right here in this room where things had gone horribly sideways, it would linger, this dark spot on their love. And she only wanted faint, silvery scars when she finally looked back on how they’d begun.

              It struck her, then, how completely absurd that line of thought was. Like love was surgical; something she could cut, and stitch, and operate on, and heal by sheer will. And she smiled against Candy’s lips. And he felt it, and slanted his mouth across hers, deepening the kiss.

              “Did I tell you I was sorry?” he asked against her lips. “That I’m so sorry I can’t even stand it?”

              She pulled back a fraction, so she could see his face. “I wonder if you’ll ever stop saying it.”

              He took her face in both his hands and held her still, so there could be no dodging his gaze. “Michelle.” His voice shook, vibrating with emotion. “I’m not…that’s not who I am. I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t want you to ever think–” He cut himself off with a choked sound.

              She leaned forward and put their foreheads together, a lump forming in her throat. “Maybe we can agree that love makes us do crazy things.”

              “Yeah, I…yeah.”

              And they sat like that for a very long time.

              Until she swore his pulse thumping beneath her hand matched the pace of the thumping in her own chest.

~*~

Emmie

“Hey Em, there’s a taxi out front,” Becca announced as she joined Emmie at the rail.

              It was a bitter day, slate-colored clouds scudding low across the farm, the promise of snow biting at every exposed inch of skin. In the arena, Erin Walton’s nose looked like a cherry tomato peeking out from the scarf wound around her throat, chin, and mouth. Sherman’s breath plumed like smoke in the dusky light. Horse and rider looked frozen and ready for a hot chocolate break.

              “Erin, take five,” Emmie called to her. “Put your gloves back on for a minute and warm up.”

              Teeth no doubt chattering, Erin nodded in response.

              Emmie turned to look up toward the barn, in time to see the taxi pulling away, two hoodie-clad dark-haired men lingering by the front doors. They had bags slung over their shoulders, duffels.

              One of them noticed her, and lifted an arm in greeting.

              Something about their posture struck her as familiar. Safe. Just an instinct from long years spent around horses. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started up the hill. “Keep watch on Erin for a sec?” she asked Becca.

              “Sure.”

              She was about eight feet away from them when their faces took shape, different in lots of ways, both young and cute as buttons, their hair thick, and dark, their eyes…

              The eyes.

              She sucked in a breath and felt a smile tug at her mouth before she reached them. “Can I help you?” she asked, but she already knew at this point.

              The one on the right – a little older, a little squarer in the jaw – spoke first. “You wouldn’t happen to be Emmie, would you?” There it was, that London accent she knew so well.

              Her smile broke loose. “I am, actually. Which two are you?”

              “Tommy,” the first one said.

              “And Miles,” said the other.

              Something like giddiness bubbled in her chest. “Emmie Walsh,” she said, extending her hand to them in turn. “Why don’t you boys walk up to the house and tell your brother you’re here?”

Twenty-Seven

Walsh

“I’ll get you boys some tea,” Bea said, hands fluttering near her face in a show of ecstatic good cheer. She smiled, touched her fingers to her mouth, giggled –
God, Mum
, Walsh thought – and ducked out of the dining room, humming to herself as she whisked into the kitchen.

              “How could someone possibly be so happy to see the bastard children of her bastard ex?” Miles wondered aloud.

              Walsh cleared his throat.

              “Right. So.”

              “Not that I’m not happy to see you,” Walsh said, and lifted his brows.

              Tommy made a face. “Yeah, well. This is my idea. Miles just tagged along.”

              “That makes me sound like your sidekick, mate.”

              “You’re perfect sidekick material,” Shane said.

              “Says the sidekickiest asshole to ever walk the earth,” Miles shot back.

              “Children,” Walsh said, and his three brothers groaned.               “You still say that?” Tommy asked.

              “When I’m around children, yes.”

              They groaned again.

              “Why are you here?” Walsh asked, and gave them his sternest, most vice presidential look.

              They weren’t impressed, the little shits.

              “I’m worried about Chelle,” Tommy said. “She was upset last I talked to her, and I’ve got a bad feeling about the way things are going in Texas.” He said it firmly, with a newfound sense of mannish defiance.

              Walsh was proud – his little brother finally growing up – but he thought the guy was an idiot, too. “So you’re just going to show up in Texas?”

              “That was the plan, yeah.”

              “I’m here for moral support,” Miles offered.

              “You’re here because you had nothing better to do,” Tommy said, scowling at him. He turned back to Walsh. “I’m going to Amarillo. So fucking sue me. I don’t have a mother, and I don’t have a wife, but I’ve got a niece who’s like my sister, and I’m not going to let her get beat to hell by some bloke named Candyman.”

              Walsh couldn’t help it; he had to smile a little. “You’re gonna need bikes then, I guess.”

~*~

Candy

“I’m sorry.”

              Michelle looked like a little water nymph beside him on the bed, body curved at a sinuous angle, half-turned toward him, hair a rippling, shining blonde mass haloing around her head.

              Her eyes flicked up to his. “You keep saying that.” She smiled, tiredly. “Sorry for what this time?”

              “Everything.”

              She moved toward him, rolling onto her side, bringing their faces in close. This was a raw, unguarded moment, he knew. He felt stripped down in every way, completely exposed, and he wasn’t going to be the big man here. Whatever she wanted to know, whatever she wanted, period, she could have. He owed her that. Not just because he’d nearly broken her hand again…but because he loved her. It was a cool blessing to be able to think it, finally. To know how he felt. Yes, he loved her. She was it for him. The end of the line.

              Her eyes glittered, bright as jewels. “You shouldn’t be sorry for everything, darling. Some things have been wonderful. Some things have been better than I ever could have imagined.”

              He palmed the back of her neck and pulled her face in close so he could kiss her. Because he wanted to. Needed to. Because he could. It was a warm, slick, familiar kiss.

              When she pulled back, she traced his lower lip with her thumb. It was something he wished he was doing to her, instead, but he liked having it done to him, too. Michelle wasn’t going to tolerate being just his little missus. She was going to have to have some agency too, in all respects. He could handle that. He’d have to, because letting her go wasn’t an option.

              “I love you,” she said, voice warm, and he knew it was true, felt it down to his bones. Love didn’t mean you wouldn’t leave, or you wouldn’t hurt one another, but it was real, and it couldn’t be faked. “I didn’t set out to,” she admitted. “But I do.”

              He kissed her again and pulled her even closer. Pulled one of her slender legs across his hips, his hand behind her knee. He was the one who pulled back this time, pressing his head back into the pillow. “I was serious about going to London, you know.”

              “You’d better be. There’s lots of ass to kick, Derek. We’d best get an early start in the morning.”

              Ha laughed, and so did she, and he thought, maybe, for the first time since his dad died, for the first time since Crockett got sick, for the first time since he came home from New York, his future had a shape to it.

              It was a good feeling.

~*~

Michelle

“I have officially quit my job,” Jenny said with a triumphant fist-pump. “No more Gabe’s, ever!”

              “Unless this falls through,” Michelle said.

              “Unless this falls through, right.” Jenny took a sip of coffee. “Way to kill my buzz.” But she was still smiling.

              As well she should be, because today was the first day of hiring for Odell’s, and as of that moment, side-by-side at a folding table on the main floor, the boys working around them, Jenny and Michelle were officially co-managers of the place. “You girls are gonna be running it anyway,” Candy had said that morning, smiling with a stupid amount of satisfaction at the idea. “Might as well put it on the books.” Michelle was surprised he hadn’t had name tags made for them; that seemed like a very Candy thing to do.

              “Thought,” Jenny said.

              “Hmm?”

              “I kinda hate the name ‘Odell’s.’ What about you?”

              “It’s bloody awful.”

              “I’m gonna suggest we come up with something new. If we leave it to the guys, well…that could get real stupid real quick.”

              Michelle laughed. “I can imagine. I’ll be thinking. We can compare notes.”

              “Good idea.”

              The front door opened, bright sunlight beaming in, and a large, broad-shouldered male silhouette filled the jambs. Broad shoulders that were not, Michelle could say with authority, as broad as Candy’s. But impressive none the less. Their first appointment.

              “Who is this?” Jenny asked.

              “It’s nine-thirty, so…” Michelle checked her list, though she’d already checked it a half dozen times this morning. She was a list double-, triple-checker. “Nikolas Markov.”

              “That sounds very…”

              “Russian,” Michelle said, and felt the weight and shape of the wolf-engraved blade down the shaft of her boot, wedged up against her ankle.

              “In the middle of Texas,” Jenny mused, and quieted, because the door eased shut and the man reached the top of the stairs.

              “Are you Nikolas?” Jenny called up to him.

              In answer, he came down the steps and closed in on their table, which gave Michelle the time she’d wanted to scrutinize him before she had to put on her hostess face and play nice.

              He was built, appropriately, like a fighter. Big muscled shoulders and arms and pecs filling out his tight t-shirt, the material clinging to a trim waist, hip bones sharp points just above his waistband. Dark hair, a little long, styled back off his forehead and swept neatly behind his ears. Attractive in a sharp, European way that made her feel a little nostalgic for home. He moved quickly, without giving the impression of rushing, long easy strides. And then he was in front of them, and he lifted his head, and his eyes were very, very blue.

              Jenny kicked her under the table and she kicked her back, biting her lip a little. She felt giddy, suddenly, wanting to laugh. The sheer stupid fun of saying
hey, he’s cute
with a girlfriend. She hadn’t done that in, well…ever. It left her happy, grateful for Jenny, this new sister she hadn’t asked for, but had needed badly.

              Right. No time to turn into a girl.

              “It’s Niko, actually,” he said, and Michelle put her game face back on, locked it into place. “My mom calls me Nikolas.” He grinned, a quick flash of square white teeth, and Michelle made a mental note that he must not get hit in the face often, which must mean he was good.

              “Jenny,” Jenny introduced herself.

              “Michelle.”

              “We’re co-managers.” Jenny gave him an expectant look, waiting to see if he had a problem working for two women.

              He nodded. “That’s cool.” He might have had a Russian name, but had not a trace of an accent.

              He folded his hands behind his back and looked between the two of them with clear expectation. “Um…what do you want to know about me?”

              “Did you bring a resume?” Michelle asked.

              He glanced away from her, lips compressing in a quick show of regret. Then glanced back. “No ma’am, I’m sorry. I didn’t have a way to get one printed.”

              Oh. Well that was…sad.

              “How about you tell us about your experience, then,” Jenny said, “and we can talk about the sort of trainer we’re looking to hire.”

              He nodded, still looking regretful. “Yeah. Okay.”

              In sparse, modest language, he told them about his high school wrestling, his coach’s recommendation he move into boxing, and the subsequent years in which he’d trained, and traveled, and competed, and, in his own words, blushing, “knocked the dog shit – pardon me, ladies – out of everyone” they put him up against. He painted an unintended picture, too, one that bloomed in Michelle’s mind and made her think sadly, fondly, of the boys back home, born to hard times and light pockets, who’d had to make the best of bad situations. Niko came across as deferential, thoughtful, polite, and spoke about his mother and younger brother in a way that told Michelle he was an unlucky man, with lucky fists, and that he most likely needed this job. Desperately.

              Even so, they had seven more guys to interview, and no way of knowing if any of his hastily-admitted accomplishments were true.

              She glanced over and saw Gringo, Cowboy, and Fox leaning against the bar. “You slugs,” she accused. “Come over here, if you please, you three. If you’ve got time to sit on your hands then you have time to help with something.”

              “Bossy little shit,” Fox said, but came toward her with an exaggerated sigh.

              The other two followed, Gringo saying, “It’s really terrible that you’re the boss’s old lady, you know that? Terrible.”

              Cowboy said, “Personally, I love to be helpful,” and his best friend shoved him.

              “Children,” Michelle said.

              Fox pointed at her, eyes going wide. “Careful, pet, or you’ll turn into King, and that’s a decidedly unattractive thing for a girl such as yourself.”

              Poor Niko, Michelle thought, glancing toward him, but he was watching the verbal spar with calm amusement.

              “Gentlemen,” Michelle amended. “This is Niko. He’s applying for the trainer position.”

              Fox gave him a quick nod.

              Cowboy and Gringo threw him a “hey, man.”

              “We want to see him in action,” Michelle said, indicating Jenny with her pen. “So how would one of you lucky three like to take him on?”

              Gringo snorted. “You’re not serious.”

              “Dead serious,” Jenny said, warming to the game. “I’m sure Niko’s incredibly talented” – he blushed and looked down at his sneakers – “but it never hurts to really get a feel, right? So one of you losers roll your sleeves up. Show us what you got.”

              Fox perched on the edge of their table. “I fight with bullets. You both know this. I’ve got nothing to prove, so I manfully decline.”

              “I hate it when you’re right,” Jenny sighed. “But in this case, you are.”

              “Want to flip a coin?” Michelle asked the other two, throwing in a sweet smile for effect.

              “See if I buy you a wedding present,” Gringo said, but did in fact push his sleeves up. “Since I’m clearly the fittest one here, I guess I’ll have to do it.” He sized Niko up with a look, stepped into the center of the floor, and threw himself into a comically theatrical fight stance. “Alright, you and your blue eyes come at me.”

              “I dunno,” Niko said. “I don’t really feel right about–”

              “Getting your ass whooped in front of chicks?” Gringo asked.