Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (37 page)

              She shivered. “A little. But I’m not a wimp, Teague.” She elbowed him lightly in the back and he chuckled.

              “Nah, I knew you weren’t.” He swung off and extended a hand toward her. “Come take a walk with me, baby.”

              He pulled her up off the bike and tucked her against his side, a solid, comforting arm around her waist. Sam put her arm around his waist, and they walked in the shuffling, awkward gait of two people who didn’t want to be even an inch apart.

              The ground underfoot crunched – gravel. In the distance, a small pack of coyotes started up a chorus of yips and yodels.

              “Did you come here a lot to shoot?” Sam asked as they stepped over a fragment of charred plywood.

              “Dad was like a drill sergeant. He wouldn’t let me have my own piece until I was
proficient
.”

              “Not to agree with him, but that’s probably not a bad idea when it comes to firearms.”

              He snorted.

              “We’re not here to shoot, are we?” she asked, only half-teasing, squeezing him. “I’m not averse to learning, but I think I might need a little bit of light.”

              She’d meant it as a joke, but Aidan squeezed her back, hand pressed tight in the innermost curve of her waist. “I do wanna teach you, but not tonight.”

              Okay, she was starting to worry. “What is it?” she asked softly, and the coyotes answered her, screaming at the moon over whatever poor animal they’d killed.

              He stopped walking and turned her in his arms so they faced one another. She could just make out his face, the brightness of his eyes, the high shine on his cheekbones and shadow of his stubble.

              “I need to tell you something,” he said, voice heavy and official. “Ask you something, really. And I don’t want you to answer until you’ve thought about it. I mean,
thought about it
.”

              “Sounds serious.”

              “Yeah.” His fingertips pressed hard into the small of her back. “And, for what it’s worth, I hope your answer is gonna be ‘no.’”

              “Just tell me.”

              “We found Kev.”

              A jolt moved through her, a sharp tightening of muscles and skin. “Where?”

              “In a house. A big house, that belongs to a
really
bad guy.”

              If that didn’t sound patronizing, she didn’t know what did, but she let it slide. “And?”

              “Fox scouted it out today. Tight as a drum. But we got some intel that we think could get us in. The problem is…” He winced. “Shit, I hate this.” And then proceeded to tell her about Fox’s proposed plan of infiltration.

              “They know Mags, and Ava, and all the old ladies. And we can’t trust a stranger.” His hands were now fists against her back, shaking with nerves and dread.

              Sam took a deep breath. “So Carter’s girlfriend and I would dress up like hookers–”

              “Not much of a stretch for Jazz,” he said, joke falling instantly flat.

              “–and flirt our way inside so we can let you guys in the side door.”

              “Pretty much. Yeah.” He lowered his head a fraction, so his eyes bored down into hers. “But Sam, baby, I don’t want that. Not even a little bit.”

              “But there’s no one else.” Her voice was reasonable, even. But her pulse was thundering in her ears; her skin prickled.

              “There’s not.” It sounded like an apology.

              The coyotes had quieted, but there were other night sounds around them, indistinguishable chatter and whispers, crunching through leaf litter she couldn’t see.

              “Say no,” Aidan urged, giving her a little shake.

              But she couldn’t. Her lips wouldn’t form the word. “You can’t abandon Kev,” she said instead.

              Even in the dark, she could see the pain writ wild across his face, the deep lines and grooves of stress.

              “He would come for you,” she said. “He’s your family.”

              “But so are you,” he countered. “And how can I risk one member for another?”

              Her heart squeezed. “You wouldn’t be risking me. I’d be risking myself.”

              He didn’t answer, but made a distressed sound deep in his throat. Sam put her arms around his neck and held him close, her head resting against his chest. “What was it I said before? You live life and I write about it. My writing can’t help you now. But
I
can.”

Thirty-Five

“What’d you tell King?” Fox asked as he rummaged through the duffel bags set up on the tailgate.

              It was the next morning, and the tall tangled grasses of the cattle property were hoary with frost, their breath misting in the early light. If Walsh was still at home he would doubtless hear the gunshots and come to inquire. Aidan had anticipated that and already made a phone call.

              “I told him I wanted to try out that ammo Candy brought with him. Said I’d be up here a while.”

              “Good.” The Englishman nodded and started pulling out hardware. “Alright, my lovelies. Are we ready to learn?”

              “They’re not your lovelies,” Carter said. It was a whole new Carter, this new one who Jazz was leaning against. Older, harder, more ferociously determined. Aidan had to approve.

              Fox’s brows went up. “Whatever, mate.”

              “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sam said, and Aidan glanced sideways at his old lady. She was dressed for work because she was headed there afterward: dark skinny jeans, tall boots, a warm sweater under her wool coat. She’d worn her contacts, so there wouldn’t be any glare on her lenses, she’d said.

              As he studied her profile, wanting to kiss her, she turned her head and met his gaze. Her smile flickered with nerves. “Don’t be too disappointed if I suck at this.”

              “I won’t be disappointed. And you won’t suck.”

              She turned to Fox as he approached her, squared up her shoulders, and proceeded to rise to the occasion…just as Aidan knew she would.

              The paper targets were set up behind the barn, only a dozen or so paces away because, as Fox reasoned, the girls wouldn’t be shooting from a great distance. The Englishman was a patient, focused teacher, and he drilled them with a .38, a nine mil, and the little single-shot gut guns they were given to wear in their boots.

              Jazz shrieked the first time the .38 kicked in her hands.

              Sam jumped a little, but pressed her lips together in fierce concentration and fired again and again until she could hit within inches of the bulls eye every time.

              When they were smooth and relaxed, Fox pulled out his own .40 and .45. “In case you end up with one of their guns,” he explained. “I want you to be able to grab anything up off the floor and use it.”

              Aidan hadn’t even thought of that. A chill rippled down his back at the thought.

              The frost was beginning to melt, the sunlight sharp and bright as it slanted in their faces when Fox announced the lesson over. “Twice more before we go in,” he decreed, and headed back to the clubhouse in the truck.

              They’d left the two bikes on the far side of the barn, parked in the gravel, and Aidan hung back, let Carter and Jazz get a head start.

              “You’re okay with the guns?” he asked Sam as they walked, slowly, kicking at stray pebbles. The grass swished wetly around their legs.

              Sam slid her cold hand into his, lacing their fingers. “Yeah.”

              “You’re sure?”

              “Of all the scary moments in my life, firing a gun doesn’t make the list.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure.”

              “It’s not too late to say no.”

              She sighed. “Yes it is. Do you think I could live with myself if I walked away now?”

              He wanted to argue with her, but didn’t. It was no use; they’d only keep going in circles around one another.

              Tense with frustration, he towed her around the barn just as Carter was firing his bike up. The guy waved, and then he and Jazz were gone, the tailpipes echoing long after they’d disappeared from sight.

              Aidan didn’t realize he was staring into space, every muscle locked, until Sam spoke to him.

              “You have to climb out of that place in your head,” she said quietly. “The one where you’re knotted up with guilt.”

              Her eyes shone with such a clear blue-green light when he looked down at her. Her expression reflected none of his turmoil and doubt. She’d made peace with what was going to happen.

              “It won’t help us now,” she continued. “You’ll only be distracted, and if we’re going to pull this rescue mission off, we have to be one-hundred-percent committed.”

              He had no idea how he’d managed to suck her into his life, but he was damn sure he didn’t deserve her. “You never shoulda given me a chance,” he told her.

              Her brows lifted. “And you never should have doubted my capacity to love you completely.”

              Okay. Damn.

              “We’ve both made mistakes,” she said. “But we’re going to have to put them completely behind us and just look forward.”

              How serious and honest she looked. The sight of her stirred up a slow warmth behind his breastbone. “Sounds logical,” he said, wanting to smile.

              Sam
did
smile. “Oh no. Nothing about us is logical.”

~*~

Twice more they took the girls to the property to shoot, and by the end of all three sessions, Sam and Jazz were admirable shots. They decided to move the day before Thanksgiving. That day dawned overcast, silver light heavy at the windows.

              In the warm shelter of Sam’s bed, Aidan turned his face into his old lady’s throat and whispered, “Are you ready?”

              He thought she shivered and doubted it was from the cold. “Yes. I’m ready.”

~*~

In Ghost’s life history, there existed a handful of moments in which the heaviness of failure had overcome him, and he’d felt himself begin to crumble beneath its weight. One had occurred when his first marriage ended. Another when he’d recognized the mistake of separating Ava and Mercy. And now there was this one. They weren’t going to get the money together. He’d realized it that afternoon, sitting across the table from a bloodshot Walsh. There would be no easy way of getting Tango back, and they were going to have to launch a full-scale attack against the enemy. It would be bloody and inexact. They would lose brothers.

              Failure. And failure was inexcusable in a president.

              The sun was sinking as he walked into the back door at home. He was grateful for the warm light of the kitchen and all its normal homey smells of food and flowers. He didn’t tell Mags often enough, but he would be forever thankful for the way she’d brought a sense of home into his life. He’d never had that before her; she worked hard at it, and most days he walked right through her magic without acknowledgement.

              That was shitty of him. Funny how failure had a way of sharpening his priorities.

              “Babe?” he called, toing off his boots in the rack, shrugging off jacket and cut. “Something smells good. What is that?”

              Her voice sounded behind him, low, throaty, and not what he’d been expecting. “Pot roast, if you’re hungry. But maybe you’d like a little appetizer?”

              A prickling up the back of his neck as he turned, the good kind. A fast pulse of anticipation deep in his belly.

              And then he caught sight of her.             

              Holy shit.

              She transported him back through time, all the way to the day they’d met, that cool fall afternoon outside the liquor store. The Maggie standing before him now, one hand braced in the kitchen doorjamb, was the Maggie of his violent mid-twenties’ obsession. She wore a denim miniskirt that hugged her hips and flashed every inch of her long pale legs. Black boots. White tank top that left nothing to the imagination. She’d teased her thick blonde hair. And her lips – bright flawless red.

              His mouth went dry, and every drop of blood in his head fled to places south.

              “Mags.” He advanced on her slowly, taking in the low-lidded eyes that had first snagged his attention all those years ago. All she was missing was the cigarette. “You feeling nostalgic?”

              “Hmm.” Her smile was mysterious, knowing, full of feminine power. “A little bit.”

              “Any particular reason why?” When he put his hand on her waist, he felt the surge of electricity in his blood that had accompanied all those first forbidden touches between them. He always claimed to have been shocked and appalled when he’d learned that she was only sixteen. He had no attraction to underage girls; he’d been disturbed when she’d told him.

              That, of course, wasn’t true. Their age gap was as exciting to him now as it had always been.

              So he was a bastard. What else was new?

              Her hair rustled as she tipped her head back to look at him. “You’ve been really stressed, and I thought you might like a little walk down memory lane.”

              When he kissed her, she leaned into him, pressed her breasts against his chest, clutched at his biceps and let her neck soften. He loved that reaction. Maggie could be as hard-nosed and tough as she wanted during the day, but when he kissed her, she melted.

              Every stroke of her lips against his stripped a year away. He felt younger, stronger, lighter by the second as her hands kneaded across his chest and her mouth opened for his tongue.

              They needed more moments like these, he decided. Moments in which they weren’t just parents, grandparents, the voices of reason – but moments for the two of them. Husband and wife time.

              Ghost pinned her back against the doorframe and bunched up her skirt. She was naked underneath.
Damn
. He was just discovering that this was exciting for her too when she pulled back.

              “Ghost.” Her tone froze him cold. Her eyes, when they lifted to his, were cool and serious…if not a little heavy-lidded still, because, as he could feel against his hand, she was deeply invested in the sex that was about to happen.

              She sighed. “Okay, I can’t do this.”

              He slid his fingers through the slippery wetness between her legs. “Pretty sure you’re all ready for it, sweetheart.”

              A quick smile. “Oh trust me. I
need
it, baby. Bad.” She lifted her hands to frame his face, her touch familiar, grounding, sweet. But possessed of the command of any general. “I’m supposed to be keeping you distracted.”

              A warning signal pinged in the back of his mind.

              “But that goes against every maternal instinct I’ve got,” she continued, growing more urgent. “Your son needs you tonight. All of your boys need you.”

~*~

Ava glanced up from her laptop as Mercy came into the living room.

Cal was asleep on the couch cushion beside her.

Remy was chewing on the ear of his favorite stuffed dog, fighting sleepiness. His little dark head swiveled toward the door when Mercy entered, arms pumping up and down like useless wings in excitement.

Mercy’s smile melted Ava’s insides to sugar-sticky goo. It was a smile without a trace of cockiness, mockery, or restraint. A true, face-splitting smile. A man with such demons…and such joy.

“Big Man!” he greeted Remy, and scooped the boy up in one effortless movement, hoisting him up against his chest. “You taking good care of Mama? Keeping her safe?”

Remy babbled happily in response.

“God, he’s your mini-me,” Ava reflected, smiling. “If I hadn’t pushed him out, I wouldn’t be convinced I had anything to do with it.”

“Trust me,
fillette
, I sure as hell remember making him.” That was when his smile turned flirtatious and he juggled Remy to the side so he could lean down and kiss her.

It was a lingering, explicit kiss, the kind that promised all sorts of delights once the babies were asleep. Ava didn’t want it to end. She wanted to grab onto his shirt and pull him in close to her, prolong the breaking of news and the always-terrifying moment of watching her man walk out the back door on a violent mission.

But Aidan needed him tonight, and that was the curse of the club. Entrusting her man to his brothers, always praying they would return him to her.

“How’s my little blonde one?” Mercy asked when he finally pulled back, eyes going to Cal.

“Worn out from being fussy all day.” Ava tried to offer him another smile, but knew it wobbled.

He noticed at once. “What, baby?”

She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Aidan’s going after Tango tonight.” Quickly, she relayed what Sam had told her of the operation. Aidan had asked her and Maggie to keep their men busy, but he’d kept all the particulars from them. On purpose. Sam had made a hurried call earlier, delivering the location of the house they were storming. Someone needed to know where they were, she’d reasoned.