Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (9 page)

              She suppressed a laugh. “Prince Hal and Falstaff? One was the Prince of Wales, and the other his drunken, degenerate, but clever friend. Not your cup of tea, I’m guessing.” She shot him a sideways glance and saw him frowning, his profile limned in midmorning light.

              “’Cause I’m stupid.”

              “No,” she rushed to say. “Because you’re disinterested in that sort of thing.”

              “Smart things?”

              “Things that require you to apply yourself.”

              “So I’m dumb and lazy.”

              “Aidan,” she said with a sigh, turning to him as they reached the vending machine alcove at the end of the hall. “You know you don’t reach for things. It has nothing to do with lack of ability or intelligence. You just…” She trailed off with a shrug as his eyes flicked up to hers, more wounded than she’d expected. “I’ve known you for a while now. And I’ve never known you to take life all that seriously.”

              “Hmph.”

              “The first time you ever spoke to me, you were on your way to detention. You’re a bad boy, Aidan, you know you are.” She grinned. “And you always seemed to enjoy the hell out of it.”

              He glanced away from her, but not before she saw the fast glimmer of hurt in his dark eyes.

              “Aidan.” She laid a hand on his forearm, where it was crossed over his chest. The scars were shiny and smooth, not at all what she’d expected. “Why did you come see me today?”

              He didn’t answer for a long moment. A student shoved between them, breaking their contact; his backpack strap swung around and slapped at the side of Sam’s head.

              “Hey.” Aidan gave the kid a rough shove, snarling. “Say ‘excuse me’ to a lady, fucktard.”

              Her Prince Charming. She rolled her eyes.

              The kid turned, started to argue, got a good look at Aidan and thought better of it. “’Scuse me,” he mumbled, ducking back out of the alcove.

              “Damn kids,” Aidan muttered.

              “Aidan.”

              “Yeah?”

              “Why’d you come see me?” she repeated, tone gentle, coaxing.

              Their roles were switched, suddenly: her staring, him avoiding eye contact, his gaze skipping across the glowing fronts of the machines. “I…I, ah, had a shitty morning.”

              “I’m sorry.”

              “And the last time I felt like shit,” he continued, “I saw you, and I felt better.” His eyes came to her finally, his smile sideways and rueful. “I guess I just hoped you’d make me feel better again.”

              And here she’d been lecturing him…

              The surge of warm sympathy in her chest was dangerous. Aidan was old enough to act his age. She would do him no favors by coddling him.

              But she said, “Oh, Aidan…”

              He took a deep breath and pasted one of his patented ladykiller smiles to his face. “Not that I don’t deserve a good ass-chewing.”

              “You do, but I’d hardly call what I said ‘chewing.’”

              His smile turned deadly. “You wanna try harder?”

              “No,” she said, face heating.

              “Aw, come on. You might be really good at it.” He waggled his eyebrows and her cheeks caught fire.

              “Is there anything you can’t turn into some kind of innuendo?” she asked with an embarrassed laugh.

              “Nope. Try me.” He fished in his pocket. “What do you want out of the machine?”

              “Oh, you don’t have to pay for it…” she started, following him as he stepped up to feed a dollar into the Coke machine.

              “You’re damn right I don’t have to,” he said, with more of the grin. “If anything, the girls want to pay me after…Shit, this is a dollar-fifty?”

              “Special student price jack. Like I said – I can pay.” Shooting him a sideways glance: “Don’t want you to blow your load on junk food.”

              “Ooh,” he said with a sharp laugh. “She
does
know how to talk dirty.” He added another dollar. “Whatcha want?”

              “I know lots of words, not just the proper kinds. Coke, please.”

              “Diet?”

              “Regular. That artificial stuff’ll give you cancer.”

              “So will smokes.”

              “You could always quit, you know.”

              “I’d have the shakes.”

              It was easy between them, suddenly. The knowledge settled over her, wrapped around her like a warm hug. They could laugh and joke and talk, and all of it felt natural…save the rapid beating of her schoolgirl heart. She didn’t suppose she could change any of that.

              He bought her requested Coke and M&Ms, handing them over with several ribs about her diet choices. Then he said not to worry, she looked “hot as hell,” and she blushed furiously on their walk back to the classroom.

              “How’s Tonya?” she asked as they neared the door, and she felt the mood crack down the middle, like brittle glass hitting pavement. She immediately wanted to take the words back, seeing his face darken…but Tonya was there. She couldn’t ignore her. That would be romantically unhealthy of her.

              “Tonya’s out of the picture,” he said firmly, and her heart lurched.

              “She is?”

              “Definitely.”

              His expression was set at harsh, resolute angles as he turned to her. “Don’t worry about Tonya, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not going to.”

              “I wasn’t worried,” she protested.

              A smile flickered across his lips. “Yeah you were.”

              “Oh really?” She had her back to the wall, and too late she realized their positions, him leaning over her, pinning her back with a look, with his presence.

              He braced a hand on the wall beside her head and her pulse jacked up another notch. He leaned in, and she felt a little faint.

              “You were worried.” His breath smelled like cigarettes, like spearmint gum. “I think you were maybe a little bit jealous.”

              She kicked up her chin, hoping she sounded sincere. “Not even a little.”

              He chuckled.

              And then his face softened, smile becoming wistful. “Thanks.”

              “For what?”

              “You did make me feel better.” And then he stopped her heart when he said, “I’m sorry, Sam, for not noticing you in high school. I was a fucking idiot.”

              Before she could react, he leaned in and pressed a fast kiss to the corner of her mouth, a soft touch of velvet lips. And then he was pulling back, stepping away, turning to leave with one last smile.

              Sam watched him go, shaking, hand lifting to the hot brand he’d left behind on her skin. She imagined he’d left a stamp, a sizzling imprint of his lips.

              She was thirty-two, and it hadn’t even been a real kiss…but Aidan had kissed her, and that was going down in her small mental file drawer of Best Memories Ever.

October

Seven

“Ah, bloody hell…” Walsh muttered.

              Yes,
bloody
being the operative word.

              Mitch and Marcello were always hounded about being brothers, though they clearly weren’t, in a physical, genetic sense. One was lanky and blonde and rat-faced; the other was Mexican and heavyset. They worked as a team, long-standing dealers for the Lean Dogs, peddling weed and the occasional baggie of coke east of Knoxville, two of the most profitable and trustworthy dealers working under the club. They worked out of a duplex that, though sad in its age and wear, was normally tidy and clean-smelling, despite the neighborhood full of weed-choked yards and rusted heaps of old cars lining the streets.

              It was a routine stop-by, to collect cash and make sure things were running smoothly. But what Mercy and Walsh found was anything but expected.

              Front door ajar, swaying in the breeze. Copper scent of blood flooding their lungs as they stepped inside. That sudden burst of heat fresh death always left behind.

              Mitch had fallen first, face-down on the carpet, back torn apart by a blade of some sort. Something large and sharp. Marcello had been gunning for the kitchen, but must have turned at the sound of his friend going down – he was face-up, the carnage warping his familiar face and form into something pulpy and revolting.

              Walsh’s English face went white all the way up to his hairline, eyes ice-colored and glittering as he surveyed what had been done. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He was suffering an Afghanistan flashback or something.

              Mercy was more angry than disgusted; he’d seen worse than this.
Done
worse than this. It was the violation of their associates, the killing of their employees that turned his stomach.

              “I gotta clear the house,” he said, stepping over Mitch, drawing his Colt.

              “Right.” Walsh nodded and seemed to gather himself.

              The rest of the small semidetached was tidy and uninhabited. The radio was running in one of the bedrooms, and Mercy clicked it off, the silence rushing up to assault him afterward. He’d never liked being in other people’s bedrooms. That was where people allowed themselves to be vulnerable.

              This was Marcello’s room, he saw, judging by the framed photo of ‘Cello and his
madre
on the dresser. A drawer was half-open, a knotted pair of socks sitting on the top. The scent of cologne hung heavy, like he’d just sprayed it, before… He’d been going out. Socks, and body spray, and one last check of his slicked back hair in the mirror.

              “It’s clear,” Mercy said heavily as he rejoined Walsh in the main room.

              The VP had pushed back the knitted throw that veiled the lockbox kept beneath the end table. The key had been found – probably on one of the boys’ bodies – and used. The box was empty, all the cash and stash cleaned out.

              “Ah, damn it,” Mercy said.

              “Just like Fisher.”

              They took the box, and left out the front door; no sense hiding. The neighbor had seen them go in.

              Walsh sat down heavily on the front step, and Mercy followed suit. “The knife was smart; no one will have heard anything.”

              “Yeah,” Mercy agreed. “Which means we’re gonna have to do cleanup.” He gestured to their bikes. “Otherwise, we’ll be suspects one and two.”

              Walsh’s hands shook as he pulled a pack of smokes from his cut pocket and lit one up, holding the smoke in his lungs a long moment before dispelling it in a rush.

              “This is bothering you,” Mercy said, stating the obvious, fishing for an explanation as to the Englishman’s unusual breach in calmness.

              Walsh nodded and took another drag. “Emmie wants to have kids.” He shot a sideways glance toward Mercy. “Just what I always wanted – to bring a kid into the world while someone’s trying to bring us down.”

              “Bit dramatic.”

              “It always starts small,” Walsh insisted. “You never expect the big explosion until the bodies are flying.”

~*~

Reaching blindly into the Fritos bag, Aidan frowned when he came up empty. He set his binoculars down and checked the bag to confirm that – yep, all gone. Damn it.

              He wiped his greasy hand on his jeans and picked up the binoculars, arm twitching in protest as he fitted them to his face again.

              In the passenger seat, Tango said, “Look, I’m all for catching this guy, but you’ve gotta admit, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”

              Aidan glanced over at him sharply. “You’re gonna puss out?”

              “Puss out of what? Sitting here? Not clocking hours at the shop?” He looked like hell: bags and shadows beneath his eyes, bristle on his cheeks. He looked tired and pale, like he was slowly fading away. Aidan was half afraid he’d look over one day, and his best friend would turn into vapor, ghosting off on the wind. “I need to work. We both do.” His lifted brows were meant to drive the point home, but fell short of convincing, the way his whole face sagged with exhaustion.

              “You don’t have to sit here with me,” Aidan said, only half as harsh as he’d set out to be.

              Tango shrugged and sent his gaze through the windshield, toward Hamilton House.

              “Ian not letting you sleep?” Aidan asked, not really wanting the answer, unable to keep quiet.

              For the first time, Tango didn’t react with defensive denial. “He always lets me sleep,” he said quietly. “He makes me eat when I don’t want to.”

              “Then why is being with him killing you?”

              “I’m not with him. I’m not with anyone.”

              “Kev, if this is about Jasmine–”

              “Look.”

              Aidan snapped around, binoculars at the ready.

              They were parked alongside the broken-down carriage house in back of the mansion, screened by a few branches Aidan had dragged into place. They had a narrow view through the windshield, but given the position of the carriage house, they could see anyone going into or out of the mansion through the front or back doors. They’d been staking Hamilton House out for a few weeks now, and so far had seen nothing.

              Their luck was changing today.

              It was a crisp day, and the man Aidan clocked heading up to the porch wore a hoodie, the hood pulled up, cinched tight. Average height, a little on the small side, head ducked so his face wasn’t visible. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait hurried.

              “The dealer. Gotta be.”

              Tango sat up tall, tension tightening his frame. “What do you wanna do?”

              He considered a moment – truly considered. A year or so ago, he would have jumped to immediate action. But…he waited. Weighed their options.

              “Let’s go in the back,” he decided. “Real quiet, and see what we can see.”

              The rear porch steps groaned the moment they hit them, and Aidan winced, balanced up on his toes as he navigated the sagging boards gracelessly. By contrast, Tango skipped all the way up to the door without a sound, damn his light dancer feet.

              Why no one had ever bothered to lock the house up, he didn’t know. Probably all the copper pipe and radiators had been pilfered. The back door opened with a touch, swinging inward and stirring thick clouds of dust. They drew their guns and ghosted down the hallway, pausing before they reached the ballroom, flattening themselves to the wall. Listening.

              “…nah, I’m here. No. Uh-huh. Sure…” The guy in the hoodie was obviously on the phone. His voice echoed strangely in the wide room, and Aidan couldn’t tell much about it thanks to the distortion.

              “…I’ll check in after. Yeah.” Low beep of the phone hanging up. Shuffling of feet.

              Aidan looked at Tango.
Yeah?

             
Yeah
.

              They charged out of the hallway together. “Hands up!” Aidan shouted.

              The guy spun, gaze snapping to the barrels of the guns trained on his face.

              His
familiar
face.

              A face Aidan had last seen in this same scenario: holding a gun, those eyes flooded with sudden terror and understanding.

              His muscles turned to water. “Greg,” he gasped, and Tango made a similar sound beside him.

              “How is he–” Tango started.

              Aidan didn’t hear whatever else he said. He was tumbling, tumbling, headlong into a memory that was a nightmare. The cattle property, wind lapping at his face, Greg begging with him, pleading…

              “Aidan!” Tango snapped. “Why is he still alive?”

              He slammed back into his body, and though he was shaking, it was anger that overtook him, skinned his lips off his teeth. “I told you to stay the fuck away,” he hissed. “I let you go! And that’s how you pay me back? Killing Fisher? Dealing his dope in my city?”

              Greg had calmed from his initial shock, and stood watching him with quiet eyes, palms held outward to show he was unarmed. “You couldn’t shoot me before. Can you do it now?”

              “You’re damn right–”

              Chaos. The buyers tumbled into the room from the front hallway, a knot of college boys, swearing, gesturing, shouting. It diverted Aidan’s attention just long enough…

              And then Greg was running, slipping around the corner.              “The side door!” Aidan shouted.

              Tango surged ahead of him, the faster runner, and they barreled through the butler’s pantry, the kitchen. The door stood open, sunlight streaming in.

              Greg was gone.

~*~

The mood in the common room made Aidan’s skin itch as he entered. All patched members were present, called in from their jobs across Dartmoor, everyone gathered around a table where Ratchet and Walsh were making notations on a map of the city and surrounding counties.

              The confession he’d meant to spill –
“Dad, look, about Greg…”
– shriveled up in his mouth and he swallowed it down. “What’s going on?”

              Walsh glanced up and pulled the pen from his mouth. “Five of our dealers dead.”

              “Mitch and Marcello we found,” Mercy said, gesturing between himself and the VP.

              “We checked in on Scott,” Rottie said of himself and RJ, “and he’d been dead for a while.”

              “Anthony and Cracker are gone too,” Briscoe said grimly.

              “Jesus.” Aidan felt his knees tremble and locked them tight. “How?”

              “Knife,” everyone said at once.

              He should tell them about Greg. He should. But there was no way Greg had done all of this. Which meant –

              “This is on a much bigger scale than we thought,” Ghost said. His face at grim angles, eyes blazing with dark light. “It’s not a message. It’s an act of war.”

              “From…Ellison. You think?”

              “That’d be my guess.”

              Walsh looked uncharacteristically nauseas. “We pissed them off. What happened with Em…”

              “Hey,” Ghost said, turning to him, “we would have gone in there after anyone linked to us. This isn’t on you, VP. Ellison woulda made a move on us eventually.”

              Then Ghost turned back, gaze sharpening. “Where have you two been?”

              “Hamilton House,” Aidan said woodenly. “I’m still trying to find that dealer who had Fish’s stuff.”

              “Yeah, well, mystery solved it looks like,” Ghost said.

              “Yeah. Looks like.”

~*~

It had become a ritual, their trip down to the vending machines for Coke and M&Ms. Aidan came by the university every day at her class break, and side-by-side they dragged the walk out as long as possible, the breaking point at her classroom door becoming this awkward moment of suspended animation, in which they both seemed to realize that neither wanted to be the first to walk away.

              It was the best part of Sam’s day, hands down. Better than dragging Erin out of bed, whipping together sack lunches for everyone, commuting and hustling across campus to make her first class. It was better even than her favorite lines of iambic pentameter. Better than the words that flowed off her pen when she sat down at her bedroom desk each night. The bright white slice of Aidan’s smile; the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth; the way the razor never really took his beard stubble down to the skin. The way he smelled like wind and wildness, and the careful curve of his rough fingers around her elbow, like he was afraid he might break her or spook her.