Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (26 page)

~*~

He needed to fuck, and there was no delicate way to phrase it. Fighting like that worked in his veins like a drug, and tweaked his nerves until he was no longer his own master, but just a monster running on impulse. He needed his old lady on her stomach, hands twisted up in the sheets, and he needed her
now
.

              But now wasn’t an option, so he was going to have to settle for a cig and a little torture instead.

              Mercy finished tying off his black butcher apron and lit the fresh Marlboro dangling off his lip. The first drag helped. A little.

              He stood in the bike shop office, the garage bay beyond already prepped with plastic by Harry and Littlejohn, his toolkit set out and waiting for him. Their captive was duct taped securely to a chair, also covered in plastic.

              Beside him, Fox stood with Walsh’s usual clipboard, having offered to cover for his brother. “Spend time with your old lady, mate,” he’d said, clapping Walsh on the back. “I haven’t gotten to watch the beast work in a long time.”

              Then there was Colin, looking beat-up and sullen.

              “Cheer up, bro,” Mercy told him, grinning, “you’re about to have an induction.”

              “The club for people who kiss your ass?”

              “Hey, Fox kisses no one’s ass.”

              “True,” the Englishman said.

              “Your induction into man-work, junior. Why the hell do you think Candy wanted you in Amarillo? To get stuff off the tall shelves?”

              Colin’s frown deepened, and something flickered in his eyes, a fast snatch of something Mercy might have missed had he not been paying attention.

              “What?” he asked.

              Fox said, “Our Col here has designs on Jenny.”

              Mercy didn’t know whether he ought to laugh or punch the guy again. “Jenny Snow?” he asked with a disbelieving fake smile. “Really?”

              “I think she might have designs on him, too,” Fox continued.

              “Well damn. I’ll be.”

              Colin shifted uncomfortably.

              “Grab your apron,” Mercy said, pointing toward the clear plastic number he’d laid out. “And step into my laboratory.”

~*~

“Howdy, Miss Jasmine.”

              Jazz knew that voice, with its heavy Texas accent. She knew it, and had found such pleasure in it – in the man that came with it, big and blonde and insatiable. But now, it crawled up the back of her neck like a chill, and left her shivering inside.

              She never would have expected this of herself, but it was happening, ever since that night that Aidan had tried to strangle her. He’d apologized, sure, and she’d moved on…but she could find no appeal in her normal sexual exploits. She went cold and frightened just at the thought.

              She pinned a frozen smile to her face and turned to face the Texas VP. “Mr. Candyman,” she returned. “How’ve you been?” Ordinarily, she would have passed her hands up his rock hard chest as she delivered her line. But now she kept her arms stiff at her sides.

              His grin was truly dazzling, as was the way he braced a tan forearm on the doorframe above her head and leaned in, pinning her against the kitchen jamb. “A whole lot better now that I’ve laid eyes on you, darlin’. What’re you supposed to be anyway?” His eyes traveled down her body, and his finger touched the little hollow in her throat, trailed downward.

              “A nurse,” she said, and couldn’t believe the way her heart was hammering. What big hands he had. Hands bigger than Aidan’s; hands that could choke –

              “A naughty nurse,” he said with a deep chuckle, fingertip flirting with the plunging white neckline of her costume. Before she could say anything, he slipped his whole big hand into her uniform and palmed her naked breast.

              She gasped, and he misread it.

              “Did you miss me?” he whispered, breath stirring her hair as he got even closer. His fingers tightened, digging into her flesh. “I’ve been dreaming about these, sweetheart. You gonna let me see in a minute?”

              She dampened her lips. “I…”

              “Hey,” a voice said just behind Candy.

              She knew that voice too: Carter.

              Candyman pulled back a fraction, but his hand stayed in her top as he turned his head slowly, with put-on boredom, toward the younger member.

              Jazz bit her lip in surprise when she caught sight of Carter’s face. He looked absolutely murderous. While that wasn’t much of a threat to someone as big as Candy, it was still impressive in its own right, his level of aggression.

              “Can I help you with something?” Candy asked.

              Carter kicked his chin up, bold and stupid and wonderfully brave, Jazz thought. “Don’t mess with Jasmine tonight.”

              Candy laughed. “Did nobody ever teach you how to wait your turn? News flash, kid, you’re on the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to pussy privilege.”

              “This isn’t about your goddamn totem pole,” Carter said. “Jazz isn’t interested in being pawed at, and you’re gonna respect her and back the fuck off.”

              Candy stared in open disbelief, then glanced over at Jazz…then he noticed her expression, and the way she couldn’t stop trembling.

              She felt tears sting her eyes. “Please…” she whispered, and wasn’t sure what she meant. She was a jumble of nerves and anxieties, and she hated it.

              “Get your hand off her,” Carter hissed.

              Candy withdrew his hand, but didn’t move. The look he sent to Carter was a clear warning, one anyone else would have backed down from.

             
Be careful, baby
, Jasmine wanted to tell him.
He’ll hurt you bad
. But she couldn’t speak, could only watch.

              “Are you trying to make her your woman?” Candy asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

              “No. I’m looking out for her, and all you have to do is look at her and know she’s upset.”

              Candy looked back at her, indecision edging in on his anger. “I’ll back off,” he said, “
only
if she wants me to. I ain’t ever gonna force anyone. Is that what you want, babe? Do you want me to back off?”

             
Did
she want it? Even when she was tired, or a little bit sick, or just not in the mood, she never refused a brother. She knew her place; she understood that the use of this clubhouse and the safety it provided was dependent upon her cooperation.

              But she nodded. Yes, she wanted him to back off. She couldn’t stand the idea.

              Candy looked as shocked as she felt. But, true to his word, be withdrew from her with one last searching look.
You sure?
it said. And she knew that if she let him go now, he’d never show favor toward her again.

              But again, she nodded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but Candy was already moving away.

              Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision.

              Carter took Candy’s place, leaning over her, face harsh with concern.

              “I don’t understand why this is happening,” she said, brokenly. Was this it? Had her lifestyle finally caught up to her and she was cracking? “I never….”

              “Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her along after him. Through the shifting crowd of bodies in the common room, the pulsing music, the smell of sweaty bodies and spilled liquor. Out the front door, where wood smoke filled her lungs and the night wrapped around her with cold relief. Carter skirted the outdoor crowd and led her around the side of the building, to the shadowy side of the clubhouse, where the club trucks, vans, and ratty old cars were parked. The security lights were cut off by the roofline, and only a dim glow enabled them to see, everything soft-edged and gentle. The party noise was a dim murmur.

              Jasmine took her first deep breath of the night, a ragged sound catching in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, pressing her cold hands to her face. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

              “Jazz.” Carter touched her carefully on the shoulder. “Hey, take a deep breath, it’s alright.”

              She shook her head. It wasn’t, it really wasn’t.

              “You were traumatized, and that takes time to get over.”

              She didn’t want to cry, and squeezed her eyes shut tight. “You’re sweet, bless your heart, but you don’t get it.” How could a pretty blonde baby boy have any idea what would happen to her if she was no longer welcome within the club?

              She heard him exhale, a tired sound. “Yeah, actually, I think I do.”

              Her eyes sprang open in surprise when she felt his arms go around her. She stiffened…and then relaxed against his solid chest as he stroked her back. His heartbeat thudded beneath her ear. He was hugging her. Actually hugging her. No man in her entire life had ever hugged her. And here was this sweet thing, young enough to be her son, and he was holding her in his arms and telling her it would be alright.

              It was the sweetest thing she’d ever experienced.

              Slowly, the shivering eased. Then her breathing evened out. The cold numbness was replaced with a spreading warmth, one that began to take shape in her mind, coalescing physically in secret places.

              It was easy to forget, in the aftermath of her trauma, that before Aidan entered the scene, things had been going very right that evening in the dorm. She hadn’t put much thought toward Carter Michaels before that, but she should have, because he had been magnificent. He had–

              Time to stop thinking so much.

              Jazz braced her hands on his chest and pulled back, tilted her head back so she could see his face. It was a beautiful face, a little sharper and more masculine than Tango’s; it belonged on a fancy cologne add, the scented kind that slid out of glossy magazine pages.

              His clear blue eyes searched her face, still concerned, but a little curious too.

              Because she wanted to, and she’d always been bad at resisting impulses, Jazz reached up to trace one fingertip down the ridge of his nose. His mouth twitched like it tickled. She moved down, edged his lips with her red fingernail, teased at the pale stubble on his chin.

              He grinned and he had dimples. “I’m not like Candyman, but I’m not made out of stone either, baby.”

              He liked it, then, her touch. It was stirring things in him.

              Good. Things were stirring in her too.

              She let her hand fall, played with the zippered edge of his cut. “When we…” she started, and watched his eyes flare. She smiled. “You liked it?”

              “I loved it.” His hand tightened at the small of her back, pulled her hips in close so she could feel that he was loving the idea of it happening again.

              “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she said quietly.

              “Does it look like I care? You’re gorgeous.”

              Jazz stretched up and kissed him.

              It went wild fast, and suddenly it wasn’t a kiss, but a tussle, their hands grasping desperately at one another. Carter picked her up and set her on the hood of the old Cadillac behind them, bundled up her short white skirt and found her bare, hot and wet beneath. She loved the little growl in his throat when he touched her, the hard grasp of his hands on her thighs as he spread them. She worked his jeans open in a few deft moves and then he was inside her, filling her up and making her neck weak. They both made sounds, gasping breaths against one another’s lips as he slid home.

              Jazz wrapped her legs around his waist and lay back, opening herself up to his deep thrusts. God, she couldn’t remember sex ever feeling so necessary. She thought she’d die if he stopped.

              She tore at the buttons of her uniform and spread the halves, bared her breasts to him. “Touch me,” she pleaded, and he did. And she watched the stars as he fucked her.

~*~

Tango watched Carter lead Jazz from inside the clubhouse, and he didn’t mean to follow, but somehow he set his beer down and did just that. He found a dark spot behind one of the trucks and watched, unseen, as Jazz shook with fright and Carter comforted her, hugged her. Had he ever done that himself? Touched her in that innocent way? He didn’t remember. There were so many ways in which he’d failed her.

              He watched the hug go on and on. Watched Jazz finally pull back, watched the smiles; private smiles, traded between two people who didn’t know they had an audience. Watched them kiss. Watched them move to the hood of the car.