Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (19 page)

              Sam went in to make her bed.

~*~

He was about five minutes late as he walked up to the open roll top doors at the shop. Aidan braced himself, and stepped into the first bay.

              Mercy and Tango immediately glanced his way. Carter kept his back turned because, for reasons Aidan didn’t understand that somehow involved Jasmine, the kid still wasn’t talking to him, if he could help it.

              Tango propped a hand against a tool chest and gave him a small, knowing smile.

              Mercy folded his arms across his chest and grinned like the lunatic he was. “You’re late.”

              “I’m late lots of times.”

              “Tango,” Mercy called, “did our boy here come home last night?”

              “Nope.” Tango’s smile got a little wider. “Definitely not.”

              “Did you stop in at Ghost and Mags’?” Mercy pressed, the obnoxious asshole. “Should I ask them?”

              “Dude, how old are you?” Aidan said, and headed to clock in.

              Behind him, Mercy laughed. “I take it big sis was grateful.”

              “Very grateful.” And he was leaving it at that.

              The laughter died away as Mercy grew more serious. “Hey, Aidan?”

              He didn’t respond; he was going to be told whatever it was anyway.

              “You know you can’t treat Sam like you do all the rest,” his brother-in-law said with that patented Cajun-wisdom tone that always accompanied his “sage” advice.

              The thing about Mercy’s advice, though – when he wasn’t driving nails under people’s fingernails or being a total goof, he could be a truly wise man. The greatest contradiction of personality the MC had likely ever seen.

              Aidan turned so the guy could see the seriousness of his expression. “I know that. Believe me.”

              Both his brothers looked at him with something like pride.

              But then Merc had to ruin it. “Our little man, all grown up and courtin’ schoolteachers.”

              “Fuck you both.”

Fourteen

Smokey’s Family Diner was a confused restaurant. A freestanding building that had previously been a Shoney’s, it was a diner, yes, but also a buffet. Someone had repainted the interior in smoke gray and Tennessee orange, and the walls were plastered with UT memorabilia. The bakery cases up in the front were full of pom-poms, footballs and old photos. The food was mediocre and despite the paint and décor, the place just had an outdated feeling; when you were inside, you sensed the restaurant’s impending failure. It wasn’t a favorite among the Dogs, and that’s why Greg had picked it, knowing there was little chance they’d be seen.

              Aidan walked in at twelve-ten, purposefully late, and spotted Greg in one of the orange-and-white-striped booths near the back, away from the buffet and the windows.

              “I’m meeting someone,” he told the hostess. And judging by that someone’s total composure, the tables had turned since their last official restaurant meeting. Gone was the pale, sweating, shaking Greg from Stella’s, way back during his wannabe Carpathian days. The man waiting for him now wore clothes that fit – shirt, jeans and leather jacket – and his color was normal, his expression stony and hard to read.

              With a sensation like a stone landing in his gut, Aidan realized he’d deeply miscalculated three years ago, when he’d assumed someone like Greg could never serve as a threat. Dimly, he wondered how many times in his life he’d made that mistake, and how badly it was going to haunt him in the future.

              He slid into the booth and Greg greeted him with a nod. It was some consolation to see the bruise on Greg’s face, the blossoming shadows where Aidan had ground his face into the dirt.

              “You’ve got a little something,” Aidan said with a smirk, touching his own face.

              Greg’s smile was humorless. “You’re not gonna charm and joke your way outta this one, Aidan.”

              Aidan sighed and slumped back in the booth. His shoulder was sore from wrestling Greg last night, and from what had come later with Sam. He’d skipped breakfast and the smell of whatever greasy shit they had at the buffet was making his stomach growl. “Okay, I don’t have the patience for your bullshit. What do you mean by ‘this one’?”

              Greg had a plate of French fries in front of him and glanced down at it, dragging one through a puddle of ketchup. “This war.” His gaze flicked up, the way his chin was tilted giving him an uncharacteristically sinister look. “This isn’t like the last war. My new boss is nothing like my old boss.”

              Aidan rolled his eyes – and his gut clenched. He affected bored when he said, “Wasn’t what happened with your last boss enough to convince you to get a nine-to-five and lay off trying to be a gangster?”

              “That would make you the pot, and me the kettle.”

              “Yeah, no. That would make me the guy set to inherit his old man’s club, and you just some idiot loser who makes bad friends.”

              “Bad friends like you?” Greg wasn’t letting any of this get under his skin. He had control now. Poise.

              “That wasn’t personal, just business.”

              “So is this.” Greg reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of computer paper that he slid across the table.

              Aidan didn’t want to touch the thing, but he schooled his features and unfolded it, tilted it toward the light.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Teague,

I know we’ve never met, but I’m a good friend of your son’s, from back in school. I’m real sorry about what he’s going through, and I want to let you know I’m here if you need me.

              “What the fuck is this?” Aidan crumpled it into a ball and tossed it onto the table.

              “I wrote it,” Greg said, calmly. “And put a copy in the mailbox at Dartmoor. At this point, at least your stepmother’s seen it. Probably even your dad, ‘cause I know y’all’s old ladies tell you everything.”

              Though there was nothing in his stomach, he thought he might puke. He cleared his throat. “So you’re blackmailing me. What the hell for? I don’t have shit you want.”

              “Not blackmail,” Greg corrected. “Insurance. You can’t lead Ghost to me because I’m supposed to be dead. How could you tell dear old Dad that you didn’t follow orders?”

              A chill slithered down the back of Aidan’s neck, like one of his more sinister tattoos had come to life.

              “And if Ghost did find out – like if, say, I told him about it.” Greg smiled. “What would happen to the traitor who didn’t do what his president told him to do?”

             
Traitor
. The ugliest, most feared word in all of MC culture. The things that happened to traitors were unspeakable. In the Lean Dogs MC, traitors were dealt with by guys like Mercy, Michael, Candyman, and the English specter, Fox. Aidan recalled the black tackle box that Mercy called his “toolkit” and his gorge rose, palms filming over with sweat.

              His voice was even, though, when he spoke. “You don’t know shit about my dad or my club.” He pushed up from the table and stood beside it a moment, looking down at Greg. “You should have stayed away, Greg. You really should. This time, there won’t be anything pretend about you getting killed.”

              He left the restaurant and didn’t glance back once, striding quickly until he’d reached his bike in the parking lot. His hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to buckle his helmet.

             
Traitor
.

~*~

Tango tried not to laugh, but he was too surprised not to. The carefully-styled man on the bench tipped his head back, blue-green eyes narrowed under the brim of his baseball cap, his smile wry. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

              Suppressing a chuckle, Tango dropped down onto the bench beside Ian, mimicking his posture with arms draped over the back. “Not a bad reaction,” he assured, “just a surprised one.”

              Ian tilted his head in concession and his grin became more true. “I’m incognito,” he said, unnecessarily.

              “I figured.” And if he was being honest with himself, Tango
liked
it.

              When Ian had asked to meet him at the park, he’d expected to find the man at his usual foppish best, Bruce lingering in the shadows, maybe another plainclothes guard or two. Instead, he’d made two circuits around the walking track, dodging mothers with strollers, mumbling apologies when he nearly tripped them. Finally, his eyes had wandered across the lanky figure kicked back at a bench, and a sharp tug in his gut had told him what the clothes did not. The eyes played tricks, but the subconscious always recognized a lover. Some low pulse, a homing sound that sang in the blood.

              His subconscious had been right.

              Ian wore bootcut jeans that made his legs look ten miles long, Vans, t-shirt, and one of those designer leather jackets that looked casual and biker-ish, but probably cost a small fortune. All of it fit him well and highlighted his lean build. He’d bundled up his long hair and stuffed it under an orange UT cap. Tango hadn’t seen him casual like this in years, and it did things to his insides, stirred up old memories.

              “No detail?” Tango asked.

              “I am completely solo and at your disposal.”

              Tango sighed and let his head fall back against the bench. At this angle, he could see where Ian had gathered his hair at the back of his head and pinned it up, the tail disappearing up the back of the cap. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t go through with it. The sun was a warm contrast to the cool breeze, and he felt momentarily content.

              Ian tilted his head back so they were eye-to-eye. “Have you thought any more about it?”

              “About what?” But he knew.

              “Leaving your club.”

              Tango closed his eyes. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

              “You’re afraid that you can’t,” Ian said in a gentle voice, “but you know deep down that you can.”

              “They’re my family.”

              “And what am I?”

              Tango opened his eyes, struck by the hurt in the other man’s face. “It isn’t healthy for you either, you know, holding onto the past.”

              “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

              “I know it is. We can’t help but remind each other of what we used to be.”

              Ian looked away from him and sat upright, his jaw tight. Paper crackled as he reached into his jacket. “I’ve brought you something.”

              Tango sat up to join him, and was handed a printed out map, addresses circled in red pen.

              “Ellison’s properties,” Ian explained. “Some are safe houses, some warehouses, some dealers and sundry employees. Anyone or anyplace affiliated with Don Ellison is on that map.”

              Tango folded it carefully. “Thank you. This will be helpful.”

              “Share it with your president. I have no love for the man, but I’m worried about you.” When Tango met his gaze, he added, “I only want for you to be safe.”

              “I am,” Tango assured.

              It tasted like a lie, and Ian’s small smile told him it sounded like one too.

Fifteen

Butterflies. That’s what had overtaken her stomach. Sam left work with a stupid grin plastered to her face and a belly full of butterflies, all of them vying for position between her ribs and making her breathless.

              She’d been drowsy, smiling and content all through her day, but now, as she slid into her car and headed for Dartmoor, she was downright giddy. She felt the glowing handprints he’d left against her skin, warm beneath her clothes, like delicious secrets. All these years she’d spent fantasizing…and she’d never have to again. She knew, now, and she wanted more.

              Dartmoor was in a state of pleasant busyness when she pulled into the lot and navigated through traffic to get down to the bike shop. The tiny, glass-walled office and the bench out front were occupied by customers, so she avoided that area, and instead went straight into the garage bays.

              Mercy spotted her first. His grin told her everything she needed to know: the guys
knew
.

              “Oh damn,” she said, coming to a halt.

              He laughed. “Afternoon, Sam.”

              She felt her cheeks warm. “Afternoon, Mercy. Is–”

              “Your man here? Yeah, he’s right back here.” He gestured to the bike up on the rack.

              And there was Aidan, making her heart pound and her breath catch, all those butterflies surging. Sam shoved the reaction down and stood calm and unaffected as she watched Aidan set down his tools, towel off his hands and glare at his brother-in-law. “Dude, leave her alone.”

              Then he was closing the distance, and his eyes were on her, Mercy’s chuckling forgotten.

              “Hi.” His smile was a shot of adrenaline, strobing inside her chest.

              “Hi.”

              He took her hand and pulled her arm through his, leading her out of the garage. That little dance of propriety was gone, the do-you-want-to, let’s-go-for-a-walk hesitancy no longer applicable.

              “Good day?” he asked once they were out of earshot of the shop.

              “Yeah, I…” She trailed off when she glanced up at him. He’d smiled, sure, and his tone just now was pleasant, but there was something wrong. A deep furrow between his brows marked him as troubled, and his gaze was trained on the pavement.

              Sam halted, tugging on his arm and forcing him to do the same. “What’s wrong?”

              “Nothing.”

              “Okay, you’ve got to stop feeding me that bullshit.” His head snapped up, startled and amused. “Something
is
wrong, and
has been
wrong for a while now. I don’t need to be in your business, I’m not nosy like that. But I’m worried about you.” She passed her hand up his bare arm, surprised by the mingling of rough and shiny-smooth textures of his scars.

              Her eyes dropped to his skin, the distorted tattoos, just blurs and suggestions now. He’d almost died, she reminded herself, and a lump formed in her throat.

              She took a breath and met his gaze again. “I’m just offering, okay? If you can’t talk about it, that’s fine, but I’m here if you need to unburden yourself. I want you to know you can do that with me.” She smiled. “It’s a two-way street. You’ve helped me, and I want you to know that I’ll return the favor.”

              It pulled at her heartstrings, the way he stared at her. He wanted to tell her; she could
feel
the pressure of the words on his tongue. But he swallowed and said, “I really don’t deserve you.”

              She sighed to herself, disappointed but resolute, and leaned into him when he put his arm around her.

              “What are you doing for dinner?” she asked.

              “Taco Bell, I’m guessing.” He squeezed her waist. “Unless you had a better idea.”

              “My mother wants you to come over and eat with us.” She laughed when she felt him stiffen. “No pressure.”

              “Yeah. Sure.”

              He was actually shaking.

              “You don’t have to come,” Sam said, covering his hand with her own where it rested against her hip. “I can tell Mom it’s too soon for that.”

              “Nah. I’ll come.”

              When she glanced at him, she saw that the color was high in his face.

              He wet his lips. “Uh…it’s just that…I’ve never actually met a girl’s mother before.”

              “Seriously?”

              He nodded.

              Sam laughed and patted his hand. “Poor baby. Don’t worry. It won’t be too painful.”

~*~

There had been days past when the closing of the shop kicked off an evening of brotherly bonding. They would all wander over to the clubhouse and settle in for TV and shit-talking, beers in hand. But tonight, Tango sensed a tension in the air, the way they all wanted away from the burdens of the day. Carter struck off for the clubhouse alone, too quick for anyone to fall in with him. Aidan muttered a farewell and headed for his bike.

              Ava’s truck rolled up and he knew she’d have the kids with her, and that she and Mercy were going to take them home and wallow in marital bliss.

              The passenger window buzzed down as he passed. “Kev,” Ava called, “I can set an extra place if you don’t have anything to do for dinner.”

              He gave her a weak smile. “No, thanks.”

              “You sure?” Merc asked, snapping his helmet in place.

              It was tempting for a moment, the idea of hot food, the glow of family. But he shook his head. “Catch ya next time.”

              Right now, he needed to find Ghost before the map in his pocket burned through the fabric.

              A little inquiry and he found the boss man at the trucking office. Holly had pushed her wheeled chair back from the desk and Ghost stood in front of her, expression thunderous, the office phone pressed to his ear.

              Holly’s eyes cut over to Tango, filled with mixed horror and laughter.

              Ghost was using his president voice over the phone. “No,
you
listen, asshole. You harassed my office manager for days, because, guess what, calling a woman a hot piece of ass counts as harassment, dick. She was too much of a lady to tell you to lay off, but I damn sure told you to.”

              Holly covered her mouth with a hand and Tango knew the laughter was winning out. He smiled.

              “What?” Ghost said, scowling. “No, see, when one of my guys wants to defend his wife from a creep, I don’t give a shit about ‘outrageous.’ You’re fucking outrageous. And you’re damn lucky all he did was break your nose. Don’t ever turn up on my property again.” He slammed the phone down in its cradle with a satisfied grunt.

              He turned to Holly. “You think that did it?”

              She pulled her hand away, composed now. “I think so, yes, sir. Thank you.”

              “Next time something like that’s going on, tell me about it. You shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda shit at work.”

              She nodded.

              Then Ghost turned to Tango. “What’s up?”

              His smile dimmed. “I’ve got something to show you.”

              That earned him a curious glance.

              They walked out to the parking lot, and Tango passed the map over.

              Ghost studied it a moment, eyes sharp when they lifted from the paper. “Is this what I think it is?”

              “All of Ellison’s properties.”

              Ghost’s expression tightened. “Where did you get this?”

              “You know where,” Tango said quietly.

              “You stole it?”

              “He gave it to me.”

              Ghost’s head reared back, his nostrils flaring. “He
what
? How many goddamn favors do I owe the guy now?”

              “No disrespect, sir, but this map isn’t about you, or the club, or any more favors. It was a gift, from him to me.”

              A cold silence fell between them, full of questions it was obvious Ghost didn’t want to ask.

              Tango shrugged and stepped back. “I wanted you to have it. I thought that was the right thing.” He turned away.

              “Kev.”

              He froze, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

              “When you see him next time,” Ghost said, stiffly, “tell him thank you.”

              He nodded and kept going.

~*~

The butterflies were back with a vengeance. Last night had been spontaneous, and so there hadn’t been any expectation on either side. But tonight was planned, and that led to all sorts of planned-dinner nerves that Sam took out on the carpet, vacuuming furiously with one hand and dusting the hard surfaces with the other.

              She was putting the pork tenderloin into the oven when Erin walked in the back door.

              “Good, you’re home,” Sam greeted. “You can move the load from the washer into the dryer and then get started on your homework before dinner.”

              “Oh my God…” Erin started, rolling her eyes, dumping her backpack to the floor.

              “Nope, I don’t want to hear that,” Sam said. She kept her tone pleasant, but firm. Barking orders never worked with someone as petulant as her little sister. “You’re grounded, Erin, and being grounded doesn’t involve locking yourself away in your room and video chatting all night. You’re going to contribute to the household, starting with taking your bag upstairs as you go. No more leaving all your stuff lying everywhere.”

              Erin gave her a bitter look across the kitchen table. “Can’t you just be thankful I’m not dead or addicted to anything?”

              “I can, and I am. But I’m also putting my foot down. You’re killing Mom,” she added, lowering her voice. “And honest to God, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove or accomplish.”

              Erin made a face. “Oh, yeah sure,
I’m
killing Mom. But you think it’s totally okay to fuck some biker guy all obvious where we can hear it.”

              Sam felt heat bloom in her cheeks. “We’re not talking about me right now.”

              “Why not? ‘Cause you’re just as bad as me?”

              “Because I’m a grown-ass woman with a decent job and I can go out with whoever I want to. Also because I wasn’t the one at risk of getting arrested last night. So. Backpack, dryer, homework. Now.”

              “Ugh!” Erin threw back her head in disgust, but grabbed her bag before she marched out of the room.

              Small victory.

              When she heard the low drone of the dryer come on upstairs, she allowed her thoughts to wander, let the anxiety come in to tease at her again. Had she and Aidan been loud enough for Erin and Mom to hear last night?

              She didn’t really want to know, especially as the back door opened with an incoming gust of cold air, sweeping Helen inside like a fallen leaf.

              “Goodness, it’s getting cold out there!” she exclaimed, muttering a loud
brrrrr
as she pushed the door to. Her narrow face was red from the wind and her eyes looked wide and harried as she shrugged out of her jacket. “Your sister’s home, I see.”

              “Home, but not happy about it.”

              “Yes, well.” Helen sighed, shoulders drooping. Then she stiffened, eyes sliding over to Sam. “Your gentleman’s coming to dinner, right?”

              “You wanted him to, so yes,” Sam said, knowing her smile was thin. “Although the ‘gentleman’ part is debatable.”

              Helen studied her, gaze troubled. “You know I trust your judgement. You’ve always been a practical girl.”

              “Mom.”

              “But this…Aidan. He doesn’t seem like the sort of boy you’d attach yourself to. He’s very…” She gestured, grasping for the words.

              “Tattooed, disreputable, and ill-advised?” Sam finished.

              Helen nodded and looked sheepish. “I hate to say it, but yes. He does. I don’t hold that against him, you understand, but I…”

              “Don’t get it?” Sam guessed. “I don’t really either, Mom. It’s one of those things I can’t really explain. I like syrup on my bacon, and I like Aidan Teague.”

              “You’ve…slept with him.”

              Sam didn’t know how uncomfortable this line of talk would get. She and Mom had never discussed men or sex before, aside from the obligatory “talk” when she was growing up.

              “I have,” she said, because there was no answer to give other than the truth.