Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) (16 page)

~*~

Candy showed up about twenty minutes later. He came into the office without preamble and threw himself down in the chair Jinx had occupied with a deep, tired sigh. “Jesus.”

              She set aside her list. “I take it you weren’t arrested.”

              “No.” He looked at her and his gaze sharpened. “You alright?”

              “Fine.” Except she wasn’t. Jinx’s visit had rattled her, harder than she’d even thought at first. Back home, she knew the contempt of the club members had everything to do with her gender. But Jinx hadn’t come across as gender-biased. Whatever his motivation, it was less trivial.

              She’d reasoned that he was worried about the ATF, same as her. But she’d sensed a threat beneath his questions. Worse: he’d suggested she was some sort of threat to Candy’s wellbeing. As if, between the two of them, he was the victim somehow.

              “You look like you might throw up,” he said, jerking her from her thoughts.             

              “What? No. No, I’m fine.”

              “You sure?”

              “Yeah.”

              He left it alone. “What are you working on?”

              “Stuff we need for the Odell’s project.” She slid the list across to him. “It’s a start, anyway.”

              His eyes skimmed down the paper, and then came back to her. “A start? This is, like, fifty things.”

              “Ranked according to estimated cost, cheapest at the top.”

              He smiled a little. “What must it be like in your head?”

              She smiled back. “Organized, mostly.”

              He stared at her a long moment, smile slowly slipping, then looked back at the paper. “My mom used to make these intense shopping lists – I mean, notes in the margins, underlines, that kinda shit. And she’d leave them on Dad’s desk. She was organized like that.” He cleared his throat.

              Her chest was tight, suddenly. “How long’s she been gone?” she asked, quietly.

              “I was…” His brows crimped as he searched through his memory. “I was twenty-five. So…Christ, twenty years.” His head lifted, face stamped with the echoes of loss. “It seems like it was ten minutes ago, sometimes.”

              “It was a car accident, wasn’t it?” she asked, quietly. News traveled through the MC; when an important member’s wife was killed, it made the airwaves.

              He nodded. “Overturned semi. Ten car pileup. The cops said it must have been instant.” His eyes were trained on her, but he wasn’t seeing her, looking inward instead. “I had to drag Dad away from the scene. He wanted to…he wouldn’t…they were going to arrest him.”

              It was hard to swallow. “Derek, I’m sorry.”

              The grin returned, just a ghost of an expression. “Why? You were, what, six at the time? Not your fault.”

              “No, but I can be sorry for your loss. And sorry that I reminded you of her.”

              The smile firmed, held steady. “Aw, that’s not a bad thing, sweetheart.”

              She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so many physical reactions to a man’s smile. Probably never.

              “You hungry?” he asked, surprising her.

              “Not terribly, but…”

              “Let’s go get dinner.”

              “I think Darla’s making something.”

              “Yeah. Don’t care. Let’s go get dinner. Just you and me.”

              How did a girl say no to that? Not possible. “Okay.”

Fourteen

Candy

He hadn’t been on a date since he was in his twenties. The club had guaranteed female companionship of all varieties, and he hadn’t put much stock in conversation and getting to know one another. For years, he’d worried only about his MC; women had been afterthoughts, a means to an end. He’d never entertained the idea of sitting down with a girl, and really talking with her.

              But for some reason, seeing Michelle in his big leather chair, so much more real and responsible than the groupies he’d been around, he’d wanted to work for it a little. The mental comparison he’d made – Michelle with his mother – had startled him, but he hadn’t rejected it. It had seemed more than appealing, all of a sudden, to sit down, eat, take his time, and forget all the shit that was bothering him.

              She held tight to him during the ride. Looped her arm through his when he offered it out of long-buried chivalry.

              He was finding more and more that he liked their height disparity. The way that, though she was self-possessed and sure of herself, she still had that sweetness of youth. He was excited to spend time with her, he realized, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Feeling lighthearted and boyish, he decided to take her somewhere nice.

              “This isn’t the place with the seventy-two ounce steak, is it?” she asked in the parking lot.

              “You did your Amarillo research. But no, this isn’t it.”

              Instead, it was a quiet, dimly-lit place. Not fancy, but not tourist-cheesy either. The hostess had one of those blank expressions he valued in restaurant staff; she didn’t look too closely at his cut, or at Michelle’s youth, just flashed a professional smile and showed them to a secluded booth with high, wooden backs, and a single overhead lamp.

              “This is nice,” Michelle said when they were settled across from one another. She glanced around their shadowy corner, the black and white old west prints on the wall above their table, smile plucking at the corners of her mouth. “Feels a little like home.”

              “I haven’t been inside Baskerville Hall since it was fixed  up.” His last trip to London, it had still been a sad, closed-up pub with a bunch of dusty, empty rooms above it; it had smelled suspiciously of rats and mold.

              “It’s splendid,” she said, a sudden wide smile lighting up her face. She was beautiful when she did that, all pink cheeks and half-moon eyes. “It looks a hundred years old, and smells like hops, and there’s heaps of old photos all over the walls.”

              “Am I in any of them?” he asked, mostly teasing.             

              But she was still smiling, looking at him across the table, leaning to rest her chin on her hand like she found him terribly interesting. “Yes, actually. We’ve got some old shots from Sturgis.”

              “No shit?”

              “No shit.”

              The waitress appeared at the end of their table, dressed in sensible black, no hot pants, no cleavage. She jotted down their drinks and then melted back into the gloom of the restaurant, leaving them alone together again.

              “I thought this might be more to your liking than the Armadillo,” he said.

              “It is. You’re not missing your Barbies, though?” Her brows lifted.

              Little shit, he thought, affectionately. She wasn’t going to leave that alone, was she? “I can promise you, I don’t ever spare them a thought. That’s just a way to pass the time.”

              “And what am I, then?”

              Their drinks arrived, discreetly placed on cocktail napkins.

              “Give us a minute,” Candy told the waitress before she could ask about their dinner, and she nodded, withdrew.

              He looked at Michelle again, hair a rich deep gold beneath the lamp, gaze cautious. What was she?

              “I think you’re somebody who hasn’t had a whole lot of fun in her life,” he said, honestly, encouraged by the surprise in her expression. “I think you grew up quick, and all you ever worried about was work. And now you’re a pain in my ass,” he said, grinning, “’cause you have no idea what to do when a man pays attention to you.”

              “I know what to do,” she protested, but it was weak.

              “No you don’t. It’s supposed to be fun, baby doll. Dinner, and drinks, and dancing.”

              “You dance?”

              “And sex.” His felt his grin sharpen. “The sex is supposed to be especially fun.”

              Her face colored, and she glanced away. Nervous.

              “Does that embarrass you?” he asked.

              “No. It’s just…” She didn’t finish, staring at her wineglass.

              “Like I said. You don’t do anything fun. Not even sex.”

              “Not lately.” Her gaze returned to his. “But I did. I mean, I have…before, and it wasn’t bad,” she added in a rush, blush deepening by the second, until he thought her face might catch fire. “It was good, even, wonderful. I guess I just don’t see it as something lighthearted, the way you do.”

              “No, no, not lighthearted,” he corrected. “Fun. Heavy, and dirty, and sweaty, and fun. Trust me, I take it very seriously.”

              She looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, but she smiled. “You’re awful.”

              “Awfully honest.”

              She laughed.

              “Who was he?” he asked, too curious to keep quiet.

              “Sorry?”

              “Whichever one of your dad’s guys you had ‘wonderful’ sex with. Who was he?”

              She grew more serious. “His name is Paul. He’s good friends with Albie. You all call him–”

              “Loon,” he finished, and a mental image of the guy popped into his head. Dark-haired, handsome in a sharp, British sort of way. Much too old for her.

              He felt like he’d been punched, suddenly. “Him?”

              “Yes, him.”

              “Really?”

              “Really. Is there something wrong with that?”

              “He’s…” Why was it hard to breathe? “He’s shady.”

              She laughed again. “So are you, biker man.”

              “Hey, I’m an outlaw. I’m not shady. There’s a difference.”

              If her smile got any wider, her eyes would be forced shut. “You know, I think you have a jealous streak.”

              “Do not.”

              “You didn’t seem to like me talking to Gringo earlier.”

              “He’s shady too,” he said, and when she laughed yet again, he felt as sulky as a teenager. “If Loon’s not shady, why did he try to keep y’all a secret? Huh? Why didn’t he tell everyone you were his old lady?”

              That got her. Her smile slipped. “Because I was a teenager.”

              “So?”

              “He didn’t want to anger my dad.”

              “I’ll call your dad right now and tell him everything I’m gonna do to you tonight.” He laid his phone on the table to prove it wasn’t an idle threat.

              “Candy,” she said softly. “Don’t.”

              “The guy was an asshole,” he said, and knew he meant it. If the man had been standing beside their table, he would have put his fist through his teeth.

              “Well, I was young, and–”

              “So? Age doesn’t mean shit. You know what this club is, what we do. Do you think we’re all that worked up about age and socially acceptable relationships?” he asked with a derisive snort. “But loyalty to your brothers, that kind of honor, that’s important. You were just a baby, and he should have stepped up. He shouldn’t have ever touched you if he didn’t plan on making you his old lady.”

              And boom. There they were: the words that had been teasing at the edges of his mind since he’d first laid eyes on her. A member’s daughter. A member’s young daughter: no one needed to go there unless he planned to go all the way. Because she was Phillip’s girl, because she’d been raised by this club, because she’d sweated and bled for it, there could be no half-measures. She would be a queen, or she would be respected enough to be left alone.

              A queen or nothing. And he’d touched her. Been to bed with her.

              What in the actual hell was going on in his brain?

              “Shit.” He reached for his phone. “Now I really do gotta call your dad.”

              “No!” She surged across the table, nearly spilling her wine, hand landing over his on top of the phone. Her eyes were huge. “Don’t. You can’t.”

              “Why not?”

              “Because we don’t even know…and it’s…” She was panting. “It’s still so early. And what if…”

              “What if this doesn’t go anywhere?” he guessed.

              She sighed and slid back down into her seat. “Exactly. I can’t imagine you’re ready to give up the bachelor life.”

              Every woman he’d ever followed home from the bar had pushed for more, for some sort of definition or commitment. But Michelle doubted even the possibility of such a thing, and that stung for some reason.

              “There’s no sense angering Dad,” she said to the tabletop.

              Damn her. For being practical, for guarding herself from his very real threat, for being the mature one in this situation. For pissing him off like this. Just damn her.

              But she was a kid, and she’d never had a real boyfriend, and no one had ever loved her properly. So he said, “Michelle,” quietly, gently, and her head lifted. “What do you want, baby doll?”

              She shrugged, and looked tearful. “I don’t know. To not have to worry so much, maybe. I don’t know,” she repeated.

              “Well how about I tell you what I want, and we’ll see if that works?”

              She nodded.

              “I want to buy you a nice steak dinner, and change the subject. And then I wanna go home and take you to bed.”

              She nodded again, and reached for her wine. “That – that sounds good.”

~*~

Michelle

The steak was delicious, but she couldn’t eat half of it. Two glasses of red wine and a slow, easy conversation that moved from one meaningless topic to the next lulled her into a sort of low simmering expectation. She liked watching him eat, punctuating talking points with a wave of his fork, reaching for his drink too many times. She thought about asking if he’d had too much to ride, but he was steady and clear-eyed when they finally slid out of the booth.

              She knotted her fingers in the front of his shirt on the ride back to the clubhouse, face pressed to his shoulder, wind cold against her closed eyelids.

              The clubhouse activity had wound down to a few stragglers in front of the TV, the lights on low.

              “Where’ve you been?” Jinx called as they crossed through the common room.

              Michelle stiffened, and felt Candy’s arm tighten around her waist in reaction.

              “I took a pretty girl to dinner. What’d you losers do?” he shot back.

              Someone laughed, but she didn’t think it was Jinx.

              Then they were out of the room, moving down the hall to the sanctuary. “Fuck that dorm business,” he said. “Come on in.”

              It was the same as before, her first night here, but she was now viewing it through a different lens: that of his invited guest. His date, she guessed she could call it.

              It was cozy, unpretentious. Thick rugs over the planks, massive television, plush arm chairs set in front of it, an end table between them. A shabby sofa against one wall. Drinks cabinet against another. She had a view of the kitchen, tucked away for the night, the door that led to the back porch. Hallway to his room, hallway to Jenny’s private space.

              They were alone for the moment.

              Candy shrugged out of his cut and jacket and hung them up just inside the door. “Let me get yours,” he offered, and she turned her back to him, shrugged it off her shoulders. His fingers brushed her arms, his knuckles moved down her back as he drew the old leather jacket from her.

              A shiver moved down her spine, rippled across her skin. Anticipation, fueled with the heat of knowledge. The second time, she was starting to think, was going to be twice as thrilling as the first.

              And Candy, to her delight, was in no hurry. A real man; he knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to press and fumble like a green boy to get there.

              “You want a drink?” he asked, moving toward the cabinet, tossing her an easy smile over his considerable shoulder. His white t-shirt clung to the solid planes of muscle down his back, tapering to his waist, driving her a little bit nuts.