Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (44 page)

Forty

“What do you want with her address?” Walsh had asked, suspicious, when Tango asked for it.

              He hadn’t cared. Let Walsh think what he wanted; it didn’t matter anyway. “I just want it,” he’d responded, and after a moment of enduring his blank expression, the VP had handed over the info.

              Whitney’s brother had bought for his family a Mediterranean-style home on a pie-shaped corner lot, one whose dusky orange stucco, dark cedar pergolas and wide patios were out of keeping with the rest of the ranch-and-colonial dominated neighborhood. One of those pretty eyesore houses that leapt off its foundation and demanded a passing driver’s attention, night or day. It was night now, and Tango sat out front on his bike, breathing down a cigarette, letting his eyes wander across the careful winter landscaping of pansies and evergreen shrubs, illuminated by solar lights.

              He recalled Thanksgiving, sitting up in Ava’s old bed, an untouched plate of Maggie’s cooking in his lap. The smell of marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes had made him want to gag. Whitney had sat at Ava’s old desk, picking through her own food, attempting small talk.

              He recalled her face, when Ghost told her that her brother was dead, the way bravery had crumbled to make way for grief. Tango hadn’t climbed from bed, hadn’t comforted her. Hadn’t hugged her. He should have hugged her.

              He finished his cig, flipped the butt in the gutter and lit another, his hands numb by the time he was breathing in the first drag. He tugged his gloves back on, grateful for the warmth of the hot cherry so near his face. Would it feel better, he wondered, to press the burning end to his skin? He didn’t think it would hurt. He thought it might feel wonderful…

              Beneath his tattoos, the old cutting scars on his arms tingled, excited by the idea of more destruction.

              The front door opened.

              Shit. He hadn’t intended to make contact; had hoped for a glimpse through a window, a backlit look at her face.

              He tossed the cig away and reached for his handlebars. But Whitney was standing on the front porch, cinched garbage bag in one hand, and she’d seen him.

              She took a step off the porch.

              He
had
to leave.

              The bag fell out of her hand and hit the grass with a sound of aluminum cans rattling. “Kev?” Her voice, a bright, shivery note through the cold air. Surprise, curiosity, hope, fear, all contained in that one clear sound, like a bell tolling. “Kev, is that you?”

             
Move.
But he didn’t.

              She looked beautiful, as she walked up to him, her hair clean and shiny, her petite form clad in jeans, sweater, and ankle boots. Regular, wholesome, sweet-faced. Grave sadness in the gentle curve of her mouth, dark circles beneath her eyes, the edges red from crying – things that made her more fragile, lovelier somehow.

              “It
is
you,” she said when she reached him, breathless from hurrying, exhalations puffing white in the cold. Her cheeks burned pink; her eyes glittered against the wind. “How are you? I wanted to call, but I didn’t have a number and…”

              An urge struck him, so unexpected and unthinkable that he pushed it down hard: He wanted to pull her in close to him and shove his hands up beneath her sweater. Not for any licentious purpose, but just to feel the warmth of her skin and the patter of her heartbeat against his palm.

              “I’m fine,” he said, looking away from her, hands tightening together over his fuel tank to keep still.

              “No you’re not,” she said, softly. When he glanced at her again, he saw the breeze snatch her hair across her face; she shoved it back. “Because I’m not fine either. And I didn’t have it as bad as you.”

              “Yeah. Well.”

              She stepped in close, too close, into his personal space. He wanted to flinch, but it was her, Whitney, who’d held his hand, so he stayed still, very still, and didn’t react when she touched his shoulder.

              Didn’t react outwardly.

              Inwardly, he swore warmth blossomed beneath her small hand, pulsing in his shoulder and radiating outward, a slow fill that he wanted to continue.

              Not wanting her to break contact, fighting the urge to lean into her, he looked into her face again, and said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”

              Her lips compressed. Her eyes took on a new layer of shine. “Me too. My sister-in-law’s not taking it well. She…she told me it should have been me instead, that she wished they’d killed me and let Jason live.” She blinked hard. “She said it just now. Yelled it. I took the garbage out to give her some space but…I don’t think she wants me in the house with her and the girls.”

              “People stay stupid things when they’re grieving,” he said, chest aching for her. “You can’t take it personal.”

              She nodded. “I know.” But had to dab at her eyes with her free hand.

              “Besides, your brother was an asshole for putting you and them in that kind of danger,” he said, more viciously than intended.

              She looked like he’d slapped her. “He had an addiction.”

              “Addiction isn’t an excuse for anything.”

              “Speaking from experience?” she asked.

              “Yeah.”

              She pulled her hand back, and the cold rushed in to erase the warmth she’d given him.

              “Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” he said, “like what happened to you. But most of the time, bad people invite bad things to happen to them.”

              She took a step back.

              He started his bike and rode off.

~*~

He splurged and bought the good wine this time. It settled like a warm hand in his belly, caressing him from the inside out, feeding a slow-burning fire into his veins. His brothers wouldn’t agree, but he’d always loved wine for its painkilling properties. Everything else could get you drunk, but wine could ease the sting. Could chase away the deep ache.

              He heard Ian’s approach before he saw him. The arrival and then shutting off of the Jag’s high-power engine. The snaps of the door shutting. The clip of Ian’s expensive loafers echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

              Bruce hung back, on orders no doubt, and Ian entered Tango’s line of vision, long wool coat swirling around his ankles, the breeze catching his cream cashmere scarf. His expression became complicated, his voice simple and warm as he said, “Hello.”

              Tango took another long pull on the bottle of red.

              Ian came and sat beside him, coat halves folded over his knees, looking half a scarecrow, as thin as he was. A scarecrow with beautiful big eyes and English cheekbones. “What are we drinking?”

              Tango turned the label toward him.

              “Cabernet Sauvignon. Lovely.”

              “Want some?”

              “No, thank you.”

              Tango took another swallow, and then looked at the man’s face. What had been masked at first now lay exposed, the worry, the sympathetic grief.

              “I am so sorry,” Ian said, voice thick. “I am so sorry for what happened to you.” He laid his arm across Tango’s shoulders, long and lean, but strong, its grip sure.

              Tango shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me. Please.”

              The arm withdrew as if burned. “Of course.” Polite, kind. “I’m sure you must be…still recovering…”

              Mentally. Yeah, sure, he was. And it was a futile effort.

              “Kev–”

              Tango stood, albeit unsteadily, hand clamped tight around the bottle, palm clammy against its dark glass. He breathed in deep through his mouth, staring into the dark cavern of the garage.

              Behind him, Ian said, “Kevin,” voice ragged.

              Tango turned to face him, the garage spinning, eyes closing briefly until he’d caught his bearings. When he opened them, he saw the tears in Ian’s gaze.

              “Come upstairs with me,” he urged.

              Tango swirled the contents of the bottle. His tongue cried out for the musky heat of the wine. His body cried too, a fast surge of longing – it wanted to be used, to be released. And just as quickly, revulsion rippled across his skin. He was nothing. Nothing but his body and what it could do and receive.

              He hated everything about himself.

              “No,” he said. “I think I’m going to become celibate. I think I need it.”

              He took one last deep swallow of Cabernet and turned away from his lover.

              “Kevin.”

              “’Night, Ian. I’ll catch you later.”

              He was too drunk to ride, but straddled his bike anyway, shoved the corked bottle in his hoodie pocket. It wasn’t like he was a danger to others, on his Harley. If he wrecked, the only casualty would be him.

~*~

Ian ripped the scarf from his throat and relished the quick press of cashmere stretched tight over his windpipe. Ought he to save time and strangle himself with it? More than likely he couldn’t do that. But Bruce could. He could ask his faithful driver and bodyguard to do the honors.
Bruce, be a dear, won’t you, and choke the life from me?

              As if sensing he was needed, Bruce said, “Sir?” from behind him.

              Ian shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on its peg, alongside the scarf. Such order and cleanliness in his personal apartment. It eased the chaos in his mind: the cool grays and blacks, the sharp lines, the organization and neatness. Everything in his life had been designed to bring him peace; indulging in his expensive tastes and furnishing his regular spaces in trendy minimalist style was a little trick. Something menial to focus on so he could avoid memory.

              It wasn’t working tonight. He turned to face his open concept high-rise – its low sofas, hidden flat screen TVs, chrome kitchen – and felt panic close around his throat like a vise.

              When he spoke, his voice sounded faraway and flat. “Bruce, you’re dismissed for the night. I won’t be needing anything else.”

              He heard Bruce take a step forward, his tread heavy on the wood-look tiles of the entryway. “But, sir.” Worry in his voice, a concern for the generous employer who’d clothed him in Armani suits and gorgeous calfskin boots. The boss who’d bought and furnished the apartment below for him. “Won’t you be–”

              “Bruce.” Ian turned to face him. “I dismissed you. That means I want you to leave. What part of that don’t you understand?”

              The big man’s face, always so closed down with professionalism, colored with shock. His eyes tracked across Ian’s face. Then he finally schooled his features, nodded, and backed through the still-open door. “Yes, sir. I have my cell if you need me.”

              “Thank you, Bruce.”

              Ian went to the door when he was gone, and latched all five of the deadbolts. Slid the chain in place. Then he went to his kitchen and the wine rack above the fridge where he kept the reds.

              Cabernet Sauvignon. Lovely vintage. He uncorked it and drank straight from the bottle, head tipped all the way back, throat opening as the wine slid straight down to his stomach. He was gasping when he lowered the bottle, breathing raggedly through his mouth.

              “What did they do to you?” he whispered. “Kev, what did they do?”

              Could it have been any worse than what had been done to both of them, when they were teenagers?

              He whirled and chucked the bottle across the room. It exploded against the far wall with a spray of red and a tinkling of glass. The drops ran down the wall, viscous as blood.

~*~

The wine was gone. Tango lay on his back on one of the picnic tables in front of the clubhouse. He’d had to drag it out from beneath the pavilion, his too-thin body protesting the entire time, so that he could lie flat on his back and stare up at the cold pinpricks of the stars overhead. They were spinning, twirling around and around overhead, dancing.

              In his right hand, he held his phone. In his left the scrap of paper Whitney had left behind at Maggie’s house with her cellphone number on it. He kept thinking about the wounded sheen of her eyes, like he’d betrayed her with his cruel words. He’d betrayed Ian too, in a way, hadn’t he? But Ian was used to the viciousness of life. Whitney was not – innocent, sweet Whitney. Untouched by her ordeal in Don Ellison’s basement prison.

              He had to close one eye to read the number, and then his fingers fumbled with dialing. But finally, he had the phone pressed to his ear and it was ringing, ringing, ringing…