Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (27 page)

              He braced a hand against the tailgate in front of him, suddenly lightheaded. And he watched, raw and confused, as Carter took Jazz right there under the black, star-studded sky.

              He’d lost her, he knew, and his heart ached to see the evidence before him.

              But his cock knew nothing of emotion, and it wanted only to be stroked, as Jazz opened her buttons and the moonlight silvered her breasts. He wanted sex. Damn it, he always wanted sex.

              He felt the fast rush of breath against his ear a fraction of a second before a crisp English voice said, “How wanton you people are.”

              Panic flared and died in an instant, as Tango registered the lean body pressed up behind him, recognized the presence, the faint scent of cologne, the voice, above all. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of Ian dressed all in black, hair tucked beneath a black beanie, his long pale hand resting on the tailgate alongside his own.

              “What are you doing here?” He didn’t have the energy to be angry.

              “You didn’t think I wouldn’t want to come to a Halloween party, did you?” Ian asked with a whispered, breathy laugh. “My feelings are still quite hurt, you know, because you refused to invite me.”

              “How did you get on the property?”

              “Do you think a
fence
is going to stop me?”

              Tango sighed. “You have to leave.”

              “And miss the show?”

              Tango’s eyes went back to the action. Jazz was murmuring, moaning, hips straining against Carter’s.

              “As I was saying,” Ian said, “you bikers aren’t at all particular about where, when, how, or with whom you get it. Interesting choice for you, I’d say.” He feigned pensive. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d prefer exhibitionism after–”

              “Shut up.”

              “That’s the girl you favor, isn’t it?” Ian asked. “Lovely breasts, though obviously not real.”

              “Ian, I swear to God–”

              “Have you given her up?” A note of seriousness this time, all joking aside. A quiet, graceful desperation. “Are you ready to leave here and come away with me?”

              Ian, so arrogant and brilliant…and so utterly stupid. Tango didn’t stay because of Jazz. This was his brotherhood, his home – this was the thing that had not only made him a man, but enabled him to be one, when the rest of his life would have turned him to a sexless object.

              He wanted to say all of this aloud, but the words echoed only in his head, as Ian’s hand landed on his stomach. A familiar, deft hand, ducking beneath his shirt, slipping into the gapped waistband of his jeans, traveling down and finding the true heart of him.

              “You don’t eat enough, darling,” Ian whispered, which was stupid given his own thinness. “I’m worried about you.”

              Tango wanted to protest, but the hand on his cock prevented any rational thought.

              “Watch them,” Ian urged. “Watch them, if that’s what you need.”

              So he did, and he thought he and Jasmine came at the same time, at the hands of lovers more skilled than either of them.

~*~

Candy was leaning against one of the support pillars beneath the pavilion when Mercy returned to the clubhouse. Mercy joined him, bracing the other side of the steel column and digging out a fresh cigarette.

              “Get anything useful?” Candy asked.

              “Yeah, plenty.” He frowned. “Didn’t get to even touch him, though. Apparently, I’ve got a
reputation
. And he was a total pussy stoolpigeon.”

              Candy chuckled. “I think just about anybody would turn into a pussy stoolpigeon if he knew
your
reputation.”

              “Maybe. I guess it’s a good thing,” Mercy said, then grinned. “Man, I’m a legend.”

              They both laughed over that.

              Then Candy sobered. “How’d Colin do?”

              “Nervous a little, I think. But he was all ready to hold the guy’s hand down if I’d needed to take a finger.”

              A quick grimace. “If anybody’d be able to stand what you do, it’d have to be your brother.”

             
Half-brother
, Mercy thought, but didn’t voice it. He was getting tired of making the distinction. “Fox says he’s got an eye for your sis.”

              Candy snorted. “Oh yeah. Big time.”

              “And we’re happy about this?”

              “We are. If a Lécuyer attaches himself to a woman you care about, you don’t fight it,” he said with feeling, glancing over. “He’s been a help to her. I’m tempted to patch him in just for that.”

              “He’s a dog, you know.”

              “Maybe he was. He’s not now. If we start holding grudges for past behavior, we’ll have an in-house shootout.” Candy softened the words with a quick grin, but the meaning was clear: Men could gain focus, and clearly, Colin had done just that.

              “I just don’t trust him,” Mercy admitted.

              “That’s because you’re related to him.”

              Ghost arrived, cutting off further brother contemplation. “How’d it go?”

              Mercy gave him the quick rundown.

              “Good. We’ll cut him loose in the morning and send him back to his boss with a message.” He clapped Mercy on the shoulder affectionately. “Good job.”

              “Does that mean I can clock out for the night?” Mercy asked.

              Ghost rolled his eyes, making a face that indicated he knew exactly what he had on his mind. “Yeah. You’re done.”

              “Sweet.” Mercy shoved away from the post with a quick palm-to-palm bro handshake for Candy.

              “Don’t break my daughter,” Ghost warned.

              “Never do.”

              Inside, the party was beginning to wind down a little, brothers ensconced in corners with girls and drinks, the raucous early energy dimming. He spotted Emmie perched sideways on Walsh’s lap, both of them talking to Shane. Maggie was keeping Nell company at the bar. But a quick scan proved Ava wasn’t around.

              She knew, his sharp
fillette
.

              He went to the bar, snagged a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, and headed down the hall to his favorite dorm.

              The lights were on low, and he took a moment, after the door was shut, to lean back against it and drink the scene in with his eyes.

              Ava was wearing lingerie he’d never seen before, black and lacey. She sat leaned back against the headboard, one knee pulled up, the other long leg extended at an alluring angle. She was reading a book, a tattered paperback, chewing unconsciously at her lower lip. She was two dueling portraits, one of sex, the other of total innocence. She’d waited up for him…and she’d gotten bored waiting and decided to read.

              He chuckled and that caught her attention. Her eyes widened and she snapped the book shut, tossed it onto the nightstand. “Hi.” Her smile fell short of suggestive…was brilliant and sweet instead.

              He wanted to tackle her. Instead, he said, “Where are the boys?”

              “Sleeping next door, I just checked on them. Out like little lights.” Her eyes tracked up and down his body, glittering with want.

              He loved the burn of waiting, the way holding back turned his blood to molten metal. He unscrewed the cap on the Johnnie Walker, took a generous sip and prowled slowly toward the bed. “Is that a new getup?”

              She nodded and moved up onto her knees. “Do you like it?”

              “Uh-huh.”

              She came closer, until she was at the end of the bed, right in front of him. Close enough for him to see the hard points of her nipples through the lace.

              Mercy offered her the bottle and she took a small swallow before bending down to set it on the floor. When she straightened, she said, “You know it’s killing you to just stand there.”

              “I like a little delayed gratification now and then.”

              “Hmm. Okay.” She reached behind her for the clasp of her bra…

              And laughed when he pounced on her.

~*~

Even if he hated her mother, and hadn’t put much effort into supporting the life she’d led before him, Ghost always held a secret kind of pride that he’d married a classy girl. Even at sixteen, Maggie had been laced with manners and Southern grace. He’d known right away that his mother would have loved her.

              That classy girl had grown into a classy woman, and she liked wine; champagne with raspberries. But when she was pissed off, or feeling like a biker’s wife, she hit the Jack.

              Ghost approached his old lady’s stool at the bar, watched the pretty line of her throat ripple as she swallowed down the last amber drops in her tumbler. He braced a hand on the bar top and leaned in close to her. “Can I buy you another, beautiful?” he asked, a little surprised by the playful note in his voice. He hadn’t been much of a romantic in…ever.

              She set her glass down slowly, and turned to him, hazel eyes bright with repressed anger. “I don’t know. My husband might not like that. He’s kind of an asshole.”

              Oh hell. He sighed. “Baby, that was just goofing off.”

              “Excuse me?” Her voice stayed level and calm, but her eyes flashed. “No. You instigated and then won a fistfight with your son with an intent to humiliate him. You don’t know
how
to goof off, Kenny. And this feud you’re maintaining with Aidan is selfish and stupid.”

              “Selfish?
I’m
being selfish?”

              “Completely.” She pushed her glass away, slid off her stool, and marched down the back hallway, boot heels clicking.

              Ghost followed.

              An impulse flashed through his mind and was rejected at once: catch up to her, grab her by the arm, swing her around. He’d never treated her that way, and wasn’t going to start. Even if he was an asshole, some things were just sacred, and his wife’s aura of respect was one of them.

              She went into the dorm reserved for them and he half expected her to slam the door in his face. Instead, she walked to the middle of the room and came to a halt with her hands on her hips, back to him as he shut and locked the door behind them.

              Then she turned. “I don’t understand, Ken. Help me to understand. Because right now, all I want to do is throw a pillow at you and tell you to sleep in the parking lot.”

              He folded his arms. “There’s nothing to explain. It’s like I’ve said a hundred times. He needs to grow up, and I’m running out of ideas on how to make that happen.”

              Maggie dropped her head into her hands and sighed. “Kenneth.”

              “What?” he snapped.

              Her head lifted. “Were you grown up? When I met you,” she pressed, “were you perfectly mature and grown up?”

              “It’s not the–”

              “It’s exactly the same thing!” she said. “You were lost. Aidan is lost. But Sam is good for him. Sam is smart, and thoughtful, and classy, and–”

              “But he’s–”

              “No different from you,” Maggie said, tears shining in her eyes. “He’s going to have a hell of a time convincing her that he’s serious, but he
needs
to convince her.” Her face softened. “He needs a mother for his child, and a keeper of his heart.”

              “Well I don’t know anything about this chick–”

              “Well I do,” Maggie said.

              “Are you going to keep interrupting me?”

              “Yeah, I am. Sam,” she pressed on, “is a nice girl. She’s not some groupie, or a harpy, or a spoiled brat. She’s in grad school with Ava; she’s a writer too, and she loves books, and wears glasses most of the time. She’s
good
for Aidan,” she repeated.

              Good for Aidan. How many times had he hoped someone like that would come along? Someone who could tame that restless, useless energy in him, keep him happy at home so he could finally get his head out of his ass.

              “I never lied to you, though,” he reminded. “I told you straight away that I had a kid.”

              “It would’ve been a little hard to hide an eight-year-old.”

              “Mags,” he snapped.

              “Kenny,” she returned, voice gentling. She stepped up to him, hands landing on his chest. Damn it, he couldn’t deny her a thing when she did that, and she had to know it. “Don’t take this as an insult, baby, but you were real screwed up when we met.”