Fearless
Date: 2015-01-12 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary; Contemporary Romance; Dark; Suspense; Adult; Crime; Motorcycle; New Adult; Romantic Suspense
Description: From the author of the Walker Series comes a family drama like no other, a sprawling character epic, a forbidden love story full of angst, adventure, heartbreak, and second chances. Welcome to the mother chapter of the Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club; meet the girl raised by outlaws, and the fearsome man who will always hold her heart. Ava Teague left for college with a busted heart and a deeply ingrained love for her biker family. She returns home to Knoxville for grad school, just in time for her father to accept the burden of president…and for Mercy Lécuyer to roll back into town, looking to patc
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Secondhand Smoke
Dartmoor Book IV
____________________

Lauren Gilley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Names and characters are the property of the author and may not be duplicated.

SECONDHAND SMOKE

ISBN -13: 978-1523218509

Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Gilley

Cover photograph Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Gilley

HP Press®
Atlanta, GA

All rights reserved.

The Dartmoor Series

Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke

The Lean Dogs

Ghost – President

Walsh – Vice President

Michael – Sergeant at Arms

Ratchet – Secretary

Hound – Tracker

Rottie – Tracker

Mercy – Extractor

Aidan – Ghost’s son

Tango – Aidan’s best friend

Dublin

Briscoe

RJ

Troy

Carter

Littlejohn

Harry

Collier – incarcerated

The Old Ladies

Maggie – Ghost

Ava- Mercy

Holly – Michael

Nell – Hound

Mina – Rottie

Jackie – Collier

Samantha – Aidan

“So, when this loose behaviour I throw off
And pay the debt I never promisèd,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;
And like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I’ll so offend to make offence a skill,
Redeeming time when men think least I will.”
― William Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part 1

“There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.”
― Vincent van Gogh

SECONDHAND
SMOKE

~*~

I wonder if they knew it would come to this. The Romantics, courting sunrises and standing poetically on grassy overlooks. Inhaling God and exhaling prose fit to make men weep. Could they have predicted such sea changes, do you think? Do you think they would recognize us now? All our talk of organs, and scandal, and fucking, as if any of it meant anything. Do you think they would mourn the death of Romance?

The words of men and women dead two hundred years hold more meaning than any I’ve heard breathed in my own century. We have to keep the flame alive, we few of us who can. We have to think that Love is something more than a sequence of symbols on a cellphone screen. We have to think we can touch it, cup it in our hands.

I have to think so, anyway. Because Love is still very much alive, and I won’t let go of it. Not for anything.

Not when it’s real.

I thought myself in love once, but I had no idea. Not then. Not until now. Now I know the taste of his skin. My hands know every texture of his scars. If that’s love, then it holds me in thrall. It’s a poison. And it’s perfect. And it’s going to get me killed…

~*~

From the unpublished draft of “A Novel,” by Samantha Walton

September

One

“I’m pregnant. And it’s yours.”

A weapon of mass destruction, comprised of five words, and a vicious stare. It struck him at impossible speed, blindsided him, exploded in his brain and left behind a mushroom cloud – and nothing else. No protest, no question, no conscious thought.

He didn’t remember leaving Briar Hall; had no idea how he’d ended up on the curb in front of Leroy’s Gas ‘n’ Grocery. He was staring at his boots, and he had a bottle of Jack Daniels Honey in his hand. He tipped it up, pressed his lips to the sticky mouth of the bottle and opened his throat, let it burn a hole down into his belly.

The night in the garage – that’s when it must have happened. She’d been feral, wicked, and he’d been too caught up in hating her and wishing she’d been worth something more than sex. They hadn’t been careful.

But did he believe her?

The whiskey tasted hideous, but he relished the way it clouded his veins, filled his head with a heavy dullness that eased the sharpness of his fury.

Pregnant. And it was his.

He’d never wanted anything less.

~*~

Too much to drink with dinner. Blood moving through his brain in sluggish pulses, a deep gong counterpoint to the throb of the music. A lazy night in the empty clubhouse, filled with the slow simmering promise of only the three of them.

Just not the three Jasmine had originally requested.

Tango and Carter left Briar Hall and headed to the clubhouse, not entirely sure if Aidan intended to take his bitch princess back to their place, and not wanting to tempt fate for even the slightest possibility. The couple had been talking on Walsh’s porch, the last Tango had seen.

They grabbed beers they didn’t need and settled in on one of the long couches, in front of flickering, mindless late night TV.

A throat clearing. A feminine sound.

Jasmine appeared, goddess-like, hair cascading down around her face, dressed in nothing but her smooth tan skin and one of Tango’s old shirts, the buttons only half-fastened, a tempting wedge of skin visible down the middle.

“Well hey, boys.”

“Hey, baby,” Tango greeted, warmth blooming in his chest, face lifting in a tired smile. The sight of her never failed to shoot sex through his veins, kindle heat deep in his belly. His eyes tracked the sway of her hips as she crossed the room to get to him. His skin prickled as she lowered onto the couch beside him. Between them. Smelling of flowers and sun-dried laundry.

“Where’ve y’all been?” she asked, and reached to tidy his hair. Light touches, scrape of her nails against his scalp.

“Dinner at Walsh’s place,” Carter answered, before Tango could.

“He lives on a farm now, doesn’t he?”

“Not much like any farm I’ve ever seen,” Carter said with a snort. “The horses live better than I do.”

“His old lady have money or something?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.”

Meaningless words; beneath their flat innocence, Tango could feel the buzz of restless energy. Jazz wasn’t looking for a conversation, she never was. The air around her crackled with sex, and when her eyes slid over to him, he saw the mischievous spark in their depths.

She bit her lip in a flash of girlish excitement, and asked him a silent question.

He didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no.

She winked at him, and he knew it was off to the races.

“What a lucky girl I am,” Jasmine said, and reached to trace a fingertip along the shell of Carter’s ear. “Sitting here with two blonde boys.”

Carter stiffened all over; his shoulders tightened up. His head turned slowly, fractionally, gaze fixed on Jasmine with surprise…and wonder. A little wonder. Had this been a non-club woman, he probably wouldn’t have thought anything of her statement. But he knew Jazz at this point, the way her dirty mind worked.

Jasmine smiled at him. “You don’t have a little girlfriend stashed somewhere, do you?” Her voice dropped with every word, that purring seductive tone Tango had heard so many times. He knew she wasn’t exclusive with him, but he never saw her turn the charm toward someone else right in front of him. It sent a jolt through his system. His cock stirred behind his fly, and his stomach clenched.

“No,” Carter said slowly, and his blue eyes came to Tango. What the hell? they asked.

Tango shrugged and took a long pull on his beer.

“Aw.” Jasmine gave a pretend pout. “That’s too bad.” She grinned. “For the girls. Not for me.”

Her hand slid down the side of Carter’s neck, flirted with the collar of his cut, his t-shirt. Opened against his chest and smoothed down. Slowly. Across his stomach. Landing in his lap.

Carter jerked a little, sucked in a breath. He looked at Tango again, his gaze almost frantic.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Jasmine asked, voice gentle, deep. “You ever done this before?”

His eyes were big, a little frenzied, chest lifting as he breathed. He was aroused – that much was evident by the bulge Jasmine was rubbing through his jeans. But he wasn’t sure if this was against protocol. A good kid, Carter – always conscientious.

“I’ve done it plenty,” he said, voice tight, and looked like he strained not to lift into her touch. “It’s just that…” Another look thrown Tango’s direction. Help me here, man. This is your woman.

Jasmine turned to glance at Tango, and grinned before putting her attention back on Carter. “Oh, you’re worried? Don’t be, baby. Lemme tell you something about our pretty Tango-baby. He promised he’d get me a present.” Her hand continued to rub at the boy’s straining erection, working him with slow skill over the fly of his jeans.

“Yeah?” he asked distractedly, eyes going to her ministrations. “What sorta present?”

She reached for the button of his jeans. Thumbed it open with deft precision. “He promised he’d talk to Aidan for me. About the three of us.” The sound of the zipper going down seemed thunderous to Tango. Or maybe that was just all the beer. Or maybe the way the blood was pounding. “The three of us together,” Jazz continued. “But he hasn’t done it yet.”

She pulled Carter’s cock out, took it in both her hands. “Maybe,” she purred, “it’s just as well. ‘Cause then we wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

Tango watched, as if in a drugged hallucination, as Jasmine got up onto the couch on her knees between them, her back to him, and bent forward, leaned low. Took Carter’s stiff cock into her mouth.

Carter’s head kicked back against the sofa and he inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring.

Tango knew just what her mouth felt like, could relate perfectly to that rush of sensation.

She reached back with one hand and hiked her shirt up, exposing the firm curves of her ass. She was naked, of course, and Tango knew what she wanted.

He reached between her legs, found her damp sex and stroked her.

Years ago, when he was just a kid, before Jasmine, there had been Misty. And it had been her, and him, and Aidan in that dorm room, the night of Aidan’s deflowering, and that woman had been wicked and insatiable, and she’d wanted both of them. That’s how it went with these groupies, didn’t it? They did everything, had everyone, and eventually, none of it was enough. He’d thought – stupidly – that maybe he and Jazz could be something more for each other. That she’d stop seeking out the others, stop needing that reckless high of the forbidden.

But she couldn’t change. And neither could he; after all, he was just a sex toy. That’s all he’d ever be.

Jasmine sat up with a slow slurping sound, rubbing her damp lips together, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming.

“Tango,” she murmured, looking drugged as she turned to him. “Can we? Please?”

He spent most of his nights in Ian Byron’s bed these days. Who was he to say no to anything?

“Sure, baby.”

Her grin was bright with excitement as she stood and motioned for them to follow her.

Carter tucked himself away as he stood, spine curled awkwardly as he struggled against the overwhelming effects of arousal.

“Hey, man,” he whispered as they started after Jasmine. “I’m not trying to…I mean, if you’re not okay with this…”

“I want Jazz to have what she wants,” Tango said simply, without inflection. “It’s fine. All of it. Any of it.”

And what Jazz wanted in this moment was a thrill. She ushered them into a dorm, closed the door, and then came to Tango, beaming, face flushed. She braced her hands on his chest and stretched up on her toes to kiss him, pressing her breasts into his pecs. She slid her tongue into his mouth, and Tango knew all too well the taste of man on her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she stepped back. “This is gonna be so fun. I’ll make it so good for you, baby. For both of you,” she added, and then her attention went to Carter.

The new boy. The younger boy. The fresh plaything she’d never had before.

She kissed him for long moments, until his mouth softened, until his hands found her hips and clamped down hard.

Tango felt the faint stirrings of jealousy, but worse than that was the overwhelming sadness of it all.

Jazz finally pulled back, and she undid the first button of the shirt she wore, eased it aside so her breasts were exposed. Carter’s eyes flicked down to them; he wet his lips. And then he looked at Tango.

You’re sure? Is this alright?

She undid the rest of the buttons and the shirt slid down off her shoulders, landed on the floor with a soft sound. The lamp gilded her nakedness. Carved deep shadows beneath her heavy breasts, in the sharp inward grooves of her waist. Tango had the rear view, but Carter had the front, and Tango watched, saw the other man’s eyes drink her up.

“Take your clothes off,” Jasmine said, voice rough, low. “Both of you.”

Sounds of boots hitting the floor, zippers, belt buckles, shirts and jeans landing like fall leaves.

Carter was beautiful, densely muscled, his skin smooth, his cock standing proudly.

Jasmine made a happy purring sound in the back of her throat. “Hmm, look at you.” She reached for Carter’s sex, curled her hand tight around his cock and stroked, stroked, stroked…until his hips flexed and he grunted through clenched teeth. His eyes came to Tango, half-drugged with lust, but a little cautious. Asking again, wondering one last time.

Tango nodded.

Jasmine stepped back toward the bed, towing Carter with her. “Come on, baby,” she whispered to him. “Let’s play.”

That was the moment Tango watched shame leave the boy; instinct took over.

Jazz laid back on the bed, making a sensual show of it, legs parting, hips lifting. She cupped her breasts and stroked them. Licked her lips slowly.

Carter was done hesitating, obviously. He climbed on the bed, between her legs. Passed a hand up her stomach, nudged her hand out of the way, closed his over her breast.

His other hand went to her sex, touched her boldly.

She laughed softly. “Yeah, you want it, little boy. I’ve seen you watching me.”

He pinched her nipple, tugged at it, his eyes feral. “I want to fuck you so damn bad.”

She rolled her hips as his fingers worked against her. “So do it. Fuck me good, newbie. Show me what you’re made of.”

Tango snagged a condom off the nightstand and tossed it onto the bed. “Wrap it up.”

Carter tore at the foil, rolled the thing on.

“Hurry, baby,” Jazz murmured. “I’m getting lonesome over–”

Carter reared up and drove into her, and her words dissolved into a sharp gasp. Her mouth opened, lips a painted O, head kicking back.

Cater buried himself to the hilt in her glistening sex. “Fuck,” he breathed. He braced his hands on the mattress, and started to move, slowly at first.

Jasmine put her hands on his shoulders, stared up at him a moment, gaze transfixed as he rode her.

Then she seemed to remember Tango. “Here, baby boy.” Her voice was breathy, uncharacteristic. “Come get in my mouth.”

He got onto his knees on the mattress at her head, took his cock in his hand, guided it to her waiting lips. She took him in, clamped tight around him, wet and warm. And he took her mouth, while his club brother took her pussy.

Tango’s eyes were everywhere. On Jasmine’s slick lips around his cock as he pushed into her mouth and then withdrew, cradling her head, keeping his rhythm slow because he could see the way the sex was consuming her. On Carter, as the complex musculature of his back flexed and strained, his hips grinding, thrusting. It was spectacular, the sight of him between Jasmine’s thighs, driving his cock into her, body torqueing as he went deeper, harder. He grunted and cursed. He gripped Jasmine’s thigh and angled her leg, spread her wider, took the penetration deeper. He dropped his head over her breasts, covered her nipples with his tongue. And Jazz seemed to levitate, bowing upward into his mouth, into his driving cock, her hips trying to meet the kiss of his, moaning as she sucked on Tango. The sounds were a vibration through her mouth, shooting up his cock.

Tango pulled out of her mouth, sat back, hard and aching, watching. She kicked her head back and gasped. “Oh. Oh. Oooohhhh.” He knew the flush of her cheeks, the way she bit her lip – a real orgasm, and not a show.

Carter made a sharp growling sound and tensed, ass clenching as he drove into her hard, pressed her down into the mattress, and found his own release.

Jazz heaved a deep, satisfied sigh; ran her hands down Carter’s back, to his ass, squeezing, holding him where he was. Both of them panting, gleaming with sweat. A moment Tango should never have been witness to, much less a part of.

Then Jazz turned her head and looked at him. “Baby boy. Come here to me.”

An invitation. The woman who made him feel like both a sheltered boy and a man. And a man who had no idea of his sordid history; didn’t know that in a way, his own nakedness was as much a part of the temptation as Jasmine’s.

“Tango,” Jazz prodded.

He plucked two condoms off the nightstand and joined them.

~*~

Aidan had to close one eye behind his nighttime goggles on the way to the clubhouse, but he managed not to wipe out or crash into another vehicle. Wouldn’t that just be perfect? His epic turnaround had been prompted by an accident – and when that didn’t work, it would be back to the asphalt he went. Splat.

But he arrived in one piece, staggering off the bike once it was parked in front of the clubhouse, head tipping back as he sucked cool night air into his paper-dry mouth.

The stars cartwheeled overhead. The plain gray façade of the clubhouse snapped in and out of focus. The black dog affixed to the siding was running, long legs reaching…

He was at an unheard-of point of drunkenness. He’d never in his life been this wasted and still been on his feet.

But the fury was still there, flooding his veins, tangling with the whiskey in a way that made him think he’d breathe fire if he tried to speak.

She’d done it on purpose, hadn’t she? Gotten pregnant. That’s what women did – they trapped you, pinned you to them for life. Drained you of your money and your soul, and all with those five words:

“I’m pregnant, and it’s yours.”

He snarled up at the sky, but the stars ignored him, dancing and swirling and refusing to keep their constellations.

“Bitch,” he said to Tonya, though she wasn’t there to hear.

The ground heaved beneath him as he walked to the front door. One way, and then the next. He stumbled and caught himself against the wall. Took three tries to turn the knob and let himself in.

He wanted there to be a rampaging party waiting for him, some den of heathens where he could drink and fuck and smoke the hatred away. But the common room was empty. TV rumbling to itself. Two beers sitting on the coffee table, cold condensation running down their sides.

Fresh beers.

Someone was here.

The back hall lengthened as he walked down it, like he was in a funhouse. His head pounded, the blood thrusting against the backs of his eyes with each beat of his pulse.

If he so much as smelled Jack Daniels Honey after this night was over, he’d probably puke on the spot.

Damn you, Tonya.

Damn women.

He heard moaning. Deep, highly-aroused, feminine moaning. Porno material, the kind you dreamed about hearing when you were inside a woman.

Women – the stuff of both dreams and nightmares.

All the dorm doors stood ajar, clean and ready for occupancy. All but one, a seam of light flashing along the floor where it was shut up tight.

Aidan didn’t knock; he’d spotted the bikes in the parking lot. He opened the door and nearly fell inside, catching himself against the jamb and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

A whole lot of naked skin greeted his glassy eyes. Tango. Carter. Jasmine between them. She was groaning and undulating, chanting “yes, yes” in solid agreement with the double penetration situation they had going on.

A good old everyday occurrence in the MC world. Some overwrought groupie wanting to be fucked from every direction, treated like a piece of meat. They were all the same, weren’t they?

Women.

Aidan pushed off the doorframe and fumbled at his cut, managed to shrug out of it. His hands were made of lead as he found the hem of his shirt and peeled it over his head. He didn’t think it was possible, given how much he’d had to drink, but his cock stirred to life, asking to join the party.

“My turn next?” he asked, and walked toward the bed.

~*~

Jasmine dragged in a huge breath and launched into another coughing fit, choking, gasping for the breath that had been denied her those few precious seconds.

“Is she okay?” Tango asked between his teeth.

“Yeah,” was Carter’s terse, furious response. “I got her. You get him under control.”

Tango dug his elbow into Aidan’s windpipe, until the guy gasped and his eyes bugged.

“Shit,” he wheezed. “Shit, Kev…”

The door clicked and the sound of Jasmine’s coughing dimmed as she and Carter moved down the hall.

Tango dug his elbow in another notch, just because the anger wouldn’t ebb inside him. Because Aidan was drunk off his ass, and he didn’t know how much force it would take to get through to him.

“Kev,” Aidan gasped. “Kevin.”

It had all gone so terribly, terribly sideways. One moment it had been the two of them filling Jasmine, and he’d been building toward the wildest orgasm of his life. And then Aidan had come in, joined them. “Don’t reach above your means, junior,” he’d told Carter, his words slurred. He’d shoved the younger member aside, had taken his place at Jasmine’s sex.

And she’d been ecstatic, all purrs and moans and deep gasps.

Until Aidan wrapped both hands around her throat, called her a slut, and tried to choke her to death.

Tango had thrown his drunken best friend to the floor, and he was pinning him down now, boiling with murderous fury.

“What in the fuck is wrong with you?” Tango hissed in his face. “Were you trying to kill her?”

Aidan licked his lips, started to answer. His breath stank of sweet whiskey.

“I swear to God,” Tango said, “I love you, and you’re my best friend in the world, but you touch her again, and I’ll break you in two. You do not touch Jazz. Understand? Not ever again.”

Aidan stared at him a long moment, chest heaving, brown eyes far, far away. Then they closed, and his face pinched, and he drew in a shuddering breath. “She’s pregnant,” he groaned. “I got her pregnant.”

Tango’s skin shriveled. “Jazz?”

“Tonya.”

“Oh, shit.”

“She told me tonight.” Fat, drunken tears leaked from the corners of Aidan’s eyes and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “I didn’t use a rubber, and I knocked her up.”

Tango recalled the beautiful, cold rich girl who took horseback riding lessons with Walsh’s wife. Perfect, moneyed features, and a cruel mouth. Nothing but a heartache in designer clothes, but Aidan had been infatuated. He’d been hooked…

“Is she going to…get it taken care of?” he asked, haltingly. He couldn’t imagine a woman of that caliber allowing a biker’s seed to grow inside her.

Aidan’s face screwed up tight.

“Shit,” Tango muttered, releasing him, sitting up.

Aidan pressed his hands over his face and took another of those haunted, rattling breaths.

Tango raked his hands through his hair, suddenly aware of their mutual nakedness, and lack of a girl.

He bit at his lip. “I’m sorry, bro. Really. I don’t…” He swallowed. “But what you did to Jazz…”

“I know, I know,” Aidan groaned. “I’m sorry.”

Tango sighed. “She wanted both of us together. Guess that won’t seem so romantic after this.”

“No such thing as romantic,” Aidan mumbled. He pulled his hands away, and his eyes opened unnaturally wide, came to Tango. “Brother.” His voice was strained, lost. “Why do we put up with bitches? You and me – you’re bi. And I could learn.”
Tango sighed. “Aidan–”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No. Why…why do we…? Why don’t we just…?”

Tango sighed again and leaned over him, the long hair on top of his head falling down onto Aidan’s forehead. “Because you’re very straight, and I’m very confused, and you can’t be gay in this club.”

He kissed him, his best friend, his surrogate brother. On the lips, his mouth clinging. Yes, a voice in the back of his head said. Give your body to someone you love. And he could almost imagine that Aidan responded, lifted into him. It wouldn’t be the poison of Ian, would be something so whole and pure.

But it could never be.

He pulled back. And Aidan’s gaze was unfocused, blurred-over.

“You need to sleep,” Tango said quietly. “And then I’ll help you figure it out. All of it. I promise.”

~*~

“Here.” Carter handed a cold water bottle from the fridge to Jasmine and she took it with a nod of thanks, still wheezing.

She sucked down half of it in one long gulp. Gasped afterward, coughed a little more.

They both stood naked in the clubhouse kitchen, but they might as well have been fully clothed for all the interest he had in their state of dress.

“Thanks.” Jasmine’s voice was all wrong, scraped-hoarse. She pressed the cold bottle to her forehead, her neck, between her breasts. The smile she sent his way was nothing like the one she’d been giving him before. It was without pretense or sexual innuendo. It was embarrassed, actually. “I’m sorry.”

He folded his arms. “For what?”

She ducked her head and fiddled with the bottle cap in her hand. “I’m a total skank, huh? Sorry.”

His chest tightened. From the moment he’d prospected, he’d been fascinated by the Lean Bitches. It had started as a violent disgust…but the curiosity had been there, lurking beneath. And the longer he’d stayed with the Dogs, the more he’d seen, the more he’d begun to hunger for the nastiness. Why work and struggle and make a fool of himself for a girl out in the real world when there were the club girls wanting to snag a piece of him? There were casual groupies who showed up and then never showed back, but then there were the hardcore few. The ones who’d put themselves in Dogs’ beds every night for years, and seemed to enjoy it. Jasmine was their leader, and she was gorgeous, and he’d fantasized about her while he’d held his cock in his hand.

And now he’d been inside her, and his world was upside down. He wasn’t thinking with his upstairs head; possession roared in his veins.

“Jazz.” He loved the sound of the word on his tongue. The taste of it. Loved the way her head lifted, eyes wide and red-rimmed, helpless and hopeless all at once. “You’re not a skank.”

Her mouth lifted at the corners. “You’re sweet.”

“No. I’m dead serious.”

She blinked.

“And Tango’s not your man if he let that happen just now.” He nodded toward the hall, toward what the three of them had done. “’Cause if you were mine,” he said, feeling bold, feeling ten-feet-tall, “I wouldn’t share you.”

~*~

Tango was dressed and sitting on the side of the bed, having a smoke when Carter came back in. He didn’t turn his head to look at the other blonde; nakedness was never a turn-on once the heat of the moment had passed.

Carter grabbed his jeans and hauled them up his legs in a few efficient movements, not speaking until they were in place. “Did you kill him?” he asked, nodding toward Aidan’s still figure on the floor. His voice was still strained. Tango hadn’t seen him angry since he was a teenager, since Ava was kidnapped. That same tight ire was in his voice now, over Jasmine.

Tango took a deep drag on his cigarette, forced the smoke out through his nostrils. “He fell asleep. He smells like someone broke a bottle over his head. Or maybe a barrel.”

Carter braced a shoulder against the door and exhaled sharply, still pissed, all jacked up in the shoulders about it. “What the hell was that? Is he jealous or something?”

“Nah. It had nothing to do with Jazz. Or us,” he added with a sigh. “Tonya’s pregnant.”

Carter hissed. “Shit.”

Tango regarded his passed-out friend, sprawled across the orange carpet, snoring, his brow knotted with a worry the alcohol hadn’t been able to dim.

“Yeah. Shit.”

Two

Samantha checked her ensemble in the floor-length mirror in the corner of her room. Another day teaching her first-year Shakespeare students, another conservative outfit she’d put together off the Kohl’s clearance rack. Oh Professor Walton, what a glamorous woman you are, she thought with cold resignation.

Today she wore a gray pinstriped pencil skirt, a white sweater set, and pumps with sensible, clunky heels perfect for a day spent at the lectern. Her dark blonde hair was in its usual thick braid, tidy now, but waiting to slip loose a piece at a time and grow wild over the course of the day. Her eyes looked dull behind the lenses of her glasses. Lenses that magnified the crow’s feet she was starting to have thanks to lots of late nights up reading.

She needed to get more sleep, drink more water, eat more vegetables.

She needed a makeover.

But she needed to get her little sister up, because Erin couldn’t afford to be late two mornings in a row on her first week of junior year.

Sam gathered her bags and headed down the hall. “Erin?” She rapped on her sister’s door. “Erin, sweetie, it’s time to get up.”

No response.

“Erin, come on.” She turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked, and let herself into the room. “You know you can’t…” The words faded in her mouth as her eyes roved across the room.

The bed was made, or as close to it as Erin ever approximated, the quilts tugged up hastily, pillows stacked against the headboard. The closet stood open and hangers jabbed out of it like plastic bird wings. Clothes littered the floor, tops, cheerleading shorts, bras and panties. Makeup bottles cluttered the dresser. The sharp citrus note of spilled perfume shot up Sam’s nose and punched her in the back of the throat.

Erin wasn’t there.

~*~

A sound woke him. An awful clanging sound, like Christmas bells and someone beating on a copper pot with a spoon. Low and high notes, clinking and resonant, together. It tolled through his head, pushed at the sides of his skull, hit the back of his tongue again and again, gagging him.

He became aware of things slowly. The heaviness and pain in his body. The press of a hard surface beneath his cheek. He lay on his stomach, his head twisted to the side, his neck pinched. His skin prickled into gooseflesh and he thought he must be naked beneath whatever scratchy linen covered him.

He worked his eyes open like old shutters, and that was when he realized the source of the noise. A coffee mug sat in front of his face, and someone was stirring its contents with a spoon, the silver clipping against the porcelain as it moved, the sound magnified by his epic hangover.

“What?” he croaked, and didn’t know why he’d said it.

Tango’s voice: “Hot tea, with honey and peppermint. Walsh swears by it.”

“Yeah, I bet he does. Fucker.” With a grimace and a groan, Aidan pushed up on his arms and sat back. The pounding in his head intensified. The light, weak though it was, stabbed through the high frosted window above the bed and shot needles through his eyes.

Wincing, he glanced down at himself, confirming that he was indeed naked, and that someone had thrown a blanket over him, one that now trailed off his shoulders. He wrapped it tightly across his front and reached for the tea. It actually smelled good, so that was something, at least.

Tango sat on the side of the bed, long hair on the top of his head carefully gelled and styled, so a few pieces fell across his forehead. He wore soft colors, a white t-shirt with the Lean Dogs logo and rockers. His face seemed sharp and too-thin, his eyes a little haunted around the edges.

Or maybe that was just the hangover. Whatever.

The first sip of tea flowed soothingly across his tongue, proving that his English brother knew everything about everything, as if he’d ever doubted him. He took another sip and glanced over the mug at his best friend.

“What did I do last night?”

“Tried to choke Jasmine to death.”

“Shit.” More tea. “Did I dream it, or were you and Jockstrap and she…”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. How’d that go?”

“Pretty good up until that whole strangling thing.”

“Right.”

“She wanted it to be you.”

“Come again?”

Tango sighed, stared at the toes of his boots. “A while back, she asked if I’d ask you if…”

Aidan started to grin, and it turned into a gasp of pain as the movement plucked at his headache. “Shit. Yeah, okay, that woulda been fun.” Some faint memory from last night grabbed at him, tried to take a firmer hold. “Wait…did you…did you kiss me?”

“And you enjoyed it,” Tango deadpanned. “I’m a very good kisser.”

They held one another’s gazes a moment, Aidan’s watery with exhaustion and pain.

Then they both smiled together, sad, regretful smiles.

“I didn’t hurt her, did I?” Aidan asked quietly. “If I’d been in my right mind, I swear, bro, I never–”

“She’s a little shookup, but physically she’s fine.”

“Thank God.”

“Yeah.” Tango gave him a level stare. “I haven’t ever seen you like that. Violent with one of the girls. That was Mercy’s old game, not yours.”

Aidan swallowed more tea, kicking himself mentally.

“Tell me about Tonya.”

“She’s trying to trap me.”

Tango’s mouth tugged in a sideways frown. “No offense, but what the hell would she want to do that for?”

“She–” His mind went blank.

“She’s rich, she’s gorgeous, her dad has connections. She’s got everything she wants. What would she be trying to get out of you?”

Wasn’t that a giant slap across the face?

“Nothing,” Aidan muttered. “She wouldn’t want anything from me.”

~*~

“No, no, I’m not calling in sick.” Sam cranked hard on the wheel with one hand, her other occupied with the cellphone she held clamped to her ear. The battleship that was her ’83 Caprice dipped hard into the turn, brakes squealing. “I’m just going to be late is all. Can one of the TAs slap a sign on my room door or something?”

Her colleague, and new head of the English department, Conrad Pitts, sighed deeply. She could envision him taking his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t spare any of them. Look, Samantha, if you can’t make it in today–”

“But I can make it,” she insisted, panic ratcheting another notch in her chest. “As soon as I find my sister–”

“Listen, I don’t need the whole sad melodrama spelled out. I’ll notify your students they have the day off.”

She fumed silently, wanting to unload on him over the phone. But where would that get her? Fired? And since her mother worked at a fabric shop and her sister was a degenerate runaway, she couldn’t afford to lose the income all three of them depended upon.

So she said, “That’s fine. I’m so sorry.” And hung up with an inward snarl.

So far, the search was going nowhere. Erin’s cell went straight to voicemail, and none of the usual haunts had turned up any leads. At this point, Sam was half-convinced her little sister was passed out on the floor of Hamilton House, a needle stuck in her arm.

She hit the brakes and turned into the driveway of the modest two-story colonial where Erin’s best friend Julia lived. She was halfway up the front walk when the door opened and Julia’s mother, Heidi, stood in the threshold drying a casserole dish with a checkered towel.

“Samantha.” Her voice registered surprise. “Good morning. Were the girls supposed to carpool? I just put Julia on the bus.”

Sam shook her head, and knew her smile was tight. “No. I’m actually…” It stung to have to say these words to this kind of woman. Someone who was on top of every aspect of her household, who would never have lost a teenage girl out from under her roof. “I’m looking for Erin,” she said in a rush. “She hasn’t been by, has she?”

Heidi’s eyes widened. “Looking for her?”

“Yes.” Sam grimaced inwardly. “Have you seen her?”

“You mean she…” Heidi lowered her voice, as if she were saying something truly scandalous. “Ran away?”

“Gonna take that as a ‘no’ on the seeing her front,” Sam said.

“Oh no. She hasn’t been by here.”

“Thanks.” She turned to go, knowing there was no sense dragging out this oh-my-how-could-you-lose-your-sister conversation.

“You want me to call if she turns up here?” Heidi called at her back.

“Yeah.” Sam fought to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “That’d be great.”

~*~

Tea, and then coffee, and then a cold shower only went so far toward burning off the hangover haze. The slap of early autumn wind against his face as he rode in toward Main Street went a little further. But nothing sobered Aidan up like sliding into a booth at Stella’s across from Tonya.

What did he call her now? His baby-mama?

As with last night, she lacked her shiny veneer of outward beauty, and instead looked severe, bitter, and WASPish. Dark hair slicked back, lips pale, harsh cheekbones casting dark shadows across her jaw. She wore a loose sweater that was too warm for this time of year. Her hands were wrapped around a coffee mug, and her eyes flicked momentarily to him before dropping back to the table.

The sight of her was a double-shot espresso gut punch. He was instantly awake, all foggy remains of his hangover vaporizing.

“Should you be drinking that?” he asked as he got settled.

“It’s decaf,” she snapped, voice brittle enough to crack.

“Right. Helps you keep up the charade that way.”

Her eyes flashed, a cold, seething shade of blue he suddenly found repulsive. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I was the one who broke up with you, and it pissed you off, ‘cause you’re a goddamn princess. So I’m gonna need more than your word for it.” He gave her a tight, false smile. “No offense.”

One of the usual waitresses breezed past and patted him on the shoulder. “Hi, hon, the usual?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, Mona.”

When the woman was gone, Tonya pinned him with an icy glare and reached into her purse, withdrawing several folded sheets of paper. “Here.” She shoved them across the table toward him. “Is that proof enough, asshole?”

It took him a moment to figure out what he was looking at: paperwork from Knoxville OBGYN. Test orders. Results. An old-fashioned stick test and a blood test, and both had come back positive. The next one was a grainy black-and-white abstract he couldn’t make any sense of.

“Sonogram,” Tonya explained. “That’s my uterus.” One of her manicured nails touched the picture, a pale speck. “That’s the fetus. So,” she said, withdrawing. “Proof.”

The fetus.

All the air left his lungs in an explosive exhale, and then he couldn’t take another breath. Eyes fixed to the little blip on the picture, the tiny dot that was a life…that he’d created…the café and everyone in it faded. He could have sworn he felt the wind on his face, because his skin was being scraped all over, even beneath his clothes.

He knew how the whole make-a-baby thing worked. Not just the physical aspect; he understood that for parents, there was something wonderful about contemplating bits of themselves in new humans, growing in bellies. He’d overheard Mercy giving Michael some sort of father-to-father pep talk once: “It’s you, and it’s her, and it’s perfect, ain’t it?” He hadn’t known, not really. Hadn’t felt that deep kick in his gut, heard that little voice that said, “That’s a part of you right there, boy. That’s your blood, your flesh.”

He heard it now. Loud and clear. Something cosmic was happening to him in this café booth, and he hadn’t been prepared for it. Couldn’t seem to breathe properly.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” he asked, dazed, clenching the sonogram tight between his fingers as he lifted his gaze to Tonya.

Her mouth pinched up tight. “They won’t be able to tell that for a while.”

“Oh.”

“It shouldn’t matter.”

He’d had all these visions of himself being a total asshole to her, self-righteous and furious throughout this meeting. But he was crumbling. “I mean…” He heard the softness in his voice, and hated it, but couldn’t seem to stop. “It’d be easier with a boy. But I’m not saying a girl’s bad or anything.”

She took a slow sip of her coffee and stared at him with such coldness. “You misunderstand me. It won’t matter, because neither one of us are going to be its parents.”

He swore the floor tilted beneath his boots. “What…”

“I’m giving it up for adoption. I’m already looking into agencies.”

He opened his mouth, and…nothing.

Tonya sighed and rubbed a spot on her forehead, like she was tired, stressed, and put out with him. “Shit. This was a stupid idea.”

He could only stare at her.

“Aidan, listen, I didn’t tell you because I wanted to involve you. I genuinely wanted you to know that the next time you tear a girl’s dress open and ride her bareback in a motorcycle garage, there’s a good chance you’ll wind up a father.”

“I…”

“And next time, it won’t be me, but some grabby, lovestruck biker groupie trying to trap you.”

“We…”

“Take this as a life lesson. Always use protection.”

He slapped his hand down on the table and coffee sloshed out of her mug. The condiment bottles rattled and patrons turned their heads sharply to see what the noise was about.

Tonya sat back in the booth, eyes widening.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” he hissed.

She dampened her lips, composed herself. Hardened her stare. “I’m seeing someone. Seriously. He’s one of the investment bankers at my father’s bank. If things work out, he and I will want to have children some day. Children of our own,” she said with emphasis. “I’m not heartless. I’m going to find the child the best parents I possibly can. But I’m not going to keep it.”

He swallowed with difficulty. “Because it’s mine.”

“Because it’s the product of lust and anger. That’s no way to start a life.”

“Do I get a say?”

She made a sound in her throat. “What? You want to be a father? Won’t that get in the way of your stripper-fucking and binge-drinking? That club of yours is no place to raise a baby. Consider it a kindness, me keeping the baby away from you.”

“I…” He couldn’t believe she was saying this, any of it. Her words were precise, unemotional…and completely brutal. Give her child away? Act rationally about the life growing inside her? That wasn’t Mags, wasn’t Ava, wasn’t even Holly, Mina, Nell.

That was his own mother. Down to the letter.

“He’ll just turn out like you!” Olivia had shouted at Ghost, all those years ago, when they’d thought Aidan wasn’t listening. “I don’t need that kind of poison in my life.”

“This is for the best,” Tonya said. “If you’re smart, you won’t fight me on it.”

He –

“Oh my God!” a female voice erupted beside their table, jerking him out of the moment. “Oh my God, thank God! You!” A girl put her hands on the table, leaning toward him. She was blonde, pretty in the way that made other girls jealous, and dressed like a rockstar groupie. Her black-lined blue eyes landed on him and she took a deep, gasping breath. She couldn’t be eighteen, had to be school-age.

“Oh look, another of your mistakes,” Tonya quipped.

“You’re one of those bikers my sister hangs out with, right?” the blonde asked him, expression frantic. She’d been crying,  cheeks shiny with tear tracks. “Right? The Dogs, or whatever?”

“Uh…” His brain wasn’t working right.

“Sam. Samantha Walton? She’s my sister.”

“Sam. Right.” He shook off some of his fog and looked at her more closely: black tights ripped at the knees under Daisy Dukes; white tank top that showed her purple bra; glitter in what was left of her makeup; crazy teased hair. He frowned. “You’re her sister?” It didn’t seem possible this chick was related to quiet, thoughtful, glasses-wearing Samantha.

Sam. Her named echoed in his head and his chest ached. Before Tonya dropped the bomb on him last night, he’d been starting to think about Ava’s blonde professor friend differently. He was starting to see her, really see her, and he –

Well, that didn’t matter now, did it?

“Yeah,” the sister said. She sniffled hard and wiped at her face, lip quivering. “I just…like…I need some help. My boyfriend broke up with me, and I don’t have a ride, and my cellphone’s dead…”

Aidan sighed. “Hold on. Take a pill. Do you need a ride?”

She nodded, unable to speak as tears filled her eyes.

Another sigh, this one deep, exhausting. “Alright, I’ll take you home.”

Tonya took that as her cue to leave, sliding out of the booth. “Don’t worry about what we talked about,” she said as she stood. “It isn’t your problem.”

Problem.

His child wasn’t his problem.

Sam’s sister plopped down into the spot Tonya had abandoned and burst into noisy tears, preventing any retort on his part.

Tonya walked like there was a broom handle shoved up her ass as she left the café, sliding her sunglasses into place, superior, wealthy, and untouchable.

“Wait here,” he told the girl. “I’ll be right back.” He dropped his cell on the table as he stood. “Call your sister, tell her we’re on the way.”

He caught up with Tonya on the sidewalk out front, and he gripped her arm tighter than he’d intended, spun her to face him.

Her sunglasses slipped down her nose, exposed eyes that had gone wide with surprise. Maybe a little fear.

“Not my problem?” His voice was a growl, and that surprised him. “Do you honest to God think you can dump this on me and then walk away? Say it’s not my problem?”

“I think,” she said through her teeth, “that I can count on you to be a no-account, blue collar biker, and forget about responsibility. Don’t tell me you want this child, Aidan. I know you don’t.”

“I have the right to figure that out.”

“No.” She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “You don’t. And if you touch me like that again, I’ll call the cops and tell them you threatened me.”

This time when she stalked off, he let her go.

~*~

“He’s got dark hair. And it’s curly,” Erin had said over the phone, and Sam had immediately known which biker her sister had sought help from in Stella’s.

She braced a shoulder in the open back door and listened to the growl of a bike come up the street. “Yeah, Mom, she’s home,” she said into her phone, and heard her mother’s huge sigh of relief on the other end.

“Oh, thank God. You’ll get her to school?”

“Soon as I get done chewing her out.”

“Sam, you’re the best. Love you, baby.”

Sam’s smile was thin and frail as she disconnected the call. Was she the best? Would the best let her sister slip out of the house? And then miss a whole day’s work?

Nope.

The growling grew more intense. Thunderous. And then stopped altogether. Aidan followed Erin up the back sidewalk to the door, and he looked as mouthwateringly delicious as he always did to her. Mentally, she’d closed that door. But her body had its own ideas, heat flaring in the pit of her stomach as she watched his long strides bring him closer. Maybe every girl had that one crush, that one physical ideal she never shook, and for her, that was Aidan Teague.

Her eyes snapped to Erin. The sixteen-year-old cheer squad dropout was wearing an eighties-inspired rock getup, showing too much cleavage, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her face was damp with fresh tears, her makeup smudged, but Sam forced herself to look beyond that, and focus on the transgression.

She blocked the doorway with one hand braced on the opposite jamb. Erin ground to a halt and lifted her head, gaze wavering between defiant and heartbroken.

“Explain,” Sam prompted.

Erin chewed at her lip, fidgeted her hands together.

“All of it.”

She sighed. “Alright, fine. Fine. Jesse picked me up in front of the Coulson house–”

“After you snuck out the window.”

“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, he picked me up, and we were supposed to go…” She bit her lip again, eyes dropping.

“Parking?” Sam asked.

“God, no one calls it ‘parking’ anymore.”

“Hooking up. Whatever,” she said firmly.

Erin rolled her eyes and pressed on. “Jesse said we were going to Hamilton House. Parker, and Adam, and Tyson were gonna be there.”

Sam’s brows shot up, anxiety spiking. Her sister had willingly gone where there would be a group of Jesse’s no-good friends? How had she not seen the terrible direction that could have gone?

“So we went,” Erin continued, “but then we got there, and there’s this other dude, who’s like, totally old.”

“How old?” Sam asked.

“Like…old as him.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Aidan, who rolled his eyes. “And he had all these bags, and they were drugs, or something, and Jesse gave him money and…it was just weird, okay? And I didn’t like it. So I told Jesse I wanted to leave.” She sucked in a deep, quivering breath, tears welling. “And he didn’t want to, and we argued. He told me I could walk, and he called me a bitch.”

Sam swore softly under her breath. “And you walked back into town?”

Erin nodded and dabbed at her eyes. “I was gonna use the phone at Stella’s.”

Over her sister’s trembling shoulders, Sam met Aidan’s eyes, sent him a grave, silent thank you.

“And now,” Erin said with a sniff, “Jesse probably won’t ever talk to me again.”

“Let’s hope so.” Sam stepped aside. “Tonight, we’re going to have a major conversation about how wrong all of this was, but right now, you’ve got to get to school. Go change, and be ready in ten minutes.”

“But my hair–”

“Ten minutes.”

Erin, for once, seemed to realize the gravity of the situation and ducked into the house without further argument.

When she was gone, Sam released a tired breath and deflated against the jamb. “God,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. The stress and worry had drawn her tight as a bowstring, and she ached all over. Then she looked at Aidan, shocked he was still here, very glad that he was.

“Thank you,” said. “I’ve been looking for her all morning. Thank you so much.”

He propped a foot on the cracked concrete of the back step and shrugged. “I figured you were going nuts somewhere.” He gave her a bare smile. “She came up to me at Stella’s, and I thought…” His face twitched, like he was self-editing. “Well, I didn’t think she’d been doing anything she shoulda been.”

“Decidedly not.” She frowned. “Is someone selling drugs out of Hamilton House?”

His face blanked over.

“Oh come on, Aidan. You know that if anybody’s selling anything illegal in Knoxville, the Dogs know about it.” She gave him a level look. “Is there a dealer working out of that place?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. But I’m gonna go check it out.”

“I want to come with you.”

He snorted. “Yeah. No.”

She was too wired to back down. “If you don’t know about it, then it can’t be club business, can it? I want to see where my sister was. I want to know what the hell’s going on with that loser she’s dating.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“My classes got canceled. Let me drop Erin off, and I’ll come with you.”

He studied her a moment, almost as if he was considering. Then said, “Nah. You don’t need mixed up in that kinda shit. I’ll scope it out, and let you know what I find. If I can.”

She started to argue, but thought better of it. She wasn’t going to seek his permission, but she wasn’t going to seek an argument either.

“Aidan,” she said as he started to turn away. He paused. “Thank you again. Really.”

His expression softened fractionally. “You’re welcome.”

She stayed leaning against the doorframe, watching him disappear, listening to his bike start up again. The world was too quiet when he was gone.

Three

“We couldn’t do this over the phone?” Ghost asked, arms folding as he drew up beside one of many white-draped breakfast tables. His phone had awakened him a half-hour before the alarm, a modulated voice saying, “Hold please for Mr. Shaman,” before his ear was assaulted by a violin composition.

Shaman had come on the line a moment later. “Mr. Teague,” he’d greeted in his too-happy British voice. “Come have breakfast with me. Gerard’s. Ten o’clock. This is not an optional meeting.”

Maggie had rolled toward him, mumbling something sleepy. Her hand had reached through the sheets and landed over his thumping heart.

“I’m calling in my favor,” Shaman had said, and then hung up.

So now here he was, in the fancy-ass dining room of Gerard’s, giving the staff a mass coronary because he was wearing his cut, and not giving a damn about it.

Shaman cut his usual dashing, lean figure in a tan suit and pale blue shirt, sans tie, as always. He made a show of folding the paper he was reading and setting it aside, turning a pleasant smile up to Ghost. “Good morning.”

“What’s the favor?” Ghost asked.

“Sit.” Shaman indicated the chair across from him. “Have breakfast. My treat. You shouldn’t discuss important decisions on an empty stomach.”

Knowing the man well enough by now to know he wouldn’t cooperate unless he felt everyone was minding his manners, Ghost sat with a deep sigh.

“Tea?” Shaman asked, gesturing to the silver pot at his elbow.

“Coffee. Black.”

“I don’t know how you boys have any stomach left, all that acid you choke down.”

Ghost said nothing, sitting silently as a waitress arrived with steaming coffee and a plate of food, as if she’d been waiting on standby for his arrival. Grits swimming in butter stared up at him, link sausage, steaming biscuits.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Shaman said. “I didn’t figure you’d want yogurt parfait with honey,” he said of his own plate.

“Definitely not.” Ghost’s stomach growled and he unrolled his silverware grudgingly. If nothing else, he’d get a decent meal out of this meeting. “So,” he said, forking up grits. “What do you want?”

Shaman set his spoon down, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. His sigh was delicate. “I’ll never get used to the way you Americans bulldoze your way through every conversation.”

“You gonna get to the point?”

“Yes.” He sipped his tea, folded his hands together on the table, and drew up stiff and tall in his chair, long straight hair rippling behind his shoulders. “What I want. It’s quite simple, actually. I want Kevin.”

The grits turned to sawdust on Ghost’s tongue. He swallowed with effort. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Does that ruffle your very straight caveman feathers? Apologies.” He grinned tightly. “Yes, Kevin.”

Ghost took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. “You’ll remember that the first time I ever saw you, you were twirling around a pole like a bitch, right? You still got the feather boa? Or is that just for special occasions?”

Over against the wall, Shaman’s security detail started to close in.

Shaman lifted a hand, staying him. “No,” he told Ghost calmly, “I’m afraid there’s not room in the closet for it.”

“Hmph. Spare me the accusations, princess. These aren’t the good old MC days, and I’ve got no problem with whatever or whoever Kev wants to do. I don’t care where my guys put their dicks, just where they put their loyalty.

“But you,” Ghost continued, with emphasis, “are some kinda supervillain motherfucker, and you’re not good for my boy, so like hell am I steering him toward you.”

Shaman opened his mouth –

“Also, I don’t give people away. Not ever.”

“Finished?” Shaman gave him a mild look, brows raised. When Ghost nodded, he said, “While it’s lovely you’ve decided not to take an antiquated stance, you’re missing my point. I know exactly how clubs work. I know there’s only two ways out:” – he held up a finger – “a body bag” – another finger – “or in a bloody disgrace, with the tattoos cut off your body. I also know,” he continued, voice tightening, “that ‘the life’ as you people call it, is killing Kev. Slowly, surely, killing him. He doesn’t belong in your hypersexualized, violent den of monsters.”

“Last I checked, dealing drugs puts you in the criminal category too.”

“I can insulate him from it. I can keep him safe. He won’t ever have to worry about his next meal, or the roof over his head, or whether the next trip out on his bike might be his last. Can you promise those things to him?” The ever-composed Brit was on the brink of being violently angry. His hands were shaking as he smoothed them through his hair.

“I didn’t think so,” he murmured, sinking back in his chair. “So yes, that’s my favor. I want you to turn Kevin loose of your club, no knife, no fire, no shame. I want you to let him walk away. Do that, and I’ll consider us even.”

~*~

The local legend, the haunted mansion of Knoxville, Hamilton House, was more than a little terrifying after dark, with its gaping black windows and its shadowy expanses skittering with the sounds of rats, the wind shrieking in the eaves. In the daylight hours, the place was more sad than anything: its sagging porches, peeling paint, the creepers and vines overtaking its once-majestic columns. The front door refused to close all the way, and it swung inward with a light press of Aidan’s fingertips, squealing and stuttering across the old warped boards.

They entered a wide foyer flanked by mildewing parlors, making their careful way across the rotted floor into what had once been a grand ballroom, its double curving staircases leading up to a gallery above. This was the place where parties and all sorts of other, more heinous gatherings were conducted. The second floor support beams were sketchy. And the first floor wasn’t much better. The abandonment had taken hold here, was warping the house into something sinister and ugly, so that not even the bones of the place echoed lost glory.

Tango let out a soft whistle. “Just when I think I remember how spooky it is, I come back in, and it’s like walking into a horror movie all over again.”

“Totally haunted,” Aidan agreed. He paced slowly around the massive space, eyes scanning the floor. “You’d have to be some kinda moron to sell outta here. The cops are always coming through.”

“Not sure IQ’s a drug dealer requirement, bro.”

“Unless you’re British and super rich.” Aidan regretted the words the moment they left his tongue. He glanced across the dusty room toward his friend.

Tango ground to a sudden halt, expression arresting. His eyes snapped across the distance between them, pale and terrified.

Aidan sighed, crammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I fucked up last night. But a couple of years ago? You wouldn’t have even let me in the room, and you damn sure wouldn’t have let me in on the action. And Carter?” He made a scoffing sound. “You let him in? We all know Jazz likes to get around, but that’s always bothered you. You wanted her all to yourself….up until Ian came to town.”

Tango stood up taller, the rigidity of his spine highlighting his thinness. “I’m–”

“You’re fucking up too, brother, and you know it.”

His lips pressed together.

“How many times a week? Twice, three times?”

“What’s it matter to you–”

“He’s going to hurt you.”

“Like you hurt Jazz?” Tango fired back, gaze sharpening.

This was so not the direction Aidan had wanted to take things. “I didn’t mean–”

He heard footsteps. Light, clipping footfalls across the boards, moving toward them.

Tango heard them too, and they both braced themselves, reached for their weapons.

Aidan had a hand inside his cut, curling around the butt of his Glock when their interloper stepped between the doorjambs and entered the ballroom.

Samantha.

“Shit,” he hissed, letting go of his gun, half-relieved and half-pissed. “Sam, I thought I told you not to come.”

She braced a hand on the grimy doorframe, curled up one leg, and twisted around to scan the sole of her shoe. In her very proper skirt and sweater number, she looked a little like a Disney character, one about to break into song looking at her pose.

“Hmm,” she said, straightening. “Funny. I don’t see a ‘Property of Aidan Teague’ sticker anywhere.” She met his gaze with a tiny smile that managed to be both mocking and sweet. “So I came on over.”

His stomach grabbed, and it had nothing to do with residual hangover sourness. Property of – did she understand the biker implications there? Had the thought ever crossed her mind? The pawprint tattoo, hidden somewhere beneath her clothes, somewhere private on her smooth, unmarked skin that was for his eyes only. His name scrawled in ink, embedded in her forever.

Probably not. That was probably just his mind spinning crazy scenarios right now.

“Hi, Kev,” she greeted Tango.

“Hi, Sam.” The guy’s smile was genuinely warm for her. “I think you’re a little overdressed for this place.”

She shrugged. “It’s all cheap and machine washable.” She gestured toward her outfit, a move that pulled her sweater tight across her breasts and invited Aidan’s eyes down the length of her. The skirt fit nice, hugging her hips and ass, highlighting the slender shapes of her legs.

You look pretty, Aidan thought. And way too decent to be in this awful place. What came blurting out of his mouth, though, was, “Don’t you have to be at work?”

Her smile widened. “We already had that conversation, remember?”

“Yeah. Right.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, his head suddenly pounding.

“So, did you guys find anything yet?” she asked.

“You gonna help us look?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Did your sister say what kinda paraphernalia they were handing around? Needles? Baggies? Joints?” Tango asked.

“She said bags,” Sam said, “but with Erin, bless her heart, that could mean anything.” She let out a deep breath and folded her arms, gaze tracking across the room, up the staircases to the gallery. “This place,” she murmured. “It still gives me goosebumps.”

Aidan grinned. “Little miss good girl like you, when were you ever in here before?”

Her eyes were wide and unhappy when they came to his face. “I came to a couple parties, when we were in high school.”

Ah, right. Back when he hadn’t known she existed.

Awkward.

He cleared his throat for no reason. “Well, look, if you’re gonna stick around, stay close. No telling when you might fall through the floor or get attacked by a ghost or some shit.”

She grinned again, faintly. “Fair enough.”

Tango headed down the back hall to search the old study and library. Which left Aidan alone with Sam to look through the ballroom and then the kitchen.

A stifling silence descended between them, broken only by the sounds of their shoes and the creak of the floorboards as they moved slowly across the room, scanning everything.

It struck him, suddenly, as her perfume crawled up his nose and drowned out the mildewed stench of old house: he’d never, not once in his life, felt anything less than confident in front of a woman. When it came to the ladies, silences were not awkward, moments were not fraught with tension, and words never failed him.

But something had changed after his time with Tonya. Something had shifted the evening he went to change Sam’s tire outside Waffle House. And now he felt raw, nervous, green…and terribly, terribly inadequate. Walking alongside this properly-dressed, well-spoken, college-educated sweetheart, he felt nothing short of unworthy.

Tonya had rejected him out of hand, and she was a bitch. Sam? What must she think of him?

“Will you know something suspect if you see it?” she asked, jolting him from his thoughts. As she took a step, she kicked at a crumpled chip bag, a small pile of beer cans rattling. “There’s a lot of trash in here.”

“I’ll know it,” he assured, refocusing, really looking once more.

She nodded, and then said, tiredly, “I didn’t ever think it would be like this.”

“Hmm?” He caught her elbow when she wobbled on her heels, steered her over the threshold into the kitchen.

“Thanks.” Her hand landed over his a moment, warm as it pressed his fingers to her arm. A brief touch, but one that thrilled him in a way wholly unexpected.

Then she retracted, and he released her.

“I didn’t think my sister would ever have these kinds of problems,” she explained. “Look at me.”

He did, taking in every inch of subtle curves and thick blonde braid, the sloped smallness of her nose and bright turquoise of her eyes behind her glasses.

“I’m the stiffest, lamest, un-coolest kid there ever was–”

“Hey, now–”

“You didn’t remember me,” she reminded. “Lame and forgettable tend to go hand-in-hand. Anyway,” she said, when he started to interject again, “Erin’s my full-blooded sister. And we couldn’t be more different. And with my mom working so much and my dad gone…” Her lips compressed, eyes dropping to the chipped tile floor. “Guess it makes me question my mothering skills.” She laughed hollowly.

Again, he was struck with a sense of personal inadequacy. His current drama was the result of him being his usual hot-headed idiot self. Sam’s problems were beyond her control, her best efforts hampered by a brat sister and overwhelmed mother. He spent his life starting fires, and she spent hers trying to put them out.

“That’s the point though,” he said.

“What is?”

“You’re not her mom; you’re her sister. And your mom was busy and your dad had just died, and you were what? Fifteen? You turned out to be probably the most responsible person I know. So it’s got nothing to do with the raising – no matter who’s doing it. Some people just gotta be wild, I think.”

A grin tugged at her lips. “Some people like you?”

“A born fuckup, that’s me. And maybe that’s not your sister, but maybe it is, and it’s not your fault.”

Her smile stretched a little. “Careful. That sounds dangerously like wisdom.”

Her smile made him want to smile, and he…

“Guys,” Tango said, coming into the room on his damn silent dancer’s feet. “Look what I found.”

A single baggie, with about an ounce of white powder.

“And look,” Tango said, flipping it over, indicating a sticker with his thumb.

It was a round blue sticker, a nothing little dot that didn’t point fingers toward any one dealer, but that Aidan recognized all too well. Fisher had always marked his product with blue dots. And Fisher had been dead for weeks.

“Maybe it’s old,” Aidan said, meeting his best friend’s sharp gaze. “Maybe it’s been here a while.”

“Nah. A section of the table it was on had been wiped clean, recently, no dust. Footprints on the floor. Fresh mud, still wet.”

“Shit.”

They shared a silent communication. Aidan’s energy spiked, that initial reaction to any club threat.

“What?” Sam asked. ‘What is it?”

“Coke, probably,” Tango said.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “That’s just perfect.”

“Erin hadn’t had any when I saw her,” Aidan reassured. “I woulda been able to tell.”

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

“I took pics on my phone,” Tango said. “Did y’all find anything in here?”

“Nah. Nothing.”

A last sweep through the front rooms proved the single baggie was the only find, and some of the tension in Aidan’s shoulders eased as they hit the cracked front sidewalk once more. There were ghosts in that house – his little sister’s lost baby, for one. Being inside its walls made him twitchy.

Sam’s hulking Caprice was parked in the driveway alongside their bikes, and he walked with her toward the driver door, aware that Tango was hanging back, going to his bike and fiddling with his helmet.

“Thanks,” Sam said, when she reached the car and braced a palm on its roof. She turned a look up to him that was almost apologetic. “Again.”

“Just doing my civic duty, ma’am,” he said with a head dip and a fast grin.

She grinned back. “KPD ought to hire you on.” Then sobered. “I’m serious, though. Thank you. Do you think you can do anything about whoever’s dealing?”

He lifted his brows. “You’re onboard with outlaw justice?”

“When it comes to keeping my family safe, absolutely,” she said, without missing a beat.

The wind picked up, pushing against them, reminding him that the season was about to give way to a chilly fall. It caught strands of her pale hair, tugged them loose from her braid, swept them across her face. A strand got stuck in her lip gloss and she brushed it away, still looking up at him.

A dawning awareness overcame him, as she stared up at him. She looked at him – a lot. Usually when he glanced her way, her eyes were already on him. Except for last time, at Waffle House, when she’d refused to make eye contact. Had she looked at him in high school? He tried to remember, but that time of his life was a faded blur, dominated by his obsession with breaking into the club, littered with groupies and cheerleaders.

But Sam was looking at him now, and her lip gloss looked like it might taste good, and her brows tucked together with the slightest show of concern as she waited on him to say something.

She was…lovely.

He’d never had lovely before.

“It was really good seeing you today,” he told her.

She looked surprised, her smile small. “Good seeing you too.”

When she opened her door and slid inside, he had to catch himself before he said, “Call and let me know you got home safe.” He had no idea where that impulse had come from; he’d never uttered those words in his life. It was something his married brothers said to their wives.

Instead, he said, “Bye,” like an idiot, and she tossed him a wave before she shut her door.

Tango was waiting for him when he turned back to the bikes, fiddling with the strap of his helmet. “So,” he said in a calm voice, “when did that happen?”

“When did what happen?” Aidan snagged his own helmet off his handlebars, popped it on his head.

“When did you start crushing on Sam?”

“What?” Something like panic flickered across his skin. “I’m not. I don’t. Whatever.”

Tango snorted. “Admit it. You’re hot for teacher.”

“Am not.”

“Right.” He rolled his eyes. “And I’m the one in denial.”

Four

“Fisher’s coke,” Ghost said, setting the blue-spotted baggie on the clubhouse bar. His expression was grim. “This was all you found?”

“Yeah,” Tango said.

“I’m gonna try to track down that Jesse kid Erin mentioned, give him a little shake and see what falls out,” Aidan said with a smirk.

Ghost nodded. “Don’t put a mark on him. And don’t talk to him in front of a security camera anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Standard procedure; one of the few things he could manage not to fuckup.

“Talk to Ratchet, too. Get him to put his ear to the ground, see if he hears anything. If anybody knows we’re short a dealer, it’ll make sense they try to step in and take his place.”

“The guy selling his stuff,” Tango said, biting at his lip, “has gotta be the guy who killed him.”

“I’d put money on it,” Ghost said. He pushed away from the bar. “Keep me posted, boys. I’ve gotta go tell that jackoff who’s bugging Holly to rent a truck already and get the hell out, before Michael turns him into Ares’s dinner.”

Hearing his name, the German shepherd stood up from his bed and stretched.

“Come on, boy,” Ghost called to the dog, and the two of them left the clubhouse, Ares’s nails clicking over the floorboards.

“Sam’s really alright with you….” Tango made an elaborate hand gesture, which Aidan took to mean roughing her sister’s boyfriend up.

“Actually, yeah. I think she is. That’s what she said this morning, anyway.” He was having another mug of tea with honey and peppermint, because as always, Walsh was right about everything, and the stuff was helping disperse the last of his hangover. “Morning. Christ. Is it even noon yet?”

“Nope.”

“Awesome start to the day we’ve had.”

Except he’d gotten to see Sam, and that had been a small bright spot in an otherwise dark stretch of time.

“What are you gonna do now?” Tango asked, and Aidan knew he wasn’t talking about Jesse Whatshisface and Fisher’s coke.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Right now, I’m gonna go find Jazz and apologize. Then I’m gonna…who the hell knows.”

Tango nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

Jasmine’s Toyota piece of crap was in the parking lot, so she was around somewhere. But she wasn’t in the clubhouse, and Maggie said she hadn’t sent her off on any kind of errand. They were walking past the bike shop, and Aidan was thinking he needed to clock in, when he heard her voice floating out of the garage bays.

She laughed and said, “No way.”

The voice that answered her belonged to Carter.

Aidan halted and glanced over his shoulder at Tango. The guy had stilled, tension locking him in place, eyes swiveling toward the shadowed garage. Emotions warred across his face: regret, anger, jealously, sadness.

“Bro,” Aidan said softly. “If you don’t want him messing with her, then kick his ass. Mark your territory.”

Tango stared trance-like at the shop. “I just want her to be happy,” he murmured.

“For Christ’s sakes…”

Mercy stepped out into the sunlight, blue bandana securing his long hair. He tipped his head back, took a long pull off a water bottle, and walked toward them wiping his mouth with one massive forearm.

“Tiny Dancer,” he said to Tango, gaze serious. “The QB’s moving in on your girl in there.”

Tango shook his head. “Jasmine doesn’t belong to me. She can do what she wants.”

Mercy glanced over at Aidan. “Did he get left out in the sun too long?”

“Shit knows.” Aidan tugged his cut into place, took a deep breath. “Alright, going in,” he said under his breath.

“What?” Mercy asked.

“Nothing.”

The familiar smells of grease and oil welcomed him into the cool, shadowy interior of the shop. This was home for him, these benches and bike lifts and tool chests. This was where he excelled – the only place where his skill was never questioned. His own life was ripping loose at the seams, but he could put a bike together, damn it.

Jasmine sat on one of the ancient wooden benches, watching Carter work on a blocky cruiser, smiling widely. It was starting to be cool, even in the afternoon, and she wore a clingy long-sleeve top that flashed lots of her impressive cleavage, a denim skirt, knee-high boots. She was a sexy woman, and he’d always thought so. An obvious, unquestionable sexuality, one that contrasted with that subtle loveliness of Sam’s. Right now, looking at Jazz, she stirred nothing inside him. Absolutely nothing. Whereas he hadn’t wanted to step away from Sam back at Hamilton House.

Focus.

He cleared his throat, and both their heads snapped his direction.

Jasmine sucked in a breath, eyes widening in an automatic fearful reaction.

By contrast, Carter’s face locked down hard, jaw clenching.

“Hey,” Aidan said.

“Hey,” Jasmine echoed, hands knitting together in her lap. A show of nerves. He made her nervous.

Carter stood, curling his hand tight around the wrench he held. “What do you want?”

Aidan frowned, drew himself more upright. “I want you to quit giving me attitude, and go wait outside so I can have a word with Jazz.”

Carter didn’t move. “Like I’m gonna leave you alone with her?”

“Who was your sponsor, Carter?” Aidan asked. “Who brought you into this club? Who got you patched? Was it Jazz? Or was it me?”

A harsh moment, as reality crashed over the boy, and he recalled his debts, his brotherhood. Carter ducked his head and left the bay, swearing under his breath.

“Don’t be mad at him,” Jasmine said softly, when he was gone. “He’s a sweet boy.”

He snorted. “Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but nobody willing to double team you is a sweet boy.”

“They are,” she insisted. She lifted her chin, and her eyes were full of an unusual fear. “I used to think you were too.”

He sighed and propped a hip against the bike lift. “You hate me now?”

She shook her head, glanced away. “No. But I…” Another headshake. “That hasn’t…not since…” Her voice got even softer, just a whisper. “Mercy once, a long time ago, put his hands…” She reached for her throat. “It was my fault. I brought – I brought your sister up, and I didn’t think…she was in high school…but he…” She offered a wobbly smile. “That’s the only time I’ve ever been afraid when I was with a man. Until last night.”

“Jazz.” He scrubbed at his bristly jaw. “I’m sorry, doll. Honest to God. I never meant to get rough like that. I was drunk, and I’d just gotten some bad news. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She stood and closed the distance between them. Her hands shook a little, but settled on his chest. Her eyes were sad, thoughtful, as she leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. “No more than what I deserve,” she whispered as she pulled back, and walked out of the garage.

Unhappy and numb, Aidan followed a moment later. Jazz was gone, but his three brothers remained.

“So what is this?” Mercy asked. “A meeting of the I-fucked-Jasmine club?”

“Proud of your membership?” Aidan asked with a snort.

“Nah.” Mercy shuddered dramatically. “I’m a one-woman kinda man. For whom there ain’t ever gonna be a club,” he said, giving them a mock-stern glare.

Aidan smirked, but the other two remained stone-faced – Carter out of anger, Tango out of some morose inner turmoil.

“Jesus, y’all. What’s with the depression?”

“No idea,” Aidan said. “Hey” – he smacked his brother-in-law on the arm lightly – “you wanna come help me scare some dippy kids?”

Mercy grinned. “When do I ever not wanna do that?”

~*~

Tango stared up at the black lettering on the front of the shop for a long time, as if the fresh paint would give him answers. It might – the Dartmoor property was the most organized, well-kept part of his life. Ghost didn’t tolerate shabbiness: When a sign faded, it was painted; if something broke, someone fixed it. If they wanted to be taken seriously, they had to take themselves seriously, he always said. The only paternal voice in Tango’s entire history.

The others dispersed, their farewells faint to his ears. Normally at this time of day, he’d head to the clubhouse and see if Jazz would make him a sandwich. Or they’d send a hangaround for takeout, and they’d all eat at a picnic table in front of the shop.

Today he felt hollow, and it was an emptiness that didn’t crave food.

What would he do, he wondered, if he learned he’d gotten someone pregnant? Weep? Celebrate to know he wouldn’t be alone any longer?

Something restless shifted inside him. He needed a day off, he decided. He was too tired, stretched too thin, and it had been a year or more since he’d taken any time off.

His feet carried him halfway toward the central office before he registered moving, but it was a good thing, he decided. He’d earned a little breather.

What for? Betraying his brothers and sleeping with the enemy? a small voice in the back of his head asked.

So lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear anyone come up behind him, and jumped when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Easy,” Ghost said, taking shape beside him, his hand dropping away. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“Oh.” Tango took a deep breath, shook his head to clear it. “Sorry, just…” He gestured vaguely. “Thinking.”

“Hmm. Always dangerous.”

“Yeah. Everything alright with Holly?”

Ghost shrugged. “Michael smashed the guy’s face in, but he’ll live. I think I convinced him not to press charges unless he wants some of his own, with a restraining order to keep away from Holly.”

Tango wanted to offer some meaningful comment, but all he said was, “Oh. Okay.”

They settled into step beside one another, and it was silent a beat. Two. Three…

Ghost said, “I had breakfast with your boyfriend this morning.”

It was like he ran into wall. Tango slammed to a halt, shock forcing the air out of his lungs. The shakes hit him hard, jerking through his limbs, clamping his veins tight. “Wh...wha…you…” Alarms blared in his mind, lights flashed.

Ghost pulled up in front of him, hands on his hips, the picture of calmness, one brow lifting in question.

“I don’t…he’s not…”

“It’s okay,” Ghost said, tone low and soothing. “Kev, take a breath. I’m not upset.”

Tango dropped his face in his palms, tried and failed to take the suggested breath, lungs seizing.

“But I am worried,” Ghost continued. “Whoever he is now, he’s not the guy you used to know. He’s dangerous in a whole different way than anyone else we’ve ever dealt with. Be careful.” He squeezed Tango’s shoulder and stepped back, walked away.

When Tango finally got his breathing handled, and lifted his head, his president was halfway back to the clubhouse. He had no idea what had just happened…but he didn’t trust it. Nothing was ever that simple.

~*~

As it turned out, none of the club’s resources were needed to find Jesse the drug buyer, and abandoner of teenage girls. A quick text to Sam yielded his name and address.

“She must be spending too much time at my house,” Mercy said of her, grinning. “She’s turning vigilante.”

“If you’d seen her sister looking all skanky this morning, you’d understand,” Aidan said, checking his phone one last time to verify this was the address.

It was. And the house was…well, it looked a lot like the sort of frat house nightmare where he belonged. Unmown grass, overflowing trash cans at the curb, rotted and warped woodwork along the windows, all of which had the blinds drawn tight. He could already envision the way it would look and smell inside: the darkness, stink of mildew, of stale takeout food in the fridge.

Beside him, Mercy cracked his knuckles.

“I was just gonna knock,” Aidan said.

Mercy sighed. “Spoilsport. Alright. Knock.”

Aidan grinned. “I’m having a shit day already. Having Ava chew my ass out for letting you get arrested isn’t gonna make it any better.”

Mercy grinned back. “It’d be fun to watch, though.”

Aidan made a disagreeing sound. They reached the front stoop, littered with scrappy year-old leaves and dead grass, and pushed the bell, listened to it echo through the house. He rang it a second time before the lock finally clicked and the door opened.

The guy who appeared in the threshold was older than Erin Walton, but not by much. Messy reddish blonde hair, a scruffy pretend beard, bloodshot eyes. He had a puka shell choker around his throat, and a silver cross on a leather string.

Douche. Aidan hated him immediately.

“You Jesse?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?” the guy asked, dashing at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Take that as a yes,” Mercy said, and charged into the house, his size, and the element of surprise pushing Jesse back at a stumbling run, until the kid tripped and landed hard on his ass on the mashed carpet.

Aidan shut the door behind them, approached more slowly, confirmed his theory about the stench of the place.

Mercy stood over their intended prey, one giant booted foot landing on the floor between Jesse’s thighs, one good stomp away from rendering him sterile.

“Hey!” Jesse shouted, “you can’t–” His exclamation turned into a squeal when Mercy started to lift his foot.

“Careful, garçon.” Mercy gave him his most frightening grin. “I don’t think you want to find out what I do for a living.”

Aidan crouched down next to Jesse, feigning casual. This was good for him, he realized. This was his element, and it was a nice reminder of his vitality. When he questioned someone with Tango, it was cool cop/sweet cop. Here, with Mercy – that was Rottweiler and handler.

“Okay, Jesse,” he said. “Here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna ask you some questions, and every time you try to jerk me around, this guy here is gonna jerk you around. Clear?”

Jesse looked between them, eyes huge.

“Pay attention,” Aidan told him.

“Who are you guys?”

“Erin Walton’s friends. So maybe next time you think about making her walk back into town, you’ll remember this here.” He gestured between the two of them.

“Whoa.” Jesse lifted a hand. “I didn’t make her do anything. I swear–”

“Nice try, but no.”

“But–”

“I know all about what was going on this morning,” Aidan continued, “up at Hamilton House. What I need from you is the name of the guy you bought the stuff from.”

Jesse looked at Merc, looked back at Aidan.

“We aren’t going to tell him you ratted,” Aidan said, growing impatient. “We don’t give a shit about you. We just want his name.”

“He…he didn’t tell me.”

“What did he look like?”

“Shorter than you. Kinda dark hair. Maybe.” He made a face. “It was quick. I wasn’t checking him out or some shit.”

What a waste of oxygen, this generation.

“How’d you get in contact with him?”

“Text.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. “I meant, what’s his number?”

“Oh…” Jesse hesitated…

And Mercy reached for the knife at his hip.

“Alright, alright!” Hands were thrown up for effect. A phone was withdrawn, a number sought on the screen. “He didn’t ever tell me what to call him,” Jesse said, and recited off a number that Aidan punched into his own phone.

“Sure you don’t remember anything else?” Mercy asked, edging his toes closer to the kid’s crotch.

“I don’t!” Jesse said in a hoarse shout. “I swear.”

Aidan stood. “If you’re lying, we’re gonna come back here and–”

“I’m not!”

“And keep away from Erin.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

After they’d seen themselves out, and were headed down the front sidewalk, Aidan was struck across the shoulders by the considerable weight of Mercy’s arm. A come ‘here, pal was always a bit like a headlock and a tackle, coming from Merc.

“That was real good in there,” the Cajun said, giving him a fraternal squeeze. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Dad. You know, you’re only like four years older than me.”

“Four-and-a-half, but who’s counting? But I’m serious. You’re getting better at that sort of thing. Used to, it woulda had to be your old man or Walsh doing the talking. Or me, ‘cause I talk so well.” He puffed his chest out proudly.

“Wow,” Aidan said glumly. “High praise.”

“Brother.” Mercy’s arm dropped away. “It’s a compliment. Don’t take it any other way.”

Whatever else he was, Mercy wasn’t duplicitous. Yes, it was a compliment, and he meant it heartily. Aidan just wished he hadn’t been thirty-two before he realized he wanted to do something worthy of praise.

He ground to an awkward halt when they reached the street. “Hey…can I come by for dinner tonight? Can I talk to you guys about something?”

Mercy twitched a concerned frown. “Everything alright?’

“Not really, no.”

“Yeah.” Merc patted his shoulder. “We usually eat around six-thirty. We’re having pasta tonight.”

Pasta…and baby confessions. How appetizing.

Five

Sam took a bracing sip of Earl Grey and set her mug down carefully on the kitchen table. Beside her, her mother picked at imaginary dirt beneath her fingernails, trembling with anger and emotion, wan with something akin to despair. Across from them, Erin toyed with the frayed hem of her sweatshirt sleeve, refusing to make eye contact.

With her eye makeup scrubbed off, Erin looked even younger than her sixteen years, vulnerable and incredibly naïve. Sam wanted to gather her into her arms, tuck her sleek head beneath her chin and hold her tight, as she’d done when Erin was a baby.

Instead, she said, “Do you understand that what you did this morning was wrong?”

Erin huffed out a breath. “I’m not stupid.”

“And yet you snuck out your window before dawn.”

She shrugged.

Their mother laid a hand on Sam’s forearm. “You aren’t usually so blunt,” she whispered.

“You’re right,” Sam agreed. “I’m not. But I’m also not convinced hoping, praying, and sweet-talking is going to get us anywhere.” The day’s panic and frustration boiled to new life inside her, leaving her chest tight, her breathing rapid. “I’ve tried, Erin,” she said. “I’ve tried to be kind, and tried to make up for Dad not being here, and tried to tell myself this was some sort of phase you need to get through. But I think I’ve been too relaxed.”

“Relaxed?” Erin scoffed, finally lifting her head, shooting a glare across the table. “You’re never anywhere close to relaxed.”

“No, not personally. You’re right. I go to bed at night with a knot in my stomach and wake up from nightmares every morning.” She wasn’t going to mince her way through this argument. She was done with that; this morning had been the last terrifying straw. “You think hiking into town was rough? Did you think at all about the way things could have turned out? What if Jesse and his friends had hit you, thrown you down, ripped your clothes off–”

“Sam!” Mom gasped. “Don’t talk like that.”

Erin’s eyes goggled.

“No, I have to talk like this, or she won’t learn. Erin, you’re lucky you weren’t raped today. Gang-raped. Killed! Don’t you understand that? I’m not trying to wreck your fun. I’m trying to keep you from getting pregnant, from getting hooked on drugs, from getting expelled from school. I’m trying to protect you, damn it.”

“Sam, that’s enough,” Mom said.

Erin blinked, and lifted a sleeve to her face…to dab at the building tears.

Sam pushed out of her chair and crossed the kitchen in three long strides. Out the back door, shutting it firmly behind her. She needed some air. Heaping bucketfuls of air.

Evening crept in with stealthy cool strides; it skirted across her ankles and reminded her that she was barefoot. She’d changed from her work clothes into cropped jeans and a soft t-shirt, one she wished was long-sleeved as she hugged her torso and turned the corner of the house, stepping into the direct draft of the breeze.

A motorcycle sat at the end of the driveway. Aidan swung off of it, removed his helmet, lifted his head toward her. She felt the touch of his eyes across the distance, and didn’t care what he was doing here, or how long he would stay, only that the sight of him made it a little easier to breathe.

“Your sister okay?” he asked as she reached him.

“Apparently I was being too hard on her with the whole lecture thing, but otherwise, yeah. She’s fine. Learning nothing from her mistakes as usual.”

“Hmm.” He studied her a moment, helmet in his hands, expression hard to read. “You usually save that kinda attitude for me. You musta been harsh.”

She sighed…but grinned a little. “I was just born to be a party pooper, I guess. And there’s no bigger sin than ruining everybody’s good time.”

“I want to disagree with you.”

“Want to?”

“But I can’t. Sorry. You’re a total sinner.”

They both laughed at the same time, and it released a tension valve inside her, lightened her insides, brightened her heart. He had a good laugh: deep, rich, smoky on the edges. A man’s laugh, and not a boy’s dorky honking.

Careful, her conscience warned. Don’t let yourself go to that place again, that stupid hopeless wanting.

She told her conscience to stuff it. “Did you find out anything about the dealer?”

He sobered, nodding. “That’s why I came by. I had a little chat with Jesse earlier.”

She shivered, and clamped her arms tighter against her sides. If she was honest with herself, she knew the chill had nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with Aidan looking serious and purposeful as he addressed her problems. “Charming little shit, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “Merc and I–”

She grinned. “Oh, damn.”

“ – managed to get a phone number off him, but he didn’t know the guy’s name. I called the number.” He looked sympathetic. “It’s out of service.”

She deflated.

“My guess is it’s a disposable, and he ditched it.”

“Makes sense.” She sounded numb and disappointed, and knew it.

“I’m gonna look into it, though,” Aidan said. “I’ll figure out who’s doing it, and I’ll shut it down.”

“You can do that?” Hope blossomed anew.

“Baby, I can do all kinds of things,” he said, grinning.

Her stomach flipped over. Her palms tingled. Baby. Yeah, what sorts of things? she wanted to ask him. Tell me. Better yet, show me.

“Wouldn’t that be very…non-outlaw of you?” she asked in a teasing voice.

“Nah.” He adopted that proud, cocky tone she remembered from all the way back in high school. “We outlaws like to be in charge of that kinda shit.”

“I see.”

He softened a bit, growing more serious. “I also told Jesse to stay the hell away from Erin.”

The words filled her with warmth. “Thank you.”

“Who the hell knows if he’ll listen, but he was about ten seconds from pissing himself, so he might.”

“Here’s hoping.”

Cue the silence. But it wasn’t awkward, it simply was, a full beat of warm, unsaid things between them. Sam wanted to tell him thank you again, and it seemed like he wanted to say something, too, but she didn’t allow herself to romanticize about it.

“Well…” He fiddled with his helmet strap. “I better run. I’m supposed to have dinner with Ava and Mercy.”

“Tell them I said hello.”

“I will.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to hug him. She settled for smiling and waving him off instead. A poor substitute, but after all, wasn’t that her romantic destiny?

~*~

He was pulling into the Lécuyers’ driveway when he finally pinned down the sensation that had stayed with him since leaving Sam. Warmth. She made him feel warm, and what an alien thing that was, in his history with females. They made him hot, made him restless, made him horny and frustrated – but they didn’t leave him warm. Didn’t make him feel like when Maggie had kissed his forehead as a boy and handed him a cookie straight out of the oven. Sam made him feel like that…and also ravenous and in desperate need to push her shirt up and see what color her bra was.

Shit.

The little white house Mercy had bought for his bride looked tidy and fresh these days, yellow mums bursting out of pots on the porch, brilliant as the last light of day winked out of existence. The windows glowed with lamplight, a welcoming spill of butter across the sidewalk, the lawn.

He sat on his silent bike a moment, remembering why he’d come, drawing together the words he wanted to use. He thought about his sister bringing him food, forcing his meds on him, raking her nails through his hair like a good little mother after his accident. Mercy helping him shower, helping him walk. They loved him, truly. And he would entrust his dark secret to them and listen to whatever they told him.

He went to the back door, because that’s where they always expected him, and Mercy opened it before he could knock. It should have been incongruous, the big man holding the little baby, but it never was. Cal was passed out cold against his father’s chest, all fat baby face and hands, held securely in one arm.

“Brother,” Mercy greeted, ushering him in.

“Is that Aidan?” Ava called from beyond the mud room, in the kitchen.

“Yeah, and I brought you something,” he said, stepping into the warm, steam-filled room where his once-inept little sister was bustling around with pots and pans and spoons. When she paused to turn to him, he offered the brown-bagged bottle of wine he’d tucked in his saddle bag. “Chardonnay, like you like,” he said, and she gave him a quick hug, a peck on the cheek, and moved off. The wine disappeared from his hand, though he could have sworn she was carrying too many things to take it from him. She was becoming one of them – those magical, multitasking grownup women who juggled the universe with mysterious ease and seemingly eight arms.

“Awesome, it’ll go with the pasta,” she said, and the bottle landed on the counter with a light gong sound.

Remy sat in the floor, like a dog underfoot, playing with a stuffed alligator, which made Aidan grin.

“What kinda beer you want?” Mercy asked him, and he was overcome, suddenly, by the quaint hominess of it all. His sister in cutoffs and a flannel shirt, ponytail, and big brown eyes, and her motherhood so obvious and important. Mercy playing daddy with ease and gusto. The warm light, the delicious food smells, the unlikely normalness of this house and this family.

He wasn’t ever going to have this, was he? He’d never wanted it before, not until after his accident, when he’d come face-to-face with his own mortality and realized he had nothing of his own. He had a shitty apartment and a blue collar job, and just enough spare change for smokes and beer. But nothing that belonged to his heart. Nothing that made him want to get out of bed in the morning.

He’d thought Tonya might be the start of a new chapter.

But she was going to give their baby away, and marry a rich man…and still, he’d have nothing.

Ava was standing in front of him, he realized, looking into his face with curiosity, concern. It was like someone had turned the volume down and then unmuted it all of a sudden, her voice coming at him.

“Aidan? What’s wrong?”

Was he just standing there like a tool? Face blank? Mouth hanging open?

Yes, he was.

“Hey,” Mercy said, and his free hand weighed a hundred pounds against Aidan’s back.

Ava twitched a grin. “You’re not having an attack of the vapors, are you?”

He had no idea what that was, only that he couldn’t breathe.

“I got Tonya pregnant,” he blurted, stupidly. “And she’s giving it up for adoption.”

~*~

The pasta was fettuccini, with spiced sausage, shrimp, peppers, and a light olive oil sauce. Lots of parm on top.

It might as well have been plastic for all that Aidan tasted of it. After his moronic admission, Ava and Mercy had shared one of their silent married looks, communicating without words. “Sit,” Mercy had said, easing him down into a chair at the table. Remy had crawled over to see him, patting at his boots with his little hands. Ava had fixed him a drink, and dinner had been spooned up, served. Remy was popped into his high chair and Cal taken off to bed.

Ava twirled noodles around her fork while her gaze bored into him. “From the beginning,” she prompted, looking and sounding a whole lot like her mother.

He sighed and sagged back into his chair. “There’s not really anything to tell. I didn’t wear a rubber, and now she’s knocked up.”

“Was she trying to get pregnant?”

“Definitely not. She was pissed off that it happened.”

“You sure she isn’t trying to lead you on?” Mercy asked.

“Why would she? What does she want from me? Her family’s stupid rich.”

“Do you have any proof she actually is pregnant?” Ava asked.

He dug the sonogram from his back pocket and slid it across the table.

Ava frowned at it. “I’d want to talk to her doctor. This could be anything.”

“She had the paperwork, the positive test results.”

“Still–”

“She’s really knocked up, Ava, okay?”

She sent him a sharp look. “You know even better than I do how easy it is to fake stuff these days. She could be lying. You need to go with her to an appointment, find out for sure–”

“Why? She’s getting rid of it.”

Ava’s lips compressed; she glanced over at Mercy. “She’ll have to have your consent to put it up for adoption. If one of the parents wants the baby, they get first dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“Do you want her to give it up?” Mercy asked. “Or was that just her idea?”

“Guys, calm down.”

“You tell us you got your girlfriend pregnant,” Ava said, “and you wanna be all ‘calm down’ like I’m the irrational one?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said through his teeth.

“Oh, and that makes it so much better.” She rolled her eyes, but snapped back to serious before he could retort. “You need to think about some stuff. Some heavy stuff. And you need to do it fast, because babies don’t wait.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“Bro…” Mercy said carefully. “I think if you were all settled in your head, you wouldn’t have wanted to talk to us about it.”

“If you wanted her to get rid of it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Ava added.

“I…” It crashed over him again, as fresh and painful as it had been when Tonya told him that morning. “She’s awful,” he muttered, wiping his hands down his face. “She thinks she’s better than everyone in the world. It isn’t that she can’t take care of the baby – I could forgive her that. It’s because it’s mine, and it doesn’t fit into her rich world.”

He lifted a helpless glance to his sister. “She’s just like my mom.”

Right before he closed his eyes, Ava’s face transformed with tenderness and sympathy. And then his lids clamped down, because he was pretty sure if he didn’t screw them shut, he’d start blubbering like a pussy.

He felt her skinny hands on his shoulders, squeezing ineffectually. “It’s alright.” She kissed the top of his head. “We’ll figure it out.”

Mercy’s callused palm closed over his wrist, and he was overwhelmed by the knowledge that, whatever happened, he had the two of them. He didn’t deserve them, but here they were, and he was going to hold tight.

~*~

He didn’t remember drinking, but the bottle of screw-top, cheap-ass red wine he’d bought on the way over was more than half-empty, so he must have been putting the stuff away as he sat here. The guy at the desk had snootily informed him that Mr. Byron was “out for the evening,” and that if Tango wanted to wait, he’d have to do so in the parking garage. Guess they didn’t want a guy with twelve earrings and countless tattoos hanging out in their lobby and throwing off the posh elitist vibe.

He didn’t blame them.

The wine he hadn’t intended to share – he would never offer something so pedestrian to Ian – and he’d parked his ass on the concrete step by the elevators, resigned to wait.

His head weighed a hundred pounds by this point, and his vision fuzzed and faded his surroundings like an Instagram filter.

He heard Ian before he saw him, the distinct beat of his stride, the sharp clip of his dress shoes on the tarmac. The shiny Ferragamos came into view, saddle-colored and spotless; then the slender, tailored pants, dove-gray. The long legs, the narrow waist, the perfect cut of the shoulders, and finally Ian’s angular face, its corners tweaked with worry, as Tango let his head fall slowly back on his neck.

“Having a bit of a sit-down?” he asked.

Tango took a long, messy swallow of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers trembling.

Ian turned and said something to Bruce, his bodyguard, and the giant thug moved a few paces away, giving them some distance. Then Ian dusted off the curb with a pocket square and sat down beside Tango, close enough so their elbows touched, close enough for his expensive cologne to fill Tango’s nose. His knees were at high angles, his legs too long for sitting on the ground like this. His wide blue-green eyes glittered in the dim security lights.

He said nothing, only waited.

“Ghost knows about us. You told him,” Tango accused. Sadly, all his ire had been muddled by the wine, and all he really wanted to do was lean against the man, rather than yell at him.

Ian’s lips compressed, expression one of careful regret. “I didn’t tell him, no. But I asked a favor of him. One that involves you.”

“What favor?”

Ian’s slender white hand was cool and smooth against his forehead, as he brushed back the unruly forelock of his half-shaved, half-ragged rockstar ‘do. “One that would be good for you.”

Tango meant to knock his hand away…but it felt so nice, stroking back through his hair, that tender, almost-maternal affection he’d never had before. Before the club, before his ailing aunt had tracked him down, Ian had been the first of so many things – lover, caregiver, protector.

“I don’t need any favors,” he heard himself say, voice faraway, unconvinced.

“Of course not, darling. But I want to provide them anyway.”

Tango stopped fighting his impaired balance and slumped sideways into the Armani-covered shoulder beside him; let his face fall against Ian’s neck, grateful for the hand that cupped his head, held him close.

“I’m taking some time off,” he mumbled. “A few days.”

“Wonderful.” Ian sounded truly happy. “Come upstairs, beautiful. I’ve missed you so.”

~*~

“Is it nice there?” Mercy asked as he folded the quilt down.

On the other side of the bed, Ava glanced up at him, expression startled. “Nice where?”

“Wherever it is you’ve gone in your own head.” She rolled her eyes and he grinned. “How many guesses do I get?”

“One.” She sat down on the side of the mattress and folded her legs beneath her, gaze moving away from his, notch forming between her brows. “I just don’t want him to have any regrets,” she said, and he knew she meant Aidan. “And if I’m totally honest, I don’t like the idea of having a niece or nephew out there somewhere.” She gestured toward the room, the city, the world.

Mercy sat down beside her, their hips nearly touching in the center of their bed. “What if he or she had really great parents, though?”

“And what if he or she always wondered why her real parents didn’t love her enough to keep her?” she countered, giving him a sad, thoughtful look. “I think adoption is wonderful, and I don’t want to diminish the people who take on someone else’s child as their own…”

“But?”

“But I want Aidan to make the decision about his baby. Tonya’s had her say. Now he needs his.”

“And lemme guess. You and Mags are gonna make sure he gets it.”

“Well, yeah.”

He smiled and put an arm around her, pulled her in tight to his side. “You, Madame Lécuyer, are in real danger of becoming one of those crusaders people talk about.”

She snorted. “You want me to stop?”

“Not even a little.”

~*~

The apartment Aidan had shared with Tango the last handful of years was in a mediocre complex in a nothing-special part of town. The renters ran the gamut from complete degenerate cokeheads to young families with larger aspirations.

Their unit was up on the third floor, and Aidan’s headache seemed to worsen with each stair he mounted. By the time he reached the landing and unlocked the door, it was like someone turning screws through his temples.

Ava wanted him to take the baby. Take, and do what? Bring it home to this? Tattered, cigarette-burned furniture, a console TV serving as the base for the flat-screen TV? The sink full of dishes and overflowing trash can? The place was a sty.

And how was he supposed to take care of a baby? He hadn’t breasts to nurse it, nor songs to sing it, nor funds to hire a nanny full-time to look after it while he went to work.

The headache radiated through his body, latching onto muscles, bones, driving him down into the plaid recliner. He dropped his face into his hands, felt the tenderness just beneath his skin, the complete and total manifestation of pain.

Through the floor, he heard the downstairs neighbor watching the Braves playoff game at an obscene volume. Heard music from somewhere else, a low pulse. But the apartment around him was silent. Tango wasn’t home. Probably off to see Ian again.

His life, Aidan realized in that moment, completely sucked.

The only bright spot in an otherwise shitfest of a day had been seeing Samantha.

And because he’d done everything within his power to ensure his life sucked, her brightness was so far out of reach, it was a kick in the gut to think of her now. To think about what might have been…if he wasn’t so damn stupid…

Six

Tango woke to the smell of coffee. Expensive, imported coffee, and the softer undercurrents of tea, because having the ability to choose between the two was more important than drinking either, Ian liked to say.

He opened his eyes and found them rusty, full of grit. He lay on his stomach, the covers pulled up over his head, face mashed into the lush Egyptian cotton sheets. He didn’t remember undressing or getting into bed, and he had the wine to thank for that. His head throbbed, and his stomach rolled. But the coffee was a great inducement, so he flipped the quilt back and forced himself upright.

Ian’s apartment was a study in gray, white, and delicate touches of black and burgundy. The finishes were perfect, the housekeeping impeccable. Exactly the sort of place you’d expect to find a wealthy drug lord.

Exactly the sort of place they’d talked about having, in their teenage dreams, between stage shows and private appointments.

Ian was at his chrome and glass kitchen table, robe open down the front of his bare chest, paper spread before him, teacup held daintily in one hand. His hair shone in the pale early light.

“You’re up earlier than expected,” he said, lifting a smile to Tango that was, with little lines crinkled at his eyes, filled with genuine warmth and affection. That was the thing about Ian – away from outside distractions, he truly was Ian, and not the Shaman persona he’d created for business’s sake.

“I smelled coffee.”

“Turkish. Also there’s crumpets, fresh butter, and berries with clotted cream.”

Tango dragged out the chair across from Ian and fell into it. “I really shouldn’t stay.”

“Nonsense. You said you were taking some time off. Where else would you go?”

“I…” Words failed him in the fall of Ian’s bright gaze.

With a few deft movements, the Englishman folded the newspaper away, and cleared the table between them, an open patch of glass available so he could reach across the distance and cover Tango’s hands with his own. “Listen to me, Kev,” he said quietly. “I want you to spend a little time away from your club, and think things over.”

He was too hungover to be sharp. “What things?” he asked, frowning, but didn’t pull away.

“Think about what you want. What you really want. I think…I think that might not be the club.”

Again…he didn’t pull away.

~*~

“Come by the house on your way in,” were Ghost’s only words before the line disconnected. Aidan stared at his phone a long moment afterward, inwardly cursing, knowing exactly what awaited him at Casa de Teague.

What a way to start the morning.

When he pulled up to the house, he spotted Ava’s truck and Mercy’s bike, and didn’t know if it would be better or worse having them present. Better, he decided, when he walked in the back door and was met by the chaos of breakfast with the babies. Everyone was at the table. Maggie held Cal and sipped coffee with her free hand. Ava helped Remy eat what looked like mashed carrots. Ghost and Mercy sat beside one another and were in conversation about the open bike magazine on the table between them.

Slowly, the noise slackened, then ceased altogether, four pairs of eyes glancing his way with a variety of sentiments.

“Hi, sweetie,” Maggie said, giving him a gentle, motherly smile.

Aidan looked to his father; his was the corner from which judgment and hatred would come. Ghost would be the one who hated him for this.

Right on cue, he said, “So did you forget to buy rubbers, or what?”

“Kenny!” Maggie hissed.

“Dad,” Ava said. “We talked about this.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, poker face secured, gaze unreadable. “I guess we shoulda expected it earlier, if we’re honest. All you worry about is partying and fucking.”

“Kenneth,” Maggie said, “we are not here to beat him up.”

“What are we supposed to do, then? Congratulate him? Congrats, Aidan,” he said, coldly, “for not listening to a damn thing I’ve ever tried to tell you.”

Maggie started to reprimand her husband again–

And Aidan took an aggressive step toward the table, years’ worth of anger and frustration boiling in his gut, fueling the venom in the back of his throat. “You’re unbelievable. This is my mistake, my problem, and you’re worried about…what? That I didn’t listen to you? That this makes you look bad or something?”

“Aidan,” Mercy said.

But Ghost just stared.

“You don’t give a damn about what this means to me. You worry about your son looking like a fuckup loser, isn’t that right? You worry about you looking like you couldn’t teach me anything.”

Maggie made a distressed sound.

Mercy stood. “Guys, let’s take a breath, and talk this out.”

“So he can insult me some more?” Aidan asked. “I know that’s his favorite pastime.”

A muscle in Ghost’s jaw ticked. “How did you think this was gonna go?”

“Exactly like this.”

“You’re thirty-two, damn it, when the hell are you gonna grow up?”

“Grow up and be like you?” Aidan bit back. His throat ached, and his chest constricted, and he hated what he was saying…almost as much as he hated having to say it. “All I need to do now is go on a bender, ignore my kid, and knock a teenager up, and I’ll be right on schedule.”

“Oh shit,” Ava murmured.

“My dad the role model,” Aidan sneered. “Popping high school girls’ cherries and dumping his kid on them. What a guy.”

Ghost started to lunge up from his chair, and Mercy caught him by the arm, pinning him down as if he were a child, seemingly without effort.

“That’s enough!” Maggie snapped, tucking Cal into her chest as he started to cry. “Stop it right now before either of you says something else you can’t take back.” When she turned to Aidan, her eyes were shiny, and it hit him then, like a punch: the cracks about teenagers were more hurtful to her than anyone.

He was an asshole.

“You are not,” Maggie continued, “two idiots at a bar somewhere. You’re family. You’re father and son. And family doesn’t let family face challenges alone.” She looked at her husband, cradling the baby close. “Understand? This isn’t about ego, or undoing what’s already done. We need to be supportive of Aidan. All of us.”

In a quiet voice, Mercy said, “We’ve all done things without thinking them through first. All of us, even if we’d like to think we’re smarter than that.”

Cal’s wail became a high banshee shriek, and Ava reached for him. “Way to go, Dad,” she said as she stood, hand cradling the back of Cal’s head.

Aidan had no idea what to say…

So he left.

~*~

The very first time Sam ever laid eyes on Aidan Teague, she was fourteen, and he knocked the breath right out of her. He’d been slouched up against a wall in the cafeteria, honing what would become his trademark aura of mischief and insolence, and she’d known fourteen-year-old boys shouldn’t have looked like that. Shouldn’t have stirred unspeakable longings in virgin freshman girls.

That impression of him had stayed with her, had held him captive in her fascination longer than any man she’d met as an adult – girlhood had a way of sharpening fascination to something dark and deadly.

Normally, nothing about that mental image intruded upon her daily life at work.

“So how would you characterize Prince Hal at this stage of the play?” she asked her eleven a.m. Shakespeare class.

She was in one of the smaller classrooms, old-fashioned desks all crammed in together. It was a windowless and uninspired space; she always left the door open so a little natural light could stream in from the hallway. Of her forty-two students, only a handful were looking at her; the others had their heads turned toward the door.

“Anyone?” she prompted, her smile fading. She died a little inside when no one participated. Shakespeare was her favorite, Henry IV, Part I a special favorite.

One of the girls in the front row, Jamie, pointed to the door.

Sam turned, and was struck dumb a moment as the past smacked into her. If he’d been breathtaking at fourteen, Aidan Teague at thirty-two was…she was without words.

It was the same picture, him leaning back against the wall, his hair wild, his jeans dirty, his cut too obvious. But in so many ways it was different – the lines on his face, the scars on his arms, the complete lack of mischief in his eyes.

She wet her lips. “Hi.”

He started to smile, and it caught a little. “I wanted to see if you wanted to get coffee or something.”

“Uh…” Her mind didn’t know how to process his request. He wanted to have coffee with her? He…wanted to have…coffee…with her. “Well…”

“Say yes,” one of the girls said in a stage whisper. “He’s gorgeous.”

Muffled laughter rippled through the students and Aidan glanced their way with an amused, proud little smirk.

Sam gathered herself with a firm internal reprimand. She was done with him, remember? She’d made that decision. And she was sticking to it.

“I’m teaching right now,” she said. “Class lets out in ten minutes, but my break isn’t very long.”

He shrugged. “That’s fine. Mind if I wait?”

“Let him wait,” Jamie said, smiling shyly.

Kyla Davies shoved her backpack off the empty desk beside her and patted it. “You can come sit here,” she said to Aidan, batting her eyelashes dramatically, drawing laughter from her classmates.

Aidan’s high cheekbones colored; Sam couldn’t remember him ever blushing, but he was for sure doing it now. “Thanks, but…” He dropped into the spare plastic chair beside her podium. “I’ll just park it here.”

Kyla groaned. “Aw, man…”

Hiding her smile poorly, Sam cleared her throat. “Just a few more minutes, guys. Let’s focus. Specifically, I want to talk about Hal’s swiftly changing attitude toward Falstaff, after that epic dialogue with his father…”

Habit and her ingrained understanding of the play were all that pushed her through the last ten minutes of lecture. The awareness of Aidan sitting beside her was like a fever, flaring beneath her skin, prickling up and down the back of neck, tightening the skin of her scalp until her hair felt too heavy. All the logic in the world couldn’t fight the physical pull of him.

It was senseless, she told herself. He probably wasn’t even that good in bed, and all her goosebumps and shivers were wasted on him.

Yeah right.

Either way, her head and her body were at odds with one another. Aidan was a mistake she’d stopped wanting to make. But her hands wanted to smooth up the rough texture of his scarred arms, and her mouth wanted to know the feel of his.

At a minute ‘til, the students started packing up, the rustle of their bags and papers drowning out her final thoughts.

“We’ll pick up Thursday talking about the battle, and move on to Part II,” she said, raising her voice. “Bye, guys, have a good afternoon.”

A few smiles and “bye, Miss Walton”s were thrown her way as the students filed out, but Aidan was the one earning all the attention, the curious glances, the winks, the stares, the slightly envious glares of a few of the boys. In Knoxville, it didn’t get much cooler than a Lean Dog. No matter how respectable, composed, and preppy a college boy, there was always that streak of envy when it came to the MC, that curiosity and fascination. What must it be like to be all James Dean and Steve McQueen in your leather and denim? Not giving a damn about anything?

Judging by the shadows under Aidan’s eyes, not as cool as outsiders might think.

“I don’t have time for coffee,” she said, turning to him when they were alone. “But we could walk down to the vending machines.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

As they stepped into the hall, he said, “So what were you talking to them about? What’s up with that Hal and Staffy guy?”

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.

She didn’t want to fool herself about what this was – God knew he wasn’t the type to take things slow and chivalrous, so he must not have wanted her sexually. But the unfolding easiness between them kept growing, kept tucking new dimensions into their conversation and lending them a familiarity she didn’t think either of them had expected.

Today, he was already propped up against the outer wall when she left the classroom. Hands in his pockets, hoodie zipped up against the chill beneath his cut. He needed a haircut, and his eyes were tired, and she drank him in visually.

“My next class is cancelled; I’m letting them take the day off and work on their papers. So we can actually have coffee today.”

He nodded and pushed off the wall, his smile just as weary as his gaze. “It’s cold out. That sounds good.”

Sam buttoned up her jacket and slid an arm through his offered one. It always sent a pulse of awareness through her, feeling the solid hardness of his biceps through his clothes. A gorgeous boy, a playboy…but a strong one, too.

The breeze rushed over them, as they pushed through the doors into the sunshine, and Sam leaned in a little closer.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, and it was an obvious, stiffly told lie.

“Girl trouble?”

He snorted.

“Family trouble?”

No comment.

“So club trouble, then.”

He made a sound that was neither yes nor no, but she understood it.

“Talking about it might help.”

He sighed…and then pulled her tighter beside him as they walked, holding her against his side, his gaze downcast. “Do you ever just know something’s going to blow up in your face, but you’ve got no idea what to do about it?”

“Yes. Though, in my case, it’s a metaphorical explosion. And with you, there might well be a real bomb involved.”

He chuckled. “You think?”

“There’s no telling.”

He nodded. “Yeah, well…this is a metaphorical one – damn, listen to how you have me talking – at least, I think it is. Mostly.” A frown pressed a deep groove between his brows. In a quiet undertone: “I really fucked up. A lot. And I’ve got no idea how to fix it.”

Okay, so whatever this was, it was serious.

They reached the coffee cart and she motioned toward a bench a few feet away in a sunny patch. “What do you want and I can join you in a sec?”

“Nope.” He dug out his wallet, its chain rattling. “I’m buying.”

“You don’t have to do keep doing that.”

“I’m taking up your time, so I’m buying your coffee.”

“Aidan–”

“Not listening.”

It wasn’t their usual back-and-forth. This was tight, colored with his disquiet.

“Fine.”

Aidan bought the coffee and they stirred in their preferred flavors: just sugar for him, and hazelnut International Delight for her. A kid with a laptop was settling onto the intended bench as they approached, but Aidan made a face that sent him scurrying.

“Wish I could do that sometimes,” Sam said as she dropped down onto the cold concrete.

“What?”

“The look.”

“You should talk to Mags. I hear she gives classes.”

“No doubt.”

The disquiet pressed in more strongly, a cold hand against the back of her neck. Whatever troubled Aidan, he wasn’t just ticked off, wasn’t just stewing. This was heavy; it had clamped down on him.

He held his coffee and stared down at the toes of his boots, head hanging between his shoulders.

“Aidan, tell me,” she prodded.

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “My dad’s not always an easy guy to please.”

“I’d imagine not.”

“I kinda gave up a while back, when I was a kid. It wasn’t possible, so I stopped trying. And I guess that’s why I suck at doing anything right, even when I try.”

She kept silent.

“After the accident,” he continued, and her mind filled with an image of him, pale and drawn in Ava’s guestroom, his arms dark with healing road rash, his head supported by pillows; it turned her stomach. “I had a talk with my dad, and I realized – well, I was gonna do things different. No more fucking – I mean, screwing around. I was gonna get settled. I was gonna step up. That was my plan.”

Sam thought of Tonya Sinclair, and her stomach did another cartwheel. She swallowed. “Settle down as in…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said with a snort. “I got it wrong, and I’m an idiot, I guess.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

He glanced over at her finally, brows lifted, half-smile sad and mocking.

“If I’m being totally honest, I think you’re a little selfish.”

His grin widened a fraction. “Yeah?”

“You like to have a good time.” She knew her cheeks colored as she thought of the wild MC party rumors she’d been subjected to since childhood. She’d overhead Aidan talking about a stripper once their senior year, just before he’d dropped out, that confident, smooth quality of his voice that said so much more than the words themselves.

“Not – not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she added, and he chuckled. “But you’ve been worried about yourself – about moment to moment experiences, and not the big picture, not the way your actions affect others, or yourself, even.”

She didn’t really expect him to agree, much less smile about it, but he did both. Nodding, he said, “I don’t impress you for a second, do I?”

A little tremor of something ridiculous in the pit of her stomach. A flutter in her chest. “Depends.”

His grin widened for a second, a brief flash of humor and happiness, and then his mood dimmed. His eyes stayed pinned to hers, dark and deep, and full of something she could only guess. “You’re better than me,” he said quietly, seriously.

“Aidan–”

“You finished school, you’re about to have two degrees. You go to work, and take care of your family, and you don’t break the law. You’re a good person, Sam. And you’re not selfish, not like me. You’re a better human being than I’ll ever be. But you don’t treat me like I’m not fit to breathe the same air as you.”

Awareness dawned, and with it a cool prickling along her skin. Anger knifed through her, a possessive, almost maternal urge to pull him in close, stroke his hair. “Who treats you that way?”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“What did Tonya say to you?” she demanded, voice sharp and so unlike herself. She sounded angry. No, not just sounded – was.

Aidan’s expression shifted, became curious. He shrugged. “She was too good for me. But like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“What did she say?” Sam repeated. Anger pulsed through her, strongest in her wrists, her throat, right up close to the skin.

Aidan shrugged. “What do you–”

“I care,” Sam interrupted, surging to her feet suddenly, “because I’m sick to death of people like Tonya Sinclair” – she spat the name like an expletive – “misusing the entire world on a whim. Like every damn person in her path is just an amusement.”

Aidan stared at her in surprise and disbelief as she paced in front of their bench. “Wait. You know her?”

“Everyone knows her. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s been making girls hate themselves since birth.”

“Okay…” Aidan said, but she wasn’t listening.

She was seeing Tonya: seven and gorgeous even then, in that mysterious way some girls seemed like grown women from conception, tiny child’s nose already lifted in disdain. Ten and accepting tokens and favors from her fawning friends; telling Sam she couldn’t go down the slide because she “hadn’t paid the toll,” and because her glasses were “fugly.” Eighteen and tailgating in her convertible. Twenty-one and sending back a martini because there was an onion instead of an olive, shaming the poor waiter until he nearly cried.

Thirty-two, and wrapping those manicured hands around Aidan’s tattooed arms, leading him into her bedroom.

Sam closed her eyes against the mental picture, hating Tonya, hating Aidan, hating herself. Hurt boiled up inside her, a hurt she had no right to feel, one that burned as it filled her.

Before she could stop herself, she whirled to a halt, facing him, braid slapping against her back. “What is it, anyway?”

He sat back, brows lifting. “What?”

“What is it about girls like Tonya that gets you guys all riled up? Is it really just about looks? She’s beautiful, and that’s all that matters? Or does she do something fr-freaky in bed” – she felt color bloom in her cheeks, bright spots of heat under her skin – “that other girls won’t? Or is it for bragging rights? I mean…Jesus, every woman has a vagina. What makes hers so special? Why does someone like Tonya get everything she ever wanted, and every guy too?”

The moment the tirade had left her, the anger was replaced with hot, acid shame, burning up her throat, choking her. She couldn’t believe her own outburst, couldn’t believe she’d said something so childish and petty.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, putting her back to him, walking away. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, though he couldn’t have heard her. She had to get away from him; couldn’t stare him in the eye after she’d let her jealously come roaring out into the open like that.

Breathing in big gulps of chilled air, squeezing her coffee cup so hard it cracked and leaked down her hand, she didn’t realize she was being followed until she caught her reflection in the plate glass of a window. Aidan walked several paces behind her, hands in his cut pockets, gaze fixed to her back. He wasn’t hurrying, but he wasn’t falling behind either. He was keeping up with her, tracking her. In the fast window glimpse, he looked like a predator on the hunt.

She ducked her head and walked faster. Faster, cursing her heels and skirt, trying to…

“Samantha.” He caught her suddenly, closing in as they reached the parking lot, his hand darting over her shoulder like a striking snake and taking hold of her wrist. The way he said her name, the streak of emotion in his voice, sent sparks shooting through her veins. He turned her so she faced him.

His face was flushed from the cool air and the exertion, a blush painted along his high cheekbones. Such pretty eyes he had, dark as coffee, full of pain.

“Sam, wait,” he pleaded, and she stood stock still, because suddenly, she felt the balance tipping between them, and she had no idea which way to lean.

“I’m sorry I got emotional,” she said stiffly, the words clashing with the way she felt her insides slowly melting. “I didn’t mean to jump down your throat like that.”

He didn’t seem to hear, staring at her. He dampened his lips – a fast flash of the pink tip of his tongue – and said, “You’re right. There’s not one thing special about Tonya.”

She hadn’t expected him to say that, of all things.

“I thought she was classy,” he continued, “and I thought she must be strong, the way she acted. I was looking for someone, someone special, really looking this time. But Tonya’s a bitch. And she was using me. She’s not anything like you, Sam,” he said fiercely. “She’s nothing like you.”

Her pulse arrested a second, and then kicked into high gear, thrumming in her ears. Her voice came out a whisper. “Why are you telling me this?”

He still had her wrist in an iron grip, and gave her a little shake. “Because I figured out what I really want. Finally. Jesus Christ – finally.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

She couldn’t have heard right. This couldn’t be happening.

“No,” she said, going cold all over.

“Yes.” He leaned in closer, grew still more earnest. “I’ve been so, so, so stupid. I’ve been a fucking idiot, chasing after everything I shouldn’t. And I know that now. And I know I want you.”

She was…furious. Heartbroken.

Sam twisted her hand but couldn’t break away from him, grimacing at the tightness of his fingers. “You don’t want me,” she said through her teeth. “You think you do, now, all of a sudden, because Tonya used you and made you feel like shit.” She knew it was true, as she said it, and she hated the tears that sprang up in her eyes. “I make you feel better, right? You said so. Because I’m this pathetic…loser…who has a crush on you, and looks at you adoringly, and makes you feel like a man. You don’t want me. You want the ego boost.”

“Sam…” He stepped toward her, and she stepped back, still trapped by his hand, grimacing at the pain – physical and emotional.

“I’m your last choice,” she said. “You tried everything, tasted everyone in Knoxville. And when the princess told you off, you came to me, the last ditch effort.” She tried to smile and knew it was an awful expression. “You said so yourself. ‘Finally.’ You’ve finally exhausted every pair of open legs in this city, and now it’s time to try me out.”

“No,” he said, roughly, stepping into her again, holding her fast. He pressed against her, all of him hard beneath his clothes, the leather and smoke smell of him filling her lungs. “No, it’s not like that, I swear. Sam, listen…”

She turned her head away, closed her eyes. But she could still feel him, smell him. Was still shivering.

Aidan’s breath touched her cheek, as he closed in further, invaded her senses. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I know I’m not worth a shit. I know I don’t deserve you. But I know you want me. I can feel it. I don’t have any of the things I ought to offer you, but I can make your toes curl. I can be good to you that way. And if you’ll just gimme a chance to–”

She shoved him. One-handed, but hard, and he let go of her, out of shock, she thought, going by the way his eyes leapt wide.

“No,” she insisted, tremulous, weak. “I won’t let you use me. I won’t be another notch in your belt, because you feel low–”

He caught her face in both hands, pulled her to him, and kissed her.

A real, violent, hot-blooded kiss, his tongue thrusting between her lips.

She’d never been kissed like that.

It kicked off a slideshow in her mind, drawing on all her wildest imaginings: Her fingernails sunk in the tattooed expanse of his back; rasp of his breath at her throat; swift pain of him coming inside her; his weight pressing her into the mattress; scent of sweat and musk.

“Sam, please,” he said, raggedly, against her lips.

But none of it was real.

The startlingly sexual, animal heartthrob of her youth begging to sleep with her?

That wasn’t real.

“Oh my God,” she heard someone say. A female someone. A voice she recognized: Ava.

“God,” Sam echoed, and tore away from Aidan, not looking back, running for her car.

~*~

Damn his sister. Damn her for popping up when he least needed an audience. Interfering.

He whirled on her, snarling, and watched her eyes open in surprise. Excuse me? they said, as she gripped the handle of her double stroller. In the front seat, little Remy looked up at him, echoing his mother’s sentiment.

Damn both of them, even if one was a baby.

“Okay, what the hell was that?” Ava asked.

He countered with, “What are you doing here?”

“Dropping off a paper. I go to school here, Aidan. So I think the question is, what are you doing here? Aside from traumatizing Shakespeare professors?”

“None of your goddamn business.” He wanted to stomp off, but knew he was in no shape to get on his bike at the moment. He vibrated head to toe, and he knew that was part frustration, part shame, part lust, part total and complete devastation thanks to what Sam had said. That was when he realized, for the first time, just how serious he was, how much he wanted her, needed her. The One? He’d found her. But he was too late, and he’d treated her too poorly, and now there was no chance.

Aidan scrubbed at his hair with both hands, trying to contain the headache that swelled up behind his eyes.

The stroller came closer, plastic wheels bumping over the cracks in the sidewalk. “Why are you messing with Sam all of a sudden?” Ava asked, dropping her voice to a low, soothing pitch that reminded him suddenly of Maggie.

He let his hands fall to his sides, giving her a back off glance that she ignored. “I’m not.”

“That’s why she ran off like that, then. All your not-messing.”

“Ava…” he said in warning.

“She’s in love with you, you know.”

That stopped him fast. “What?”

Ava studied him like a bird might, head tilted to the side, dark eyes narrowed. “She’s never said anything, but I can tell. She gets that look, that faraway one people have when it hurts to look at someone.” She smiled. “Caught that look on my face in windows and dessert spoons often enough back in the day to recognize it when I see it.”

He heard her words, but his brain wasn’t computing them. “What?” he repeated, tone becoming desperate, unfamiliar to his ears.

“Honestly, I don’t know why she’d waste her time on you,” Ava said with a shrug. “We all know you don’t care about education and responsibility. But she probably can’t help it. Hell – it may go all the way back to high school. That kind of first love crush is almost impossible to get over.” Another sad smile, because she understood all too well.

Aidan didn’t understand, though. His head was pounding. “Sam doesn’t – she couldn’t – there’s no way–”

“No accounting for taste, I guess.” Ava grew more serious. “But what were you doing just now?”

He gave her a vicious frown. “What’d it look like, genius?”

“Like you’re taking advantage, because you’re lost, and you’re hurting, and Sam suddenly looks like a soft place to land,” she said baldly, without flinching.

“It’s not like that.”

“So explain it to me.”

“Fuck you.”

She didn’t shrink away, of course she didn’t. Ava – shooter of men in the face, mother of two half-demons, both of whom were staring at him at this point, even Cal somehow disapproving in his own baby way.

“Does she know what’s going on with Tonya?”

He wasn’t prepared for the fresh, hot surge of anger that boiled up in his chest. He took a step closer to his sister, aiming a finger at her chest. “No, she doesn’t, and don’t you tell her, understand? Don’t tell her anything.”

“She’s my friend, and I can’t sit by and watch you deceive her just for fun.”

“It’s not for fun. It’s…” Something came unhinged in his mind. A sharp pain in his head, somewhere deep he couldn’t touch; he felt something break and give way. The stress – of Tonya, the baby he wasn’t going to ever get to meet, the dead dealers, freaking Greg – overwhelmed him in that moment, and he hated the way his anger turned to something raw and desperate. But he was powerless to do anything about it.

“I’m gonna tell her,” he said in a breathless rush. “About Tonya, about everything. I am, I swear. I don’t wanna lie to her. But I can’t tell her right now. I have to wait for the right time, for–”

“You have to wait until she’s so hopelessly attached she couldn’t walk away from you?”

“Ava! Jesus Christ, I’m serious!” He reached for her, planning on taking her by the shoulders, but a fast mental image of Mercy knocking all of his teeth out pulled him up short. Instead he curled his hands into fists. “You can’t tell her yet. Please! Not yet. Wait and let me tell her.”

He was breathing like he’d run a race, chest heaving. He felt the hot slide of perspiration down his back and shivered despite it. He had to hear her relent, absolutely had to. He had maybe one chance with Sam, and he couldn’t afford to blow it.

Ava looked at him a long moment, pushing the stroller back and forth absently when Cal started to fuss. “You’re dead damn serious, aren’t you?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Why now?” she asked, smoothing her expression to something thoughtful. “Sam and I have been friends for almost two years. Why do you want her all of a sudden?”

Hot shame passed through him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt like more of an idiot, not even when he’d been sitting across from Tonya in that booth at Stella’s. That sort of regret was normal – making a mistake, kicking himself for it. But this, with Sam – that was about realizing he’d missed something.

He missed a lot of things, didn’t he?

He sighed deeply, and the tension bled out of his body, leaving him exhausted.

“Because the total fucking mess I’ve made of my entire life is catching up to me now. Because I’m tired – tired of getting everything wrong, tired of chicks using me, tired of everything stupid and shallow and fake. I want something real, and Sam’s the realest thing I’ve ever run across.”

Ava smiled. “Welcome to the land of adults, bro. I’m glad you finally made it.”

He rolled his eyes.

“But,” she added, “Sam doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the mess if she’s just a balm. If you’re just hoping she’ll be sweet to you and make you feel better.”

He started to respond –

“I won’t say anything to her, I promise. And really, I think she’d be good for you. Maybe help get your head on straight. But make sure it’s really about Sam, Aidan, please. She deserves to be loved. Make sure you can love her before you break her heart.”

He…nodded. That was all he could do.

Eight

The thing about gut instincts: they were never wrong. Not in Ghost’s personal experience, anyway. Right now, his gut instincts were screaming that a bunch of dead dealers went beyond a message: this was a total wipe-out, and he had a feeling he knew who was behind it.

“New construction,” he told his trackers. “Inside or just outside the city. Find it.”

Rottie called him just after lunch. “New doctor’s office suite going in just down the street from the hospital.”

So that’s where he headed, his VP and sergeant in tow.

The new building was in its infancy: the sandy soil scraped clean, black erosion fabric staked up, the footers going in as orange-vested work crews moved across the property. A trailer was parked at one end, its small windows covered from the inside with blinds, a sign tacked up beside the door. It read:

Gannon & Gannon Development, Inc.

Lance Gannon: Project Manager

“Bloody hell,” Walsh said, conversationally, as they parked and stripped off their helmets.

Some of the crew had stopped working and glanced toward them with the usual local blend of curiosity and trepidation. The men didn’t like to show it openly, not the way women did, but they still had that low spark of fear in their eyes, just visible if you looked close enough. It was a threat to their staid and steady lives, their beer guts and quiet Sunday evenings at home – seeing others of their species who’d chosen to live off the map. They saw the leather and heard the pipes, and didn’t think about the inevitable utility bills, kids, wives, grocery store runs and bouts of the common cold. They didn’t see the humans inside the cuts.

“When did they break ground?” Ghost asked.

“Two weeks ago,” Walsh supplied.

Eyes followed them as they walked to the trailer. The curiosity had a low buzzing sound, like the droning of flies.

Michael hit the stairs first, hand hovering close to his gun, taking protective point as always. He didn’t knock, but tested the knob and then pushed the door wide, sweeping in with all the grace of a military man, though he’d never been in the service.

Shame.

Ghost followed closely, Walsh bringing up the rear in tight formation, and they were rewarded with a sharp gasp of shock from the man at the desk.

As with most site offices, this one was set up as both a break room – water cooler, coffee maker, card table and chairs – and a workstation. The man at the big drafting desk poring over blueprints had the sleeves of a crisp blue shirt folded back, dark hair combed and styled neatly. Clean-shaven, Ghost saw, as the man turned to them, and sporting a fat Rolex on one wrist.

“What are you…” The man’s eyes skipped across them, resting on their chests, their assorted patches of rank and merit. That same streak of fear from outside stole through his gaze, and that was all Ghost needed to see. Yes, this man might be working with the enemy, and he might have been bold enough to break ground here, but he was scared. You could always work with scared.

“Mr. Gannon,” Ghost said, leaving it to his officers to keep an eye on their surroundings. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” When the man worked his mouth soundlessly, Ghost said, “You are Lance Gannon, I’m assuming. Since your name’s by the door.”

A second of brittle silence, hesitation – then the man swallowed visibly and said, “Yes, I’m Lance. What business is it of yours?”

“Close the door,” Ghost said, and Walsh obliged.

Gannon swallowed again, another hot flash of trepidation moving through his expression.

“I’m assuming you know who we are.”

Silence which was taken as a “yes.”

“I want to extend an apology,” Ghost said, “for your lost opportunity. I know you and your people were hoping to turn Briar Hall Stables into a condo development, and obviously” – sharp grin – “that didn’t go so well for you.”

Gannon’s face compressed with obvious anger, but his voice remained calm. “I’ve been in the development game for a long time, Mr. Teague” – ah, so he knew a good bit about them – “and disappointment is part of the process. Something always needs to be built, and we always land on our feet.”

Ghost felt Walsh’s elbow at his ribs, a light touch, one Gannon couldn’t have seen. It was both a request and a warning. The solid, unshakeable VP was running scared after what happened to Emmie. Don’t rile them up about the farm, his elbow said. Don’t bring them back to my doorstep.

Fair enough.

“Who are you building this for?”

Gannon shrugged. “Dr. Murphy. He’s a podiatrist.”

“Does he have any idea who backs you financially?”

Gannon’s frown deepened.

“Does he know Don Ellison gave you your start?”

“No, obviously,” the man said, tightly.

“Here’s my personal question, though: Ellison didn’t just give you a start, did he? He’s still got you by the short hairs, and he’s wanting a foothold in Knoxville. This isn’t a simple case of you building a doctor’s office, is it?”

“Mr. Teague, you have a very vivid imagination.”

“No, that’d be other members of my family.” His writer daughter; his book geek torture-artist son-in-law; Mags with her home reno ideas. “Me – I like to stick to the facts. And the fact is, you and your crew are creating a pathway for a major dealer to worm his way into my city. Gotta say I don’t take kindly to that.”

Gannon stared at him a moment, then said, “What happened to Amy Richards?”

Ghost shrugged. “No idea. Maybe the dumbass decided to skip town after she and her son killed her old man.”

“You–”

“No you need to listen to what I have to say. Tell Ellison I got his message. Loud and clear. And tell him to back the hell off. ‘Cause I don’t care how hot shit he thinks he is – he doesn’t want to mess with this club. We clear? You can deliver that message, or I can. But I’ll be way less nice about it than you.”

The air pulsed with snide things that wanted to be said, bristled with the strain of the circumstances.

Finally, Gannon nodded.

Ghost gestured for their leave-taking, and the three of them trooped out of the office and back to the bikes without salutation.

“Posturing isn’t gonna register with Ellison,” Michael said, voice sharp with anger, “not when he’s already pushing back into our turf.”

“I know,” Ghost said with a sigh, “but I have to posture anyway.”

~*~

Holly always ran her index finger down the computer screen when she was totaling up invoice figures. She didn’t actually touch the glass, just hovered her fingertip, beautiful face screwed up with concentration as she ran the numbers in her head without benefit of a calculator.

Michael lingered in the trucking office doorway, letting her finish, watching the way his shadow fell across her and the playpen behind her, where Lucy was taking her afternoon nap.

He’d saved Holly, hadn’t he? Pulled her out of the nightmare of her family.

Only to do what – subject her to the nightmare of his club life?

Pain grabbed in his chest, made it hard to breathe. His beautiful, wonderful girl, who loved him better than anyone ever had, who made it worth waking up each morning.

He hated himself for what he had to tell her. But he didn’t believe in secrets, not between them, not when she was his sun.

Holly finished her column and glanced up, face lighting up with happiness at the sight of him.

How did he deserve that?

“Hi, baby,” she greeted, and motioned for him to come in. “I was just wondering if you’d show up for lunch. I have leftover caprese salad and rotisserie chicken if you’re hungry.”

“Is that the stuff with tomatoes and cheese?”

“And basil, yep.” She shifted paperwork over. “Come sit down.”

He did, taking the chair across from hers.

When she stood and moved toward the fridge, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her carefully down so she sat in his lap, both legs hooked over the arm of the chair.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, grinning. “If you want that kind of lunch, you’re going to have to lock the door. And not wake Lucy. I can be quiet if you can.”

“You can’t be quiet,” he said, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips. He wished this was his errand, to reach down into the low V of her shirt and open her legs over his lap, lose himself in the softness of her body for a little while.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, and she stiffened against him, growing serious.

“Okay.”

He took a deep breath and her fingertips pressed into the back of his neck, an encouragement and reassurance. “I can’t tell you all the details, but I think things are about to blow up for the club.”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean in a booming business sense,” she said softly.

“No.” He stroked the denim-covered smoothness of her thigh. “There’s someone who has every reason to hurt us – and I think they’re going to.”

Her eyes moved over his face, huge and green, and lovely. “What do you need me to do?”

“Stay safe.” He closed his hand over her knee, squeezed, met her gaze with a pleading one of his own. “Please, Hol, just stay safe.”

She kissed him, her lips soft and gentle. “You too.”

~*~

“Tally,” Becca explained, turning to him as he approached the fence. Em’s working student had a booted foot propped on the lowest board, arms folded over the top rail, eager audience for what was happening in the arena.

His pulse leapt as he remembered the leggy Thoroughbred who’d jumped the property fence and first introduced him to his old lady. “Is he safe for her to be on?”

Becca smirked. “Obviously you don’t watch her ride all that much.”

Agreeing silently, Walsh joined her, folding his arms over the rail.

It was true: he’d only watched Emmie ride a time or two. It wasn’t novel to him, being on horseback, given his background. And so he’d let business take up most of his day, enjoying his time with his wife while they were both on foot – or in bed.

It was a shame, though, because she was graceful as a ballerina in the saddle. Mounted on a long-limbed horse, his five-foot-nothing old lady seemed head and shoulders taller, the way she became an extension of the animal she controlled. She had Tally at a big, swinging trot, his forehand collected without strain, his balance rocked back on his hind legs as she sat, deft and unmoving, seeming not to cue the animal at all.

When they reached the top of the arena, Tally grabbed at the bit and plunged his nose downward, trying to shake her loose, to gain control. A frown crossed Emmie’s face, and Walsh watched her tighten all over, using every muscle in her body to correct her mount, regather him, and send him on with a sharp kick.

“She’s lovely,” he murmured, and Becca made a pleased sound beside him.

Emmie brought the gelding down the long side of the arena, then executed a neat downward transition, loosening the reins and patting his neck. “He’s improving,” she called to Becca. “Slowly.”

“He’s a dumb-dumb,” Becca called back, “that’s probably the only way he can improve.”

Emmie grinned and then winced as she reached to rub at her shoulder. “He tugged on me good.”

“Have to give you a massage later,” Walsh said as she drew up alongside them, and she blushed.

“Did you just get back?” she asked, her eyes speaking to larger worries. She knew he’d been on a club errand, and that it was worrying him, even if she didn’t know the particulars.

She also knew they couldn’t discuss it in front of Becca.

“Yeah,” he said. “Everything okay here?”

“Yeah.”

Becca seemed to catch the vibe. “I better get back to stalls.”

“Thanks,” Emmie told her, expression tense as she watched her student walk back toward the barn. When the girl was out of earshot, she slid down off the horse and pulled his reins over his head. “I need to walk him out,” she said, and Walsh hopped the fence so he could walk alongside her.

They fell into step beside one another, ears filled with the sounds of Tally’s heavy breathing and the sand shifting under their feet.

“You’ve been worried,” Emmie observed, “but I’m guessing this is one of those things you can’t tell me about.”

A sideways glance from under the brim of her helmet, wry and questioning.

He grinned back, echoing her expression. “You’re sharp, you know that?”

“Hmm. And you’re easier to read lately than the horses. What’s going on with you?”

He exhaled deeply. What was wrong? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought it had something to do with one morning a week ago. The night before at dinner, Bea had been harassing them good-naturedly about giving her grandchildren. He hadn’t put much stock in it until the next morning, just before the alarm sounded at six, when Emmie rolled toward him through the sheets, voice heavy with sleep in the darkness. “Do you want to?” she’d asked. “Have kids? I…I want to, King.”

She was feeling safe now, secure in the knowledge that she could take a little maternity leave and not lose her job. Delighted by the prospect of loving and being loved and making children together.

But she couldn’t conceive of the burden already placed upon him. He had her now, and his new employees, his mother, his half-brother, who he’d thankfully placed in a job at the Dartmoor auto shop working on cars with Michael. Marriage had given Emmie wings. Walsh didn’t regret it for a second, but with the dead dealers, with the threat of Ellison – he was stressed, and that was putting it mildly.

He took another deep breath and let it out. “I said I’d tell you all I was able to, didn’t I?”

He sensed a sudden tension in her. “You did.”

Here went nothing… “The man who had you kidnapped,” he said, and watched her eyes go round, “he’s still in town, and he’s still trying to get to the club.”

She reached out and braced a hand on Tally’s steaming shoulder.

“It was never personal about you, love, I don’t want you to worry about that part of it. He was trying to force the club’s hand – and I think he’s going to keep trying, only I don’t know how, and I don’t know which direction he’s going to come from.”

She swallowed, slender throat working, and glanced ahead of them, across the blinding white sand. The breeze played with the trailing end of her ponytail and lifted the scent of sweaty horse to his nostrils. “Okay.” She was making a supreme effort to keep calm, for his sake and Tally’s, and he loved her all the more for it. “Well, what does this guy want? Is it revenge?”

“Maybe at this point, after…but no, not really. He’s just ambitious, and he wants our territory. Powerful people don’t like for other powerful people to stay in business.”

“Guess sometimes it sucks to be the big dog in town, huh?” She snorted. “No pun intended.”

“Yeah.”

“So. What do you need me to do?”

He glanced over at her with surprise, and she stared levelly back at him.

“I know I can’t ride around on a bike, doling out ass-whoopings. I’ll leave that to you.” Quick grin. “But I’m serious. What do you need from my end? What can I do to help?”

She had floored him, completely, and he suddenly didn’t have the businesslike grace to express that properly. He put an arm around her waist – her clothes clung to damp skin; she smelled faintly of clean perspiration and horse hair – and drew her in close as they walked. “Just have my back, yeah?”

“Always.”

He kissed the shiny plastic side of her helmet and hoped she understood the love behind the gesture.

~*~

Maggie’s gaze was fixed to the paper in her hands as Ghost walked into her central office at Dartmoor. It was a crisp day, and the breeze came in through the propped-open door, stirring the invoices and tidy stacks on the desk. Maggie didn’t seem to notice any of it, or even him, as he braced a hip against the corner of the desk and folded his arms, waiting.

Her eyes lifted, bright with alarm, face tweaked with it. “Harry stopped to get the mail on his way in, and dropped it off to me.”

“Right.” She was building to something and he knew it, didn’t push her.

“This” – she shook the paper – “didn’t have a stamp or an address on it, so whoever sent it must have put it in the mailbox himself. It was made out to ‘Mr. and Mrs. Teague,’ so I opened it, thinking it was an invitation or something.”

“Invitation? Everyone we know works here.”

“I know,” she said grimly, turning the paper to face him. “Which makes this creepy as shit.”

He took the note from her and read it, quickly:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Teague,

I know we’ve never met, but I’m a good friend of your son’s, from back in school. I’m real sorry about what he’s going through, and I want to let you know I’m here if you need me.

It was unsigned, and the handwriting was slanted and hurried.

“Friend from back in school?” Ghost asked, glancing at his wife. “He never had any friends save Kev. And all of us.” He plucked at his cut for emphasis.

“Certainly no one he would have told about Tonya,” she said.

Ghost turned the note over in his hands several times, looking for clues. There were none.

“Someone’s trying to screw with us,” Maggie said.

“On several fronts,” he muttered, handing the paper back. “Hold onto that. God knows that it means, but I don’t believe in coincidences anymore.”

“Hmm.”

“Where is he, by the way? Aidan?”

“Clocking hours at the shop. He’s been here all morning.”

He frowned. The little delinquent – he was late more often than not these days, off running errands and keeping to himself. Fatherhood – yeah, that’s what he needed. The kid would be better off going to someone else. Someone who didn’t have his head stuck up his ass.

“Don’t look like that,” Maggie said.

“Like what?”

“Like you hate your own son. I won’t tolerate it.”

“He’s my son,” Ghost said, hotly. “I’ll think whatever I want about him.”

“No you won’t,” she countered. “You’ll stew, and fuss, and eventually realize he’s no different from you, and you’ll get over yourself, so you might as well cut to the chase.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“No,” she sighed. “That would have been the smart thing to do.”

Nine

“What are you gonna do about–” Tango glanced over his shoulder to ensure that Mercy and Carter were occupied all the way on the other side of the garage. He turned back and dropped his voice a notch. “Greg?” he whispered.

They worked on either side of a particularly banged-up Night Train, and Aidan frowned at the greasy guts of the machine. “Well, since going back in time and pulling the damn trigger isn’t an option,” he whispered back, “I’ve got no fucking clue.”

“If Ghost finds out…” Tango started.

“What? You gonna tattle on me?”

His best friend gave him a level look. “Never.” Another covert check. “I’m just thinking it would be a good idea to deal with the guy before all of this blows up.”

“Yeah, and how do you suggest I do that?”

Tango sighed, which meant he had no answers on that front.

“Hey, Kev?” a female voice called from beyond the doors, and the sound of it moved through Aidan like electricity.

Tango was the one closest to the door, the one in sight, and therefore the one she’d called to. He stood, and shaded his eyes against the sun with one hand. “Hey, Sam,” he called back, and all the while, Aidan’s pulse was skyrocketing.

He straightened, and over Tango’s shoulder could see Sam peering into the garage bay, arms folded across her middle in uncertainty. She wore jeans and a cream sweater, her hair down, wavy and snarled from the breeze.

Beautiful.

“Is Aidan working today?” she asked.

Before Tango could answer, Aidan ditched his tools and stepped up to the door, hastily wiping his hands on the front of his embroidered garage shirt. “I am,” he said, and noticed the way Sam pulled back, lips tightening, like she’d been hoping maybe he wasn’t around.

But that didn’t make sense, because she was asking after him.

Unless she was only asking so she could avoid him.

When in the hell had he ever analyzed anything social to this degree? The woman was going to kill him with all this self-doubt.

She fixed him with a look hard to describe. “Do you have a second?”

“For you, I’ve got all the seconds,” he said, giving her his widest, most charming grin.

She didn’t smile back, merely turned and walked back through the parking lot, wanting them to have some privacy.

Tango gave him a sympathetic shrug as he started to follow.

Mercy called to him: “Don’t think I don’t see you striking out over there, man candy.”

“Bite my ass,” he called back, and went after Sam, heart thumping hard against his ribs.

He hadn’t ever noticed her walk before, when they tracked side-by-side up and down the hall at the school. But now, behind her, he took note of the efficient strides, the way she didn’t waste effort with popping her hips and swaying her torso. She walked like she was going someplace, like a woman who had more important things to worry about than sex appeal. She didn’t flirt, she’d told him not that long ago, and no, she didn’t. It wasn’t part of her DNA, he supposed.

Part of him wanted to catch up to her, put a hand under her elbow, link them physically. But he kept pace behind her, realizing where she was headed: the elevated garden in the no-man’s land of the parking lot. The oasis of small gnarled fruit trees and babbling manmade waterfall. The nursery crew had put in the yellow autumn flowers – pansies? – already and the apple trees were going red and gold in the tops, the apples shiny and tight-skinned.

Sam reached the low stone wall that ringed the garden’s foundation and sat on it, legs crossed, arms still folded. Nothing about her posture invited Aidan to join her so he stayed on his feet, pulling up in front of her, trying to look casual. Like all his skin wasn’t prickling with nerves.

“I came to get my oil changed,” she said.

“Good, you need to keep up with that.”

“And I thought while I waited…I would…” She took a deep breath and looked at him, the brightness of the sun making her eyes hard to see clearly. “Okay, let’s just get it over with. I know we’ll still see each other, me spending time with Ava and all, and I don’t want things to be strained. So let’s just agree to put what happened–”

“What happened?”

She appeared startled by the question. Her cheeks pinked. “Well, when you lost your head and said something to me you didn’t mean–”

“I meant it.”

“Aidan, you kissed me.”

“I meant that too. Do I need to do it again to prove it?”

“No.” She held up a hand as if to ward him off. “You don’t.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” he said, grinning, loving the way it made her blush even more. “I could tell you liked it.”

With visible effort, she drew herself up and said, “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Why? Too real for you? You only like sex when it’s in books?”

She bolted up to her feet, arms slamming down to her sides, hands balled into fists. In a tight voice, she said, “I’m trying really hard to be patient with you.”

“So don’t be. Doesn’t it ever get old being so damn perfect all the time?”

He expected a sharp retort, but instead she stared at him, gaze softening, filling with sadness. She sat back down, hard, like her legs were tired, and that was when Aidan joined her, sitting down close beside her on the cold stone of the wall.

“It gets old,” she said in a low voice. “Not being perfect, because I’m not perfect.” She rubbed at her forehead with two delicate fingertips, brows crimping together. “But looking out for Mom, and Erin, and work, and school, and…all of it. I don’t mind it, not at all. But sometimes I wish…” She trailed off, biting at her lip.

A strange impulse hit him. He wanted to touch her; and not in a sexual way – well, he did, but that wasn’t the urge that overcame him now. Now, he didn’t fight the desire to lay a hand on the back of her head, cupping gently, delighted by the silken texture of her pale hair.

She glanced at him, startled.

“Sometimes you wish you got to do something fun? Just for you?” he guessed.

Her smile was faint. “You’re a fantasy, you know that?”

He lifted his brows in questioning surprise.

“Just because you’re a quiet, mousy kid who studies all the time, it doesn’t mean you aren’t still terribly feminine. It doesn’t mean you don’t have a violent crush on a bad boy who refuses to cover his tattoos up at school.” She smiled again, pretty and wistful. “You were my schoolgirl fantasy, and I can’t even say why. I’m not sure that ever went away, even though I know better.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with the bombardment of sentiments her words brought on. Mixed shock, gladness, and then the gut-punch of her “knowing better.”

“Ouch,” he said.

“I haven’t been fair,” she continued, “letting you come see me every afternoon. You make me feel sixteen, and all fluttery” – she gestured to her chest – “and in that sense, I’ve been using you. Just like I think you’ve been using me,” she added, tone gentle. “We’re not being honest with each other.”

He sat, staring at her a moment, smelling the coconut of her shampoo as the breeze blew the blonde lengths toward his face.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“We’re using–” she started.

“No, I heard. I just wanna know why you actually believe all that bullshit you just said.”

It was her turn to stare.

“Sam,” he said, a tightness in his chest, in his words. He’d been able to talk every girl he’d ever casually wanted into his bed. And here was this one, who he was suddenly so hungry for, and she wanted him, too, but goddamn her self-control, she was pushing him back. “If you want me, and I want you, I don’t understand what the problem is.”

She studied him. “I used to think being wanted was enough. But now I’m not so sure.”

She started to rise, and he latched onto her wrist, keeping her at his side. “You won’t even try?” he asked.

The wind pulsed around them, stirring her hair, and he knew by the light in her eyes that she didn’t misunderstand, and that she was considering. She cracked the seal on her imagination and let herself wonder: taking her glasses off, his fingers knotting in her hair, his mouth bruising hers, the salt taste of damp skin.

“Some days,” she whispered, vibrating with restrained energy, “when it feels like the shit won’t stop coming, the only thing I want in the world is for us to try.”

He didn’t resist when she shook off his grip and stood.

She walked away without looking back.

~*~

A little bit dumbfounded, Aidan was still sitting on the wall ten minutes later, plucking absently at his hair, when his dad came striding through in his typical broom handle-up-the-ass military strut.

He stopped, pivoted on one heel, and gave Aidan The Stare. Similar to Maggie’s Look, but less subtle. “You’re just sitting there?”

Aidan lurched to his feet, surprised to feel the shakiness in his knees. “Headed back.”

Another dose of Stare. “Chapel in ten,” Ghost said finally, and headed that way without waiting.

Just as well. He had no intention of walking alongside the man.

Aidan met his brothers coming out of the bike shop, Carter putting up the lunch sign and locking the door.

“Brother,” Mercy said, laying a heavy arm across his shoulders and feigning confidentiality, though his voice was loud. “What in the name of all that’s unholy are you doing with that poor Sam Walton girl?”

Carter said something under his breath that sounded like “choking her.”

“Nothing,” Aidan said.

“Nothing yet,” Mercy corrected. “But you’re trying to do something. Oui?”

“I don’t speak French, asshole.”

“Ah, but you speak Woman. And methinks you’re speaking the hell out of it to that girl.”

“ ‘Methinks’? Now what the hell language are you using? – You know what, whatever. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Sam went to school with us,” Tango said helpfully.

Still holding Aidan in what was fast becoming a headlock, Mercy spoke over top of him. “Oh yeah, that’s what Ava said.” To Aidan: “Trying to rekindle something? Did you bang her in high school?”

“What? No.” He tried to shrug the massive arm off his shoulders, but it held fast.

“Sam was sort of a bookworm, sit-in-the-front-row kind of girl,” Tango said.

“So she was too good for our boy here, is what you’re saying.”

“Yep,” Tango said with a grin.

They had reached the central office in their trek to the clubhouse, and Aidan ducked out of Mercy’s grasp with a decisive shove. “Fuck y’all. I’ll catch up in a sec.” Ignoring Merc’s hearty suggestions that he was a spoilsport, among other things, he left them behind and went into the office.

Maggie darted him a glance as he entered, then refocused on the computer. “Hi, baby,” she said, half-distracted.

Baby. She’d called him that from the beginning, when he’d been nothing to her but the snot-nosed kid of the man she was dating. He could remember her so vividly then, blonde hair flying in the window, with her red lipstick and Ghost’s jacket draped across her shoulders. She’d looked like a harpy at first sight. But her smile had been warm, and she’d pulled him into a hug, and called him baby. She’d never treated him as anything less than her own.

And he’d insulted her.

“Mags.”

Something in his voice snared her full attention, and she pulled back from the keyboard, eyes coming to his face. “What’s the matter?”

More of her warmth and concern, which he didn’t deserve.

“The other morning,” he said, and found that it was hard to hold her gaze, wanting to squirm with shame. “At the house, the things I said…”

Her lips pursed in understanding, and she nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No. Don’t gimme an out.” He thought she almost smiled. “It was wrong what I said about you. It was shitty. Mags, whatever I think about Dad, it’s got nothing to do with what I think about you.”

“I know that, sweetie.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and hoped she understood how much so.

She nodded, expression telling him he was forgiven.

~*~

The long, ornately carved dining table in the chapel was at full capacity, Walsh’s English-import half-brother Shane taking Troy’s usual seat. The guy was quiet, like Walsh, but not unpleasant. He didn’t feel like one of his brothers yet, but Aidan thought he’d slid nicely into place without putting ripples across the surface of their gatherings. A guy who knew his role.

Ghost probably loved him, then.

The moment the squeaking of chairs had quieted, Ghost began.

“Gannon & Gannon are building in Knoxville.”

A wave of energy through the room, quick curses and amazed glances. An air of disappointment, as if most of the shock was an act, because none were surprised that an enemy had returned.

“G&G means Ellison, which you all know,” Ghost continued, looking old, worn, and beleaguered. He wasn’t old, Aidan reminded himself. The man gave the impression of being in his prime most of the time – and he was, really – but he was fifty-two and right now, he looked haggard. Worn hard by the biker life. “Which confirms the theory that Ellison killed our dealers. He wants to take over our business, and he isn’t going to do it through negotiation. My guess – the dealers were just the start. If he encounters any resistance from this point on, he’s going to hit us and hit us hard. Shaman was right: we’re involved in a war, gentlemen. Whether we like it or not.”

“If he could find the names and addresses of our dealers,” Walsh said, “then he can find our addresses. Our families.” He stressed the last with raised brows and a deeply disturbed rendition of his normal expression, smoke curling ominously from the end of his cigarette. “Look at what happened to Em. He’s not above using our soft spots against us.”

“Yeah, but our soft spots aren’t as soft as he thinks,” Mercy said with a grim smile. “Our girls are smart. And they know their way around a gun.”

“Yeah,” Ghost said, voice tight, “but what’s Ava gonna do when she’s home alone with the boys and five of Ellison’s thugs show up? Can she hold that many off?”

Mercy scowled at the man a long, tense moment.

“I know you don’t want to think about it,” Ghost said, “but we have to. I don’t want another long, drawn-out war like we had with the Carpathians.” He twitched a humorless grin. “I don’t have another giant Cajun to call in to watch my family.”

“So what?” Rottie asked. “If we hit hard enough to knock them back, we’ll all end up in cuffs.”

Or dead was the implied addition.

Aidan’s stomach cramped. Greg, he needed to tell them about Greg. That guy was involved in all of this somehow. Did he seem the type to have killed Mitch and Marcello with a machete? No. Not at all. But he’d been selling Fisher’s drugs. He’d…

He closed his eyes tight against an oncoming headache. His body felt raw and full of needles. He had to figure out what was going on with Greg. Alone. Or with Tango’s help, at least, before he brought it up with Dad. Greg wouldn’t do much damage by himself, and all their dealers were dead, so what was the harm at this point?

He flicked a glance across the table and saw that his best friend was watching him, a frown marring his unnaturally pretty face. Not accusatory, but wondering, waiting for him to fess up.

Not yet, he thought, and looked away.

“I’m working on something,” Ghost said, “and I’m bringing in reinforcements. But long story short, everyone affiliated with us needs to be very careful.”

~*~

Her ears were ringing. As Sam paced slowly down the aisles of Leroy’s Gas ‘n’ Grocery, Aidan’s face danced against the backs of her eyes: his serious, almost haunted expression; the warm chocolate color of his eyes. Try, he’d said. He wanted to try. Try what, exactly? Shed their clothes in great desperate yanks and fall into bed, see if they fit together physically? Or was he talking evening strolls, dinner dates, and hand-holding?

She scoffed inwardly at the idea. Aidan had no idea how to go about a real relationship.

Didn’t mean he was averse to trying, though.

She paused in front of the olive oil display and massaged her temples. She had to clear her mind. Obsessing had never done her any good, and she couldn’t afford to go there now. Besides, she was picking up a few things for dinner. Assuming Erin would actually come out of her room and eat with them…

“Sam?” A voice said beside her, and she jumped, startled.

A man stood at her elbow, slight and unremarkable, with nondescript brown hair and a face that looked younger than it probably was.

As the shock faded, something tickled at the back of her mind. A brush of recognition.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “I just wanted to say hi. I’m Greg. Greg Harris, from high school. I sat behind you in chem.”

It clicked into place. “Greg! Yeah, hi. We made cheese together that time,” she said with a laugh.

“In the beakers.” He shuddered. “It didn’t taste right.”

“Well, Miss Prussell probably cleaned the sulfuric acid out of them first.”

They chuckled over the memory, and then the normal silence of two long-separated acquaintances lapped around them.

Greg spoke first. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be off living in Paris or something, writing books for the snobs over there.” He grinned, but it was a question, asking what had happened to her.

She winced. “I’m a professor, actually. The farthest I ever made it away from home was Nashville, and that was just for my graduation trip.” She shrugged. “And I kinda hated it because I’m not into country music.”

His smile turned almost sympathetic.

“What about you?” she asked. “What’ve you been up to?”

He made a vague gesture. “You know. Little of everything. I’ve actually got a new job,” he said, brightening, “working here in town, so that’s cool.”

“Yeah. What do you do?”

“Sales. I’m a salesman.”

“That’s great,” she said, meaning it. She knew firsthand how crushing it was to get out of school and realize all those bright shiny dreams your elders had alluded to were just that: dreams.

He nodded. “Hey, do you ever still talk to Aidan Teague?”

It shouldn’t have, but the question touched her pulse, sent it kicking. She shrugged. “I didn’t ever talk to him back in school. But I do now sometimes, yeah. Are you trying to get in touch with him?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I was just curious.” He grinned. “It was great seeing you, Sam, but I gotta run.”

“Oh, okay. Take care.”

“See ya.”

She watched him walk away, feeling a rush of empathy. They were alike, the two of them – two lonely kids who’d wanted nothing more than to be in Aidan Teague’s shadow, all grown up and not quite able to let go.

Ten

“Fancy,” Ava remarked, leaning forward to glance up at the wrought iron gate through the windshield.

“Hmm,” Maggie agreed from behind the wheel, buzzing down her window just as the intercom beside them crackled to life. “Poor Aidan. The first time in his life that he’s on the other side of taking advantage. He didn’t stand a chance.”

No, he hadn’t, Ava thought, staring at the house that lay before them. On the other side of the gate, the house unfurled across a golf course-worthy lawn, stone chimneys and spires thrusting skyward, windows glimmering in the bright autumn sunshine. It was a masterwork of stone, with arched doorways, slate driveway, and artfully planted trees.

“Can I help you?” an officious male voice said through the intercom, and Maggie smiled a small, private smile just for the two of them.

“Yes, we’re here to see Tonya.”

“May I ask for your names?”

“Maggie Teague and her daughter, Ava. We’re Aidan’s people – tell her that. And tell her there’s no use turning us away; we can either talk here, or I can stalk her to pilates and accost her on the street. Either way.”

A long pause. Then: “Please come in,” and the huge gates swung inward without a sound.

Maggie touched the gas and the Caddie rolled forward up the drive, coasting to a stop in the circular turnaround that looped a massive multi-tiered fountain. The front stoop loomed like church stairs ahead of them, leading up to double doors that were also, appropriately, monastic in looks.

Ava felt a clean, divisive line slide through her conscience. The literature buff in her loved the slightly Gothic ambiance of the place. It was classic, tasteful, and expensive, all of it screaming for a cravat-wearing lord to go striding up the front steps, hunting hounds in tow, groom leading away the master’s horse.

But the half of her who’d been the natural prey of women like Tonya Sinclair raised its hackles. Yes, Aidan was a womanizing asshole most of the time. But this time? He was the victim here. The one who’d been used. It served him right; she didn’t wish he hadn’t had the lesson. But she wished she wasn’t about to plead a case for possession of her niece or nephew.

“Mom.”

Maggie paused in the act of gathering her purse.

“Just for the record,” Ava said, tasting bile at the back of her throat, “I’m not someone who wants to be in other people’s baby business. If you know what I mean.”

Maggie stared at her with mixed attention and sympathy. “I do.”

“But I know what it did to Mercy, having a mother who didn’t want him.” An image of Dee Lécuyer filled her mind, the withered prostitute leaned back on her pillows, mocking her son with her dying breath. “If neither of his parents had held on to him…” She shook her head and pushed back the sudden spurt of anger, the tears that wanted to come. “I just think that if Tonya’s going to bring this baby to term, and then give it away – I think the baby deserves to be with blood family. And I think Aidan deserves a chance to figure out what kind of father he can be.”

Her mother kept staring, unnerving a little.

Ava took a deep breath. “Mercy and I talked last night. If Aidan can’t just yet–”

“Oh, baby,” Maggie murmured, reaching to cup the side of her face.

“ – we’ll take the baby. Boy or girl. And raise it as ours, if that turns out to be what’s best.”

Maggie’s smile trembled, then firmed, her eyes suspiciously shiny. Her thumb stroked Ava’s cheek. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Yes we do.”

“God love you. You two just can’t lay off with the babies, can you?” But her smile widened.

Ava breathed a laugh, tears threatening again. “My man likes kids. What can I say?”

Maggie pulled back and sighed, one of those dreamy grandmother sighs. Then shrugged and steeled her expression, everything about her tightening. She slid her sunglasses into place and sent Ava a smile. “Into battle we go, then. You ready?”

“Armed and dangerous,” Ava assured, and they climbed out of the car.

The front doors swung open before they reached them, revealing a tidy, round man in a sweater-vest and tie, bald head tilted back at an imperious angle.

“Do people still have butlers?” Maggie whispered.

“Apparently they do,” Ava whispered back.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them in what was decidedly not a welcoming tone. He stepped back and motioned them into a cathedral-ceilinged foyer floored with terrazzo. Ava had an overwhelming impression of sideboards, mirrors in heavy frames, and the light scent of real orchids. “If you’ll wait here” – he motioned to an elaborate wooden bench along one wall – “I’ll inform Miss and Missus Sinclair of your arrival.”

He left them without a sound, non-slip shoes silent on the tiles. His disapproval was plain, though, in the set of his shoulders and the parting sniff of derision.

“Don’t think Jeeves likes us much,” Maggie said, dropping down onto the bench, purse laid across her knees. For some reason, the simple bag took on the air of a weapon, a club ready to be wielded.

Ava snorted and stayed on her feet, arms folding. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors, in her fitted leather jacket, black skinnies and heavy, buckle-festooned boots. She looked like a delinquent, and was glad for it.

The butler was back a moment later. “Follow me, please.”

It might have been influenced by classic design elements, but the house was fairly new, and the layout, as they passed through it, proved the point. The foyer fed into a hall that seemed to run the length of the first floor, open concept to various sitting rooms and sun porches. The butler led them to a room full of windows, soft autumn light pouring across a set of white sofas and chaises, a gas fire hissing on the grate. It was a sumptuous room, muted, but full of expensive touches. Touches like, say, the two women seated on either end of one long couch, cozied up with magazines and steaming mugs.

It struck Ava as quietly hilarious and grave all at once. Two mothers, and two daughters, a whole world gaping between them.

Tonya she remembered, coldly beautiful, elegant, with a bitch face to rival Scarlett O’Hara. She was just as beautiful now, but had lost some of her imperious aura, what with the sweatpants and the throw wrapped around her shoulders. Ava recognized all too well the green-around-the-gills look of the first trimester. There was no faking that.

Tonya’s mother was an older mirror image. Her beauty had been weathered, lined, and fleshed out with a little extra mom-weight, but still there, beneath the layers of makeup and hairspray. She wore a stylish yoga getup and loose cowl-neck hoodie, diamonds at her ears and throat, each hair coiffed neatly into place.

Ava jammed her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, curious to see which tack her mother would take.

Maggie decided to go with cheerful. “Well.” She pasted a wide smile on her face, cocked one hip to the side and folded her arms. “I’ve heard so much about you, Tonya, and I’ve seen you across a smoky room. But at last I finally get to meet you.”

Tonya’s lips pressed together into a tight white line, but she said nothing.

Her mother drew herself upright, but didn’t stand, drawn-on eyebrows crimping together. “Who in the world are you, barging into my house like this?”

Maggie’s grin widened. “Oh, you know exactly who I am. One, because your little bellhop back there told you. And two, you wouldn’t have let him bring us in if at least part of you didn’t want to hear what I have to say. But since your short term memory seems to be rusty,” she said, graciously, “I’ll refresh it. Maggie Teague, and Ava Lécuyer. Aidan’s stepmother and sister. I’m guessing you know who Aidan is. Tonya did tell you his name, didn’t she?”

Tonya made a sound, like a retort was squelched.

“And you are?” Maggie said.

“Eugenia Sinclair,” the woman said in a huff. “And this is outrageous–”

“I agree,” Maggie said. “It’s outrageous that your grown daughter chose to act like an irresponsible child, and rather than talking through the problem with her partner in crime, she’s trying to bury the problem and pretend it never happened. So outrageous.”

“You’re right,” the woman snapped. “It is a crime what that hoodlum did to my baby.”

Maggie laughed. “Did to her? Tonya, did he rape you?”

Tonya’s eyes flew wide.

Before she could respond, Maggie said, “Obviously not, because a family as well-connected as yours would have pressed charges, and you didn’t. So, no, he didn’t do anything to you. The two of you had a good time, and now there’s consequences for it. Time to put your big girl panties on and face them.”

Eugenia shot to her feet, like a buoy surging up through the surface of the water. Two dark spots bled through the makeup on her cheeks, fury spreading beneath her painted skin. “It was your stepson’s failure to take precautions. His mistake.”

Maggie snorted. “What century is this? It’s the man’s job and his job alone to remember the rubber? Nah. Try again.”

Eugenia started to say something else.

And Tonya interrupted. “Mom,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Just stop.” She tucked her hair back and stared at her knees, expression defeated. “It was both our faults. You know it.”

Her mother opened her mouth and then closed it, expression pinched.

Tonya’s gaze flashed up, flickered between the two of them. Hardened. “But this isn’t your business. Neither of you.”

And Ava saw the opening that she couldn’t help but step through. “It is our business.” Everyone glanced at her like she’d sprouted a second head. “You could have chosen to end things quickly and quietly, and we would have never known. But you’re carrying the baby, and you told Aidan about it. Now either you have a shred of conscience, or secretly, you’re not so okay with the whole adoption thing. Either way, that child’s biological family has claim to him, if you don’t want him.”

Tonya glared at her. “Don’t make suppositions about me.”

“Don’t make suppositions about me. I’m nothing like those brittle bitches you grew up with. You can’t get away with treating me like that.”

“Well said, baby,” Maggie said, then turned the full force of her mother-stare on the Sinclair women. “Bottom line: we want the baby. And we have a very good lawyer who’s prepared to take you to court for us should it go that way.”

Eugenia had composed herself, had slipped back inside her debutante shell, and eased back onto the sofa now, reaching for her coffee cup. “The way I understand it, your stepson’s not fit to raise a stray dog.”

“I’ll grant you he has some learning to do,” Maggie said.

“If my brother can’t handle the job, my husband and I are prepared to step in as legal guardians,” Ava said. “We’d raise the baby as our own.”

“Your husband?” Eugenia sent her a mocking smile. “Am I to assume he’s another of these marauding bikers?”

“You are. I’ll be sure to give him your address the next time the boys pull out the longships and go pillaging.”

Maggie chuckled.

The Sinclair women choked on their tea.

“Look, there’s nothing to argue about here, ladies,” Maggie said, tone reasonable. “You don’t want the baby, and we do. And we all know that it’s better for the child to have at least one parent.”

“Even if that parent’s an outlaw?” Tonya asked. She’d grown quiet and serious suddenly, expression intense. Ava saw true doubt in her, worry. “I can’t…I am unable to…but that doesn’t mean…” she said, struggling for the words.

Maggie’s tone softened. “I know. But don’t you worry about it. The law’s got nothing to do with how much we love our babies. You let us take him, and you won’t ever have to fret about it again.”

~*~

They left twenty minutes later with assurances that Ethan would be in contact with the Sinclairs’ lawyers right away, Eugenia red-faced, Tonya notably relieved.

“I feel a little skeevy,” Ava admitted as they slid into the car. “Like we were making a drug deal or something.”

“Change your mind?”

“Oh no.” Already there was a new lightness in her chest, a sense of things sliding into their proper cosmic alignment. “It’s better this way.”

“Yeah.” Maggie sighed. “Now we’ve just gotta work on your brother. See how many crowbars it takes to pry his head outta his ass.”

Eleven

Sam didn’t want to miss Aidan, but the fact was she did. She’d come to love their afternoon snack dates – if she could call them such. It wasn’t just the old fascination at work; there was something about his undefeated, juvenile fuck the world attitude that calmed her inside, eased all the tension she carried in her shoulders. When they walked side-by-side, hands wondering what it would be like to tangle together, she felt the weight of all the planned minutes and hours that lay ahead drop slowly away from her. Fuck the world, she thought, and was left with only a cool moment on a university sidewalk, sunlight dappling his gorgeous headful of dark curls.

She went a week without his visits, after their Dartmoor garden talk. And then suddenly, there he was, waiting outside her classroom door like he hadn’t kissed her, and hadn’t asked to try. Like normal.

Fuck the world, her conscience whispered, and she leaned up against the wall beside him.

“You’re back.”

He nodded, eyes bright with their usual mischief. “I couldn’t stay away too long. Had to get my fix.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, but her face warmed with pleasure. “Come on, you hopeless romantic you.” She tugged at his sleeve and he followed her down the hall and out through the double doors, into a windswept, sun-drenched afternoon.

The air hummed with the cold, hundreds of leaves scrabbling across the cobblestones faster than the groundskeepers could blow them away. The kind of day that made you want to lean into the person you walked beside.

Instead, Sam shoved her hands in her coat pockets and felt the wind wreak havoc on her braid.

“How’ve you been?” Aidan asked, and she could sense the carefulness in him. At another time she might have laughed to think that he was treading lightly around anyone, but she took it as a compliment with a decisive burst of warmth in her chest.

“Up to my eyebrows in sloppily-written papers,” she said. “Is ‘misogyny’ really the only ten-dollar word college kids have ever heard of? That’s their entire literary analysis these days.”

“Dunno. I’m not real sure what that is.”

“Be glad you don’t, believe me.”

“I tend to believe people who are smarter than me.”

They were dodging the point, that being they couldn’t go back to small talk. Not after what had occurred between them. If she felt it – this pulse in the narrow space between them – then he had to feel it too.

“What’ve you been up to?” she asked, to stall.

“The usual. Working. Club stuff.”

“Right…right…”

They halted at the same moment, turned toward one another, and almost tripped the kid walking behind them.

“Dude!” he exclaimed angrily, and swerved around them.

Sam didn’t notice; her eyes went straight to Aidan’s face. “Why did you come back?”

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “I was serious about what I said before – my fix.” His grin fell lopsided, self-conscious. “I was serious about wanting to try, too.”

“Aidan…” She wanted to shove him away; wanted to pull him in close. Was she just sabotaging herself at this point? Was this one of those times when she was supposed to stand still and let the Good Things train run right into her?

Her phone rang.

“Shit, sorry.” She fumbled it out of her pocket, cursing the timing. “It doesn’t normally ring during the day like this, so I better…”

Her mother’s number flashed across the screen.

“Mom?”

A strangled sob greeted her from the other end of the line.

The bottom fell out of her stomach. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Aidan stepped in closer, leaning over her so that she was enveloped by his shadow.

“Erin’s gone!” her mother gasped. “I stopped by the school to pick her up from practice, and I waited, and waited, and she didn’t come out.” She gulped air. “And when I went in and talked to Coach Barnes, she said Erin never showed up to practice. Sam, I looked all through the school–”

“Just hang tight,” Sam said, careful to keep her voice calm. “I’m on the way, and we’ll find her together. Okay? Just wait for me, Mom.”

“Okay, okay. Thank you. Oh, God, Sam…”

“She’s fine. See you in a bit.”

Fine, sure, but most likely stoned or in the middle of losing her virginity. But no big deal.

“I’ll come with you,” Aidan said as she tucked her phone away, and for once, she didn’t feel like arguing for politeness’ sake.

“That would be great, thanks.” She cast him a weak smile. “Any ideas where a resentful, grounded teenage brat would go on a school night?”

He nodded. “A few. Let’s go.”

He put his arm around her as they headed for the staff parking lot, and she let her weight fall against him. Dangerous…but unavoidable.

~*~

A few phone calls and drive-bys proved that Erin wasn’t at any of her friends’ homes. Again Sam had to face the judgmental looks of the mothers, the scandalized eyebrow raises punctuated by the yelling and thumping of younger siblings roughhousing beyond the open doors. And of course, it wasn’t as simple as a slumber party or a nail-painting adventure. Much too pedestrian for Erin.

It was a comfort, Aidan on his bike behind her, this vital, growling presence that drew heads. He was Aidan, sure, but in his cut and sunglasses, the wind pushing up his sleeves and showing off his ruined tattoos, he was a Lean Dog too, and that felt like taking an actual knight into battle.

As dramatic as that sounded.

When the other options were exhausted, they pulled up at Hamilton House, by unspoken agreement.

“See that?” Aidan asked when she joined him on the pavement, staring up at the mansion. He pointed out the white balloon tied at the porch rail, bobbing in the wind. “That’s the signal.”

“Signal that…what?”

He gave her a sidelong glance as he took off his helmet. “You really didn’t keep up with this kinda shit in high school, did you?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I really didn’t.”

“It’s the party signal. There’s a whole balloon system. Blue for high school, black for college or older.”

“What about white?”

A small frown tugged at his lips. “White means anything goes.”

A chill skittered down her spine. “Well nothing’s going on now.”

There was no way a party was hiding behind those sad, empty windows. Save their voices, it was silent up here, the occasional squeak of the balloon striking the rail eerie.

“It’ll be tonight,” he said.

Sam blew out a long breath and leaned back against the car. “My sister will be here. I just know it. She’s lying low somewhere with Jesse, but she’ll turn up.”

Aidan stared at the house a long moment, troubled expression marring his face. Then he turned to her. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna go home and calm your mother down. Tell her Erin is out with friends – which she is. Wait there. I’m gonna go back to the clubhouse, get reinforcements, and we’ll come in tonight and bust up this party. I’ll bring Erin home.”

“That would be chivalrous of you, but I can’t let you do it.”

He folded his arms and rested a shoulder against the Caprice’s window. “You can’t? What’s your plan then?”

She made a face.

“I’m waiting.”

“So?”

“Sam–”

“I’ll wait here, and drag Erin out of the party once it gets started.”

“Yeah, I was afraid that was your dumbass plan.”

“Um, excuse you.”

“What is it with you book nerd chicks coming up with such stupid ideas? Thought you were supposed to be way smarter than me.”

She punched him. Not hard, and it made him laugh, but it felt nice to feel the dense padding of muscle in his chest. “I was going to call the cops, you dork.”

“So was I,” he said, still laughing, his ear-to-ear grin gorgeous in the evening light. “No offense, sweetheart, but I’ve got more experience with both sides of the law than you. Let me handle it, and your sister’ll get home safe, I swear.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to infringe–”

“Infringe?” His brows shot up. “In case you haven’t picked up on it being friends with Ava this long, let me explain something to you. We might be the lowest sons of bitches alive” – he slapped a hand over his heart – “but we do have a code when it comes to family. We look after the people we care about. You can’t ‘infringe’ on anything with me. Not possible.”

She felt a blush come up in her cheeks.

Aidan pushed away from the car and stepped closer, so he loomed over her, eyes warm as he stared down at her. “I’m not real good at much, baby, but this is the sort of thing I can handle. At least let me do that.” His smile was slow and wicked. “You can thank me for it later.”

Lord help her…

“You’ll call me when you find her?”

His answer was a fast, hard press of his lips against hers.

~*~

Dartmoor was winding down for the day by the time he got back to the shop, the shadows creeping. Aidan ditched his bike in a hurry and found Tango and Mercy cleaning up, stowing things away and securing customer bikes for the night.

“Guys.” He sounded breathless, like an excited kid, and wasn’t sure there was anything to be done for it. “I’ve got a lead on our missing drugs, but we gotta move on it tonight.”

Mercy teed his hands together in a time out gesture. “Got a lead where? And why tonight?”

He was too keyed up to bother with a proper smartass comeback. “There’s a white balloon up at Hamilton House, and that spells party plus drugs. Our drugs, in Ellison’s hands.”

Tango whistled. “Shit.”

“Trying to take some initiative, little bro?” Mercy asked, grinning.

“What the hell’s so wrong with that? Also…Sam’s little sister’s gonna be there. I promised I’d get her out and take her home.”

His brothers in arms stared at him, both of them with lips twitching as they tried not to smile.

“I dig Sam, okay? Is there something wrong with that?”

“Nope,” Tango said.

“’Bout time you find yourself a real woman,” Mercy said.

He sighed, scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly itchy all over. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves, pent-up desire, or the ever-present dread of Greg, sitting on his chest and grinning manically at him. There was a very good chance that traitorous dipshit would be the one dealing tonight, and a confrontation with the man in front of his brothers? Yeah, that wasn’t going to go down well.

“Look,” he said, “we can talk to Dad, and see about all of us heading up there. Or just the three of us can go.” It was growing darker as they stood there, the shadows lengthening, the sky diving into indigo territory.

Mercy folded his massive arms as he considered. “I’m gonna be real straight with you here, okay? ‘Cause you are my brother, and I love you. If we all head up there, and then it turns out to be nothing but a bunch of kids getting wasted, you won’t be winning yourself any points with your old man.

“If we get up there, and it’s a great big mafia ho-down, we’ll call for backup. That’s my opinion on the matter,” he ended in an official tone that was more or less ruined by his Cajun accent. “Your call,” he added.

Aidan glanced between the two of them. “You’d come with me?”

“Yup,” they said in unison.

Aidan nodded and took a deep breath. “Let’s go then. Just us.”

And pray it doesn’t bite us in the ass.

~*~

They geared up first: flak jackets, black hoodies and bandanas, extra magazines and backup pieces, knives down in the tall shafts of their boots.

“We look like banditos,” Tango remarked as they piled into the truck. “And that’s a real bad look for two of you.”

Mercy elbowed him and started the engine. “Think you’re so hot, pretty boy.”

Tango grinned.

“You kids be quiet, I gotta call my old lady and tell her I’ll be late for dinner.”

In the close confines of the truck, Aidan could hear his sister’s tinny voice coming through Mercy’s cellphone. He heard – though he hated to admit he recognized it in his own sister – the mixed regret, affection, worry and warmth in her voice as she said, “You be careful, monster. I’ll save you a plate in the fridge.”

“Love you,” Mercy told her, and disconnected.

“You guys are a little bit sickening, you know that?” Aidan said, without malice.

“You’re just jealous,” Mercy said, piloting the truck into the next turn.

He was, goddamn it. Because before, love had been this nebulous myth he couldn’t define. But now love sat just outside his door, and it had a face, and a name, and tangled ribbons of dark blonde hair that liked to knot together in the breeze.

“Okay,” Mercy said, cheerful at the prospect of a good ass-kicking. “Let’s come up with a game plan so we’re not staggering around in the dark.”

“Right.” Aidan took another big breath, finding it was hard to get enough air into his lungs. Ever since making the decision to take this night into his own two inexpert hands. Ever since touching his mouth to Sam’s. “We’ll ditch the truck on the next street over…”

During the fifteen minute drive, they mapped a course of action. By the time they locked up the truck and cut through the abandoned lot one street over, Aidan was convinced it would be successful.

Night enfolded them like a shroud, the dead leaves rustled overhead, and the wet grass clung to their boots like clammy hands. It was eerie, and he couldn’t deny the chill that rippled across his skin. This street had been full of small mansions like Hamilton House, once upon a time. The same fire that had singed Hamilton House had devoured the rest, and as they walked, here and there a blackened timber thrust up from the ground, a picked-clean rib, the fossil of some long-extinct animal.

Slowly, the pinpricks of light through the trees became rectangles, and they emerged from the woods at the edge of the infamous house's driveway.

Aidan felt like he stepped through a portal into the past. He was seventeen again, pockets full of smokes, ready to walk up that sagging porch and hit the keg straight away. Had anything changed in the years since? A few weeks ago he would have said no. But tonight he was here on a very different mission, and life as he’d always understood it could never be the same.

“Reminiscing?” Mercy asked softly.

“Thinking,” Aidan corrected. “Let’s go.”

The drive was choked with rundown Hondas and the music was a dull bass thump traveling through the walls and thudding across the ground. Silhouettes shifted past the naked windows. It was a big crowd, probably a hundred kids, and the stink of barf, pot and cigarette smoke was enough to singe a person’s nose hairs – and that was outside.

The dealer would have situated himself near an exit, they’d decided, for ease of escape when the cops inevitably showed up.

Tonight, thanks to Vince Fielding’s current status as the Lean Dogs’ personal PD bitch, Aidan could have the five-oh in place the second he needed them.

Perks of witnessing murder, and all that.

Bandana loose around his neck, he signaled for Mercy and Tango to meet him around back, and Aidan walked up the porch steps and into the open door as they’d planned. He wanted to get his hands on Greg, but the first order of business was getting Erin Walton out safely. The damn brat.

No one noticed him as he headed down the central hall, peeking into the rooms he passed, greeted by the sight of desperate, clumsy teen couples in various states of undress, pawing at one another. The decaying, moldy stink of the house was magnified by the closeness of sweating bodies. His stomach lurched and he fought the urge to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve.

The ballroom was set up the way it had always been: keg in one corner, iced-down tubs of wine coolers and vodka, soda for mixing, stacks of red Solo cups. The stereo system had been set up along the upper gallery, and gangster rap poured down over the railing, punching off the walls and vibrating in the pit of his stomach in an unpleasant way.

He scanned the huge room four times before he finally spotted Erin. She was wearing a skirt about as wide as his belt, and thigh high boots her sister probably didn’t know she owned. Her makeup, as she turned in his direction, was Halloween-worthy in its thickness and sheer glittery tackiness. She looked garish and thirty, and nothing like her clean-lined, rosy-cheeked sister. The comparison was shocking, and a little repulsive, if he was honest.

Her gaze passed over him, uncomprehending at first, as she stood glued to some scrawny, douchey guy in skinny jeans – Jesse – both her arms around his waist. But then her eyes snapped back, pinning on him, and her painted mouth opened in obvious shock.

So she remembered him. Good, that would make this a little less awkward.

A knot of boys laughing into their beer cups wandered into his path, and Aidan shoved them aside, earning “hey”s, and “watch out”s and “fuck you”s. It gave Erin a chance to get away from him. Try to, anyway.

He caught her by the back of her jacket as she whirled away from her boyfriend.

“Nuh-uh, little girl,” he said, dragging her back to face him, having to shout to be heard above the music. “You can’t run away from me in those hooker boots.”

She glared at him, but it was pitiful, her eyes already glazing over with tears. It was one thing to spew defiance and venom at a female relative, another to stare up at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you stalking me or something? Just leave me alone!” There wasn’t much rebellion in her voice, though. She knew it was a lame attempt at turning this back around on him.

“I’m here for your sister, and I’m taking you back to her. We can do it the easy way, and you walk outta here on your own, or I can put you over my shoulder. Take your pick.”

A hand landed on his forearm before she could respond, Jesse, face screwed up with teenage anger.

“Dude, don’t touch my girlfriend!”

“Dude, don’t make your girlfriend walk into town.” Aidan shook him off. “Leave off, asshole, I don’t have time for this shit.”

Clearly, Jesse didn’t remember him, most likely thanks to whatever had dilated his eyes. “I said don’t touch her!” the kid roared, and his arm cocked back as if in slow-mo as he prepared for what was sure to be a sloppy punch.

Aidan dodged – laughable, really – and pulled Erin toward him. “Listen,” he said against her ear, “something bad’s going down here tonight, and I promised Sam I’d get you home safe. We need to go. Tell your stupidass boyfriend to lay off, or he’s gonna get hurt.”

She turned wide eyes to him, struggling for a response.

“Erin, come on.”

Jesse had his balance back and was going to make another pass. “You fucking dick,” he said through his teeth as he advanced, skinny arms held away from his body.

Aidan sighed. “Jesus, I don’t have time for this shi–”

He let go of Erin and sidestepped Jesse, catching him with a sharp elbow to the ribs as he hurtled past. The kid exhaled in a surprised grunt, and tripped. Went staggering a few steps, knocking into people, and finally landed in a face-down sprawl.

“Jesse!” Erin said.

Aidan grabbed her arm. “He treated you like shit anyway. Come on, get moving.” He knew they had only a few seconds before Jesse was on his feet again and wasting yet more of his time.

He elbowed through the gawkers, grateful Erin actually followed and didn’t have to be dragged. She had at least some sense, then.

Students pressed close around them, crowding, the gossip rippling through their ranks as more kids spilled out of the hall and side rooms to see what the disturbance was about.

They needed to get out of here. Now.

Aidan made for the back hall, and Erin stepped on the heels of his boots in her haste to keep up.

“Jesse’s getting up,” she said in his ear. “He’s gonna try to fight you again.”

“Yeah, ‘try.’”

He thought he heard scuffling, under the driving beat of the music, but couldn’t be sure.

The hallway yawned ahead of them, dark and welcoming. Almost there. If he could just get Erin to the truck –

A shadow detached itself from the gloom and slid across their path.

“Shit.”

“Help you with something?” a deep voice asked, and the man stepped into the light, revealing the unspecified fleshy features of every TV henchman ever.

“Nah,” Aidan said, pulling Erin up tight behind him. “Just strolling through is all.”

The thug stared at him stupidly, plainly trying to figure out what to do with him.

Back in the ballroom, the din of voices was swelling, increasing in agitation.

“So yeah,” Aidan said. “Be seein’ ya.”

He attempted to go around the big hunk of meat, and caught sight of a figure standing partway down the hall. A small figure, though clearly masculine.

Greg.

He glanced quickly back at Erin. “Stay with me, and keep up.” He didn’t wait for a response, but plunged forward, pulling her along.

They didn’t get far. Mister Help-you-with-something slammed him with a shoulder, sending him into the far wall with a hard thump, and an explosion of dust and flaking wallpaper bits. The air rushed out of his lungs and his bad shoulder, the one he’d dislocated over a year ago, flushed hot with pain. He brought his good arm up and turned to face the man, shoving Erin deeper into the hall with the other.

“Go,” he told her. “Out the back.”

The thug reached to grab hold of him.

Aidan dodged, but there wasn’t room.

“Erin, go!”

She shrieked.

And then another presence was beside them, bigger than the thug, overwhelming the man as a swift shadow that latched around his throat and flattened him back against the wall.

Mercy.

The goon’s eyes bugged and he spluttered, hands reaching fruitlessly to scrabble against the hold at his windpipe. That was the beautiful thing about his brother-in-law, Aidan reflected – no matter how big and mean an adversary they faced out in the field, no one was bigger or meaner than Mercy.

“You were taking too long,” Merc said, and he wasn’t even straining to hold the man pinned like an insect specimen. “You’ve got the girl?”

“Here. Where’s–”

“I’m here,” Tango said, materializing beside them. “Aidan, out the back…” He hesitated, not wanting to say, but Aidan knew what he meant. Greg.

“Get her out of here,” he said of Erin, “I’m going after him.”

Leaving his brothers to deal with the meathead and the mess of students – a man couldn’t ask for two better diplomats than those two – he took off at a sprint toward the flapping back door. His bad shoulder was screaming, but he shoved the pain down. He had to get hold of Greg this time; in his mind there was no alternative.

Prior to burning and abandonment, Hamilton House must have had a lush backyard. Mansions had pretty gardens, right? Whatever it had once been, it was now a tangle of brambles, withered vines, and dilapidated fence pickets, all of it weaving into the surrounding forest at its rough edges. And because of its thickness, it made it damn hard to flee on foot with any speed.

Greg was just ahead of him, crashing through the underbrush, hampered by those short legs of his, obvious as all hell, even in the dark.

Aidan leapt over a knot of bushes, vaulted across half of a ruined fence, and caught his prey in a matter of strides. Greg was dressed all in black, same as him, but he was breathing like a winded horse, and Aidan could have grabbed him with his eyes closed. As it was, he executed an NFL-worthy tackle that jarred the ever loving shit out of his shoulder, and rolled with Greg caught tight in his arms, ending up on top of the guy, a knee pressed into the small of his back, pinning him fast to the ground.

Greg let out a squall like a cat that’s been grabbed by the tail, and Aidan bore down on him hard, feeling the slight give of the guy’s ribs spreading beneath his kneecap.

His prey secure, Aidan took a moment to draw in a deep breath, reflect on his winded state, and curse himself for not working enough cardio into his exercise routine. He’d never really recovered after his accident, had he? And all those little twinges and hurts were only going to worsen with time.

He gulped more air and said, “You know what makes me real mad, Greg? The fact that you had the balls to come back up here tonight. You finally chose to grow a pair, huh?”

Greg wriggled to no avail and turned his head, so moonlight flitted through the branches overhead and speckled the side of his face with white. His voice was muffled by leaf litter, but still discernable. “I’m not acting alone, Aidan.” He let out a short, harsh laugh. “I’m a follower, not a leader, remember? Same as you.”

The words pricked him, little needlepoints against his skin.

He put a hand to the back of Greg’s neck and ground his cheek down into the dirt. “”How’d you get hooked up with Ellison?”

“Who said anything about him?” But Greg stiffened all over, which meant, yes, he was one of Don’s little puppets now.

“He’d be the only one stupid enough to do any of this.” He allowed his grip to tighten and was rewarded by a quiet, reflexive sound of protest. “Did you kill Fisher yourself? The others?”

“No,” Greg said immediately. “You know I couldn’t…I’d never…”

“You’d never? Yeah, big principles you got there, Greggy.”

A burst of violence moved through his chest, a hot flush of aggression. He wasn’t Merc, wasn’t Michael, wasn’t even his father, for whom killing was a necessary part of life’s equation. He’d never felt its dangerous pull before; had never been tempted, even when those had been his orders. Pity and conscience had saved Greg that night, almost three years ago. But now Aidan was flooded with the urge. The hideous knowledge blossomed in his mind: you didn’t kill a man for sport; you did it because it had to be done, and sooner was better than later.

His hand tightened, tightened…

Greg gasped. “You won’t do it now,” he wheezed. “You couldn’t do it before.”

Wanna bet? he thought.

But instead, he eased his grip. “Why are you working for Ellison?”

Another choked laugh. “You’ll be working for him before this is all over.”

“What the hell’s that s’posed to mean, jackass?”

“Aidan!” Tango’s voice floated to them, from back at the house. “You alright? Cops are here.”

For the first time ever, those words didn’t send a jolt of fear through him. Fielding was here on their call this time.

Greg, though, clenched up all over with a quick, audible breath. “If I disappear,” he said carefully, laughter gone from his voice, “Ellison will come looking for me, and he’ll step up his game.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he gonna do?” But Aidan knew what would happen – more violence, and at this point, there were no more dealers to knock off, which meant members and their families would be targeted.

Neither of them answered the question.

“Aidan?” Tango called again, and this time there were footfalls, crunching through the dead foliage.

“Meet me tomorrow,” Greg said, “if you wanna talk. Noon, at Smokey’s.”

Aidan hesitated, listening to Tango’s light steps come closer, closer. He heard an indignant shout back toward the house, Fielding barking orders to the other responding officers.

What did he do? He was frozen, for a handful of seconds. Here he had Greg in his grasp and at his mercy. All it would take were a few movements, and he could snap the guy’s neck, cover him over with leaves, and no one ever had to know about his mistake. Ghost would never have to find out that he’d disobeyed orders.

But Ellison would up his game. His mind filled with images of Maggie, humming to herself at the stove; of Mina, laughing quietly at something Rottie had whispered to her; of his sister, saving a plate for Mercy’s dinner; of Sam…

“I ran into Samantha Walton today,” Greg said, and Aidan’s entire body went numb. Like he’d walked into a blast freezer. “She was always cute in school, but she’s really something now.”

Greg knew about Sam. And he wasn’t even with her, really. Holy shit, he’d been followed, spied on, and he hadn’t even known it.

His nervous system fired, and he squeezed Greg’s throat until the guy gagged. “You stay the fuck away from her. We clear?”

Greg wheezed, gasped. “She’s already a part of the equation. Everyone is.”

“Yo,” Tango said, and was much closer now.

“Meet…me,” Greg choked out. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t have a choice, did he?

He released his captive and threw himself backward into the leaves, sitting down hard on his ass, breathless.

The moment he was free, Greg scrambled clumsily to his feet and fled, crashing through the brush like a startled deer.

Aidan speared his fingers through his hair, tried to regulate his breathing. He was panting, suddenly, and it had nothing to do with the exertion of pinning a man to the ground.

Tango appeared, his pale face and hair glimmering in the moonlight, jarring with his black clothes. Like a ghost in a dark shroud.

He studied Aidan a long moment, head turning as he scanned the flattened vegetation. “You let him go,” he said, and it was neither a question nor an accusation, merely a statement.

“Yeah.”

Twelve

They were earlier than she expected. Aidan’s text came through at five minutes ‘til ten, and fifteen minutes after that, headlights flashed across the front of the house and bounced up over the curb into the driveway.

Sam’s stomach unclenched, the hard knot in its center loosening as she exhaled shakily. She’d been feigning calm for her mother’s benefit, and was thankful the charade was over.

“Is that them? Thank god,” Mom breathed, hands noticeably trembling as she got to her feet.

Ordinarily, Sam would have led the charge to the back door, but tonight, her mother had finally managed to reach deep and find her fury, and a furious Helen Walton was a frightening spectacle. Tonight, for once, Sam wouldn’t have to play the bad cop.

When Mom opened the door, Erin charged inside, head downcast, arms folded tight across her middle. Sam had a glimpse of a tight top, teased hair, and her own thigh-high boots, worn with a supershort skirt that was decidedly not hers.

“You wait just a minute, young lady,” Helen said in her rarely used imperious tone. “Where in the world do you think you’re going?”

Erin froze in place out of sheer shock, head lifting, eyes widening. It broke Sam's heart a little to see the copious amounts of inexpertly applied makeup on her little sister’s face.

With total composure, Helen turned to the still-open door. There stood Aidan, in black hoodie, black bandana around his throat, looking ten kinds of hoodlum. “Thank you, Aidan, for bringing her home,” she said solemnly, and Aidan ducked his head an appropriate amount.

“Yes, ma’am, you’re welcome.”

Then Helen turned to Erin and pointed toward the living room. “We’re having a discussion. Now.”

Erin, wisely, didn’t groan, drag her feet, or make so much as a protesting face.

When they had trooped into the next room, and Sam was sure they’d both forgotten she existed, she stepped out onto the back patio with Aidan and pulled the door to. When she met his gaze, his eyes slid over to the closed door, then back to her, and he lifted his brows. Asking why she’d shut them out here together.

Her heart gave a sharp, sudden lurch.

“I figure you’ve been on the receiving end of enough lectures; no sense listening to another,” she joked, and earned a wide, toothy grin.

Her poor, poor heart.

“Seriously, though.” She pulled the halves of her cardigan together against the sharp chill of the night, and hoped there was enough light coming through the back windows for him to see the gratitude in her expression. “Thank you so much for bringing her home. I don’t know…” She trailed off, because she didn’t know. Whether they could control Erin, whether the next time she disappeared would be the last, whether there was any way to convey her love and worry to her little sister.

“I never went through this, you know?” she said quietly. “I don’t know how to guide her through it.”

He nodded and dug a cigarette from his hoodie pocket. “You mind?”

“No. But aren’t you–”

As she asked the question, the headlights retreated down the driveway and the truck he’d arrived in backed out into the street.

“You’re missing your ride.”

“I told them to go on. My place isn’t far, I’ll walk.”

He’d told them to go on. Why? So he could stand out here and talk to her?

The stuttering of her heart spread, pulsed deep in her stomach, threatened to make her smile.

Aidan put his cigarette between his lips and lit it, took a long drag and let the smoke out through his nose. He dragged one of the sun-faded chairs away from the patio table and sat, pulling another up close beside him, intending she come sit close.

She couldn’t have refused if she’d wanted to.

When she was settled beside him, achingly aware of the few inches that separated them, breathing in the sharp tang of his smoke, he said, “Some people don’t want what’s best for them. You can pour your whole heart into making them see that you’re trying to help, but it doesn’t mean it’ll ever take.” He turned a serious look to her, eyes black in the moonlight. “It doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“You know I am.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, Aidan,” she said, softly.

“I know, baby.”

Baby. That word had never made her blood sing the way it did now.

“I wish I could make her see that I’m trying to give her a future. That I’m protecting her.”

“She’ll see it. Eventually.”

“But what if it’s too late?” she asked.

He studied her, expression hard to read in the semi-dark. “Do you think that happens? That it gets too late for somebody?”

Oh, damn. He wasn’t talking about Erin anymore.

She thought carefully, dampened her lips. “I don’t think it’s ever too late to make the decision to change your life. But you might not be able to change it that much.”

“What if it’s already changing? When you didn’t ask it to?”

She’d never seen him cryptic; it was unsettling. “What’s going on with you lately?” When he started to shake his head, she said, “Aidan, please, you’re starting to worry me. What’s wrong?”

He made a face and took a drag on his smoke, staring out across the shadowed yard.

“Did you get detention again?” she prodded with a weak smile.

That earned her a wry grin. “Yeah. Told the teacher to suck my dick.”

They both chuckled, hollow, half-humored sounds.

He wasn’t going to tell her, she knew. Whatever troubled him was going to have to fester a little longer, until he was ready to let it burst forth.

“Thank you,” she said again. “I have no idea how I would have gotten her home.”

“You’d have figured it out.” He turned toward her. “You’re good at everything you set out to do. Probably even dragging kids outta parties.”

She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “Do you have to flatter me every time I say thank you?”

“I’m not flattering.”

“No?”

“I’m flirting.”

“I think you’ve lost your touch.”

“Nah.” Another of those blinding grins. “You’re just fighting me is all.”

“With good reason.”

“I don’t wanna have that argument again.”

She got to her feet, albeit reluctantly. “Then I guess this is goodnight.”

His chair was closer to the door, and she had to sidle past him to get to –

Something hard locked around her forearm, and she tumbled down off her feet, was yanked to the side and…

Into Aidan’s lap.

She landed with an unladylike gasp of surprise, both legs hooked over the flimsy plastic arm of the chair, a hand braced automatically on his chest for balance. She was made instantly aware of the precise area of his anatomy beneath her backside, and her blush was instant, burning her entire face.

“What are you doing?” she asked, unable to contain her surprise.

“Exactly what it looks like,” he said with a low, dark laugh.

The chair flexed beneath their combined weights.

“This thing won’t hold both of us,” she warned, and the breathless quality of her voice had nothing to do with the prospect of the chair breaking.

“Betcha fifty bucks it will,” Aidan retorted.

She didn’t have a chance to accept or decline that bet, because one of his hands curled around the back of her neck and the other took a solid hold on her hip. He brought her face down, and she knew, had she really wanted to, she could have shaken his hold.

But that was the thing. If she wanted to.

She drew in a deep breath, told her body to soften, and allowed herself to fall into the kiss.

And damn, was it ever a kiss. Part Christmas morning, part Fourth of July fireworks, part rich red wine that went straight to her head. He was good at this. He’d had a lot of practice.

She stilled when that thought passed through her mind. She imagined all his experience, the countless women who’d been in his lap, just as she was now.

He felt her hesitancy, and his hand slid up her waist, squeezed her through her sweater. His tongue flicked into her mouth. Just let it go, he said silently. Whatever it is, let go of it.

That sounded like an excellent idea.

She eased her jaw, as his tongue pressed deeper, and he invaded her mouth. A slow, almost careful invasion, like he was afraid she’d spook, and like he was determined to use each and every subtle stroke of his lips to calm her racing thoughts…and then obliterate them entirely.

It felt like an hour before she finally pulled back, lips throbbing, head swirling as if she were drunk. She realized she’d let all her weight rest against him, and had knotted her fists in the front of his hoodie, his heart murmuring beneath her knuckles.

The angles of his face were harsh, but his eyes were wide and soft. Desire. That’s what it was radiating off every inch of him. He wanted her.

It slammed into her, larger than life: Aidan Teague wanted her.

God, when had that happened?

She flicked out her tongue to dampen her lips and found them already slick from the touch of his mouth. A low, deep quiver started up in her stomach, a pulse of heat between her legs.

But things were happening too fast, and nothing could come to fruition, here in the yard, not while Helen was just inside lecturing Erin. The thought was a rush of cold water across her skin.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked.

His head tilted back, clearly surprised. But he said, “Sure.”

She was touched with embarrassment as she climbed inelegantly to her feet. Why, she didn’t know. Kneejerk reaction, most like.

As she headed for the door, she caught sight of his cigarette lying on the concrete, a little flash of white in the night. It was still smoldering, thin finger of smoke curling up from the tip. He’d dropped it when he’d grabbed her, abandoned the taste of tobacco for that of her mouth.

That little bundle of shame burst apart and evaporated, as she stood rooted, staring at his forgotten smoke. He was the same Aidan he’d always been. But he wanted her.

And she’d always wanted him.

Fuck it, she was going to go for it.

“You alright?” he asked behind her.

“Perfect,” she said, and meant it, her steps light as she flitted to the back door and slipped inside.

She felt giddy as a little girl, suddenly, full of champagne bubbles. She wanted to giggle as she tiptoed across the old faded linoleum.

Aidan. Aidan and her. The two of them. Aidan.

She went to the threshold between kitchen and living room just in time to see Erin disappear up the stairs, Helen close behind her.

“She’s going to bed,” Mom announced in a dictatorial tone. “And I’m going to have a soak in the bathtub, and starting tomorrow, things are going to be different around here.”

Sam tried to hide her smile. “Good for you, Mom.”

“Is your friend still here?”

She nodded.

Helen watched her a moment, hand on the banister. Then nodded. “Okay. Night.”

“Night, Mom.”

Drink time.

A quick scan of the cabinets proved they had nothing in the way of alcohol save some cooking sherry, peppermint schnapps, and a new bottle of generic “white blend” wine from Leroy’s. Not even Chardonnay. White. Oh boy.

Deciding on the lesser of two evils, she filled two juice glasses with the white and managed to juggle them without spilling as she let herself back outside. “Sorry,” she said, as he eyed the glass she handed him. “It was either wine or schnapps.”

“Ugh.” He made a comical face of disgust.

“I went with wine.”

“Good call.”

Sam settled back into her chair from before, but noted that it was even closer to Aidan’s, the arms touching so that, as she sat, her own arm was pressed alongside his.

Just go with it, she reminded herself.

“My mom,” she said, smiling as she thought about the look on Helen’s face, “is sending Erin straight off to bed. And according to her, tomorrow there will be ‘changes’ around here.”

Aidan’s expression became one of amused contentment, laced with fatigue, humor, and something sweeter she could only guess at. “Take it she doesn’t put her foot down often.”

“Hardly ever.” Sam relaxed deeper into her chair, anchored by the solidness of Aidan’s forearm pressing against her. “It’s nice not to be the bad guy for once.”

“You should drink to that.” He clinked his glass against hers and they both took long, healthy swallows. The wine tasted cheap, but had a clean enough finish as it rushed down to warm her belly. She loved wine in that way; it did slow, sophisticated things to the bloodstream, just as potent without all the rage and fire of liquor.

“How bad was the scene at Hamilton House?” she asked, curious now that the crisis was over.

“Typical kid shit. Kegs, cups everywhere, loud music. Lots of making out and pretending they’re adults.”

“My sister…” She almost didn’t want to ask.

“She was standing with her shithead boyfriend when I found her.” So not locked in some sort of amorous embrace, thank God. “He tried to give me some shit, but it wasn’t a big deal.” He shrugged.

“Jesse’s such a little prick,” she muttered.

“And probably has one, too,” Aidan said with a quick grin. “The stunted ones are always the ones with something to prove.”

She snorted. “That’d be Jesse. Was his dealer there?”

Something shifted in him, some internal tightening that sent his eyes skittering across the yard again. “I didn’t find him, if he was. I got Erin and got out.” His gaze came back. “We called in a favor with Fielding and had him come break things up.”

“Sergeant Fielding?” The man wasn’t the chief of police, and wasn’t even a detective, but he’d always seemed to have a special hatred for the Lean Dogs. She’d spotted him moving around the Dartmoor lot on more than one occasion.

“Yeah.” Aidan grinned. “In case you ever wondered, having a cop owe you favors is fucking awesome.”

“Why does he owe you guys?”

Another shrug and another evasive glance. “Helped him out a while back.”

“Ah.” But she had no idea what that had entailed. Maybe she didn’t want to.

“Who’s Doug?” he asked, and the question took her off guard.

“What?”

There was nothing vague about his eyes now, as they came to her face. “Who’s Doug?” he repeated. “You mentioned him, before. You said something once about him taking you to dinner at that steakhouse place.”

Ah, yes. She had mentioned him, that afternoon Aidan had come to Ava’s house seeking dating advice. He’d been taking Tonya out that night. Her stomach soured immediately at the thought.

She must have made a face, too, because he said, “What?”

“Nothing.” There was no way she was letting Tonya interfere with this evening. This was her time. Their time. “Doug. Right.” She regrouped. “He’s a colleague from work. He teaches English Language Studies.”

There was a note of aggression in his voice when he said, “Is he your boyfriend?”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. “What?”

“It’s not funny.” Now he sounded wounded. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” she said, still laughing. “We’ve been out a few times, but decidedly not.”

“Do you want him to be?”

“What? No, Aidan.” She realized she needed to get her chuckling under control, because he was dead serious. She took a steadying sip of wine and schooled her features. “Don’t you think that if Doug and I wanted to be together, we would be?”

“I’ve got no idea.”

As attractive as she found too-cool-for-school, bad boy Aidan, jealous Aidan was pretty hot too.

“Remember that day you came to change my tire?” she asked, and he nodded. “Remember how I told you I didn’t want just anyone, but that I was looking for The One?”

“Yeah…”

“Doug’s a nice guy, and I’ve enjoyed our dinners, but he’s not The One.”

That seemed to brighten him. But then he said, “Did you sleep with him?”

She bit back a smile. “No.”

He nodded, and then went stiff all over. “Shit, you have…I mean…you’re not a…”

“I have,” she assured, “and I’m not a.”

He sagged back with obvious relief…only to tighten again. “Not anyone I know, though?”

“Do you want names?” she asked sweetly.

“Fuck no.”

There was no hiding her smile that time. “Why the sudden questions about my sex life?”

He was silent a beat, and met her gaze with a very direct, penetrating one of his own. “Because as soon as you figure your mom and sister are asleep, I want to be a part of it.”

Oh.

Oh.

Sam drained the rest of her wine in one long swallow. “I need a refill. You?”

He threw back the last of his and handed her the glass. His expression told her he knew she needed a minute to escape, digest what he’d said…and make a decision about it.

After she’d refilled the glasses, she stood at the counter, gripping the edge, listening. Sound of water through the pipes: Mom draining out her bath water. Otherwise it was quiet, save for the sluggish thump of her pulse in her ears.

I want to be a part of it.

There could be no mistaking his meaning. And she’d known already, the way he’d kissed her, looked at her. But it took things to a whole new level to hear him say it so bluntly. It took that tingle in her blood to a high-pitched, buzzing place. It intensified the throbbing between her legs.

“Last chance to back out,” she muttered to herself.

No way was that happening.

She felt the hot touch of Aidan’s eyes as she let herself back outside and pulled the door shut. The heat inside her intensified beneath their glow, and she was afraid if she looked at him, she’d blush herself to death.

His fingers lingered against hers as he took his glass back, warm and rough. A preview of what would come, when they touched all of her.

It washed over her suddenly, how stupid and wasteful all her blushing, nervousness, and embarrassment were. Why in the hell was she holding back? Worrying? Resisting?

What was wrong with her?

She took a long swallow of wine and folded herself down into Aidan’s lap, legs hooked over his knees, cuddling up against his chest.

His arms went around her immediately, one hand finding the back of her head, angling it so he could kiss her. He tasted like wine, now, and the rough pads of his fingers stroked at her cheek, the underside of her jaw.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back, hands exploring his musculature through his hoodie, wishing suddenly, fervently, that he was naked to her wandering fingers.

She’d changed before his arrival, and through the thin fabric of her leggings felt the warmth of his other hand as it moved up one thigh. Drew a pattern against her hip. And then slipped down between her legs.

It was electric. The unexpected heat and boldness, right there at the feminine heart of her, where she’d wanted him to be since she was old enough to understand her desire for him. He wanted her, and he was touching her; it was as simple and devastating as that.

She gasped against his mouth, and her thighs clenched together around his hand.

He breathed a rough laugh against her lips. “You like that?” he whispered.

“I want more of it,” she whispered back, spine arching.

“Then relax, baby.”

She did, and he eased her legs wider, arm dropping around her waist to hold her steady in his lap as his fingers began a delicate probing. Down the seam of her leggings, and then back up, finding her clit through the thin screen of fabric, and settling there when her hips jerked in response.

“I can feel how warm you are,” he murmured, and she pressed her face into his neck, breathing shallowly. She felt the wetness bloom between her legs, felt each exquisite pass of his fingertip.

“You’re good at this,” she said, and he chuckled.

He turned his head and kissed the exposed curve of her shoulder, where her sweater was sliding down. “I want you naked,” he said, and pressed her clit with his thumb.

Forget want, she had to have it at this point.

Sam sat up, forcing him to pull back. She loved the slightly-glazed sheen of his eyes, the way he was breathing just a little too fast. She kissed him, really kissed him, flirted between his lips with her tongue.

When she pulled back, she said, “Come inside with me, Aidan.”

No need to tell him twice.

He scooped her up into his arms as he stood, and it was like hitting the bottom of a roller coaster, her stomach falling out as she was swept up in his strong embrace. It made her feel feminine and special, and for reasons she didn’t want to think about, it made her want to cry, a little bit.

Instead, she laughed breathlessly, and turned the doorknob when they reached it.

He heeled the door shut behind them and started to charge through the kitchen.

“Wait,” she said, “I gotta lock it.”

He set her down with a groan – wasn’t that disappointing, being on her own two feet again – and she turned the deadbolt, spun back around to face him…only to be pressed back against the wood panel, his body covering hers, pinning her in place.

He ducked his head and kissed her again, a hot, lingering kiss that made her legs weak. She didn’t realize where his hands had gone until she felt her sweater drawing upward.

Aidan pulled back and she lifted her arms, allowing him to take the sweater free. She had no idea where he tossed it, didn’t care. She was wearing a thin, worn white lace bra, the comfy one she wore for lounging around the house, and his hands went to it, covered her. She stood up on her toes, leaning into the touch, watching as he hooked his thumbs in the cups and drew them down in one fast, efficient movement that freed her breasts.

Her nipples were already erect, straining pink buds that tightened further as the air hit them, drawing up painfully.

He murmured a wordless sound and took the round weights in his hands, shaped and petted them.

Sam’s head kicked back against the door, chest surging forward. More, she wanted even more.

And he gave it to her, leaning down to take a nipple into his mouth, suckle at it, rasp it with his tongue.

She speared her hands through his hair, felt the delightful glossy thickness of his curls. The top of his head smelled of smoke and spicy masculine shampoo, and she dropped her face into it, holding him to her, as he moved to her other nipple, tugged at it with his teeth.

“Aidan.” A protest, a plea, she didn’t know which.

He straightened, his breath striking harshly against her face, and gathered her close, picked her up again. “Your room’s upstairs?”

She circled his neck with her arms and held on tight. “Yeah. Turn right when we get there.”

He moved quickly and quietly through the darkened first floor, managing not to bump into anything. Wet from his mouth, her nipples were cold now, as air passed across them, and she shivered. His arms tightened in reaction, and he started up the stairs.

She had a fleeting worry, when they reached the upstairs hallway, that they might encounter her mom or sister, and there would be no explaining what was going on. Here she was, in Aidan’s arms, her tits hanging out. There was no way to shrug that one off.

But then Aidan turned right and she pushed the thoughts aside.

Her room was small, but tidy as always, everything put in its proper place, the bed made. The lights were off, but the blinds were open, slatted fingers of moonlight striping the comforter, highlighting exactly where he needed to go.

Aidan took the time to ease the door shut and thumb the lock before he carried her to the bed and lowered her down to the mattress, joining her there, settling above her.

He lingered, braced over her a long moment, and she could just see the shine of his eyes as they tracked down her body and back, moving over every inch. His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “You’ve got great tits,” he said, and then returned to them with his mouth.

“Oh.” More of his gorgeous hair sliding between her fingers. More wet suction at the aching tips of her breasts. She lifted into him, as he suckled her, filled with a trancelike joy that this was her, and Aidan, and her bed, and this was happening.

He moved lower, mouth skimming to her ribs, her belly, and pressed warm, soft kisses. Circled around her navel with his tongue.

His hands hooked into the tops of her leggings, catching her panties too, and she lifted her hips as he drew them down, all the way off her bare feet. He was looking at her, she knew, and she sat up, unsnapped her bra, and tossed it off the side of the bed.

“Sam,” he said, and she lifted her head to look at him.

He was close, kneeling on the bed in front of her, his face in hers, his breath fanning across her lips. “Take your glasses off,” he urged, voice heavy and tender. “I don’t wanna break them.”

She bit at her lip. “You get naked first. I don’t want to miss that.”

“Yeah.”

She leaned back and braced herself up on her hands, and Aidan got to his feet, and started shucking clothes. He was in layers: hoodie, long-sleeve, wifebeater. The half-light made it all the more spectacular, the way the shadows filled deep grooves between the harshly carved muscles of his upper body. And his gorgeous mosaic of tattoos – leaping and jumping as he reached to unbuckle his belt. Sam wanted to trace each one with a fingertip, follow its contours, touch her tongue to them, learn their stories.

Later. She’d have time for that later, because now…

He kicked off his boots, and then ditched his jeans and boxers, stepped out of them. The ink ended in a few trailing loops just above his hips, and even in the dark, she could see the tan lines, the way his legs were a shade or two paler. The furring on his lower belly and around his sex was as wild as that on his head, and she wondered if it would feel the same to her fingers. His cock was at full attention, and the size gave her a moment’s pause, a fast beat of uncertainty.

She was nothing like the girls he normally did this with. What had she been thinking?

He reached down and extracted his wallet from his jeans, pulled something from it, and then climbed onto the bed with her, nudging her legs apart, kneeling between them. He was hot-skinned and dark-smelling, all close and naked like this. Her pulse skittered, and she felt the response in her sex, the clenching, the slick wetness.

“Here, baby.” With the most careful of movements, he reached forward and pulled her glasses off.

Her vision blurred, and Aidan became a landscape of shadows, his features indistinct. She made a reflexive grab, hands latching onto his biceps, and she heard the soft clink of her frames settling on the nightstand.

He stilled. “How much can you see?”

She took a deep breath. “Not a lot. It’s worse the farther away something is.”

His hands landed on her hips and he pulled her in tight to him, until she felt the hot, unmistakable touch of his cock against her thigh. “I’ll have to stay real close then,” he said, voice husky.

One hand skimmed up her body, feathering across her belly, her breast, pushed her hair back and cupped the side of her face. His face came into perfect focus the moment before he kissed her and her eyes fluttered shut.

Kissing was different, when you were both naked. There was something shocking and intimate about the way their tongues danced together when there was nothing but a few inches of air separating what they really wanted.

Sam put her arms around his neck and closed the distance.

Skin to skin, and the fuse was struck.

Sam hadn’t realized just how patient he was being until all of a sudden he wasn’t. He laid her back flat on the bed, settled between her legs, propped himself above her on one arm.

He sucked in a fast breath.

“What?” she asked.

“Bad shoulder. Don’t worry about it, it’s worth it.”

He kissed her again. And his hand went to her sex.

She was beyond all modesty, lifting her hips into his touch as he stroked her slippery skin, entering with one, and then two fingers. She’d been living like a nun, overworked, overtired – it wouldn’t take much more than this. A little more pressure from his thrusting fingers, a little pass of his thumb across her clit. She breathed in ragged gasps, and her fingernails were sunk in his bare shoulders. A little more, a little more…

“God,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”

But then he withdrew.

“Aidan,” she hissed in protest.

His laugh was almost soundless, a breath. “You’ll be alright, baby,” he whispered. “Promise.”

She heard the condom open, heard the comforter rustle as he shifted. He was too indistinct, without her glasses, for her to enjoy the show, but she knew what was coming, and put her arms around him as he settled over her once more.

It was his fingers first, opening her. And then the blunt head of his cock. And then…

He filled her with one fast thrust, and she knew she hadn’t been prepared.

It was too much.

It was everything.

He held still at first, as she adjusted, like he knew she needed a moment to reconcile that it was him inside her, that her fantasy had finally unfolded.

But then he said, “Shit,” against her neck, and she realized how harsh his breathing was, how tense he was in her arms and between her thighs.

“Aidan?”

He made a pained sound in his throat; his breath rushed across her skin. “Shit,” he repeated. “I was gonna…and I usually…and you haven’t…but shit, baby, I’ve gotta move.”

That strain in him? The strain of holding back.

Sam grinned in disbelief and bit her lower lip, staring up at the formless expanse of her ceiling. “Aidan,” she said, carefully, “are you saying you’re too…close…to make this last?”

“Yeah,” he panted. “That’s what I’m saying.” A spasm went through him, every muscle clenching. “Ah, fuck.”

She would never have guessed this, and she loved it.

Sam pressed her breasts up into his chest and let her hands trail slowly down his back – all his sleek, muscled back, imagining she could feel the patterns of his tats – to the round hard curve of his ass. She dug her fingertips in and cocked her hips in unmistakable invitation to do his worst.

“Aidan,” she repeated, and it almost sounded like a command.

He growled against her neck, and he moved. Holy hell, did he move. It was more powerful and feral than she’d imagined, and even though she wasn’t close at the outset, the sheer overwhelming sensation of him rooting so deeply inside her brought her almost, almost, almost…

He bit her when he came. She felt his teeth in her shoulder.

He was a marvel on top of her, one hundred percent animal, his slick chest pressing against hers as he tried to catch his breath, hips still churning slowly, like little aftershocks, his weight depressing the mattress all around her.

Sam could hear no sounds in the house save for those they made, breathing, the covers rustling.

Finally, Aidan withdrew and rolled onto his side, pulling her with him and bundling her close. “You didn’t come.”

Up close like this, she could see every detail of his face in the moonlight, the stubble, the shadows beneath his eyes, the little scar along his jaw she wanted to know the origins of. No, she hadn’t come, but she’d expected a moment of oh damn, what did I do? Instead, she felt peaceful, if not a little internally frustrated.

It felt…very important, special and right that Aidan was here with her like this.

“You know what I would tell you, if you were one of my students?”

“Hmm?”

“Keep trying until you receive the desired result.”

He grinned. “Gimme a sec, sweetheart, and I’ll try your damn brains out.”

Thirteen

Aidan pushed the shower curtain back, noted belatedly that when he did so, water splashed out onto the floor, and said, “What the hell kinda chick soap is this?” He waved the offending pink-studded bar toward Sam, who stood at the mirror doing her makeup.

She twisted her head to glance at him over her shoulder, powder brush held gracefully in one hand. Her smile was sweet, tinged with a little of the feminine smugness that told him she knew he was just as sore and tired as she had to be. “We’re a household of chicks. That’s a pomegranate and mandarin orange body bar.”

He felt his nose wrinkle at the idea. “You know I can’t use this, right?”

“I think you’ll smell nice.”

“I don’t want to smell ‘nice.’”

Her smile flickered and she clamped down on it. “Our neighbor has a dog. You could wander over into their yard and find a pile of shit to roll in. That wouldn’t count as nice, would it?”

With a snort of disgust, he snapped the curtain closed and heard her laugh.

Stupid soap; all the guys would give him shit about it.

Worth the hassle, though. Definitely. Last night still hummed in his blood.

He hadn’t expected it to feel the way that it had. He’d made up his mind weeks before that he wanted Sam. Not in the casual, curious way he wanted beautiful women who blew him kisses out of car windows or who sauntered up to him at bars. His craving for Sam had put a lump in his throat, had left him desperate, feeling as if something important were slipping through his fingers. It had come with a sense of loss that echoed eerily of the night he’d told Greg to run, only it was a sweet ache, and not a hollow one. Even then, he hadn’t had an idea it would be so different to touch her, taste her skin, be inside her.

He’d felt one hot second of shame when he’d realized he wouldn’t be able to go slow and treat her right. But she’d encouraged him, and he’d been lost.

He was still struggling to describe the experience in his head.

After, he’d dropped to the edge of sleep, and then resurfaced, to find Sam dozing against his chest, face peaceful, hair fanned across the pillow.

Beautiful. He’d roused her with a hand sliding between her legs, and she’d rolled onto her back at his urging. He’d been in total control that time, and he’d had to put his hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake her mother and sister.

The mother and sister who might at any moment discover he was still in the house.

He’d awakened alone in Sam’s bed, to find they’d somehow gotten under the covers during the night, and that dawn was touching the horizon, the room filled with faint gray light. He’d taken a moment to get his bearings. He heard water running through the pipes; smelled her skin and light perfume on the sheets, something fruity (he now knew it was this soap); took in the orderly room, its gray walls, black wooden bedstead and dresser, the chair in the corner with a pillow and footstool that told a story of much reading alone.

Silently, he’d tiptoed to the hall bath, and had found Sam toweling her hair, wrapped in an awful terry robe. He’d slipped in quick, closing and locking the door.

There’d been three silent seconds of eye contact, and then Sam had smiled shyly and returned her gaze to the mirror. “Good morning.”

It was the tamest “good morning” he’d ever received from a woman, and it had stirred things in him those two words had no right to.

A first. One of many.

Another first: feeling like a dickhead for stealing a little hot water. He’d had the morning-after shower more times than he could count. But that was usually in some chick’s apartment, sometimes trailer, sometimes hotel where they were spending their Knoxville vacation. It had never been a bathroom shared by two sisters who lived with their mother. Last night, in the dark, it had been easy to push all thoughts of collateral damage from his mind. But under the scalding spray of water, he was starting to worry that Helen Walton might seriously disapprove of him using her shower, soap, and towels, complete delinquent that he was. There would be no need for the “you’re not good enough for my daughter” spiel; it was too obvious to require vocalization.

When he shut off the water, one of Sam’s slender hands pushed past the curtain, holding a thick yellow towel.

“Thanks.”

It was soft as butter passing over his skin, reminding him of stayovers with Maggie and Ghost, the way Maggie managed the little comforting things in life with more skill than he ever could. Bachelor life almost seemed fantastic…until he spent a little time around quality linens, home cooked meals, and freshly stacked loads of laundry that appeared on his dresser as if by magic.

When he wrapped the towel around his hips and stepped out, he saw that Sam had set another towel down on the floor to absorb the water he’d slopped out of the shower stall. She had progressed to her hair, working the wet snarls loose with a comb, wincing when she hit a bad snag.

She glanced up and met his gaze through the mirror, smiling. “Did you wanna shave? I found a razor and some old cream that’s probably not too far out of date.” She motioned to said items, where she’d laid them out on the counter.

“You keep that on hand in case Doug ever asked to stay over?” he teased.

Her smile dimmed. “No,” she said softly. “Leftovers from Dad.”

Her dead dad, killed in an accident when they were still in high school, back when Aidan hadn’t known she’d existed.

He wanted to kick himself.

Sam had gone still, comb hovering above the crown of her head, watching him.

“I don’t need to shave,” he said. “Just going to work.”

She nodded, stared at her reflection a moment, and then turned to him, comb forgotten on the counter.

It was wonderful, for some reason, to see her with her hair undone, her façade unfinished first thing in the morning, in the privacy of her bathroom at home. She could feign no stiffness or reserve with him here.

His breath caught, just a second, when she lifted a hand and passed her fingertips down his chest. He wondered if she could feel it, that fast stutter under his skin.

“I still can’t see very well,” she said, because she wasn’t wearing her glasses yet, “but the colors…” Her eyes tracked what detail she could make out of his ink. “What’s this one for?” she asked, and he knew which one she was looking at.

It was his largest, most intricate piece, after the roses, the one that made the most sense. “The Tennessee River,” he said, because that was how the image began, as his hometown river, intricate depictions of the Henley Street Bridge and Neyland Stadium marking it as such. “And the Thames, in London.” In the center of both his chest and the tattoo, the landscape around the river changed, the water flanked by Big Ben and the London Bridge on his other pec. In the center, above the water, was the running black dog that was their club logo. “The original and American mother chapters of the club,” he explained.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam murmured.

It was far from the first time someone had complimented one of his tats, but it was the first time he felt almost lightheaded as it was happening. Apparently, his sister wasn’t the only sappy romantic in the family. Who knew?

Her eyes lifted to his. “How many do you have?”

“A shit-ton. Wanna count them?”

She smiled. “When I’m not on my way to work, absolutely.”

“Yeah, me too–” Oh shit. He had work, yeah, but he also had a lunch meeting with Greg he’d managed to forget about last night.

Her face fell. “What. It’s just sinking in what happened last night?” She attempted a grin, but it was brittle and sad.

It caused him actual, physical pain to see that look on her face and know the direction of her thoughts.

“No.” He caught her face in both hands before she could step back. “Sam, baby, no.” When she raised her brows in mingled surprise and disbelief, he said, “I just remembered I’ve gotta have a very unpleasant lunch meeting today, and if I don’t get a move on, I won’t be able to swap lunch breaks with Merc.” He ducked his head and kissed her, lingering afterward, so he could speak while their lips were touching. “Last night was the best night I’ve had in…well, ever, sweetheart.” He grinned as he pulled back. “So don’t act like I think otherwise, alright?”

She took a deep, shivery breath and let it back out in a rush, smiling. “Yeah. Alright.”

When he released her – reluctantly, and they both knew it – she faced the mirror again and reached for a tube of some sort of gel goo that she squirted into her hand and then worked into the wet waves of her hair. “What kind of meeting? With your dad?”

He winced at his reflection and passed a hand through his disorderly curls. “Worse than that.”

“Ouch.”

It struck him as so domestic, the way she was treating her hair. He’d seen his sister do as much, in those brief years when they’d shared a bathroom at home, and for some reason, watching Sam’s morning rituals like this cemented last night in a whole new way.

Before he was aware of thinking it, he stepped in behind her and wrapped both arms around her waist, arresting her movements, drawing a grin and startled laugh from her.

“I gotta head out,” he said. “But I want to see you tonight. Or sooner, if that’s possible.”

Her grin widened; he watched it in the mirror and felt a resulting tug in the pit of his stomach.

“I can come by the shop after class,” she said.

“That’d be good.” He kissed the top of her head. “What are the odds your mom knows I’m here and is gonna throw a fit?”

She laughed. “Good…and good.”

“I was afraid of that.”

She reached up to cover one of his hands with hers and squeezed. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He kissed her again, on the cheek. “Yeah.”

He had his hand on the door when she said, “Aidan?”

“Yeah?”

Her smile was glorious, happiness radiating through her bright blue-green eyes. “It was worth the wait.”

It had been. And he had no intention of making her wait again.

~*~

By the time she finished her hair and dressed for work, Aidan was long gone. But when Sam went to her room, she found her mother standing in the threshold. She stepped up behind her and realized that Helen’s eyes were trained on the messy, unmade bed, and her head turned slowly so that she faced Sam, wide-eyed.

“Mom,” Sam said, drawing breath for an explanation.

Helen said, “Did he spend the night?” She lowered her voice. “I heard…I heard you two talking. You were” – she dropped to a whisper – “in the bathroom together.”

She had no real idea how to play this. Helen had always wanted her to get married and start a family, but Sam didn’t get the impression her mother was going to be the type to allow for sleepovers and bathroom cohabitation. At least not under her own roof. And adult or not, this was her mother’s home. She’d have to obey the rules, if any were given.

So she said, “Yes, Mom. We were.”

Helen’s hand tightened around the doorframe. “Oh.” A single syllable that encompassed so many things. Her eyes fell to the carpet a moment and she seemed to think, to collect herself. Then she lifted her head and said, “I don’t like what he’s done to his body.” Ah, the tattoos. “But that was a very nice thing he did, taking care of Erin last night. And I take it you two have become good friends.”

Sam nodded. “We have.”

Helen let out a deep breath and shrugged. “You’re a grown woman. I trust you to keep good company.” She patted Sam on the arm and headed back down the hall to her own room.

Sam stood rooted a moment, in total shock.

Behind her, she heard a door creaking open, and over her shoulder glimpsed Erin poking her head out from her room. She hadn’t bothered to wash her face the night before, and her makeup had smeared in the night. Her hair was in accomplished tangles on her shoulders.

“What was going on last night?” she asked in a tone too suspicious for any sixteen-year-old. “Aidan was here, wasn’t he?”

“I thought you were angry with me. No silent treatment this time?”

Erin’s eyes widened; her stubbornness had been forgotten in her curiosity, and now she remembered it. With a frustrated sound, she withdrew and slammed her door.

Sam went in to make her bed.

~*~

He was about five minutes late as he walked up to the open roll top doors at the shop. Aidan braced himself, and stepped into the first bay.

Mercy and Tango immediately glanced his way. Carter kept his back turned because, for reasons Aidan didn’t understand that somehow involved Jasmine, the kid still wasn’t talking to him, if he could help it.

Tango propped a hand against a tool chest and gave him a small, knowing smile.

Mercy folded his arms across his chest and grinned like the lunatic he was. “You’re late.”

“I’m late lots of times.”

“Tango,” Mercy called, “did our boy here come home last night?”

“Nope.” Tango’s smile got a little wider. “Definitely not.”

“Did you stop in at Ghost and Mags’?” Mercy pressed, the obnoxious asshole. “Should I ask them?”

“Dude, how old are you?” Aidan said, and headed to clock in.

Behind him, Mercy laughed. “I take it big sis was grateful.”

“Very grateful.” And he was leaving it at that.

The laughter died away as Mercy grew more serious. “Hey, Aidan?”

He didn’t respond; he was going to be told whatever it was anyway.

“You know you can’t treat Sam like you do all the rest,” his brother-in-law said with that patented Cajun-wisdom tone that always accompanied his “sage” advice.

The thing about Mercy’s advice, though – when he wasn’t driving nails under people’s fingernails or being a total goof, he could be a truly wise man. The greatest contradiction of personality the MC had likely ever seen.

Aidan turned so the guy could see the seriousness of his expression. “I know that. Believe me.”

Both his brothers looked at him with something like pride.

But then Merc had to ruin it. “Our little man, all grown up and courtin’ schoolteachers.”

“Fuck you both.”

Fourteen

Smokey’s Family Diner was a confused restaurant. A freestanding building that had previously been a Shoney’s, it was a diner, yes, but also a buffet. Someone had repainted the interior in smoke gray and Tennessee orange, and the walls were plastered with UT memorabilia. The bakery cases up in the front were full of pom-poms, footballs and old photos. The food was mediocre and despite the paint and décor, the place just had an outdated feeling; when you were inside, you sensed the restaurant’s impending failure. It wasn’t a favorite among the Dogs, and that’s why Greg had picked it, knowing there was little chance they’d be seen.

Aidan walked in at twelve-ten, purposefully late, and spotted Greg in one of the orange-and-white-striped booths near the back, away from the buffet and the windows.

“I’m meeting someone,” he told the hostess. And judging by that someone’s total composure, the tables had turned since their last official restaurant meeting. Gone was the pale, sweating, shaking Greg from Stella’s, way back during his wannabe Carpathian days. The man waiting for him now wore clothes that fit – shirt, jeans and leather jacket – and his color was normal, his expression stony and hard to read.

With a sensation like a stone landing in his gut, Aidan realized he’d deeply miscalculated three years ago, when he’d assumed someone like Greg could never serve as a threat. Dimly, he wondered how many times in his life he’d made that mistake, and how badly it was going to haunt him in the future.

He slid into the booth and Greg greeted him with a nod. It was some consolation to see the bruise on Greg’s face, the blossoming shadows where Aidan had ground his face into the dirt.

“You’ve got a little something,” Aidan said with a smirk, touching his own face.

Greg’s smile was humorless. “You’re not gonna charm and joke your way outta this one, Aidan.”

Aidan sighed and slumped back in the booth. His shoulder was sore from wrestling Greg last night, and from what had come later with Sam. He’d skipped breakfast and the smell of whatever greasy shit they had at the buffet was making his stomach growl. “Okay, I don’t have the patience for your bullshit. What do you mean by ‘this one’?”

Greg had a plate of French fries in front of him and glanced down at it, dragging one through a puddle of ketchup. “This war.” His gaze flicked up, the way his chin was tilted giving him an uncharacteristically sinister look. “This isn’t like the last war. My new boss is nothing like my old boss.”

Aidan rolled his eyes – and his gut clenched. He affected bored when he said, “Wasn’t what happened with your last boss enough to convince you to get a nine-to-five and lay off trying to be a gangster?”

“That would make you the pot, and me the kettle.”

“Yeah, no. That would make me the guy set to inherit his old man’s club, and you just some idiot loser who makes bad friends.”

“Bad friends like you?” Greg wasn’t letting any of this get under his skin. He had control now. Poise.

“That wasn’t personal, just business.”

“So is this.” Greg reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of computer paper that he slid across the table.

Aidan didn’t want to touch the thing, but he schooled his features and unfolded it, tilted it toward the light.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Teague,

I know we’ve never met, but I’m a good friend of your son’s, from back in school. I’m real sorry about what he’s going through, and I want to let you know I’m here if you need me.

“What the fuck is this?” Aidan crumpled it into a ball and tossed it onto the table.

“I wrote it,” Greg said, calmly. “And put a copy in the mailbox at Dartmoor. At this point, at least your stepmother’s seen it. Probably even your dad, ‘cause I know y’all’s old ladies tell you everything.”

Though there was nothing in his stomach, he thought he might puke. He cleared his throat. “So you’re blackmailing me. What the hell for? I don’t have shit you want.”

“Not blackmail,” Greg corrected. “Insurance. You can’t lead Ghost to me because I’m supposed to be dead. How could you tell dear old Dad that you didn’t follow orders?”

A chill slithered down the back of Aidan’s neck, like one of his more sinister tattoos had come to life.

“And if Ghost did find out – like if, say, I told him about it.” Greg smiled. “What would happen to the traitor who didn’t do what his president told him to do?”

Traitor. The ugliest, most feared word in all of MC culture. The things that happened to traitors were unspeakable. In the Lean Dogs MC, traitors were dealt with by guys like Mercy, Michael, Candyman, and the English specter, Fox. Aidan recalled the black tackle box that Mercy called his “toolkit” and his gorge rose, palms filming over with sweat.

His voice was even, though, when he spoke. “You don’t know shit about my dad or my club.” He pushed up from the table and stood beside it a moment, looking down at Greg. “You should have stayed away, Greg. You really should. This time, there won’t be anything pretend about you getting killed.”

He left the restaurant and didn’t glance back once, striding quickly until he’d reached his bike in the parking lot. His hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to buckle his helmet.

Traitor.

~*~

Tango tried not to laugh, but he was too surprised not to. The carefully-styled man on the bench tipped his head back, blue-green eyes narrowed under the brim of his baseball cap, his smile wry. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

Suppressing a chuckle, Tango dropped down onto the bench beside Ian, mimicking his posture with arms draped over the back. “Not a bad reaction,” he assured, “just a surprised one.”

Ian tilted his head in concession and his grin became more true. “I’m incognito,” he said, unnecessarily.

“I figured.” And if he was being honest with himself, Tango liked it.

When Ian had asked to meet him at the park, he’d expected to find the man at his usual foppish best, Bruce lingering in the shadows, maybe another plainclothes guard or two. Instead, he’d made two circuits around the walking track, dodging mothers with strollers, mumbling apologies when he nearly tripped them. Finally, his eyes had wandered across the lanky figure kicked back at a bench, and a sharp tug in his gut had told him what the clothes did not. The eyes played tricks, but the subconscious always recognized a lover. Some low pulse, a homing sound that sang in the blood.

His subconscious had been right.

Ian wore bootcut jeans that made his legs look ten miles long, Vans, t-shirt, and one of those designer leather jackets that looked casual and biker-ish, but probably cost a small fortune. All of it fit him well and highlighted his lean build. He’d bundled up his long hair and stuffed it under an orange UT cap. Tango hadn’t seen him casual like this in years, and it did things to his insides, stirred up old memories.

“No detail?” Tango asked.

“I am completely solo and at your disposal.”

Tango sighed and let his head fall back against the bench. At this angle, he could see where Ian had gathered his hair at the back of his head and pinned it up, the tail disappearing up the back of the cap. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t go through with it. The sun was a warm contrast to the cool breeze, and he felt momentarily content.

Ian tilted his head back so they were eye-to-eye. “Have you thought any more about it?”

“About what?” But he knew.

“Leaving your club.”

Tango closed his eyes. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

“You’re afraid that you can’t,” Ian said in a gentle voice, “but you know deep down that you can.”

“They’re my family.”

“And what am I?”

Tango opened his eyes, struck by the hurt in the other man’s face. “It isn’t healthy for you either, you know, holding onto the past.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I know it is. We can’t help but remind each other of what we used to be.”

Ian looked away from him and sat upright, his jaw tight. Paper crackled as he reached into his jacket. “I’ve brought you something.”

Tango sat up to join him, and was handed a printed out map, addresses circled in red pen.

“Ellison’s properties,” Ian explained. “Some are safe houses, some warehouses, some dealers and sundry employees. Anyone or anyplace affiliated with Don Ellison is on that map.”

Tango folded it carefully. “Thank you. This will be helpful.”

“Share it with your president. I have no love for the man, but I’m worried about you.” When Tango met his gaze, he added, “I only want for you to be safe.”

“I am,” Tango assured.

It tasted like a lie, and Ian’s small smile told him it sounded like one too.

Fifteen

Butterflies. That’s what had overtaken her stomach. Sam left work with a stupid grin plastered to her face and a belly full of butterflies, all of them vying for position between her ribs and making her breathless.

She’d been drowsy, smiling and content all through her day, but now, as she slid into her car and headed for Dartmoor, she was downright giddy. She felt the glowing handprints he’d left against her skin, warm beneath her clothes, like delicious secrets. All these years she’d spent fantasizing…and she’d never have to again. She knew, now, and she wanted more.

Dartmoor was in a state of pleasant busyness when she pulled into the lot and navigated through traffic to get down to the bike shop. The tiny, glass-walled office and the bench out front were occupied by customers, so she avoided that area, and instead went straight into the garage bays.

Mercy spotted her first. His grin told her everything she needed to know: the guys knew.

“Oh damn,” she said, coming to a halt.

He laughed. “Afternoon, Sam.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “Afternoon, Mercy. Is–”

“Your man here? Yeah, he’s right back here.” He gestured to the bike up on the rack.

And there was Aidan, making her heart pound and her breath catch, all those butterflies surging. Sam shoved the reaction down and stood calm and unaffected as she watched Aidan set down his tools, towel off his hands and glare at his brother-in-law. “Dude, leave her alone.”

Then he was closing the distance, and his eyes were on her, Mercy’s chuckling forgotten.

“Hi.” His smile was a shot of adrenaline, strobing inside her chest.

“Hi.”

He took her hand and pulled her arm through his, leading her out of the garage. That little dance of propriety was gone, the do-you-want-to, let’s-go-for-a-walk hesitancy no longer applicable.

“Good day?” he asked once they were out of earshot of the shop.

“Yeah, I…” She trailed off when she glanced up at him. He’d smiled, sure, and his tone just now was pleasant, but there was something wrong. A deep furrow between his brows marked him as troubled, and his gaze was trained on the pavement.

Sam halted, tugging on his arm and forcing him to do the same. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, you’ve got to stop feeding me that bullshit.” His head snapped up, startled and amused. “Something is wrong, and has been wrong for a while now. I don’t need to be in your business, I’m not nosy like that. But I’m worried about you.” She passed her hand up his bare arm, surprised by the mingling of rough and shiny-smooth textures of his scars.

Her eyes dropped to his skin, the distorted tattoos, just blurs and suggestions now. He’d almost died, she reminded herself, and a lump formed in her throat.

She took a breath and met his gaze again. “I’m just offering, okay? If you can’t talk about it, that’s fine, but I’m here if you need to unburden yourself. I want you to know you can do that with me.” She smiled. “It’s a two-way street. You’ve helped me, and I want you to know that I’ll return the favor.”

It pulled at her heartstrings, the way he stared at her. He wanted to tell her; she could feel the pressure of the words on his tongue. But he swallowed and said, “I really don’t deserve you.”

She sighed to herself, disappointed but resolute, and leaned into him when he put his arm around her.

“What are you doing for dinner?” she asked.

“Taco Bell, I’m guessing.” He squeezed her waist. “Unless you had a better idea.”

“My mother wants you to come over and eat with us.” She laughed when she felt him stiffen. “No pressure.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He was actually shaking.

“You don’t have to come,” Sam said, covering his hand with her own where it rested against her hip. “I can tell Mom it’s too soon for that.”

“Nah. I’ll come.”

When she glanced at him, she saw that the color was high in his face.

He wet his lips. “Uh…it’s just that…I’ve never actually met a girl’s mother before.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded.

Sam laughed and patted his hand. “Poor baby. Don’t worry. It won’t be too painful.”

~*~

There had been days past when the closing of the shop kicked off an evening of brotherly bonding. They would all wander over to the clubhouse and settle in for TV and shit-talking, beers in hand. But tonight, Tango sensed a tension in the air, the way they all wanted away from the burdens of the day. Carter struck off for the clubhouse alone, too quick for anyone to fall in with him. Aidan muttered a farewell and headed for his bike.

Ava’s truck rolled up and he knew she’d have the kids with her, and that she and Mercy were going to take them home and wallow in marital bliss.

The passenger window buzzed down as he passed. “Kev,” Ava called, “I can set an extra place if you don’t have anything to do for dinner.”

He gave her a weak smile. “No, thanks.”

“You sure?” Merc asked, snapping his helmet in place.

It was tempting for a moment, the idea of hot food, the glow of family. But he shook his head. “Catch ya next time.”

Right now, he needed to find Ghost before the map in his pocket burned through the fabric.

A little inquiry and he found the boss man at the trucking office. Holly had pushed her wheeled chair back from the desk and Ghost stood in front of her, expression thunderous, the office phone pressed to his ear.

Holly’s eyes cut over to Tango, filled with mixed horror and laughter.

Ghost was using his president voice over the phone. “No, you listen, asshole. You harassed my office manager for days, because, guess what, calling a woman a hot piece of ass counts as harassment, dick. She was too much of a lady to tell you to lay off, but I damn sure told you to.”

Holly covered her mouth with a hand and Tango knew the laughter was winning out. He smiled.

“What?” Ghost said, scowling. “No, see, when one of my guys wants to defend his wife from a creep, I don’t give a shit about ‘outrageous.’ You’re fucking outrageous. And you’re damn lucky all he did was break your nose. Don’t ever turn up on my property again.” He slammed the phone down in its cradle with a satisfied grunt.

He turned to Holly. “You think that did it?”

She pulled her hand away, composed now. “I think so, yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Next time something like that’s going on, tell me about it. You shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda shit at work.”

She nodded.

Then Ghost turned to Tango. “What’s up?”

His smile dimmed. “I’ve got something to show you.”

That earned him a curious glance.

They walked out to the parking lot, and Tango passed the map over.

Ghost studied it a moment, eyes sharp when they lifted from the paper. “Is this what I think it is?”

“All of Ellison’s properties.”

Ghost’s expression tightened. “Where did you get this?”

“You know where,” Tango said quietly.

“You stole it?”

“He gave it to me.”

Ghost’s head reared back, his nostrils flaring. “He what? How many goddamn favors do I owe the guy now?”

“No disrespect, sir, but this map isn’t about you, or the club, or any more favors. It was a gift, from him to me.”

A cold silence fell between them, full of questions it was obvious Ghost didn’t want to ask.

Tango shrugged and stepped back. “I wanted you to have it. I thought that was the right thing.” He turned away.

“Kev.”

He froze, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

“When you see him next time,” Ghost said, stiffly, “tell him thank you.”

He nodded and kept going.

~*~

The butterflies were back with a vengeance. Last night had been spontaneous, and so there hadn’t been any expectation on either side. But tonight was planned, and that led to all sorts of planned-dinner nerves that Sam took out on the carpet, vacuuming furiously with one hand and dusting the hard surfaces with the other.

She was putting the pork tenderloin into the oven when Erin walked in the back door.

“Good, you’re home,” Sam greeted. “You can move the load from the washer into the dryer and then get started on your homework before dinner.”

“Oh my God…” Erin started, rolling her eyes, dumping her backpack to the floor.

“Nope, I don’t want to hear that,” Sam said. She kept her tone pleasant, but firm. Barking orders never worked with someone as petulant as her little sister. “You’re grounded, Erin, and being grounded doesn’t involve locking yourself away in your room and video chatting all night. You’re going to contribute to the household, starting with taking your bag upstairs as you go. No more leaving all your stuff lying everywhere.”

Erin gave her a bitter look across the kitchen table. “Can’t you just be thankful I’m not dead or addicted to anything?”

“I can, and I am. But I’m also putting my foot down. You’re killing Mom,” she added, lowering her voice. “And honest to God, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove or accomplish.”

Erin made a face. “Oh, yeah sure, I’m killing Mom. But you think it’s totally okay to fuck some biker guy all obvious where we can hear it.”

Sam felt heat bloom in her cheeks. “We’re not talking about me right now.”

“Why not? ‘Cause you’re just as bad as me?”

“Because I’m a grown-ass woman with a decent job and I can go out with whoever I want to. Also because I wasn’t the one at risk of getting arrested last night. So. Backpack, dryer, homework. Now.”

“Ugh!” Erin threw back her head in disgust, but grabbed her bag before she marched out of the room.

Small victory.

When she heard the low drone of the dryer come on upstairs, she allowed her thoughts to wander, let the anxiety come in to tease at her again. Had she and Aidan been loud enough for Erin and Mom to hear last night?

She didn’t really want to know, especially as the back door opened with an incoming gust of cold air, sweeping Helen inside like a fallen leaf.

“Goodness, it’s getting cold out there!” she exclaimed, muttering a loud brrrrr as she pushed the door to. Her narrow face was red from the wind and her eyes looked wide and harried as she shrugged out of her jacket. “Your sister’s home, I see.”

“Home, but not happy about it.”

“Yes, well.” Helen sighed, shoulders drooping. Then she stiffened, eyes sliding over to Sam. “Your gentleman’s coming to dinner, right?”

“You wanted him to, so yes,” Sam said, knowing her smile was thin. “Although the ‘gentleman’ part is debatable.”

Helen studied her, gaze troubled. “You know I trust your judgement. You’ve always been a practical girl.”

“Mom.”

“But this…Aidan. He doesn’t seem like the sort of boy you’d attach yourself to. He’s very…” She gestured, grasping for the words.

“Tattooed, disreputable, and ill-advised?” Sam finished.

Helen nodded and looked sheepish. “I hate to say it, but yes. He does. I don’t hold that against him, you understand, but I…”

“Don’t get it?” Sam guessed. “I don’t really either, Mom. It’s one of those things I can’t really explain. I like syrup on my bacon, and I like Aidan Teague.”

“You’ve…slept with him.”

Sam didn’t know how uncomfortable this line of talk would get. She and Mom had never discussed men or sex before, aside from the obligatory “talk” when she was growing up.

“I have,” she said, because there was no answer to give other than the truth.

Helen let out a slow breath. “I’d like to get to know him better.” She gave Sam a brave smile. “I’d like to give him a chance.”

Sam’s heart squeezed, gladness spilling through her. “Thank you.”

~*~

Aidan stopped at the package store and bought a decent bottle of Pinot Grigio, forgoing the beer he wanted to get for himself when he opened his wallet and saw how few bills remained.

What a perfect predicament he was in. Pregnant ex-fuck buddy, blackmailer, hovering traitor label, and a girl who deserved the world that he knew he’d never be able to hold onto. What a charmed life he led.

Tonya had been on his mind, unwillingly. After Sam left Dartmoor that afternoon, he’d run into Maggie on his way back to the shop. Not accidentally, he would learn, as she’d grabbed his arm more forcefully than Sam had and steered him down toward the other end of the parking lot.

“Your sister and I went to see Tonya,” she’d said.

“What? Why?”

“To make sure she’s telling the truth about being pregnant – she is, by the way, you can’t fake that morning sickness look – and to convince her not to give the baby up for adoption.”

“Mags.” He’d hissed through his teeth, suddenly sick to his stomach and mentally flailing. “If she doesn’t want it, I can’t make her keep it. And I’m not gonna try to be with her.”

“God, I hope not. No, you’re going to gain custody of the baby.” When he’d begun to protest, she’d spoken over him. “And if you for some reason you can’t be its father right away, Ava and Mercy will take it.”

The notion had hit him like a punch and he wasn’t even sure why. Something about Ava and Mercy…He was the kid’s father, and he was treading water, helpless and stupid, but his sister had no problem taking on the baby, whether it was hers or not. Decisive, like her mother. And he was…uncertain. Like his mother.

Disgusting.

“I…” He’d had no words.

“I saw Sam leaving,” Maggie had continued, ignoring his mental tangle. “She wasn’t here to see Ava.”

“No, to see me.” He’d taken a deep breath and thoughts of Sam had eased the tightness in his chest.

Maggie had made a knowing sound. “Hmm.” A sound that encompassed all her womanly wisdom. “She’s a nice girl. I like her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She’d patted his hand. “Does she know about Tonya?”

“No. No, and…please don’t say anything yet. I’m gonna tell her. But not yet.”

Maggie had nodded, and the look she’d tipped up to him had been full of sympathy. “Don’t wait too long though. She’ll forgive you for the baby – but not for hiding it from her.”

He’d known then, and he knew now, draped with sadness as he walked up to the Waltons’ back door. There was an expiration date on this thing he had with Sam, and it was entirely his fault. He really hated himself at the moment.

But he would enjoy what time he had with her. Shoving all negative thoughts away, he knocked on the back door, heart thumping hard against his ribs.

He heard a low murmur of female voices before the door opened, and then Sam stood in the frame, warm light spilling around her, turning her hair to molten gold. She’d unbraided it, and it was in loose waves down her back. He wanted to touch it, press his face into it. But her mother was watching, so he held out the wine and said, “Here, this is for you,” like a total dork.

She grinned, like she knew this was awkward, but was finding it sweet and amusing. “Thank you, that was…” Her eyes passed over the label. “Ooh, this is my favorite.” Her grin was warmer when she lifted it again, blue-green eyes flashing behind her glasses. “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice soft and just for him.

Never in his life had a woman looked at him like this. It was amazing.

Sam’s mother was standing on the other side of the table, her smile uncertain, arms clasped together as if she was cold. He shut the door, and then stepped forward, feeling green as a teenager, hoping his hand wasn’t too clammy as he offered her a shake. “Mrs. Walton, thanks for having me.” He imaged Maggie somewhere, approving of his manners.

Her hand was small and frail as a bird in his, but her smile struggled to be more welcoming. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Good.

“I’m looking forward to learning more about you.”

Not good.

“Here, sweetie.” Sam handed him the wine and a corkscrew, not seeming to notice she’d just called him sweetie. “If you’ll open this for us, I’ll finish getting the food ready.”

Opening alcohol he could handle.

He watched Sam covertly as he uncorked the bottle. She had sliced up some sort of meat that smelled fantastic and arranged it on a big platter, her movements precise and quick. She was used to being in the kitchen, getting everything just right. What must that be like, he wondered, to be the sort of person who did everything properly from the get go, and didn’t have to fix a bunch of mistakes?

Scuffing footfalls and overdramatic sighing heralded Erin’s arrival. She wore the standard expression of beleaguered teenage girls; Aidan had seen it plenty at school, but never on his sister. Ava had never been much of a teenager. He felt a momentary, retroactive respect for her, for the way she hadn’t annoyed the shit out of all of them growing up.

In contrast with last night, Erin wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and her hair tied up in a ponytail, her only makeup a touch of eyeliner and lip gloss. It was an improvement, in Aidan’s eyes. He resented the hell out of jailbait overdressing and acting legal.

Huh. So he wasn’t like his father in that regard.

“Hey, Erin,” he greeted.

She folded her arms and shot him a murderous look. “So what? Are you, like, my sister’s boyfriend or something?”

He didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yeah, I am.”

Sam fumbled the platter of meat as she set it on the table, and a slice fell off into one of the water glasses. She recovered in a flurry, whisking the glass away, getting a fresh one. Aidan caught the distinct red tint to her cheeks and grinned. She was shocked; she was thrilled.

She loved him. This shy, serious, studious girl really loved him. And he’d almost missed it, in his own stupidity.

“Ugh,” Erin said. “Congrats, Sam, you finally have a boyfriend.”

“Erin,” Mrs. Walton hissed.

Sam sent him an apologetic look as she took the salad to the table.

He smiled at her. “It’s fine. I’ve got a bratty-ass little sister too, you know.”

Sam bit her lip and told him with her eyes that Ava was nothing like Erin; there was no misreading that expression. But Erin made a scandalized sound.

Mrs. Walton pinched her arm. “Let’s all sit down and eat,” she said.

And so they did.

~*~

“Aidan, what do you do for a living?”

Sam set her fork down, food untouched. No way was she going to be able to eat a bite of this meal.

Her eyes moved to Aidan as he used his fork to poke holes in his slice of tenderloin, uncertainty pressed into the lines of his face.

“I’m a mechanic,” he said, lifting his head so he could address her mother properly. “Bikes, mainly. But I know my way around a car, too.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“But you’re, like, a gangster, too, right?” Erin asked sweetly. “My friend Amanda says the Lean Dogs are like the mafia or something.”

Helen’s eyes widened.

Kill me now, Sam thought. “Erin–” she started to intervene.

Aidan beat her to it. “Mafia?” He smirked. “Nah. The club’s just what it says it is – a club. We’re a buncha bike nerds. But” – he lifted one brow – “so long as we’re talking boyfriends, what’s Jesse do? Other than deal, I mean?”

“Deal?” Helen said. “Deal what?”

Erin turned crimson and tucked her face down into her hoodie, but not before Sam saw her furious scowl. Damn, she was going to pay for that later, but she mentally applauded Aidan for the diversion.

“Deals candy, Mom,” Sam said. “He’s one of those kids who sells candy bars during class changes at school, ever since they ‘healthed’ everything up and pulled all the good stuff out of the vending machines.”

“Oh.” That seemed to placate her. “Well, I hope it doesn’t get him in trouble.”

Erin glanced at both of them from beneath her lashes, still furious, but a touch relieved.

“So,” Sam said firmly, “all but two of my students passed their latest paper.”

“Wonderful,” Helen said, and the conversation veered back toward neutral waters.

~*~

All in all, dinner was awkward, but not unbearable. Once he shook off his obvious nerves, Aidan settled into his usual cheeky, uneducated charming self, and Helen seemed to react positively. When they were done, Erin was sent up to finish her homework, and Sam offered to do the dishes. “Aidan’ll help me,” she said, and he made a face that left her biting back a grin.

Helen poured herself a glass of wine and left the room talking about a bubble bath and how nice it would be to have a little down time tonight.

She paused, though, just before she slipped out; laid a hand on Aidan’s tattooed forearm, eyes trained on the inked skin, small frown plucking her brows together. She murmured something Sam couldn’t hear, and then moved on, silent on her socked feet.

Sam waited until she heard the top step of the staircase creak before she asked, “What did she say to you?”

Aidan had been leaning against a cabinet and pushed away from it, face thoughtful as he came to join her at the sink. “She said, ‘I don’t know how I would have lasted after my husband died without Samantha. She’s very special. If she thinks you’re special, then I know that you are. You’re always welcome in my home.’” He glanced over at her, dark eyes probing. “I make her nervous, I could tell. And she hates the tats.” He passed a hand across his forearm. “But she’s gonna try to like me for you.”

She found the idea of it sad, for some reason. “My mom.” She knew her smile was crooked. “She misses some stuff. She’s naïve – a blessing, really. It must be nice to think the best of people, living in the shitty times that we do now. She wants us to be happy. She thinks I’m lonely, and…” She was rambling, so she stopped, concentrating on the greasy baking dish she scrubbed.

“Sam.”

“There’s towels in that drawer, if you don’t mind drying. The dishwasher won’t hold the bigger pots.”

“Sam.”

She glanced over at him, chest suddenly tight.

“What does she think?” he prodded, tone gentle.

She sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted the evening to go, but the door was already open, so to speak.

She picked at the flaking bits of charred pork on the dish. “She thinks I’m missing out on my own life, taking care of her and Erin.”

“Are you?”

She shrugged. “I dunno…look, let’s not talk about this. This is too deep too soon for you.”

He stepped in closer, until their arms were touching. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Anger in his voice? Or hurt? Were either even possible, given the swift, shallow nature of their relationship?

Sam braced a hand on the edge of the sink and turned to him again. “I don’t have any expectations. I’m glad you met my mother, and I hope you two get along. But I’m not going to pressure you into anything, and that includes listening to my great big scary life complaints. I know that’s not what this is about for you.” She gestured between them, to their new strange connection to one another.

He stared at her, expression adorably confused, and his head tipped to the side. He reminded her of a dog. Then he scowled. “Do you think I’m just messing with you or something?”

“No. But I don’t know that I trust your seriousness.”

“Do you want proof?” His level of anger was both funny and spooky.

“No, Aidan,” she said soothingly. “I don’t want proof. I just–”

“Just what? You’re being weird as shit.”

“No, I’m…”

“What?” he pressed, crowding her, his scowl menacing.

“Trying not to get my hopes up.” She scowled back at him. A small voice in the back of her mind told her not to be honest, not to give him too much. But she was riled up, and the words were heavy on her tongue, wanted to get loose. “Last night was amazing. Las night was…” She groped.

“For a writer, you sure don’t have a way with words.”

“Last night,” she snapped, careful to keep her voice low, “was the fantasy come to life.” Her cheeks flamed. “All these years I’ve wondered, and imagined, and hoped…and suddenly it was happening, and it was, yeah, so sue my vocabulary – it was amazing. But in my experience, amazing things don’t happen to me. So I can’t let myself believe too strongly. I can’t put any stock in the idea that I’ve been the one to make you go straight and narrow, after all this time. I won’t be stupid enough to let myself get hurt like that.”

She was shaking by the time she finished, chest heaving. But she’d had to say it; it had been clawing at her from the inside, and she hadn’t even realized it until this moment.

Aidan stared at her. His throat worked as he swallowed. His anger was now tinged with something wilder and more fragile. “So you do want proof,” he said through his teeth.

“No, I never said that. Proof is built over time. Proof isn’t just a handful of pretty words you say in the heat of the moment.”

He glanced away, swallowed again, and the overhead light made him look almost haggard.

It hit her like a fist to the gut, the knowledge that she’d hurt him just now. Badly.

“You want me to go?” he asked.

“No.” She stepped in close, laid her hand on his chest and felt the hard throbbing of his heart through his clothes. “Aidan, no, that’s not what I meant.”

His gaze came to her slowly, accusing and wounded.

Damn, what a mess. But what had she expected? The neurotic, grownup geek and the irreverent, tatted-up bad boy. A match made in hell if ever there was one. How could there ever be anything but fascination and strange longing between them?

“Aidan,” she repeated.

His movement startled her. One moment he was tensed and waiting, and the next his hands were on her face and he was pushing her back against the cabinets. His kiss was hard and desperate. His fingers pressed at her throat. She was shocked, but not afraid. Her hands curled in the front of his shirt.

As quickly as he’d struck, Aidan pulled back, hands still clamped to her jaw. His eyes darted across her face; he sucked in a huge breath. He wanted to say something, she could tell.

“Just kiss me again,” she whispered, “and we’ll pretend I never said it.”

“Yeah.”

It was gentler this time, but no less fervent, the hot stroke of his mouth against hers. He was good at this, and had to know it. He plied her with his lips and slow surges of his tongue until she was liquid and grasping at his shoulders.

His hands moved down her sides, lingered at her hips a moment, squeezing, and then unfastened her jeans.

“Wait,” she tried to say, but it got muffled in the kiss and he was too wild at this point for logic. “Aidan…”

He skimmed her jeans and panties down to her ankles and dropped to his knees in front of her.

She glanced down at the top of his curly head, breathless, the blood pounding beneath her skin. She was amazed at the speed and accuracy of his movements as he unzipped her ankle boots and removed them as she lifted each foot in turn. In a matter of seconds he had her totally naked from the waist down, her jeans and boots in a little pile off to the side. God, he was a master at this.

“Aidan,” she said again, a reaching, incoherent quality to her voice she couldn’t alter.

“Be quiet,” he told her softly. His hands slid up her bare thighs, bundled the hem of her long sweater.

The air chased across her skin, contrasting sharply with the heat of his palms. She shivered.

She knew what he intended, but it was still a shock when he pulled one of her legs over his shoulder, thrust his head up between her thighs and kissed her sex.

The first velvet sensation almost took her balance. A sound caught in her throat and her hands speared through his hair. Push him away to make the acuteness stop? Or bring him closer?

Closer won.

His hands found her hips and anchored her; he stroked her with his lips and tongue, pushed her harder, gave her no chance to catch her breath.

She was going to fall. She grasped wildly over her head and found a cabinet pull, clutched at it, the position arching her spine, driving her against his ceaseless mouth.

“God.” She cupped the back of his head with the other hand, cradling him there where she needed him.

His fingers flexed, the tips pressing into her skin. A tiny communication. Go for it.

And she did. The last vestiges of absurdity, the hesitation that this was happening in her mother’s kitchen of all places, melted away. Sam shut her eyes, dropped her head back against the cabinets, and let herself fall into the release he was working to give her.

She gasped. His tongue flickered deep one last time.

It was exquisite.

Slowly her leg was lowered, and his hands withdrew. When she opened her eyes he stood in front of her, lips glossy, eyes dilated.

She didn’t recognize her voice, the depth to it. “Take off your shirt.”

His quick grin finished the melting job on her insides as he stepped back and ditched his t-shirt.

Speaking of exquisite… She took a moment just to stare, eyes tracing over each strong bone, each tight muscle, every intricate detail inked into his skin. The two rivers in the middle of his chest tugged at the storyteller inside her. There were so many more, so many she had to ask about… Later.

She lifted her sweater off and set it on the counter, stepped toward him. “Will you sit down?”

He dropped into a chair immediately, hands coming up to catch her waist as she straddled him. She hadn’t taken her glasses off this time and she could see everything: the stubble on his jaw, the warm chocolate streaks in his eyes, the tension in his chest and throat as he waited, not so patiently, for her to lead the dance.

Her hands shook as she reached between them and opened his fly. His cock was hot and hard in her hand; she could feel his pulse just under the skin.

“Shit.” He hissed and pressed his face into her shoulder, breath striking hard across her chest. “Baby, lemme get a rubber.”

“It’s okay. I’m on the pill.” In truth, she didn’t want the barrier. She wanted to feel him come inside her; wanted to know that basic physical intimacy between them.

He hesitated, gasping as she worked him with her hand. “Sam…”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” she asked, grinning against his hair.

“No. No, I…I just wanna be careful with you…I wanna do the right thing…”

“Oh, Aidan,” she breathed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She sank down on him slowly, gasping when he was fully rooted inside, hands spasming on his shoulders. It was the same as last night, that overwhelming sensation of being overfilled.

He stroked her waist, her hips, his breathing choppy. “Do you need to go see Walsh’s old lady at the farm and get some riding lessons?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Brat.” She kissed his ear, pulled the shell gently between her lips. “You mean you’re not an instructor?”

He groaned quietly, and his hands slid down to cup her ass. He pressed her down, until it was almost painful, that deep touch inside her belly. And then lifted. Helped her find a rhythm that left them both speechless.

The chair creaked as he leaned against the back.

Sam hooked her toes in the rungs below and used them for leverage, riding him, loving the way his hands kept tightening and tightening on her bottom.

They struggled and chased it for long moments, working for breath, the room blurring around them. And then they found it, that perfect moment where they fell over the edge.

Sam tucked her face down into his neck to muffle her whimpering, fingers digging deep into his skin.

He cursed and his hips kicked, and he whispered something dirty and sweet that she tucked away into her memory banks to save for later.

As the spasms faded to warm pulses and the blood began to drain from her face, she sat back, braced her hands on his chest and took in the drowsy expression of total contentment on his face. It was beautiful.

“Can I come upstairs?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

Sixteen

Walsh was awake before the phone rang, staring at the black ceiling, listening to Emmie breathe beside him. Some sixth sense had stirred him from a heavy, ominous dream, launching him into the cold dark before dawn with something like dread crawling up the back of his neck.

Emmie made a startled sound at the first ring, and he’d answered it before it finished. “Yeah.”

“King.”

Fox.

He had six half-brothers and two half-sisters, and each of their voices was catalogued away in his mental file drawers, distinguishable with one word.

This was Fox.

“Charlie,” he greeted, lifting his arm to give Emmie room as she rolled toward him.

“We’ll be leaving here in a few,” Fox said.

“Okay. I’ll tell the boss.”

“Okay.”

Click.

What thrilling conversations they had.

Emmie sighed and slid a leg across his hips, rubbed her face against his bare shoulder. Her voice was throaty with sleep. “Who was that?”

“My brother.”

“Hmm. Which one?”

He smiled up at the ceiling. “Fox. He’s coming in with the Texas boys.”

“Fox. I like that.”

He squeezed her hip.

She snorted and sounded more awake. “Not like that. Though I do appreciate the jealously.” She stroked a hand down his chest. “Don’t worry. It’s not half as cool as King.”

“Hmph.”

“So Texas,” she said. “Why are they coming?”

“They’re the cavalry, love. Let’s just pray we don’t need them.”

~*~

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Maggie listened to Ghost disconnect his cellphone with a beep and set it down on the nightstand. Dawn was just breaking and the pale blue light coming in through the blinds fell across his face, illuminated his eyes before he covered them with the heels of his hands with a sigh.

“Texas is on the way,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” He pulled his hands back and rolled his head toward her. “Candy’s bringing Colin.”

She smiled and then winced.

“How did he and Merc leave things? Are they gonna try to kill each other?”

“You’d have to ask Ava” – Ghost’s expression tightened at that, that old dad resistance to the idea of his little girl and his expert torturer – “but I think they smoothed things out. Doesn’t mean Mercy won’t hate seeing him.”

“Yeah.”

She rolled to her side and propped up on an arm, so she could face him fully. “Kenny.”

The mattress twitched beneath her as he stiffened. Kenny was a rare thing, used only for moments of extreme passion, tenderness, annoyance…or fear.

“We’re not kids anymore,” she said quietly. “We’re grandparents. We…”

“Mags.”

“I don’t want another war,” she told him. “Not like last time. I don’t want to be afraid of drive-bys every time I go out for coffee. I don’t want to worry about my grandbabies that way. I don’t want to watch Ava bury a husband. I don’t want to bury you.”

He stared at her, face full of dread though his tone was joking. “Hey, I’m about to wear out. You bury me, you can get a newer model.”

With expert aim, she reached through the dark and pinched his nipple.

“Shit.” He laughed and grabbed her around the waist, pulled her down so she lay on top of him. He smoothed her hair back off her face, rubbed her back as the steady rise and fall of his chest lifted her. His laughter died.

“I know you have to do what you have to do,” she said, “and I know you have to do right by the club. I’m just saying, baby.”

“I know.” He squeezed the back of her neck gently. “I’m listening.”

~*~

“Halloween party?” Ian asked with delight. “Will there be costumes?” He lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his smile broad.

Tango groaned and ducked his head beneath the pillow, letting it muffle his words. “God no.”

“Shame. I do love costumes.”

With a sudden burst of panic, Tango lifted the pillow a fraction and peeked out from under it. “What?”

“Costumes. I love them.” Ian feigned bored and examined his perfectly trimmed and buffed nails. “You know that.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be seeing it even if I had to wear one.”

The slow grin that came his way was all kinds of bad news.

Tango sat up, pillow clutched tight in his hands. “You know you can’t be there, right?” Things had settled into what one might call a routine lately, albeit one fraught with resentment and unanswerable questions. But it was still very much a dirty little secret, whatever it was they were doing.

Ian shrugged, hair rippling in the lamplight. “We’ll see.”

“Ian. I’m dead serious.”

“Of course, darling. Aren’t you always?”

Tango didn’t get to answer because his phone chimed with a text alert. Never a good sign this early in the morning.

Texas was on the way.

~*~

The light was still gray and thin when Aidan’s phone chimed with a text alert. It was from Walsh, a group text. Texas on the way.

“Your girlfriend?” Sam teased. She was sitting in the chair by the window, legs pulled up beneath her, writing by hand in a notebook she had angled toward the window to make use of the meager light.

“My VP.” He rolled onto his side and bunched the pillow up under his head so he could stare at her. He was in love with her bed, he decided. Unlike his own, there were no stray springs. It was soft, it smelled nice, and the sheets were still tucked in tight around his feet. Lying in her bed was like being hugged. “What are you doing?”

She lifted her pen, the pad, and then her eyebrows to say duh.

“What are you writing about?” he amended.

Her gaze flicked down to the paper and she bit down on her lower lip slowly. Hesitation. Self-consciousness. After what had passed between them physically, he found it fascinating that she would hesitate to share something as mundane as a few written words on a page.

“It’s the rough draft of my thesis. In order to get your graduate degree, you have to write a final thesis paper,” she explained. “And since my master’s is in creative writing, with a focus on fiction, I have to write a novel.”

“You’re writing a book.”

She grinned and then thinned her lips to suppress it. “Yes.”

“What’s it about?”

She tapped the pen against the top of the pad, still debating, choosing her words. “It’s about a woman who never fit in as a child. She was just a little awkward, but she was treated more as a collection of skills than as a living, breathing girl. She grows up and realizes nothing changes with age, that she’s still just skills in a shell, and that no one will ever love her.”

“That sounds kinda depressing.”

“Life’s generally depressing,” she said thoughtfully. She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Anyway, it’s still in the early stages. I like to write in bits and pieces, and stitch them together afterward, when the narrative arc is more complete in my mind.”

“Hmm.”

She smiled. “You don’t care, do you?”

“I don’t understand any of it, but it don’t mean I don’t care.”

She settled back deeper into the chair. “We’re opposites, you and me. You live life, and I write about it.”

He found that sad, for some reason.

“We’re having a party,” he said, “a big Halloween party. Lots of guys coming in from out of town. We’re gonna ride through town ahead of time. You should come.”

She studied him. “Does that mean you want me to come?” A nervous edge in her voice, doubt.

“Yeah. I want you to come.”

“Can I think about it?”

His heart sank. “Yeah, baby, you can think about it.”

Seventeen

“Samantha.”

Sam halted in her tracks, tried to keep her smile in check, and turned around.

Ava came down the campus sidewalk toward her, leggings, boots, leather jacket, another of her usual dark ensembles, hair caught up in the wind. How different they looked, and both of them attached to bikers.

The thought of attached sent heat zinging through her belly, widened her smile.

Oh God, but she was totally in love with Aidan.

Ava grinned, the expression full of her brother’s feral charm. There was no denying their relation. Half-blooded, but strong blood. “I need to talk to you,” she said, grin becoming wicked as she reached Sam and they fell into step together.

“I figured.”

“You and my brother.”

“Yes.”

“What’s going on there?”

Sam smiled.

“Aha.”

“No, not aha. Things are…going.”

Ava laughed. “So you two are…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did he tell you about the party?”

“He invited me, actually.”

Ava whistled, and Sam’s heart skipped.

“I take it that’s a big deal.”

Ava tucked her hair back and stared ahead as they walked, eyes on the foot traffic before them, but seeing something in her mind. “Let me say it this way.”

“Oh no.”

“No, it’s alright. Mercy told me about the party when he got home from work yesterday. Most of the time, he’ll just ask if I want to come hang out at the clubhouse and have a drink, very casual. He doesn’t mind if I’d rather stay home with the babies. But last night, he said, ‘Bonita’s agreed to watch the boys. There’s a party, and we’re riding through town beforehand, and you’re gonna be on the back of my bike, fillette.’ He was smiling, but he was completely serious.

“Every once in a while,” she continued, “my dad likes to make a statement to the city. Yes, the club is the subject of gossip, and there’s plenty of people who are afraid of it, but we’re a family too. On Halloween, he’s going to make a family statement. It’s also a show of strength. And a warning to those who are against us. It’s a complicated, subtle move…even though physically it isn’t subtle at all.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Anyway, on that ride, it’s going to be the members and their old ladies.” Her eyes came over. “This is a big party, an intimate, Lean Dogs sort of party, and it’s not open to the public. If Aidan invited you, I think that’s significant.”

Sam took a deep breath. “No pressure then.”

Ava’s expression became thoughtful. “Actually no. No pressure. All the pressure’s on my brother, and he knows it.” Her eyes grew dark and hard to read. “He really cares about you, Sam. I’ve told him he’d better not screw things up.”

A nice gesture, but not exactly a comforting one. “Ava.”

“Hmm?”

She almost chickened out and didn’t ask, but she wanted to know. The Lean Dogs as a club were so interconnected and self-protective, she couldn’t help but be curious. “If I come – if I’m with Aidan – is that going to go over okay with everyone?”

Ava turned her head and gave her a warm smile. “Better than okay. I promise.”

~*~

The impending arrival of out of town brothers always turned Dartmoor into a kicked anthill of activity. By noon, the buzz of preparations at the clubhouse had radiated outward, inflicting the legit business side of things.

Aidan took a smoke break propped against the outer wall of the bike shop, watching hangarounds wheel kegs and cases of beer into the clubhouse. Jasmine and her girls unloaded groceries from one of the club trucks.

Tango appeared beside him, silent, but emitting his own quiet energy. “Sam’s coming?”

“She might.” That still itched just beneath his skin, the way she’d pulled back inside herself and asked if she could think about it. What could there be left to think about?

“It’s got to be scary for a girl like her, coming to a party here,” Tango said. “Anybody with any sense ought to have said ‘maybe.’”

“Yeah.” But he wasn’t reassured. “What about you? You bringing anybody?”

No answer. At first. Then: “Does Sam know about Tonya yet? The baby?”

Aidan bit back a response. The weight of their respective secrets fell heavy across their shoulders.

~*~

In the pocket of his cut, Ghost felt the sharp corners of the folded-up map Tango had given him. He imagined he could see Shaman’s fingerprints on it, glowing like phosphorous, tainting it. The man hadn’t contacted him again about “the favor,” but he knew any lapse in time was about calculation and had nothing to do with forgetfulness. The idea soured his stomach, made him feel less on top of his game as he walked into the police precinct.

The desk secretary showed him to Fielding’s office without fuss. The man himself glanced up once, saw who it was, and returned to his paperwork with a defeated sigh.

“What?” he asked when the door was shut and they were sealed in together.

Ghost dropped into a chair. “I wanted to see your smiling face,” he said, but heard the hard bite to his voice. He wasn’t truly in the mood to mess with the guy. “I wanted to put you on notice,” he amended.

Fielding’s head lifted, gaze wary. “Notice of what?”

“Some things are in the works for us. And we’re gonna need some leeway. Legal-wise.”

The sergeant braced his forearms on the desk and sighed deeply. He’d lost his do-gooder shine after the accident with Amy Richards. He could be indignant and self-righteous no longer, and it was killing him, slowly. Bloodshot eyes, gray skin, wrinkled uniform shirt. He didn’t smell like liquor, but he bore all the marks of a drinking man.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, tiredly.

“I never kid, Vince.” Ghost allowed his voice to soften, not really liking the idea of grinding the poor guy into the dirt when he was already down. “I don’t need you to do anything. Just look the other way, if you start feeling vibrations underfoot.”

The responding silence was as good as acquiescence.

~*~

The bikes were heard out on Industrial just before nightfall. It was dark enough for the headlamps to flare like glowing eyes, light enough for the riders in their black cuts, helmets and shades to be visible and distinct as they swooped in at the gates and cruised up to the clubhouse.

Aidan sat on a picnic table with Tango and Mercy, smoking, waiting.

“Welcome home, boys,” Ghost said, stepping forward as engines died and helmets were taken off.

“Home?” Candy said with a laugh, swinging off his bike and rising up to his full, formidable height. “You still trying to get me to transfer, old man?”

“Always worth a shot.”

The Knoxville president and Texas VP shared a back-slapping man-hug, and then they were all on their feet, greeting their brethren. Aidan embraced Candy, Jinx, and Walsh’s brother Fox. Then he realized who the fourth Texan was, and stepped back to watch the show, eyes going to Mercy.

There was nothing “half” about the resemblance between the two brothers. Colin was a big man, but he lacked the finely-honed edge of complete and total insanity that lurked beneath Mercy’s affable surface. Still, he was impressive and intimidating in his own right, black hair cropped short, ropy arms bare despite the cold. His prospect cut did little to diminish his aura.

The two sized one another up a long, tense second, and no one else spoke, waiting.

Finally, Mercy was the one to initiate contact. He extended one huge hand for a shake, and Colin accepted it a second later.

“How’s the family?” Colin asked stiffly.

“Good. Ava says to come by the house sometime.”

They let go of one another at the same time, as though it was scripted.

“I need a drink,” Candy announced, and it broke up the last of the awkwardness, and sent them all inside.

~*~

“I expected to ride in and find the city on fire, the way you talked over the phone,” Candy said as he commandeered the bottle of Scotch from the groupie who’d offered it and poured his own drink. He sat at the bar, holding court as was his way, brows lifted as he glanced over at Ghost.

“Not yet,” Ghost said, and gestured to Ratchet.

The secretary was sitting at one of the round bar tables with Rottie, Hound, and RJ, and pushed up like he’d been waiting for this summons on the edge of his chair. It was the first time that evening Aidan noticed the file folder tucked under his arm. He walked to the bar, handed Ghost the file, and then waited, hands linked behind his back.

“Chapel,” Ghost said, and they all headed that way.

It was a tighter fit than normal, with four extra guys, and Ghost waited until they were all settled before he laid the folder out on the massive dining table and spread out its contents, angling them so Candy had a good view.

The Texas VP studied the paperwork a moment, then sat back and said, “Shit.”

Aidan felt a prickling like fingernails at the back of his neck. “What?” he asked.

Ghost looked toward him, and it might have been their first moment of eye contact since that morning in the Teague kitchen a few weeks ago. “Names.”

“Yeah?”

“Our names. Our old ladies’ names. I’m pretty sure it’s some kinda hit list.”

“What?” Several voices asked the question along with him.

“Our little Ratchet’s been busy,” Ghost explained, “hacking into accounts and intercepting emails. This was sent to Ellison himself from one of his top underthugs.” From the printout, he read, “Kenneth and Margaret Teague. Kenneth a.k.a. Ghost. President. 2254 Chastain Street. Kingston and Emmaline Walsh…” And on it went. Michael and Holly. Mercy and Ava…all of them. Names, addresses, club names, and club ranks.

“How long have you been sitting on this?” Mercy asked, voice scary-quiet.

“Two days.” Ghost’s tone said he didn’t expect a bunch of arguing. “I wanted to wait until we were all together.”

“So we’re together,” Michael said tightly. “Now what? Do I gotta go home and build a fallout shelter for my woman to live in?”

It was literally the most he’d ever said at church, and it grabbed everyone’s attention.

“I’ll bring a shovel,” Mercy said, “and after, we’ll do my place.” They shared a look of true camaraderie. Two psychos appreciating one another’s violence and seriousness.

Aidan had a brief moment of thanksgiving: Sam’s name hadn’t been on the list.

But his beloved stepmother, little sister, his best friend, his brothers – they were in the enemy’s crosshairs. His stomach lurched.

“Ellison’s backing one company that’s got only one project in the city,” Aidan said. “Why would killing all of us be the next step?”

Ghost actually gave him a considering face, like he appreciated the question. “I don’t think it is,” he said. “This is just him getting organized. He hasn’t made a move against us yet, but he’s planning to, and if we resist too heavily, he’ll start dropping bodies.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rottie said, raking his hands through his hair in agitation.

“We need to make the first move,” Walsh said, words laced with smoke. He was working on the last nub of a cig with one hand and toying with the pack with the other, ready to light the next one up.

“Obviously,” Fox said. He had taken on his brother’s usual mantel of calm, nursing a Scotch and watching them all with cool blue eyes.

Candy grinned. “That’s why we brought the Fox.”

“And I’ve got a real good lead on where to start,” Ghost said, withdrawing something from inside his cut. He unfolded it to reveal a map, locations picked out in red. “Ellison’s properties,” he explained. “In and around Knoxville.”

“Where’d that come from?” Briscoe asked.

But Aidan knew. Surely they all knew.

Well, those of them who knew Tango’s secrets, anyway.

“A friend,” Ghost said evenly. “Now, I say we don’t waste that gesture of friendship…”

And plans were decided.

~*~

The semicolon was vastly underused in modern society, Sam decided as she sat grading essays in her cramped little office at work. Between the choppy, unimaginative sentences, and the run-on sentences, she had little hope left for the English education of future generations.

The last two nights, completely distracted by Aidan, she’d neglected work. This evening, she’d decided to stay a little longer at the school, force some discipline on herself. So far, she was having to reread sentences three and four times, red pen hovering impotently over paper that seemed to swim in and out of focus.

She had a boyfriend. And she really, really wanted to be home with him, rather than here with crappy essays.

Someone rapped on her open office door and she jerked, hand closing tight around the pen as her head snatched to the door. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but she didn’t figure an attacker would like the feel of it puncturing his eyeball.

All the fight drained out of her and warmth filled her, head to toe, when she saw who stood in her threshold.

Aidan shoved his hands in his pockets and braced a shoulder against the jamb. His grin twisted her insides. “Is that special just for me?” He nodded toward her hand and she dropped the pen down onto the desk.

“I thought you might be the UT Strangler,” she defended, smiling back.

His expression sobered. “Is there a UT Strangler?”

“No. Not that I know of, anyway. But things happen on university campuses all the time.” She shuddered. Why had she gone there, of all places?

“I scared you,” he said, stepping into the office, standing in front of her desk and tipping a serious look down into her face. “I’m sorry.”

“I get a little absorbed.” In thoughts of you. But she gestured to her papers. “And all of a sudden I hear a sound, and I remember I’m the only one on this floor at the moment.” She shrugged. “I’m a little jumpy, I guess.”

Aidan frowned and glanced through the door. There was a window set in the far side of the wall, a tall one with a pretty view of the nighttime campus, the glowing security lampposts and the shadowed sidewalks.

He turned back to her and dropped his voice. “Are you armed?”

“Armed with…” She flicked the red pen with her fingernail.

“Nah.” He pushed aside his cut, and showed her the gun weighing down its inside pocket. “That kinda armed.”

She gestured for him to cover it and he did, sighing. “Those aren’t allowed on campus,” she whispered.

“Baby, I’m probably not allowed on campus. I meant for you.”

“I’m not allowed to have one here either.”

He made a face. “Do you think anyone here to hurt you would be worried about what he was ‘allowed’ to do?”

A chill rippled across her skin, made her want to pull her sweater shut. “Is someone going to try to hurt me?”

His eyes shifted away, jaw tightening. “World’s dangerous.”

“So are you,” she said softly.

He hesitated, gaze coming back to her face. When he realized she was mostly teasing, his tension eased. “You’ve probably got me confused with one of my brothers.”

Probably not, she added in her head. “Hey, how did you know where my office was? You’ve never been up here before.”

“I asked Ava.”

“You wanted to talk about your Shakespeare paper?” she guessed.

“I didn’t want you walking to your car in the dark.”

Oh…that could melt a girl. “I walk to my car in the dark a lot of nights.”

“Yeah, but that was before me.”

She sat very still a moment, letting his words hit her full force and then double back to wrap around her. Her smile felt natural, warm, happy. “Before you, huh?”

“Yeah.” He grinned back, a small smile that seemed private, quiet, just for her.

Melting. So much melting.

She started gathering the scattered essays across her desk. “I can finish up here if you’re ready to go.”

“Nah.” He dropped into the chair across from her, the one where her students sat when they came for a consult. “Finish working, then we’ll go home. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” He gave her another of those smiles, like there was nothing else he’d rather do than watch her grade papers.

“It’s boring,” she warned.

“You aren’t, though, and that’s what I’ll be looking at.”

“Are you trying to make me swoon?”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Then yeah.”

Grinning like a lunatic, she shook her head and tried to clear her thoughts. Shakespeare. Focus.

For almost a half hour, she worked in silence, falling into the rhythm of the words, red pen wielded sparingly. She understood grammar and punctuation, and therefore wanted to see it within the papers…but she understood the way the mind didn’t always work cleanly, too. She knew that skill could be cultivated, and artistic appreciation was something innate and precious that needed nurturing, rather than squelching.

After a while, she lifted her head, saw Aidan staring at her, in an unconscious way that told her he’d been studying her the entire time she’d been studying work.

“I didn’t ever have the patience for it,” he said. “The kind of stuff you do. Books and words.”

“It’s never too late to get started.”

She expected him to wave her off, but he gave her a considering face, head tilting again. “Ava thinks I’m stupid.”

“You’re street smart.”

“Is that enough for you?”

She recoiled. “Aidan, I don’t have specifications. You know that I…” She almost choked. “How I feel about you.”

He stared. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

His smile was slow. “How much longer, teach?”

“All of it can wait until tomorrow.”

When he stood, she took the hand he offered, and let her gun-wielding man lead her out to her car.

~*~

“Do you like kids?”

The question caught her by surprise. Sam lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, hovering above Aidan who lay face-down on the pillow beside her. She traced his tattoos with a meticulous fingertip, by the light of her dresser lamp, following the careful patterns of the clusters of red roses across his shoulders. Warm with post-coital bliss, it took her a second to register his question.

Her hand stilled, finger braced in a lush red petal. “What?”

“Do you like kids?” he repeated, his back tensing beneath her. “I mean, do you want them? Like them?” He shrugged, roses jumping. “Whatever.”

Sam stared at his beautifully inked skin a moment, thinking, trying to read intention into his words. Why was he asking this? Why now, when they’d made no promises to one another?

“I do,” she said, carefully, not wanting him to feel any expectation. “I like them. You’ve met my sister. She pretty much qualifies as a kid.”

“Yeah.”

“As to wanting them…” She trailed off. She hadn’t really thought about it, and said as much. “Dad died, and I had to help Mom, look after Erin…I haven’t put a whole lot of thought toward having a family of my own.” When he didn’t answer, she dragged her nail lazily across the outline of a green thorn and whispered, “But I want one. A family. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s too late. Who knows. I’m thirty-two.”

“Pssht. It’s not too late.”

“Maybe not.”

“It’s not.”

She flattened her hand over his spine, wishing she could read his thoughts through the touch of his skin. “Why?”

The pause went a beat too long to be casual. “Dunno. No reason.”

Yeah right. But she wasn’t going to push. He wasn’t telling her he didn’t want children, and that was a good sign. “Tell me about these,” she said, continuing her exploration of the roses. “They’re beautiful.” And big, which meant they must have some importance.

“My roses,” he said in a voice she hadn’t heard before, something low and tender.

She stilled, arrested by that voice, captured in its dark magic.

“Mags has always loved red roses,” he said.

Sam waited for him to say more, but then realized he wasn’t going to. They were for Maggie. Gorgeous bouquets on his shoulders, his back, bleeding down his arms.

She rested her cheek against his skin and listened to air fill his lungs, through the layers of skin and bone. She loved him, and she was so afraid to say it.

“Halloween,” she said, and he tensed beneath her.

“Yeah?”

“I want to come.”

Eighteen

“You didn’t have to,” Shane protested as Emmie slid his brown bag lunch across the island.

“You say that every morning,” she said. “And every morning I tell you that I have to make the rest of our lunches and wouldn’t think of leaving you out.”

His smile in these situations was always warm, kind, and tinged with awkwardness. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not.” She smiled back, hoping to convey her genuine warmth.

Walsh’s half-brother was a sweetheart in every sense of the word. Kind, careful, always apologetic and respectful. If she was honest, Emmie had a difficult time imagining that they’d actually patched him into the club. She wished he’d learn to just take his lunch and not feel guilty about it.

“Ta,” he said, palming the bag.

“What is it today?” Walsh asked, moving up silently beside her.

“That leftover roast chicken we had, on sourdough.”

“Mustard?”

“The spicy kind.”

He flicked a small, pleased smile.

“I checked on your mom,” Emmie added, “and she’s still asleep.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Bea had been struggling with arthritis pain the last few weeks, and not sleeping. Several mornings, Emmie had come downstairs at six-thirty to find the house spotless and breakfast already in the making. Which of course meant Bea’s pain was even worse. “I can’t sleep,” she’d complained, dark eyes full of tears, small frame bent nearly double. Walsh had come up with some oxy last night, and clearly it had worked.

“You guys gonna be in the shop today?” Emmie asked.

“Yeah,” they said in unison.

It was the new normal, this morning routine. Emmie woke at ten till six, showered, dressed, and headed downstairs while Walsh showered and shaved. They all checked in with each other in the kitchen, before work. The family. She wanted to pinch herself most days because she couldn’t believe the good fortune of this gorgeous house, her beloved farm, and the man who’d given her a family.

“What are…” she started, and the doorbell rang.

A single whip crack of tension moved through all of them; she felt it in her stomach, saw it in their faces.

The doorbell never rang.

“Stay here with Em,” Walsh told Shane, and headed toward the front of the house.

Emmie rolled her eyes, gave him a five second head start, then followed.

“Emmie,” Shane said, hurrying in her wake.

Walsh stood in the open front door, posture openly hostile. Emmie pulled up short, shocked to see that kind of rigidity in him, and approached at a more cautious place, tiptoeing up to peek around his shoulder.

A man stood on the front porch, dark sweatshirt under his Lean Dogs cut, thick dark hair rumpled from a helmet. He had big, beautiful blue eyes, and they were better proof than a birth certificate. This was Walsh’s brother.

Walsh had to feel her pressed up behind him, but he ignored her for the moment. “Why are you at my house?” he asked the man on the porch. His normally flat voice was sharp at the edges with a coating of ice.

“I heard you had a posh place these days,” the brother answered. “I wanted to see it for myself.”

Shane joined them, stepping up on Walsh’s other side. “Fox.”

“Oh look. Little Shaney. Still letting King fight your battles for you?” It was a jab, sure, but it was delivered with such cool, calm, Walsh-like elegance that Fox came off seeming sinister, rather than annoying.

Shane exhaled loudly, but said nothing.

Fox’s eyes slid over and settled on Emmie. “I heard you got married, too.”

The tension was the stuff of not just knives, but meat cleavers. Emmie thought it was ridiculous, so she squeezed around Walsh and extended a hand to Fox. “Emmie,” she introduced. “Nice to meet the face behind the phone call that woke me up yesterday morning.”

His hand was cool and dry; he gave her one squeeze and then let go, his eyes searching across her face in a clinical way.

Emmie shivered – in a bad way. She was struck by his similarities to her husband, but where Walsh projected competence and quiet, this brother radiated understated threat.

As she pulled back, Walsh’s hand curled around her wrist, like he wanted to draw her back against him. “We’re heading into Dartmoor now,” he said, indicating Shane with a tilt of his head. “You can come back with us.”

A staredown ensued.

Finally, Fox said, “Okay.”

Emmie kept her sigh to herself. She had no idea what sort of bad blood ran between them, but it was thick and sticky. A story for another time, maybe when she had Walsh trapped in bed in the dark, and work wasn’t an excuse to avoid his emotions.

“Awesome,” she said. “Not that this little family reunion isn’t delightful, but can we move out of the doorway please? The horses need to eat.”

They all gave her nearly identical looks of mixed amusement and scrutiny, like they were trying to see inside her head.

“Oh yeah,” she muttered, stepping into her clogs and brushing past Fox to head down the steps. “You’re brothers all right.”

~*~

Ava was worried about her man. There could never be any secrets between them, not when they knew one another so completely; were attuned to every facial twitch and every passing mood. Ava didn’t want them to be any less entangled than they’d always been, but such a connection meant she picked up on little eddies of disquiet, his frowns and sighs like screaming alarms.

Today, she knew the root source of his disturbance. And unlike the trash service failing to pick up, or an unexpected rain shower ruining a nice ride, this particular bother had the ability to damage him. Emotionally. And that was always the deepest kind of hurt, the kind that lingered in the heart and mind.

She finished buckling Remy into the front seat of the double stroller and set off across the parking lot.

It was a quiet stroller, and the boys were too consumed with the wonder of the brilliant sunny day to be fussy, but still Mercy noticed them long before they reached the open doors of the shop.

It was nippy out, so he had his long hair tied up and stuffed under a black knit stocking cap, heavy Black Watch plaid flannel under his embroidered garage shirt. Big, blue collar, and nothing you’d want to run into in a dark alley.

Ava smiled. She loved him so damn much.

“Fillette,” he greeted, voice loud and cheerful, his grin stunning as he stepped out of the bay and into the sunlight. “You brought my boys.”

“And your lunch, if you have time to sit down with us a second.”

“Absolutely.” He kissed her, and then placed a hand on both the boys’ heads, his dark, dirty hands contrasting with the unblemished clean perfection of the babies. The tenderness in his touch, the total reverence, squeezed her heart every time.

“Mes fils,” he told them quietly, then looked at Ava again, dark eyes bright with happiness. In the true spirit of the song by the same name, he was a simple man, and he didn’t need anything extravagant. An unexpected lunch date with his little family left him ecstatic. “What’s to eat?”

Ava lifted the thermal tote she’d brought. “How about red beans and rice with a whole lotta andouille in it?”

He grinned.

They set up at the picnic table beside the shop, napkins threatening to flit away in the breeze. Ava unpacked the food: the promised red beans and rice with sausage, cornbread, steamed broccoli for a little something green. She’d already fed the boys, but Remy wanted to sit in Daddy’s lap and pick things off his paper plate.

Mercy forked up a bite of rice and then sent her a level look over it. “So what’s going on?”

Busted.

She sliced a small bite of andouille and shrugged. “Nothing. I wanted us to have lunch.”

“Right.”

No secrets. Deception just wasn’t a possibility.

“Your brother’s here today,” she said.

“Half-brother.”

“Yes, well, he’s here, and he’s technically your brother, at least partway,” she added when he frowned, “and you did try to kill him the last time he was here.”

“I don’t try to kill people, baby,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. He grinned. “But sometimes pretty girls get in the way and distract me.”

“Things ended on a good note, though,” she continued, “before he left for New Orleans. So things should be okay now, right?”

He made a face.

“Merc.”

“I haven’t killed the guy yet,” he said, exasperated.

Ava mopped at her beans with a bite of bread and switched tactics. “Imagine if you united and used your combined powers for good.”

That surprised him so much that he forgot to be ticked off. “What?” he asked, grin touching the corners of his lips.

“Take the Avengers,” she continued. “They’ve all got their special skillsets. The team needs each one of them. But think about it. When heavy lifting needs to be done, it’s Captain America and Thor, every time. They’re the heavy hitters. That could be you and Colin,” she said, aiming her fork at him. “With your superhuman strength, you could be an unstoppable force for good. Good for the club, obviously. No offense but I don’t see you saving the world anytime soon, baby.”

His brows lifted. “Quite the analogy.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“So who am I? Cap or Thor?”

She pretended to consider. “Well, neither of them tortures people for a living, so…”

He laughed. “Yeah.”

“Try to get along with your brother, for you own sake,” she urged. “You’ll be happier for it.”

He nodded and returned his attention to his food, one strong hand holding Remy firmly in place.

~*~

“It’s too crowded,” Michael said, arms folded as he stared through the window toward the clubhouse. If he hadn’t been Michael, and hadn’t looked as surly and scary as ever, Holly would have said he was pouting.

It was lunchtime, and though Holly had packed him a sandwich and chips to eat at the clubhouse with the guys when he was on break, he’d come here, to her office instead, out of sorts thanks to the additional members in town.

“It’s only four extra guys,” Holly said innocently, careful to keep her face neutral.

He glanced over at her, eyes sharp and pale with disapproval. “Four guys is enough to change the…” He made a grasping gesture with one hand.

“Dynamic?” she guessed.

He nodded.

“Well, I for one am glad you came to have lunch with me,” she said, attempting to draw him from the window and his foul mood. Her poor Michael; he was even more fucked up than she was. “Come sit down,” she encouraged, laying out her own lunch of salad with leftover chicken on top.

He sat, still anxious and tense.

“Tell me about the big party,” she said. “What’s that gonna be like?”

He shrugged and unwrapped his sandwich. “Crowded. Loud.” He shot her a pointed look. “Not exactly your scene, honey.”

A quick flutter of distress in her stomach. “I figured that. Do you…do you want me to stay home?”

“No,” he said immediately, emphatically. “I mean, if you want–”

“I want to be with you. Always.”

He nodded, but his expression didn’t change.

“You don’t like when there are visitors,” she said quietly.

“I don’t like the reason they’re here.”

She shivered.

~*~

Sam was just shutting down her computer that afternoon when Aidan appeared in her office door, sparking an instant grin from her, a slow stir of heat in her belly. He had the sleeves of his white thermal pushed up over his muscular forearms, a look that drove her more than a little nuts.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he suggested, and she took his hand and let him lead her from the office.

They got a window booth at a big chain restaurant with photos of the food on the plastic menus; had chips and salsa and fatty entrees over drinks, talking about their days. Aidan filled her in on the visiting members of the club, painting colorful verbal pictures of Candyman, Jinx, Fox, and Colin.

It was when they reached the parking lot that he became almost comically reticent. His breathing changed, he looked down at his boots, and his brows crimped together.

“Uh…” he started. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?” she prompted. Her tone was mild, but she felt an inward grab. Worry. Good relationship things rarely came from men thinking.

“Maybe we should…why don’t we…”

Oh God.

“…go back to my place tonight?” he asked, giving her a look that was almost a wince.

Sam let out a deep breath. “Okay. Sure.”

As far as apartment complexes went, Aidan’s wasn’t one of the nicer ones. In fact, it was only one step up from a total dive.

The buildings were red brick, the windows cloudy and covered from the inside with gapped blinds, half-fallen curtains, a beach towel or two. Weeds grew up through the sidewalk and parking lot pavement; she could see that even in the dark, beneath the light of flickering lampposts. The cars pulled up to the curbs were ten, fifteen-years-old, dented and faded. Following the red flare of Aidan’s taillight ahead of her, Sam glanced through her windshield and said a silent thanks for her own circumstances. Yes, she was in her thirties and living with her mother – but she wasn’t living here.

Aidan came to help her out, once they were parked, his arm going around her waist and pulling her in flush to his side. Affection, she wondered, or protection? Either way, she was happy to lean against him as they headed up the concrete stairwell to his door.

He inserted the key in the lock and then paused, turning to her. It was hard to see him in the shadows, but he radiated uncertainty. “Baby,” he said on a deep breath, “I gotta warn you that it’s not pretty in there.”

“No offense, but I’m not expecting it to be,” she said with a soft laugh. “Bachelors don’t make good housekeepers.”

“Right.” He sighed. “Here goes then.” He turned the knob, pushed the door in, and clicked the lights on as they stepped over the threshold.

The smell closed around her first. Not a terrible smell – nothing rotten, nothing rancid or dead. Just a closed-up stale mustiness; the scent of dust, of loneliness. Then her eyes tracked over it all, this place Aidan called home.

A tiny living room led through to a kitchenette, a small window letting in artificial light above an old stainless sink. Worn furniture, mashed carpet, card table and chairs in the kitchen, and an outdated fridge Goodwill probably wouldn’t accept. Laundry baskets on the floor, beer cans on a side table next to the recliner. The only thing worth salvaging was the TV.

“We’ve got two bedrooms,” Aidan said. She knew he and Tango were roomies. “One bathroom. We do laundry down the street. When we think of it.” He touched her arm. “Come on, my room’s back here.”

Down a short hall, past the bathroom, a little white-walled box of room. Single bed, haphazardly pulled-up flannel covers, lumpy pillows. More laundry baskets on the floor. Small TV on a nightstand and an Xbox hooked up to it.

Sam looked at Aidan and found him watching her, face pained, hands in his pockets and shoulders tucked in shame.

“Aidan,” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

“It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“No. That’s not what I mean at all.” She stepped close, reached up and laid her hands on the bristled planes of his jaw. “You wanted me to see your place. Why?”

He studied her a moment, and she saw the shields lower in his eyes, the honesty shining through. “I want you to know what you’re getting into,” he said. “I’m not worth a damn, and I want you to understand that, before you throw everything away on me.”

“Oh…” Sometimes, despite being a writer, there were no words for a situation. She stood up on her toes and kissed him instead.

Nineteen

Halloween.

Sam hadn’t celebrated the holiday in any real way since she was twelve, and what a disaster that had been. The seventh grade Halloween dance had become one of those recurring nightmares from her childhood, the kind that left her feeling less than adequate as an adult. The party had been held in Tommy and Natalie Greshams’ backyard, overseen by their parents and a handful of other mothers and fathers. A kids’ party, costumes required. In preparation, Sam spent weeks hot-gluing red sequins to a pair of ballet flats to create ruby slippers. Mom had sewn her blue gingham dress, and they’d put a stuffed dog in an old apple basket. The night of the party, Sam spent almost an hour braiding her hair into pigtails, hoping her glasses wouldn’t completely ruin her ensemble.

At seven on the dot, her father kissed her on the forehead and dropped her off at the Gresham house, decked out in full Dorothy regalia, giddy with excitement.

Natalie Gresham had taken one look at her and burst into raucous laughter. “Oh my God. It’s fucking Dorothy.”

The yard seemed to tilt beneath her feet, and the party revealed itself for the horror that it was. The parents were drinking, lounging on the back patio, ignoring the children. Children who had slipped vodka into the punch and who were making out on the picnic tables. Children who were dressed as slutty nurses, French maids, cats.

That was the year Sam broke up with Halloween. Her first year reunited with the holiday, she was going to a biker party.

The irony wasn’t lost on her as she stepped back from the mirror and blinked, willing her eyes not to water. She wasn’t in costume, but was pretty sure she wouldn’t be the laughingstock this time around.

She’d gone to the eye doctor that morning and gotten herself some contacts. These were a trial pair until the real things came in, and so far, they were irritating. But if she was going to be on the back of a bike, she didn’t want her delicate plastic glasses to go sliding off her nose and crash to the pavement.

She’d dressed in black skinnies, a white sweater, denim jacket, and black ankle boots. Not exactly Ava Lécuyer biker chic, but not bad either. Her hair was down, blown out, loose and wavy. She dabbed a little lipstick on and forced herself out of the bathroom. No more time to think things through or fiddle with her earrings. Aidan would be here any minute.

Erin was at the kitchen table, doing her homework in a sullen funk, Helen putting away the groceries she’d brought home.

“Don’t you look cute!” Mom said as Sam slipped the strap of her bag over her head.

Erin rolled her eyes.

Sam said, “You think?” and held her arms out, did a spin, ignoring her sister.

“Yes,” Helen said decisively. “Have a good time tonight. You don’t do enough fun stuff.”

Try no fun stuff. Sam nodded, thankful for her mom’s encouragement.

A knock at the back door. Then Aidan let himself in, and Sam forgot to breathe for a moment.

When she’d seen the Dogs ride in formation through the city, they were always clad in all black, and today appeared to be no exception. Very dark jeans, black shirt, shined boots, glittering chrome accents, and his cut. He looked downright sinister…until he grinned and said, “Hey.” Then he looked wicked.

“Dude, you’re drooling,” Erin said, and Sam actually dabbed at her lips before she realized her sister was being a brat. Blushing, she shot Erin a stern look.

“I’m going to check your guided reading questions later, so make sure to put some effort into them.”

Erin smirked. “Like you’re gonna be back later.”

Touché.

“Okay, we’re leaving,” Sam said, striding toward Aidan and the door…and beyond, freedom.

“Bye, you two. Have a nice time!” Helen called after them.

When the door was shut, and they were alone, Aidan caught her around the waist and pulled her up against his chest. “You’re not wearing your glasses,” he said with boyish delight.

“I got contacts. Better?”

His smile twitched and he pressed her even closer. “Not better. You’re beautiful all the time.”

She kissed him. “Come on, Romeo, or we’ll be late.”

~*~

Sam had the sense of stepping back in time. Yes, there were cars, bikes, cell phones, stereos, electric lights. Yes, she smelled exhaust and the ribs that were already on the three massive outdoor grills. But the atmosphere within the chain link fences surrounding Dartmoor was nothing if not medieval.

King Arthur, and the Knights of the Outlaw Table.

“Crazy, huh?” Ava said, and Sam could only nod.

The bikes were lined up in a neat double row, Ghost’s alone up at the head, the others staggered behind it according to rank. The machines gleamed from fresh washings, the few traces of chrome catching fire in the light.

Men and women she didn’t recognize – club girls and hangarounds, Ava had explained – were stringing lights beneath the pavilion. Steel tubs awaited beer and ice. Fires were being prepared in the fifty-five gallon drums. Carved jack-o-lanterns were being placed carefully. The lot was filled with a bustling sense of preparation, a low-simmering excitement.

And then there were the Lean Dogs. An army in black leather, breathtaking in their understated ferocity.

Apparently, more out of town members had shown up just minutes before, and it was a surprise.

Ghost embraced a tall man, the stranger’s craggy face erupting with lines and wrinkles as he laughed. His bottom rocker proclaimed him from England.

Maggie smiled. “Phillip Calloway doesn’t come across the pond just for any old reason.” Her smile dimmed and she sighed. “Lord.”

“That’s the London president,” Ava explained to Sam…and also Holly and Emmie. The womenfolk stood beneath the portico, waiting for the guys to settle down and finally decide to get the show on the road. “He’s Walsh’s brother,” Ava continued. “Well, one of them.”

As they watched, Phillip pulled back from Ghost and then snatched up Walsh with one arm, reaching with the other for Shane.

Emmie watched the reunion with a pleased expression. “Fox came by the house yesterday morning. I told Walsh we ought to just save time and go ahead and have a family reunion.”

Maggie snorted. “How’d that idea go over?”

“Like a lead balloon.”

“Fox is the black sheep, from what I can tell,” Maggie said. “But they keep those secrets locked up tight. Ghost said it wasn’t his story to share.” Maggie glanced over at Emmie. “But I’m betting you could work it out of your man.”

Emmie nodded. “I intend to.”

In the milling crowd of Dogs, Sam sought Aidan with her eyes, smiling to herself when she found him. He stood with Tango, the best friends shoulder to shoulder, one dark-headed and feral, the other pale and pretty. Poor Kev; none of his piercings, clothes or hair spikes could do a thing to disguise his elfin appearance.

As if he sensed her stare, Aidan glanced over, the distance shrinking down to nothing as their eyes locked. His smile was devastating, turning her insides to mush, widening her smile into stupid territory. His effect on her was the same as it had always been – that gut-twisting, pulse-pounding heat that had swamped her since high school – but magnified by the physical, carnage knowledge that existed between them now.

The magic part, though, was the way she suddenly understood it. She’d always imagined she was a hopeless sap with a hopeless crush. But no, that wasn’t it. There was something real and viable between them, that perfect attraction of opposites who filled gaping holes in one another. They had each lived half-lives.

Until now.

Until they’d begun to tend to the love between them.

Okay, so she was still a sap.

Sam felt a touch at her shoulder and glanced over to see that Ava had been replaced with Maggie. Her stomach tightened. She had a deep affection for the woman because she was so real. Honest to a fault, capable, as at home in an outlaw organization as her own kitchen where she whipped up dinner miracles, Maggie Teague was a Southern grand dame in the truest sense. A woman to be reckoned with on all counts.

But like any grand dame, she intimidated the hell out of Sam.

Maggie gave her a slow, sly smile. “He loves you.”

Sam choked on her own spit. As Maggie reached over to pound on her back, she gasped, “What?”

“Aidan,” Maggie said. “My little boy. He was a mess when I got him, you know. His mama had just abandoned him and his daddy was totally clueless. I was in high school, but even I could see how broken he was.” She glanced across the lot toward her stepson, her profile lovely. She was still young, Sam realized. She’d just turned forty, and that was young, given all that she’d lived through, given she’d raised another man’s child.

“He’s handsome like his daddy,” Maggie continued, “and God knows Kenny could…” She trailed off, smile private. Then she seemed to shake herself. “But he doesn’t have a lot of faith in women. Not after what that bitch Olivia did to him,” she said venomously. “How do you leave your own son behind? How do you reject him?”

“I have no idea,” Sam said quietly. “It makes me sick.”

Maggie nodded in an approving way. “I know he’s sewn his wild oats, and I know he’s been…” Her expression became pained. “Irresponsible and stupid.”

“Maggie–” Sam started.

The woman turned toward her, gaze direct, full of emotion. “But he loves you, Sam. He’s been waiting for someone like you.”

Sam swallowed hard, throat aching.

“Please take good care of my little boy,” Maggie said in a whisper. “He needs this. He needs you.”

Sam nodded.

“Do you love him?”

“Completely.”

Maggie glanced away, looking relieved and satisfied. “Good. Thank God.”

A sharp whistle broke the mood, captured everyone’s attention. It had been Walsh, thumb and forefinger in his mouth.

Ghost said, “Ladies, are we ready?”

“Yes,” they all replied in chorus.

~*~

Sam had been on the back of his bike only once, and that was on the way over here. He’d presented her with a brand new helmet that still smelled of fresh plastic and had fit her like a glove. “Is it okay?” he’d asked, worried. “I told the sales lady I needed one for a gorgeous chick, and she picked out the size.”

The same helmet was handed to her now as she settled onto the little bump seat on the back of Aidan’s Harley Dyna Superglide. Sam buckled it into place and scooted forward. With her feet on the pegs, she had no choice but to lean against his back and wrap her arms tight around his waist. It was a bike built for speed, he’d told her, and he’d been worried she’d reject it. This machine that was a part of him.

Sam wrapped herself around Aidan and propped her chin on his shoulder. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said back.

“Later…after tonight…can we go out on this thing just the two of us?”

He smiled broadly. “Hell yes, baby. You just name the day.”

Another whistle from Walsh caught their attention.

Ghost, at the head of the line, Maggie behind him on his bike, waved an arm. “Let’s go,” he called.

And they went.

~*~

It never got old. Never. The looks that came their way when they rode through the city in formation. The combined awe and fear; the way pedestrians halted in their tracks to stare.

At moments, Aidan hated his father. Moments when they quarreled, when Ghost felt the need to lean on his own superiority.

But now, as he followed along in the phalanx of bikes, his woman’s arms around him, Aidan felt nothing but pride. Pride in his club, in his president, up at the head of the line. Pride in his beautiful, accepting Samantha. And pride in his city, as kids on the sidewalk bounced up and down in excitement and waved to them. This right here – this moment of perfect connection and simplicity – was what it felt like to be alive. All the onlookers were just pretending.

They moved with such synchronization, swooping around the next turn, passing in front of a plate glass window that echoed the roar of their pipes and flashed their reflections back to them. Aidan stole a glance, saw Sam wrapped tight around him, saw his brothers ahead of him and behind him.

He wanted to laugh. Laugh like when he was a boy, just tip his head back and howl up at the sky until he was breathless with pure, emotional, childhood laughter. Tonya, Greg, the looming war, all the shit that weighed on him so heavily – it melted away. It was nothing but the street, his club, his city, and his Sam.

It was going to be okay, he convinced himself in that moment. All of it would work out. All of it. He knew it.

~*~

It was a long ride. They went through the heart of the city, showing off for all the Halloween afternoon traffic. They went down the twisty side streets, through the quiet neighborhoods. It felt a little rude and blasphemous to Sam, disturbing the peace like this, and she realized that was the point. They were making a statement, asserting themselves. Hiking their legs like the Dogs they were.

As a lifelong dork with zero authority, she took a secret delight in it.

It was still light when they arrived back at the clubhouse, and Aidan pulled her into his arms, kissed her longer and more intimately than was proper in public.

“We gotta go out,” he told her, grinning like a fool. “But we’ll be back for trick-or-treating.” His brows jumped and she laughed. “You’ll be okay with Mags and Ava here?”

“Of course. They’re two of my favorite people.”

He grinned again, kissed her again, and whispered, “I know what I want in my candy bucket,” before pulling back.

She blushed furiously.

That had been a half hour ago. Most of the guys had then ridden out in club trucks and vans, on errands she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about.

Inside the clubhouse, the atmosphere was that of a party in waiting. Orange lights gleaming, “Thriller” on the sound system, jack-o-lanterns lit, groupies bringing drinks, and hangarounds being generally useful.

Sam sat on a black leather sofa with Ava and Emmie Walsh, nibbling on the cheese, cracker, and cold cut platter the club girls had set out.

One of the regular groupies, Chanel, dressed up as a witch with hat, cape, and everything, came to them, full wineglasses balanced perfectly on a tray. “Here we go, ladies,” she said cheerfully.

“Thanks,” Sam said, taking her Pino.

“Thank you, Chanel,” Emmie said, smiling at her.

“You doing okay?” Ava asked.

“Oh, you know it,” the groupie said, grinning and winking before she whisked off with her tray.

“She’s sweet,” Sam observed quietly.

Ava nodded. “Very.”

It was hard to wrap her head around the idea of groupies, but she decided not to say anything. If the other old ladies were cool with it – and it seemed they were, so long as groupie attention was directed toward the single members – then she wasn’t going to be the one to raise a fuss.

Emmie leaned forward, glass of white wine held loosely on her knee. “Sam, was this your first ride?”

Sam nodded. She liked Emmie. The petite blonde was a little reserved, but friendly when spoken to. Sam got that; Sam was that. “Yeah.” Her voice was excited and she didn’t care. “It’s kind of…the best thing ever.”

Emmie and Ava both laughed.

“I was so freaked out the first time,” Emmie said, smiling and rolling her eyes. “And Walsh hit me with that whole, ‘But you ride horses,’ bit. But it was my wedding day,” she said, “and I had no idea if he was as good at controlling that bike as I was at controlling horses.”

Wedding day? There was a story there, and Sam would have loved to know it.

“I bet you were three your first time,” Emmie said, nudging Ava.

“Five,” Ava said, face coloring with a slight blush. “I begged and begged, and Dad finally put me up in front of him, just to go down the street and back. I never knew to be afraid of them,” she said, honestly. “And then he would pick me up from school. And then Mercy.” She shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I was riding in the womb.”

She turned to Sam. “Okay, so, are you an old lady yet?” she asked, eyes glittering with mischief.

“Uh…” Sam had no idea. Was she? Did girlfriend count? Aidan had been willing to use that title. But did you have to be a wife in order to be an old lady?

“I think so,” Emmie said, smiling. “I think she is completely.”

“Me too,” Ava said, echoing the smile.

“You guys…”

“Trick-or-treat!”

Startled, Sam faced forward to see that Rottie and Mina’s two boys stood in front of her, loot bags at the ready. Both were dressed as little bikers, mini versions of their father, complete with lick-on tattoos.

Sam grinned and reached into the big candy bowl on the coffee table, coming out with generous handfuls of Butterfinger and Snickers for the kids. “You guys look fantastic. Very tough.”

They beamed.

“Like Daddy,” the little one said, and Sam wanted to say “aww.”

Behind them, Mina made an apologetic face.

“It’s fine,” Sam assured.

The boys moved down the line to Ava, then Emmie, earning praise and heaps of candy.

When they had moved on – Chanel and the other girls were making a fuss over them – Sam leaned into Ava and whispered, “I don’t want to know why they’re having to trick-or-treat at the clubhouse, do I?”

“The same reason Bonita’s in hog heaven in back watching my kids,” she said. “And no, you don’t.”

~*~

Their black ski masks had white skull faces painted on them; they wore all black, down to their leather gloves, so the guns seemed a part of them, arms that ended in weapons instead of hands. Aidan felt his gut clench and wondered if he’d be sick. He couldn’t enjoy this, not the way his brother-in-law did, no doubt smiling like an idiot under his mask up at the head of their little knot.

Some stray beam of light glinted along the steel handle of the sledgehammer Mercy carried. “You ready, Mikey?” he asked the shape right behind him.

The shape nodded. Then whispered one last emotionless order back to Aidan, Tango, and Carter. “If you aren’t comfortable with killing, keep your ass outside.”

Their orders were not to kill.

But that didn’t mean Mercy and Michael wouldn’t turn shit sideways.

The sledge drew back. “On three.”

One.

Aidan took a last deep breath and willed his nerves to settle.

Two.

Was he really such a pussy that he couldn’t tolerate this side of club life? Was he so inadequate?

Three.

The sound of the door splintering around the lock was like a gunshot. The hammer, with all of Mercy’s weight behind it, forced the entry in one dramatic moment, and then they were rushing into the house.

Above the awful pounding of blood in his ears, Aidan registered things: they were in a cramped living room full of outdated furniture and three of Ellison’s men, all of them struggling to get to their feet, expressions shocked.

“On the ground,” Michael said, voice flat and cold. When they didn’t comply, he grabbed the nearest roughly by the arm and dragged him to the carpet, pushed him down with a boot on his back. “I said get down.”

The other two complied, putting their faces to the floor, hands behind their backs.

Mercy had gone straight through this room and into the next. “Come look at this!” he called.

Aidan looked at Michael.

“I got this. Go.”

He went.

Mercy was in the kitchen, and the room’s use was immediately obvious. Bricks of cocaine, boxes of small baggies, razors on the table, dusting of white powder.

“This is where they bag it,” Mercy said, without necessity.

“It’s not Fish’s,” Aidan said, running a gloved finger along the edge of a brick.

“They used our stash to bridge the gap until they could move their own shit in,” Mercy said with disgust. “Damn, look at the amount. Everybody in Knoxville’s gonna be hooked.”

“What are we doing with it?” Aidan asked.

“Taking it with us.”

They packed up every last fleck of powder into the empty cardboard boxes stacked beneath the table, and hauled it out to the van, Carter and Tango coming to lend a hand.

Mercy halted in the living room, glanced over at their captives. “Let’s bring one back with us,” he said, calmly, almost casually.

Aidan turned away as he heard the duct tape peeling loose.

~*~

“Got a shitload of coke, boss,” Candy said from the other end of the line.

“Good,” Ghost said. “Take it all back.”

“Yes, sir.”

He disconnected the call and slid his phone away, mounted the stairs to the Gannon & Gannon construction site trailer with Phillip coming along behind him.

Fox was already at the door and had the lock picked; he sent it swinging inward with a push of his fingertips and swept inside, gun and flashlight raised.

“Clear,” the Englishman said as Ghost crossed the threshold.

He clicked on his own light and swept the beam across the desk, file cabinets, break table.

“You think there’s anything on paper?” Phillip asked.

“Nah, it’ll all be in his email and on his hard drive,” Ghost said. He held his flashlight in his teeth as he crouched down to disconnect the modem.

Phillip picked up the flat screen monitor. “That makes our job easier, then.”

Fox was over dicking around in front of a shelf.

“Charlie, come on,” Phillip said.

“Yeah. Sure.” He plucked something up and joined them.

“What was that?” Ghost asked.

“Picture of the man’s family.” The flashlight painted eerie shadows above his eyes. “Never know when that might come in handy.”

~*~

Sam heard the bikes approaching and it sent a foreign thrill through her. It sounded so different, all of them in symphony like that. Like an invading army.

“You feel it in your gut,” Maggie said beside her, startling her. She hadn’t heard the biker queen come up to stand beside her at the bar.

Sam turned to her and nodded, a hand ghosting over her belly on impulse. “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “It’s a good feeling, actually.”

“Hmm. I always thought so.”

It was dark now, night inky beyond the windows, the jack-o-lanterns crackling brightly, inside and out. Everyone else heard the bikes too, and Sam watched the low ripples of excitement move through the room, sweeping away doubt and worry.

Their boys were back; there was no need to worry anymore. Time to party.

“It might get kinda crazy tonight,” Maggie warned, her smile almost a smirk.

Sam drained the last of her wine. “I can handle that.”

Twenty

Bare-knuckle boxing, Sam decided, had to count as “kind of crazy.” Though maybe not in this crowd.

It had started out friendly enough, RJ and Dublin giving each other shit until they’d finally decided to duke it out and see if the “old man” was really too “decrepit” to hold his own against “the younger crowd.” They’d traded jabs that were more like jokes, laughing, a crowd slowly building up around them in the parking lot.

But the atmosphere was intoxicating out here. The heady scents of cooked meat and scorched pumpkin, the acrid tang of wood smoke. The beer flowed and the lights danced primitively, exhaled breath pluming, stars twirling overhead. A wild, feral sort of night, chased with cold, colored with whatever heathen victory they’d brought in off the road. Sam could taste the violence at the back of her throat, and she leaned sideways against Aidan as they sat on the picnic table, fingers lacing tight with his, his laughter vibrating through her palm.

Several matches had been fought already, and now, she knew, came the one they’d all been waiting for. The showstopper.

Mercy versus his brother, Colin.

Something shifted the moment the two of them stepped forward. A cheer went up; sharp whispers ran around their spectator circle. And there was something in the eyes of both men that sent a shiver up Sam’s back.

“This isn’t a friendly sparring match,” she said to Aidan.

“Nah,” was all he said.

Mercy shrugged out of his cut and hoodie and turned to hand them to Ava, leaning in to kiss her, fast, hard, bringing up color in her cheeks as she hugged his clothes to her chest. In the midst of cheers and catcalls from his brothers, he peeled off his wifebeater and entrusted that to Ava, too.

Sam had never seen him naked from the waist up, and it was a little bit of a shock. He was a beast. It was one thing to see his height and breadth of shoulder and assume what was under his clothes, quite another to see it in the firelight. He wasn’t chiseled from gym time like Aidan and Tango, but lean and sculpted with naturally cultivated muscle, broader and sturdier than she’d guessed.

He had tattoos: his black dog, something geometric and foreign to her, the portrait of Ava’s teenage face on his right bicep. And something irregular just over his heart.

Hair pulled back tight in a bun, he turned from his old lady with wicked intent in his dark eyes, drawing a bead on the brother he couldn’t bring himself to love.

“Impressed?” Aidan asked, voice wry.

“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. He doesn’t appeal to me that way.” It was more a fascination, like studying a predator up close in the field.

“Hmph,” Aidan said, and sounded satisfied.

Colin had stripped down too, also muscular, also impressive.

They approached one another, circled, massive hands curled into fists.

Sam knew who would win before the first punch was thrown.

Colin was big.

Mercy was bigger.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the unchecked emotion in Mercy, something animal that simmered beneath his skin. Intangible. Deadly.

“Whoop his ass, Swamp Thing!” Candyman shouted through cupped hands, laughing.

“Hey!” Colin shouted back, scowling. Candy was his VP; no doubt he expected some semblance of chapter loyalty.

Mercy let Colin make the first move. A quick lunge, a jab, a dodge.

Mercy waited, smile dark, patient in a creepy way.

And then he moved, and Sam wanted to close her eyes, the assault was so brutal and so absent of brotherly affection.

Finally, Walsh stepped in with one of his sharp whistles. “Alright, boys, alright. We don’t want anyone leaving this party in a box.”

Mercy went back to Ava, and she caught his sweaty face in her hands, pulled him down and kissed his forehead, face shining with a love that defied all logic. Colin collapsed onto a bench and Jinx attended to the big split in his eyebrow.

Mercy was the clear victor, and not just in a fight sense.

Maybe it’ll be over now, Sam thought.

But then someone said, “Boss let’s see you get in there.”

“Yeah,” someone else said, “I wanna see the legend at work.”

The legend being…?

Ghost. They were talking about Ghost.

Aidan tensed beside her.

The president shrugged off his cut and, in his t-shirt, stepped to the center of the makeshift circle. He aimed a finger at Aidan. “Come down here, son, and let’s see if you remember what you’ve been taught.”

“No,” Sam whispered. But it was too late.

~*~

Aidan ground his teeth together as he came to stand in front of his dad. Ghost grinned at him, a fast, dark smile without a trace of humor.

“You rusty?”

“You old?” Aidan shot back.

Ghost’s smile deepened.

This had nothing to do with practice or friendly competition. This was the father still pissed at the son’s lack of responsibility and wanting to disgrace him, publicly, as a lesson in dominance. It was something Aidan didn’t want to fall for. But he’d had two shots of Jack and his blood was roaring. He’d helped to raid a house tonight, and he knew a captive was strapped to a chair in the bike shop, awaiting Mercy’s interrogation.

He knew his life was shit, and he was sick of it.

He ripped off cut and shirt, and turned, tossed them to Sam. Her beautiful face was tense with worry, but she caught his clothes and balled them up against her stomach. Be careful, she mouthed.

Right.

He turned back to Ghost. That’s who he was now – Ghost, and not Dad. Aidan brought his arms up, fists loosely curled, ready as he’d ever be. Ghost had taught him to box, but Ghost was –

The president lunged, faster and tighter than expected, getting right in Aidan’s space with total control.

–an army boxing champ.

Aidan deflected a jab, danced, evaded. Ghost kept coming, never letting him collect himself, pressing him relentlessly back until he was spinning to keep inside the manmade ring.

Ghost dropped his shoulder, an opening. Aidan snapped out a hard right. No, not an opening. A trap.

Ghost grabbed his arm and wrapped his own around it, pulled him in close, his whiskey breath hot across Aidan’s face.

“Does your girlfriend know you have a kid on the way?”

It was a vicious whisper, designed to incite him.

It did the trick.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his bad shoulder, Aidan wrenched free and caught one lucky blow to his old man’s jaw.

A collective “oooh” went through the crowd.

Ghost’s head snapped back, expression comic with shock for one perfect moment, the firelight flashing in his eyes. In that moment, he looked old, lined, and exhausted.

Aidan charged…and the punch caught him full in the face.

He went down like an empty sack, not even able to brace his fall before he hit the concrete. He saw stars, little birds, all those old cartoon clichés. And then his eyes cleared and Ghost stood above him, framed in Christmas lights, face unreadable. He offered a hand down, to help him up.

Aidan rolled onto his stomach and forced himself up on his hands and knees, reeling.

“I ought to slap the shit out of you,” he heard Maggie say, and heard her boot heels clip toward him. She was talking to Ghost, he knew. Then, to him: “Baby, are you okay?”

He couldn’t talk just yet, still wrestling with the sense that his face had caved in.

“He’s alright,” Ghost said, voice gruff with irritation.

And then Sam was there, her hands against his shoulders. “Aidan.”

He managed to get to his feet, and he went with her, not a backward glance for his father and president.

~*~

Sam found a clean washcloth in the en suite bathroom of Aidan’s favorite dorm and wet it with cold water under the tap. “I take it your dad has boxing experience,” she said dryly, walking back into the room.

Aidan sat on the end of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, staring at the orange carpet. He lifted his head as she settled on her knees in front of him. “He boxed in the army,” he explained. “He never got to see active battle – a shame, he would have liked shooting people – so he got stir crazy on base. Took up boxing.”

“He’s got the personality for it.” With great care, she reached up to press the cool cloth to his face. His eye was swollen and probably going to black; bruises were coming up faintly along his cheekbone. “It’s a miracle he didn’t break your orbital,” she said, and felt her lips press together in anger.

Aidan flinched beneath her touch, but didn’t pull back.

“Hold that there,” she said gently. “I’ll go wet another one.”

As she stood, he said, “You don’t like my dad.” Not a question.

“No, I can’t say I do.” It felt good to say it aloud. “He’s more of a warden than a father.”

He grinned, but it was faint. “That’s dear old Dad for ya.”

“Why is he like that?”

“He’s just a hardass.” Aidan shrugged. “He’s old school. He thinks he’s perfect. I dunno.” Another shrug, and a deep sadness, pressing little lines around his mouth. His fingers tightened where they clamped the cloth to his face. “He’s good at a lot of things, but being a dad isn’t one of them.”

“That’s his mistake, then. And a big one at that.”

Aidan didn’t respond, so she fetched another cold cloth and came back, kneeling down in front of him once more.

“Is he trying to groom you for president?” she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

“No idea.”

“Is that what you want? To lead?”

“Honestly…” His eyes tracked over her face. “Not anymore, no. I used to. I thought for a long time that I needed to be president. Follow in his footsteps, you know?” he said, wistfully.

She nodded.

“But I’m not like him, I don’t guess. And he’s a good president, which would make me a bad one, if I ever tried.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t care about it like I used to. Who the hell wants to be in charge of things? I’ve got a job, I’ve got a place to crash, I’ve got the club…” His eyes bored into hers.

She gave him a soft smile. “You have me.”

“And that’s the best thing of all.”

Her chest squeezed. “Aidan, why didn’t you ever let anybody see how sweet you are when we were kids?”

“You don’t know? Sweet’s the kiss of death in high school. Sweet’ll get you killed, baby.”

She laughed. “I survived somehow.”

“Yeah, but you’re a girl. Girl’s are supposed to be sweet.”

“Okay, clearly, you don’t know anything about girls.”

He gave her one of his cocky, ladykiller grins, and she was glad to see it after his bout of sad introspection. “I know some things. The things that count.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Sam set the damp cloth up on the bed with deliberate slowness, settling on both knees between his open legs. “You know what?” She reached for his belt buckle. “I know a few things too.”

His laugh was low and expectant as he leaned back on both hands to give her better access, injured face forgotten. “Teacher gonna give me a lesson?”

Her fingers shook a little with anticipation and uncertainty as she worked open his fly, but one glance at his hungry face soothed all her nerves. No, she wasn’t a pro at this, but she didn’t think that was going to make a bit of difference. All that counted in the moment was how much they both wanted it.

“Yeah,” she said, not recognizing her own voice. “Sit up and take notes like a good boy.”

~*~

He needed to fuck, and there was no delicate way to phrase it. Fighting like that worked in his veins like a drug, and tweaked his nerves until he was no longer his own master, but just a monster running on impulse. He needed his old lady on her stomach, hands twisted up in the sheets, and he needed her now.

But now wasn’t an option, so he was going to have to settle for a cig and a little torture instead.

Mercy finished tying off his black butcher apron and lit the fresh Marlboro dangling off his lip. The first drag helped. A little.

He stood in the bike shop office, the garage bay beyond already prepped with plastic by Harry and Littlejohn, his toolkit set out and waiting for him. Their captive was duct taped securely to a chair, also covered in plastic.

Beside him, Fox stood with Walsh’s usual clipboard, having offered to cover for his brother. “Spend time with your old lady, mate,” he’d said, clapping Walsh on the back. “I haven’t gotten to watch the beast work in a long time.”

Then there was Colin, looking beat-up and sullen.

“Cheer up, bro,” Mercy told him, grinning, “you’re about to have an induction.”

“The club for people who kiss your ass?”

“Hey, Fox kisses no one’s ass.”

“True,” the Englishman said.

“Your induction into man-work, junior. Why the hell do you think Candy wanted you in Amarillo? To get stuff off the tall shelves?”

Colin’s frown deepened, and something flickered in his eyes, a fast snatch of something Mercy might have missed had he not been paying attention.

“What?” he asked.

Fox said, “Our Col here has designs on Jenny.”

Mercy didn’t know whether he ought to laugh or punch the guy again. “Jenny Snow?” he asked with a disbelieving fake smile. “Really?”

“I think she might have designs on him, too,” Fox continued.

“Well damn. I’ll be.”

Colin shifted uncomfortably.

“Grab your apron,” Mercy said, pointing toward the clear plastic number he’d laid out. “And step into my laboratory.”

~*~

“Howdy, Miss Jasmine.”

Jazz knew that voice, with its heavy Texas accent. She knew it, and had found such pleasure in it – in the man that came with it, big and blonde and insatiable. But now, it crawled up the back of her neck like a chill, and left her shivering inside.

She never would have expected this of herself, but it was happening, ever since that night that Aidan had tried to strangle her. He’d apologized, sure, and she’d moved on…but she could find no appeal in her normal sexual exploits. She went cold and frightened just at the thought.

She pinned a frozen smile to her face and turned to face the Texas VP. “Mr. Candyman,” she returned. “How’ve you been?” Ordinarily, she would have passed her hands up his rock hard chest as she delivered her line. But now she kept her arms stiff at her sides.

His grin was truly dazzling, as was the way he braced a tan forearm on the doorframe above her head and leaned in, pinning her against the kitchen jamb. “A whole lot better now that I’ve laid eyes on you, darlin’. What’re you supposed to be anyway?” His eyes traveled down her body, and his finger touched the little hollow in her throat, trailed downward.

“A nurse,” she said, and couldn’t believe the way her heart was hammering. What big hands he had. Hands bigger than Aidan’s; hands that could choke –

“A naughty nurse,” he said with a deep chuckle, fingertip flirting with the plunging white neckline of her costume. Before she could say anything, he slipped his whole big hand into her uniform and palmed her naked breast.

She gasped, and he misread it.

“Did you miss me?” he whispered, breath stirring her hair as he got even closer. His fingers tightened, digging into her flesh. “I’ve been dreaming about these, sweetheart. You gonna let me see in a minute?”

She dampened her lips. “I…”

“Hey,” a voice said just behind Candy.

She knew that voice too: Carter.

Candyman pulled back a fraction, but his hand stayed in her top as he turned his head slowly, with put-on boredom, toward the younger member.

Jazz bit her lip in surprise when she caught sight of Carter’s face. He looked absolutely murderous. While that wasn’t much of a threat to someone as big as Candy, it was still impressive in its own right, his level of aggression.

“Can I help you with something?” Candy asked.

Carter kicked his chin up, bold and stupid and wonderfully brave, Jazz thought. “Don’t mess with Jasmine tonight.”

Candy laughed. “Did nobody ever teach you how to wait your turn? News flash, kid, you’re on the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to pussy privilege.”

“This isn’t about your goddamn totem pole,” Carter said. “Jazz isn’t interested in being pawed at, and you’re gonna respect her and back the fuck off.”

Candy stared in open disbelief, then glanced over at Jazz…then he noticed her expression, and the way she couldn’t stop trembling.

She felt tears sting her eyes. “Please…” she whispered, and wasn’t sure what she meant. She was a jumble of nerves and anxieties, and she hated it.

“Get your hand off her,” Carter hissed.

Candy withdrew his hand, but didn’t move. The look he sent to Carter was a clear warning, one anyone else would have backed down from.

Be careful, baby, Jasmine wanted to tell him. He’ll hurt you bad. But she couldn’t speak, could only watch.

“Are you trying to make her your woman?” Candy asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

“No. I’m looking out for her, and all you have to do is look at her and know she’s upset.”

Candy looked back at her, indecision edging in on his anger. “I’ll back off,” he said, “only if she wants me to. I ain’t ever gonna force anyone. Is that what you want, babe? Do you want me to back off?”

Did she want it? Even when she was tired, or a little bit sick, or just not in the mood, she never refused a brother. She knew her place; she understood that the use of this clubhouse and the safety it provided was dependent upon her cooperation.

But she nodded. Yes, she wanted him to back off. She couldn’t stand the idea.

Candy looked as shocked as she felt. But, true to his word, be withdrew from her with one last searching look. You sure? it said. And she knew that if she let him go now, he’d never show favor toward her again.

But again, she nodded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but Candy was already moving away.

Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision.

Carter took Candy’s place, leaning over her, face harsh with concern.

“I don’t understand why this is happening,” she said, brokenly. Was this it? Had her lifestyle finally caught up to her and she was cracking? “I never….”

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her along after him. Through the shifting crowd of bodies in the common room, the pulsing music, the smell of sweaty bodies and spilled liquor. Out the front door, where wood smoke filled her lungs and the night wrapped around her with cold relief. Carter skirted the outdoor crowd and led her around the side of the building, to the shadowy side of the clubhouse, where the club trucks, vans, and ratty old cars were parked. The security lights were cut off by the roofline, and only a dim glow enabled them to see, everything soft-edged and gentle. The party noise was a dim murmur.

Jasmine took her first deep breath of the night, a ragged sound catching in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, pressing her cold hands to her face. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

“Jazz.” Carter touched her carefully on the shoulder. “Hey, take a deep breath, it’s alright.”

She shook her head. It wasn’t, it really wasn’t.

“You were traumatized, and that takes time to get over.”

She didn’t want to cry, and squeezed her eyes shut tight. “You’re sweet, bless your heart, but you don’t get it.” How could a pretty blonde baby boy have any idea what would happen to her if she was no longer welcome within the club?

She heard him exhale, a tired sound. “Yeah, actually, I think I do.”

Her eyes sprang open in surprise when she felt his arms go around her. She stiffened…and then relaxed against his solid chest as he stroked her back. His heartbeat thudded beneath her ear. He was hugging her. Actually hugging her. No man in her entire life had ever hugged her. And here was this sweet thing, young enough to be her son, and he was holding her in his arms and telling her it would be alright.

It was the sweetest thing she’d ever experienced.

Slowly, the shivering eased. Then her breathing evened out. The cold numbness was replaced with a spreading warmth, one that began to take shape in her mind, coalescing physically in secret places.

It was easy to forget, in the aftermath of her trauma, that before Aidan entered the scene, things had been going very right that evening in the dorm. She hadn’t put much thought toward Carter Michaels before that, but she should have, because he had been magnificent. He had–

Time to stop thinking so much.

Jazz braced her hands on his chest and pulled back, tilted her head back so she could see his face. It was a beautiful face, a little sharper and more masculine than Tango’s; it belonged on a fancy cologne add, the scented kind that slid out of glossy magazine pages.

His clear blue eyes searched her face, still concerned, but a little curious too.

Because she wanted to, and she’d always been bad at resisting impulses, Jazz reached up to trace one fingertip down the ridge of his nose. His mouth twitched like it tickled. She moved down, edged his lips with her red fingernail, teased at the pale stubble on his chin.

He grinned and he had dimples. “I’m not like Candyman, but I’m not made out of stone either, baby.”

He liked it, then, her touch. It was stirring things in him.

Good. Things were stirring in her too.

She let her hand fall, played with the zippered edge of his cut. “When we…” she started, and watched his eyes flare. She smiled. “You liked it?”

“I loved it.” His hand tightened at the small of her back, pulled her hips in close so she could feel that he was loving the idea of it happening again.

“I’m old enough to be your mother,” she said quietly.

“Does it look like I care? You’re gorgeous.”

Jazz stretched up and kissed him.

It went wild fast, and suddenly it wasn’t a kiss, but a tussle, their hands grasping desperately at one another. Carter picked her up and set her on the hood of the old Cadillac behind them, bundled up her short white skirt and found her bare, hot and wet beneath. She loved the little growl in his throat when he touched her, the hard grasp of his hands on her thighs as he spread them. She worked his jeans open in a few deft moves and then he was inside her, filling her up and making her neck weak. They both made sounds, gasping breaths against one another’s lips as he slid home.

Jazz wrapped her legs around his waist and lay back, opening herself up to his deep thrusts. God, she couldn’t remember sex ever feeling so necessary. She thought she’d die if he stopped.

She tore at the buttons of her uniform and spread the halves, bared her breasts to him. “Touch me,” she pleaded, and he did. And she watched the stars as he fucked her.

~*~

Tango watched Carter lead Jazz from inside the clubhouse, and he didn’t mean to follow, but somehow he set his beer down and did just that. He found a dark spot behind one of the trucks and watched, unseen, as Jazz shook with fright and Carter comforted her, hugged her. Had he ever done that himself? Touched her in that innocent way? He didn’t remember. There were so many ways in which he’d failed her.

He watched the hug go on and on. Watched Jazz finally pull back, watched the smiles; private smiles, traded between two people who didn’t know they had an audience. Watched them kiss. Watched them move to the hood of the car.

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.”

He felt a grin threaten. “Not an insult, huh?”

Her smile was sweet. “Nope.”

“I wasn’t the jailbait trolling for bikers outside the liquor store.”

“You really wanna compare sins side-by-side?” Her brows lifted.

“Nah.”

She smoothed her hands across his pecs, little mindless circles. “My point is,” she said, “that sometimes a man grows up all on his own. Like Mercy. But sometimes, he needs a reason to grow up. Aidan’s got a couple of reasons now, he’s just having a little trouble with the transition.”

She slapped her palms lightly on his shoulders. “And you shouldn’t set out to beat up your little boy. I don’t like it.”

“He’s not a little boy.”

“He will always be your little boy.” She kissed him, her lips as soft and coaxing as ever, but Ghost knew she hadn’t forgiven him yet. Maggie didn’t hold grudges, but she didn’t pretend things were fine, either.

~*~

Just before dawn, the hostage in the bike shop was cut loose and a cab was called for him. He left Dartmoor completely intact, carrying a message for his boss:

Last night had been a lesson for Don Ellison. Next time, bodies would hit the ground.

Twenty-One

Sam woke to a tickling sensation along her spine. A gentle, teasing touch, moving down to the small of her back. Lower…

She smiled against the pillows, stretched drowsily beneath the sheets. “That feels nice.”

Aidan’s voice was soft, but not sleepy; he’d been awake for a while. “The first hour’s free.”

They both laughed, quietly.

Sam rolled over onto her back and found him propped up on an elbow beside her. His hair was rumpled, jaw shadowed with stubble. The bruises from the sparring match were ugly and dark, but his eyes shone, coffee-colored in the faint light coming through the frosted window.

“You survived your first big club party,” he said.

“I take it they aren’t usually that crazy.”

“Nah. Usually just one stripper.”

She reached up and tweaked the end of his nose with thumb and forefinger, earning a low chuckle that made her toes flex. The orderly, professorial side of her wanted to ask a dozen questions. Where did they go from here? Was forever part of their vocabulary now?  Ought she to tackle his disaster apartment with closet organizers and fresh paint?

But she pushed all her wonder back, deciding that she would only make herself anxious. She didn’t want to be the one to wreck this shiny warm thing they had.

Aidan pushed the sheets back and got out of bed. “Probably one of the girls is making breakfast. I’m gonna grab coffee; how many sugars?”

She sat up, pushed her hair back, enjoyed the view as he tugged on his jeans commando. “Three.”

“Be right back.”

He was at the door when a knot of words came unstuck in her throat and rolled off her tongue. She couldn’t prevent them, and didn’t want to. “Aidan?”

He paused and glanced back at her.

“I love you.”

Saying it released a tension inside her, one she hadn’t known she carried. They were just words, but for her, words were trade. Words were religion. Actions were well and good, but for her own part, she had to share the words, so there could be no mistaking her feelings.

Aidan went very still, eyes wide and full of wonder as he stared at her.

“You don’t have to say it back,” she said, softly. “I just wanted you to know.”

He nodded; his throat worked as he swallowed.

“Coffee, remember?” she prodded, smiling.

He nodded again, and even if his lips couldn’t form the syllables, she could read his eyes well enough.

She thought he loved her too.

~*~

The aftermath was always ugly; like a battlefield littered with post-party carnage. Cups, napkins, countless trod-upon tortilla chips, empty bottles. The jack-o-lanterns on the bar stared at him with soot-blackened eyes, all their charm gone. The club girls, likewise, would have lost their charm, nothing but regret and smudged mascara by this point.

Aidan was surprised to find Maggie at the helm in the kitchen, alone, putting together one of her fantastic breakfast casseroles. Wrapped in the sharp scent of coffee, she had showered, done her makeup, and proved exactly why she was the queen of this operation and not some hanger-on.

He propped a shoulder in the doorframe. “You shoulda had one of the girls do this.”

“Nah. They’re all hungover, and I can do it better myself anyway.” She was whisking the eggs together and turned to him. “Oh, speaking of the girls, apparently Jazz and Carter are a thing now. Did you know that was going on?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but I’m not surprised.” He twitched inwardly, not wanting to dwell on Carter or Jazz or that night in the dorm two months ago.

“Does Tango know?”

“Tango’s…a little out of it lately,” he said with a sigh.

Maggie nodded, her frown knowing. “Hmm.”

Remembering his errand, he pushed off the doorjamb and went to the coffee pot.

“How’s Sam this morning?” Maggie asked, all innocence.

A hot bursting of emotion in his chest, just under his ribs; he envisioned it as golden, full of sparks. “She’s good.”

“Baby,” she said as he was leaving.

He paused.

“I like her.”

The heat doubled, pressing at his heart in the best way.

“And you need to tell her about the baby.”

“I know. I will.”

“Soon, Aidan.”

“I know.”

~*~

They were gathered in the chapel by ten, armed with plenty of coffee and cigarettes, the air thick with the scents of both. It took longer to fit all of them in a seat than it did to go over the morning’s plan.

Aidan had already asked Sam to wait for him, spend a few hours hanging out with the girls; he’d tried to keep the worry out of his voice, but she’d detected it, smooth gold brows drawing together. “I want you to be safe,” he finally said, and she hadn’t argued, had hugged him and said she wanted him to be safe too.

She loved him. She loved him and she wanted him safe.

He thought he might float cartoon-style.

As he left the clubhouse, he spotted her having breakfast with Emmie at one of the bar tables. She tossed him a smile and a wave.

He felt so domestic.

It was a cold, drizzly morning, their breath pluming in the damp air. Aidan zipped his cut and caught up to Tango as they headed for the bikes. He bumped the guy in the ribs with an elbow. “You alright?”

Tango walked with his head down, long hank of pale hair flapping against his forehead. “Yeah.”

“Jazz and Carter, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“Dude, if you have a problem with it–”

“I don’t.”

“Kev.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Aidan glanced toward Carter, ten yards away, face flushed in a mature, self-satisfied way that was uncharacteristic. He felt on top of the world, and thanks to a club groupie who’d done every unspeakable thing with almost every member of the club.

“You could–”

“No.”

Aidan shrugged. “Whatever.” It wasn’t like he didn’t have his own problems, not the least of which was telling that beautiful, smiling girl inside that he was having a baby with another woman.

~*~

“I want my coke back.” Don Ellison had a bad case of aging-footballer-face, and his heavy brow creased as he scowled at them. He could buy an expensive suit – and he had – but he couldn’t disguise the fact that he was an ex-con thug with bad breeding.

Not an altogether scary picture, in Aidan’s opinion.

And not too impressive a turnout, Ellison and his four thugs, when the Dogs were rolling twenty-something deep.

Their meeting place was an empty weed-choked lot between a closed-up restaurant and a struggling laundromat at the outskirts of town. A row of bikes faced off from an Escalade, and the two warring factions stood on either side of the invisible fuse running between them.

“You’ll get your coke back,” Ghost said, “minus the cut I take as repayment for what you stole from me. Minus a little bit more because you killed my dealers.”

Phillip stood beside Ghost, the two presidents shoulder-to-shoulder. “You’ll notice we didn’t kill any of your boys,” he said, flicking ash off his cigarette with a bored expression. “We didn’t even rough ‘em up too bad. And we sent the one back.”

“He’s got a real pretty singing voice, by the way,” Ghost said with a grin. “You might wanna put him in your thug choir.”

Ellison made a face. There was no doubt what would happened to the squealer.

“So, like I said,” Ghost continued. “You’ll get your coke back, but it’ll be on our terms, and our timetable. If you think you can come into Dog territory and do whatever the fuck you want, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Ellison’s thick jaw tightened. “You think I’m going to recognize your territory?”

“I do, yeah, because let’s face facts, Don. You are one guy, in one state, with a big head. Me? I’m a part of an international organization that makes you and your boys look like kids playing mob boss at recess.”

“You mess with one chapter, you mess with every chapter, mate,” Phillip said. “So if you want to keep breathing, you’ll go away and be very quiet.”

“Why not just kill me? Wipe me out?” Ellison asked. “That’s what you did last night, yeah? Sent me the message that you can take me out whenever you want.” It should have been said with embarrassment, but somehow sounded like a taunt to Aidan’s ears.

“Because I’m a reasonable man,” Ghost said, which was a damn joke. “And because it’d be stupid to have another war. Knoxville doesn’t need it, and I don’t want it. We’re grownups, Don, let’s handle this as such.”

Don Ellison’s face slowly began to purple, even though he nodded stiffly and stepped forward to talk things over one-on-one with Ghost.

Aidan felt a quick twist in his gut. This meeting had gone well – too well, in his opinion. And he well knew the look of a man who was burning with hatred on the inside, boiling with barely checked violence. In this scenario, that man was Ellison, and he wondered if his father saw that.

~*~

The next day, Ellison’s coke was returned, minus what he owed the Dogs, and a tentative peace was set up. Handshakes were swapped. The world took a deep breath and settled. And the citizens of Knoxville had no idea they had been at the edge of another war, the Lean Dogs held in their usual awe-inspiring contempt as the cowboys of the city.

Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

November

Twenty-Two

Two days after the big party, Emmie came downstairs as dawn was breaking, surprised to find her house full of male voices. Worry grabbed at her for a second – some new club drama? – but they didn’t sound concerned. Quite the opposite: someone laughed, and she thought it was Shane.

She hit the kitchen first and found Bea at the island pulling muffins from a baking tin with aid of a butter knife.

“Good morning, dear!” she said brightly. “I’m just getting ready to take this in to the dining room. Will you fetch me the butter?”

“Sure.” She did so, bemused, accepting the kiss her mother-in-law pressed to her cheek. “What’s going on?”

Bea was glowing, her smile bending her eyes to tiny crescents. “It’s wonderful. They’re having a brother breakfast.”

“All of them?”

“All that are here, darling.”

Emmie nodded. “That’s good.”

“Isn’t it? I keep trying to get them all together, but King won’t listen to me about it. It’s important, I think, to spend time with your brothers and sisters. If you have them, that is,” she said in deference to Emmie’s only child status. “I never had any myself, but I always wanted a few. How fun it would have been to have a brother. Girls need brothers, I think, just as much as boys do.”

Bea could get wound up and chatter on for hours if left to her own devices. Curious, Emmie said, “Have you met King’s sisters?”

“Oh yes. Lovely girls. There’s Raven, who’s just a few months younger than Shane. Her mother’s a model,” she said in a confidential tone. “Willowy thing, all legs. Eccentric name, you know.”

Emmie nodded with pretend graveness.

“And then there’s Cassandra, who’s the youngest of the nine. Just turned sixteen.”

Emmie tried not to show how staggering that was to hear. Walsh was forty, and he’d said his oldest brother, Phillip, had just turned fifty-three. She didn’t want to do the math.

“Will you help me carry these in?” Bea asked of the two heaping baskets of cinnamon muffins.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Walsh was sitting at the head of the dining room table; it was his house, after all. To his right was Phillip, on his left Shane. Fox sat beside Phillip, and there were no traces of tension.

Emmie set the muffins down on the table, snagged one, and went to kiss Walsh. His smile was easy, relaxed, and her chest swelled with gladness. He’d been edgy and nervous lately, and it was good to see him like this.

“Busy day?” he asked when she pulled back.

“Yeah. I’ve got Sam bringing her sister in for a lesson this afternoon.”

He frowned. “Sam?”

“Samantha. Aidan’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah, love, I know who she is. I also know his last girlfriend keeps her horse here. You really want them running into each other?”

“Tonya hasn’t been around much lately.”

He stared at her.

“What? Am I supposed to tell her she can’t come because things might get awkward? She’s not some flighty airhead. And God knows she has to be aware of his history. If Tonya shows up, I’ll keep them apart. It’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words.”

“What?”

“Nothing, darling.”

~*~

At Emmie’s suggestion, Sam bought her sister a pair of cheap paddock boots, a helmet, and drove her out to Briar Hall for her very first riding lesson one cool, bright Saturday afternoon. At the Halloween party, Sam had admitted her struggles with Erin to Walsh’s old lady, and Emmie had immediately suggested lessons. “It can’t hurt,” she said. “And who knows, she might take to it.” Given that jazz, tap, chorus, gymnastics, piano, ballet and cheerleading had all failed to hold Erin’s interest, no, throwing horses on top of the pile couldn’t make her aimlessness any worse.

Erin stared out the car window, arms folded, frowning like a child during the drive. But when she climbed out of the car and saw Emmie coming toward them with a tacked-up chestnut gelding in tow, some of her belligerence melted.

Now, perched unsteadily up on Sherman’s broad back, Erin’s brow was crimped in concentration, listening intently to Emmie’s instructions as the horse plodded along at the end of a longe line.

“Good job,” Emmie said. “Thumbs up on top of the reins – there, there you go. Bring your shoulders back a little. Chin up. Good.”

Sam folded her arms over the top rail and rested her chin on her wrist. She liked the sight of her sister working hard at something, even if it was only keeping her heels down at a slow walk. She liked the barn smells, hay and dust and horsehide. She liked the contrasting beauty and simplicity of this place; the fancy siding on the walls as backdrop for the manure piles. It was windier here than in town, the breeze tugging her hair loose from its braid. She closed her eyes, let the sun warm the lids, let herself relax and bask a moment.

She heard the grass brushing against someone’s feet before a voice called out to Emmie, “Em, can I talk to you when you get a chance?” The words were polite enough, but the tone was cold.

Sam’s eyes snapped open and slid over toward the elegant brunette standing beside her at the rail. Tonya wore a long skirt with boots, a sweater and chic black trench. Her sunglasses alone probably cost more than Sam’s entire outfit.

“Sure,” Emmie called back, and began reeling the line in, pulling Sherman and Erin in toward her. “Hey, let’s step over to the rail for a minute,” she told her student, and something about her voice was wrong suddenly.

Sam swallowed hard and braced herself just before Tonya’s sunglasses turned toward her. “I haven’t seen you here before,” she said like she wished that were still the case.

It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to remind the woman that they’d gone to elementary school together. Instead, she replied just as coolly. “My sister and I are new here. My boyfriend and Emmie’s husband are friends–”

Tonya made a derisive sound. “God, you’re with one of those bikers?”

Emmie was walking toward them, towing along the horse. “Tonya, I’m coming.”

Sam stared at the spoiled woman-child’s white face, her flawless complexion, her designer everything, her red lipstick sneer. She’d never done anything like it in her life, but in that moment, she couldn’t contain the venom boiling in her blood. Just once, it would be nice to have the one-up on someone. Just this time, it’d be good to be the one to drop a bomb.

“Yeah,” she said, raising herself up, hands clenched on the rail. “I am. Actually, I’m with the biker who dropped you like a hot rock for being a heartless bitch.”

Oh God, she’d actually said it. The word bitch had left her lips. She thought she might faint; she wanted to smile.

Tonya’s perfect brows lifted above her lenses. “Aidan? Then take it from me, honey, and make sure he wears a rubber. He did tell you what happened between us, didn’t he? He got me pregnant.”

Everything stopped. Her heart, her lungs, her mind. Time. All of it ceased to function, as if a switch had been pressed. Funny, some distant voice in the back of her conscience thought. When your life derailed, wasn’t there supposed to be an awful crash? A terrible screech? Record scratch effects and gasps and sudden ugly sobs?

Instead there was this vacuum, this emptiness, the farm fading to a white blur, Tonya nothing but a black coat and glasses in front of her.

“Oh, he didn’t tell you,” she said. “He didn’t tell you he was going to be a dad. That asshole.”

Emmie’s voice seemed to be coming down a tunnel. “Tonya!” It was furious, but it was so far away. “What are you – oh shit. Sam? Sam?”

Why was she calling her; she was right there, holding onto the…

Wait, no. No rail. Nothing in her hands. Nothing but air. She was…

The jarring impact of her ass hitting the ground snapped her teeth together. She bit her tongue and it was the hot copper taste of blood that jerked her out of the void. She was sitting in the grass, numb head to toe, and she couldn’t pull in a breath.

Emmie hopped the fence, still holding the longe line, and crouched in front of her, snapped her fingers. “Sam? Hey, it’s alright.”

No. It wasn’t anywhere close to alright.

Aidan. Her Aidan, who she’d kissed and hugged and slept with; who she’d confessed her love to, entrusted her heart with. Aidan who she’d hesitated to trust, since the beginning, since that first walk to the vending machines. But who had persevered, convinced her, made her fall for him…And beneath all of that, their fragile, tender beginning, a lie that was a life, growing in the belly of another woman.

~*~

“Sam.” Emmie gave her shoulder a gentle shake and got no reaction. She sat there splay-legged like a broken doll. “Shit.”

Management mode. Emmie turned to Erin. “Scramble down and come help your sister. There’s cold drinks in the fridge in the tack room. Get her one.”

Erin, eyes big, nodded and awkwardly dismounted, hopping the fence. Her young voice was high and scared as she said, “Sam. Sam! What’s wrong?” She glanced back at Emmie. “Is she sick? Should we call nine-one-one?”

“No, she’s okay,” Emmie assured. “Take her up to the barn, get some Coke in her, and she’ll snap out of it.” She knew from personal experience that this was the calm before the emotional storm, that initial shock that scraped you clean inside.

Sam had described Erin as “at that age” where she hated every voice of authority, even if those voices belonged to loved ones. There was nothing of hatred in the girl now as she took her sister’s arm and pulled her to her feet. Sam moved like a mannequin, and Erin clenched her hand tight.

“Sam? Sam, come on, we need to go inside.”

How sad that it took a shock to bring a bratty teenager to her sweet side.

Emmie made sure the sisters were well on their way to the barn before she rounded on her star student. “What in the hell did you say to her?” she snapped, surprising herself, surprising Tonya, if the woman’s expression was anything to go by.

“Excuse me?”

Oh yeah. Tonya was used to having her ass kissed. Emmie flushed hot with anger, head-to-toe, and it was nothing like the impotent fury of the majority of her life. This wasn’t the blind, grappling sense that she could say nothing, do nothing, must only nod and say “yes, ma’am.” No, this was clear-edged, focused anger, backed by the knowledge that she half-owned this farm with her husband; knowledge that he would calmly and completely devastate anyone who dared set her off. She’d always had convictions; now she had support, and that was a deadly combo.

“No, Tonya,” she said. “Excuse you. What did you just say to her?”

The air between them crackled with a new electricity. Silence. Then an awareness, a quiet understanding that the balance had shifted.

Tonya collected herself – she always was the picture of decorum, after all – and calmed her tone. “She indicated that she was dating Aidan. I wanted her to understand what she was getting into.”

“And that is?”

“That Aidan got me pregnant.”

Holy fucking shit.

“Clearly,” Tonya continued, sighing like this was all so burdensome, “he hasn’t told her. And according to his sister and stepmother, he wants the baby. So the dumbass was going to bring the damn baby home and then tell her? Fool. The poor girl needed to know she was being lied to. I just did her a favor. Aidan Teague is a disease.”

A dozen thoughts collided in Emmie’s head. Aidan and Tonya? Pregnant? Did Walsh know? Why hadn’t he said anything?

“Tonya,” Emmie said through her teeth. “A little advice. It’s not polite to drop bombs on people like that.”

Tonya shrugged. “It’s not like I set out to. She started it.”

Emmie bit the inside of her cheek to keep her temper in check. She sighed. “So you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“And Aidan is the father.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were engaged to that banker guy.”

“I am.”

Was this bitch for real?

“That’s why I came by,” Tonya said. “I wanted to turn in my thirty day notice. I’m going to be moving Chaucer to Glenda’s barn.” That would be Glenda Demarco, the premiere trainer in the greater Knoxville area. “She’s going to keep him fit while I’m unable to ride.” She said the last with obvious irritation.

Emmie should have felt punched. Tonya was her highest level student, the one who made her look good as a trainer. She had plenty of youngsters who would eventually grow into the role, but for the moment, Tonya was the only superstar. Losing her, and her family’s patronage, should have been a real blow.

But in this moment, Emmie was one-hundred-percent a Lean Dogs old lady, and she felt like taking care of her own.

“You aren’t keeping the baby?” she asked, appalled by the notion.

“No. I was going to find an agency to place it, but according to Aidan’s family, he wants it.”

Holy shit again. Emmie didn’t envy Sam right now. Not at all.

~*~

Erin was being so sweet. Sam couldn’t comprehend it. She curled her hand around the cold Coke can and struggled to understand why Erin, of all people, was staring at her with concern and love.

“Sam?” her sister whispered in a small voice. “What’s wrong?”

The room made sense around her, then. Cheap table and chairs, equestrian photos on the walls, fridge and microwave and space heater. She was in the office at Briar Hall Stables, where she’d taken her sister for her first riding lesson. Where Tonya Sinclair had just informed her that…

A raw, ugly sound tore from her throat and Erin jumped.

“Oh God,” Sam whispered, hand tightening on the Coke until the can flexed.

“Are you sick?” Erin asked. “Do I need to call Mom?”

Yes, she was sick alright. Sick enough to think that Aidan had ever loved her, that he’d been honest with her. All those times he’d looked troubled, been stuck in his head – they made sense now. He’d been preoccupied with this. This child he’d kept from her.

Erin stared at her, working her hands together, face screwed up with worry.

Emmie came barreling into the room, curly blonde hair flying loose from her ponytail, expression a photocopy of Erin’s.

“Sam,” she said, voice sorry, appalled, sympathetic. “I had no idea. I swear. She just now told me. I had no idea…”

Sam stared down into her lap.

He hadn’t trusted her with this knowledge, hadn’t told her.

And she loved him…

Twenty-Three

Running the numbers in his head was stressing him. Would she need a wedding? A big party? Would she need a new house? Kitchen shit? Yard shit? Aidan was scrambling in his head, trying to decide what it would take to make Sam his long-term. Forever. He had to tell her about Tonya, sure, but that wasn’t the only concern. There were other domestic things to consider, for his domestic girl. Who loved him.

She loved him.

The thought was a rhythm inside him, driving him through his work day, making him smile for no reason.

He stood leaning against the siding of the bike shop, taking a smoke break, when Walsh appeared, jogging toward him. Something was off about the Englishman’s demeanor, as he drew close.

Aidan pushed away from the wall, body vibrating. “What?”

“Brother,” Walsh said, gravely. “You have a problem.”

~*~

She was going to cry, and she really didn’t want to, which made her eyes sting all the more sharply. Sam sat at the kitchen table, the same table where her father had once sat her down, as a naïve thirteen-year-old, and explained men to her.

“Pick a good one,” he’d told her. “You’ll know him when he looks in your eyes. You can’t hide a false heart, Samantha. Never forget that.”

But love didn’t always differentiate false from true. And it hurt like hell.

It was starting to get dark, the light fading beyond the small square windows in the back door. Erin was upstairs doing her homework, after trudging away with obvious reluctance and concern. Sam wanted to savor this very human response in her sister, but she was too full of needles and ice, too breathless. Mom wasn’t home yet, so for the moment she was alone.

And then she heard the bike approaching.

Her tear ducts reacted straightaway and she clamped down on them hard, forcing her emotions to freeze. No, she thought. Don’t let him see you cry.

Four seconds after his engine shut off, his knock sounded at the back door. Frantic, desperate.

“Come in,” she called.

Aidan entered in a flurry of cold breeze, his eyes dark and wild, his hair mussed from his helmet.

“Baby,” he said, and she almost broke down.

Almost.

Sam stared at the bank of cabinets opposite her.

“Walsh said…I know what happened…” He was gasping. “Tonya…”

The name made her flinch, before she could catch herself.

Aidan saw. “Sam.”

She extended a hand toward him, a staying gesture, with an open palm. “Don’t come over here.” Her voice was frail. “Please. Don’t touch me or I won’t be able…” She couldn’t finish, throat tightening.

He circled the table so he stood on the opposite side, inserting himself into her nice safe view of the cabinets. His face was awful, open and vulnerable and full of grief. He knew. He was going to hash this out with her, but he already knew what she’d decided. “Won’t be able to what?” he asked quietly. “I want to touch you.”

Sam dragged in a breath. “She said you’re going to keep the baby yourself.”

His throat rippled as he swallowed. His eyes glimmered. “I haven’t made any kind of–”

“That’s good. A baby should have a father. God knows Erin might have turned out better if she’d had a chance to know our dad.”

“I–”

“You’ll have to give up your apartment, probably. Unless Tango’s going to help out. That would be nice. Uncle Tango.”

“Samantha.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears flooded her eyes, blurred his face across from her. “I asked you so many times what was wrong. I knew you were preoccupied and worried.” She sniffed and had to dash at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I…” He struggled for words, his voice clogged and heavy. “I was…shit, Sam, I was afraid. I thought if I told you you’d walk away.”

“What were you going to do?” she asked through her tears. “Wait until it was born and just bring it home one day?”

“I thought you liked kids.”

She bit her lip, pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. “I do. You know I do. That isn’t the point.”

“You don’t want my kid,” he guessed.

Flooded with a burst of anger, she slapped her hands down on the tabletop. “Of course I want your kid. I love you, Aidan. Why wouldn’t I want it?” She needed more air, and it was so hard to pull it into her lungs. “If you’d told me from the beginning, if you’d let me know up front…But you lied to me,” she ended on a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Completely miserable, he dragged out a chair and fell into it. “Sam,” he said helplessly. “I didn’t…I couldn’t…”

“You chased after me when I wanted to run away, but you couldn’t tell me.”

His big dark eyes, always so sharp, mischievous, and cutting, would haunt her for months, the total open devastation in them, the glazing of tears. “It doesn’t change anything that happened with us. I chased you because I wanted you. You, Sam, and nobody else. Everything we did, everything we said, I was there.” He took a big breath. “I’m all in, baby. All the way. I swear to you.”

Sam stared at him a long moment, gathering her spilled tears with her fingertips, getting her breathing under control. “Do you love me?” she asked.

His eye contact never wavered. “Yeah. I love you.”

It gave her a small strange comfort that it had taken a moment of high emotions to bring those words out of him. They hadn’t been said glibly just before a kiss as a way to lure her. She didn’t doubt their sincerity.

But she doubted completely his ability to understand that with love came a responsibility. When someone gave you her heart, you couldn’t drop it carelessly in a lint-filled pocket and treat it like something disposable. The lack of consideration cut her to the quick.

One more big breath. She didn’t try to keep the emotion from her voice. “I saw her today. Tonya. I saw her with all her expensive finery, cold as marble, heartless and bitchy and cruel, not caring even a little bit about the baby she’s carrying…and I think about that baby being yours, about a piece of you inside that woman. I don’t care if it’s old fashioned – it breaks my heart to think that she’s the one having your baby. To know that you had to have her before you finally saw me…”

He reached across the table. “Sam.”

She leaned back. “And then you couldn’t even be honest with me. You don’t love me enough to tell me about your child.” She shook her head. “Club life is dangerous, and I know you’re at risk. And you’re having a baby, and I can accept that; I can love it, because it’s yours, and because it’s an innocent in all this. I can take almost anything, Aidan, but I can’t take knowing that you’re going to jerk me around.”

“I’m not doing that. Not on purpose.”

“But don’t you get it? You can’t blunder through life one accident at a time. I won’t let myself be another of your accidents. When are you going to grow up? When the baby comes? After? Never?”

He shoved up from the table and rushed around it to get to her. She tried to leave her chair, but he was on her, lifting her up and enfolding her in his arms, trapping her against his chest. He smelled like the garage and the cold November sky outside, and she almost allowed herself to slump against him.

She stayed stiff, though.

They stood there for what felt like a long time, his ragged breath stirring her hair, his heart pounding against her breasts.

“No,” he whispered. “Sam, no. Don’t do this, baby. Please.”

She started crying again, unable to stop herself. “You have to grow up,” she whispered back. “I love you, and I don’t know how not to love you, but God, you have to straighten yourself out, Aidan. If you can’t do it for me, do it for the baby.”

The back door opened. Surprised, Aidan turned that way, arms loosening enough for Sam to duck away, go around the table and put some distance between them.

Helen stood in the threshold, arms full of grocery bags, gaze concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine, Mom. Here, let me take those.” Sam went for the bags.

“Sam,” Aidan said.

She didn’t look at him because she couldn’t. It was bad enough her mom was gaping at her mascara streaks. She didn’t need to puddle to the floor and weep.

“You should go,” she told him. “Please.”

A deep inner voice cried for him to resist, to stay.

“Samantha, what’s wrong?” Helen asked.

Aidan made a sound in his throat, part-fury, part-anguish. And then he left, booted footfalls heavy across the linoleum. The sharp snort of his bike starting up in the drive ripped across her heart.

For the first time since her father died, she cried and let her mother hold her.

Twenty-Four

It was dinnertime, and certainly not the right time to pay anyone a visit.

Aidan didn’t give a shit.

Ava tried to deliver a warning, when he called and demanded Tonya’s new address, the mini mansion where she lived with her parents. “Aidan, what are you–” He hung up on her.

The Sinclair house was a formless shape in the dark, an unbelievable mass of lit windows and shadowed roof angles. His tailpipes echoed off the tidy row of hedges at the curb, angry and out of place in this neighborhood.

He leaned over and jammed the intercom button with the side of his fist when he pulled up to the massive wrought iron gates. The thing hissed. “Yes?” a voice said, managing to sound superior with just one word.

“I wanna talk to Tonya,” Aidan said, “and if you gimme a buncha shit, or try to tell me she’s not here, I’ll go door-to-door and introduce myself as her fiancé to every one of these goddamn neighbors.”

There was a pause, then the gates began to slide back with a low grating sound. “Come in.”

A butler in a sweater vest met him at the grand front doors. “Sir,” he greeted stiffly, proving himself the owner of the intercom voice.

Aidan didn’t pause to wipe his feet or gather his bearings, but charged into an entrance hall worthy of a five-star hotel. “Where is she?”

“In the library, sir.”

He took four steps down the hall, realized he had no idea where he was going, and ground his teeth in frustration.

“If you’ll follow me,” the butler said, stepping around him and leading the way.

The house was even more expensive and massive than he’d thought. They passed room after room that seemed to serve no purpose other than to display costly furniture and knickknacks. They went through an open, airy space walled with windows that might have been a living room in an ordinary home, if the TV above the mantel was any indication.

Aidan felt the blood pounding in his ears, his lips, the high points of his cheekbones he knew were flushed with anger. Baby or no baby, all he wanted at the moment was to wring Tonya’s pretty neck.

Finally, they arrived at a set of open doors and the butler led him into a two-story room lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. Tonya was curled up in a chair beside the fireplace, a roaring fire casting light and shadows across her face. She seemed delicate and lovely in that moment. If he’d had the patience, he might have thought she almost looked human just then.

But he knew she was all harpy.

The butler cleared his throat. “Miss Tonya,” he began, and Aidan cut him off.

“Leave,” he said, in a tone that reminded him of his father. “Now.”

The man obeyed, moving silently across the carpet.

Tonya’s stare wasn’t as cold as she must have wanted it to be. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but Aidan swore he saw a flash of fear. Good. He wanted her to be afraid of something for a change.

She’d been reading a book and closed it slowly as he approached. “Your sister gave you the address,” she guessed.

He braced a hand on the high back of her chair and leaned into her space, forcing her head to tilt back. “What the fuck did you say to my old lady?”

She blinked. Yes, she was decidedly scared. “Old lady? That was fast.”

“I’m not fucking around, Tonya. What did you say to her?”

She tried to shrug, but the effect was ruined by the angle of her neck. “That I was pregnant, and that you were the father.”

“I know that. Why did you say it? How the hell did that even come up?”

He saw the wheels turning behind her eyes, the way she was trying to put some kind of spin on it.

“You were being a nasty bitch, weren’t you? Thought you’d hurt me by hurting Sam? Is that it?”

“I–”

He hated her, in that moment. Absolutely hated. His hand moved before he could check the impulse, fingers going around her slender white throat. He caught himself, didn’t squeeze. But held her, passed his thumb across her windpipe.

She gasped.

“You have everything,” he seethed. “Look at this house, that fancy-ass apartment, your car. Daddy’s money, a rich fiancé. Look at it. All of it.” He gave her a small shake and her eyes flew wide. “You have everything. And I’ve got nothing!” he hissed. “But I had Sam, and you couldn’t stand that, could you? You had to take her away from me!”

“Aidan!” She grabbed at the back of his hand, sunk her nails into his skin.

He released her and spun away, put his back to her, rubbed at his face and willed himself to keep it together. He couldn’t choke her, bad as he wanted to. She was carrying his child…

“Christ,” he whispered. “Oh, fuck.”

Behind him, Tonya’s breathing was erratic. He waited for an insult, but it never came. He’d finally rattled her.

Slowly, he turned back around, took in her frightened expression, her hands held loosely around the base of her throat. “Why?” he asked. “You’re getting everything you want. Why take something good away from me?”

She blinked a few times and seemed to compose herself. “She broke up with you?”

“She…” Had she? He didn’t know. She wanted him to grow up. She wished she were the one having his baby instead. “You broke her heart,” he said, and knew that was true. “Was it fun?”

“Do you even want this baby?” she countered.

“What?”

“Do you want it?” Some of her temper was coming back, but in a more collected way. “You mother and sister said you did, but where have you been? Where’s your voice in all this?”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Very. I’m supposed to hand this child over to you in a few months, and you haven’t even begun to step up. I told your girlfriend I was pregnant because she needed to know. Maybe that seems cruel, but it’s no more cruel that you hiding it from her.”

“You…” Words failed him. For the second time that evening, a woman had highlighted his sins in neon colors. But one had done it in love and anguish, the other in bitterness.

He drew himself up taller, scowled at her. “You’re a nasty bitch. I mean, real nasty, first rate hell-worthy bitch. You treated me like shit, like I was worse than a dog, like I was gum on the bottom of your shoe.”

She made a face, shocked.

“I didn’t mean to knock you up,” he went on, feeling bolder. “And I’m sorry about that, I am, but we were both there, and you wanted it even more than I did.”

“I–”

“Shut up, for once in your damn life. You might be richer than me, and smarter than me, but you’re not better than me. You’re sure as hell not better than Sam, who’s the sweetest person I’ve met, and who you hurt bad today. Fucking shame on you for that. I hate you for that.”

She made a protesting sound.

“But I want the baby,” he said, and for the first time, by speaking the words, he knew without question that he really did want it. He could lay claim to few things in life, but that baby was his blood, his legacy. His. He’d no doubt be the shittiest father on record, but he’d known since the moment she showed him the sonogram that he had to have that little life. “I do,” he said, voice growing stronger. “So you’re gonna have to get the fuck over yourself. After it’s born, I hope I don’t ever see you again, but until then, you’re gonna keep me in the loop, and you’re gonna stop being such a damn bitch.”

She stared at him.

“Do you understand me?”

A long moment passed before she nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

~*~

No amount of makeup could disguise the dark circles beneath her eyes the next morning, but Sam spent fifteen minutes in front of the bathroom trying to do just that. She looked pale and hollow, much like she felt.

Fitting.

Aidan called five times and she let it go to voicemail, phone vibrating silently in her pocket, making her want to cry.

Ava showed up during her office hours, without her boys for once, somber in her long black coat and heavy boots.

“Sam,” she said without preamble, taking the chair opposite the desk. “You have to know that this is killing him.”

Sam opened her mouth, and a sudden sob threatened to strangle her. She swallowed a few times, blinked. “You think it’s not killing me?”

“I know it is,” Ava said with complete sympathy.

“You knew, didn’t you? About the baby?”

Ava’s guilty look was enough, but she nodded. “He asked me not to tell you. He wanted to wait until the right time, but I told him…” She shook her head. “Damn, what a mess.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ava sighed. “Mom and I are handling Tonya. You won’t ever have to deal with her.”

Sam sat back. “Do you think I’m such a pushover that I’m just going to go along with this?”

Ava looked wounded, surprised. “No, but you and Aidan. You’re not breaking up with him. Are you…?”

“I don’t know.” Sam stared down into her lap. “I love him…God, I do. But I need some time.”

A beat, then, “You can have some time,” Ava said quietly. “But he loves you too.”

~*~

It wasn’t smart to smoke and work on gasoline-powered machines, but Aidan had to light one cig after the next: the only thing keeping him sane. He’d wanted to get trashed last night and sleep all day. Instead, he’d gone to bed, awakened, and clocked in ten minutes early. Baby coming. That meant he had to work regular hours and earn his full paycheck. It meant he couldn’t sit around and feel sorry for himself about Sam.

Even if he wanted to scream and howl.

She hadn’t returned any of his calls, but he kept calling. Voicemail after voicemail. “Baby, call me back, please. I want to talk to you.”

He worked with furious focus, the tools clattering loudly onto the concrete as he set down one and picked up another. He almost didn’t notice Tango leaving, but caught a flash of white that was his friend’s shirt and glanced that way.

Tango was pulling a hoodie down over his garage shirt; he’d washed the dirt and grease off his hands, and when the hoodie was in place, he tidied his hair.

“Going somewhere?” Aidan asked.

Tango wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Lunch.”

Aidan didn’t have any patience at the moment. “Another of those long lunches, clear across town?”

“You worry about your own long lunches.”

This wasn’t normal, them sniping at one another.

“Do what you want,” Aidan muttered, turning back to his bike.

“I will,” Tango said, more defiant than he’d ever been, and walked out of the garage.

~*~

“You shouldn’t be going off on your own so much,” Ghost had told him a few weeks ago. Tango figured the sternness in the man’s voice had more to do with his destination than his solitude. So for a while he’d tried to sneak away, tried to make up excuses, tried not to be away for too long.

But something had snapped inside him on Halloween, one last tiny bone in his heart giving way, and he just didn’t care anymore. Let them talk, wonder, and worry. He was fast running out of the ability to give a damn. About anything.

He traveled through the heart of the city and toward Ian’s high rise at a reckless clip, changing lanes, weaving, the wind scraping his face raw.

He was turning right on a red light when he spotted the car tailing him. Black Caddy, like Maggie’s, but newer. It followed him through two turns. After the third, he got concerned. He took a detour, swooping down a narrow side street.

The Cadillac followed.

Okay, time to ditch whoever this was. He cranked the throttle and swerved hard right into the next turn, down a small street, gunning for the intersection ahead.

When asked later, he’d have the most distinct memory of the black Escalade rolling across both lanes up ahead, blocking him. It was then that he remembered Ghost’s words, and that he was wearing his colors…and that Ellison’s crew drove Caddies.

Twenty-Five

Whitney Howard clicked the Shut Down icon on her computer screen and felt her pulse scatter. It was official now. All afternoon, as the seconds clicked excruciatingly past on the white face of the clock above the water cooler, she’d been able to pretend that this evening was a bad dream, and nothing more. The day had dragged, and she knew her smiles had been brittle. Karen and Jill in the neighboring cubicles had bitten at their lips and given her curious glances, knowing something was wrong, but too polite to pressure her. They were just acquaintances, here at work, and not true friends.

But suddenly, her computer screen went blank, there was nothing else to do at her desk, and this was happening. This. Her fool’s errand.

Her palms were slick; her breathing was erratic. She swore she felt the fat bundle of cash, solid and heavy as a brick weighing down the purse in her lap.

Her gaze slid to the framed photo beside her computer. Her brother, Jason, his cute, plump wife, Madelyn, and their two girls, Charlotte and Ashley. Jason was tan and lean and handsome in the picture, on that May afternoon three years ago, at the barbecue where Madelyn had tried to set Whitney up with a dull-faced coworker. Three years – before the car accident, before the pain pills…the heroin. Before Jason had flushed his entire life down the john.

Jason was the reason for the cash in her purse, her entire life savings – which was fairly impressive for a twenty-year-old paper pusher, if she said so. Jason was the reason for the phone call she’d received two days ago: “You have forty-eight hours to come up with the cash your brother owes me, or I’ll start sending him home to his wife in pieces.”

What could she do? She had no parents, no husband, no children…not even a cat at home. And Jason had a family who depended upon him…even if he was a junkie. She’d made peace with that, finally, whispering the word to herself. Junkie. Her brother was a junkie, and he was going to be hacked to bits if she didn’t take money to the address the man on the phone had given her.

Whitney pulled in a deep breath and got to her feet. Her legs almost gave out, weak as water with nerves. But she made herself walk down the row of cubicles and hit the elevator button.

“Heading out?” Mark asked, appearing beside her, making her jump. “Whoa, you okay?”

She glanced over at her coworker, his round freckled face and his headful of carrot orange hair. “I’m fine.” She forced a smile that crumbled.

“You don’t look so good,” he said with his usual honesty. He was one of the kindest people she knew, but had a knack for awkward observations. “Are you coming down with something?”

“I don’t think so. Just tired is all.” Just terrified is all, more like it.

Mark reached up to touch her forehead with the back of his hand, motherly concern shining in his eyes. “You sure?”

She smiled, for real this time. “I’m sure.”

They rode down in the elevator together and Mark proved a great distraction, telling her about the date he had coming up on Friday, a gamer chick he met online playing World of Warcraft. She laughed along with him as he described his perilous journey to the mall to find a new outfit for the occasion, and she assured him it would go well, and that his date would find him “completely charming.” He blushed at the praise, going red beneath his freckles.

Mark walked her to her car in the dark lot, ensured she was safely inside with the doors locked, and waved before he headed off to his own ride.

Then she was alone with her fear again.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to the dash. “It’s going to be okay.” She cranked the engine and took off.

Fifteen minutes later found her in a seedy part of town with flickering streetlamps and chain link fences, pedestrians lounging suspiciously back against parked cars as she crawled through the residential streets. She’d expected the address to belong to a business of some sort, but instead, 4657 was a small white clapboard house with a narrow front stoop and a carport.

“No,” Whitney said to herself, shaking her head violently back and forth. “Oh no. Hell no.”

She watched movies. She’d seen innumerable episodes of CSI in syndication. Money drops were made in public places, shopping bags placed in trash cans; envelopes left in restaurant booths while shady men watched from over at the bar. They didn’t happen in tumbledown houses in bad parts of the city. She wasn’t going in there. She wasn’t. She’d never come back out.

But what about Jason? Madelyn? The girls? Their lives – their life together as a family – was worth more than her own. Yes. But the answer couldn’t be approaching this house. She’d call the number back, demand a different meeting place; she’d call the police right now and have them descend on this location, bust down the door with their ram and haul her brother out of whatever back room he was being held in.

She was reaching for her iPhone in the cup holder when someone knocked on her driver’s side window.

Whitney swallowed a startled shriek, head whipping around.

A man loomed beyond the window, dressed in dark clothes, face obscured by shadows. “Put the phone down,” he said, voice penetrating the thin glass.

She froze, but didn’t comply. This was such a stupid damn mess…

“Put the phone down!” he shouted, and then she saw the silhouette of the gun in his hand.

Okay. No arguing with that. She dropped her phone into her open purse and showed him her pale palms.

“Open the door.”

She undid the locks and popped the latch, and he opened it wide, cold air funneling into the car, bringing with it the sour, sweaty smell of the man standing above her.

“You the sister?” he demanded.

She had to swallow before her tongue would work. “I’m Jason Howard’s sister, yes.”

“Did you bring it?”

“The money? Yes.” She reached toward her purse.

“Hands where I can see them!”

“Okay, okay.” She took a deep, shaky breath through her mouth. “Please…” Her chest tightened with panic. “Please just take it. I can wait here for my brother.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Get out.”

~*~

Inside the small, grubby house, Whitney stood beneath the gaze of two heavy-bodied armed men, while a third counted out the bills she’d brought on the kitchen table. The man doing the counting was smaller than the other two, clearly hired for his brains rather than his brawn, a slight bald patch on his head glowing and greasy beneath the overhead lights. She latched her hands together on the handle of her purse and tried to ignore the droplets of perspiration rolling down her back, beneath her clothes. She prayed and prayed, and then prayed some more. She should have gone to church when her grandmother was still alive and urging her to go, she reflected. Maybe she’d be better at praying.

The room was silent save for the soft whispers of each bill settling onto the table. One after the next. And then they stopped, and the man looked up at her, two neat stacks in front of him. All the money she had in the world.

“You’re short,” he said.

Panic lanced through her. “W-what? Are you sure? I-I counted. I counted it twice. Six-thousand, seven-hundred. It’s all there.”

He gave her a small, grim smile, flashing nicotine stained teeth. “That’s supposed to be seven-thousand, seven-hundred, sweetheart.”

“What?” A low buzzing started up in her ears. “No, there has to be some mistake. On the phone, he said six. I heard six…”

“You heard wrong.”

~*~

He no longer had to wonder what it was like to be behind bars. Maybe because he was no good at being an outlaw, because he was too careful, because he was a pussy, Tango had never even spent one night in lockup. Funny, because of all his brothers, he was the one best equipped to get put away and deal with all the indignities prison entailed.

But this wasn’t prison, where there were guards, gang alliances, and at least some semblance of order. He had a hard bunk, and a toilet, but this was some place of Don Ellison’s design. No club brothers on the inside to join up with, no trading cigs for protection, no flashlights and nightsticks to come to the rescue.

The hard chill of the concrete floor was seeping through the seat of his jeans, slowly lowering his body temp until he began to shiver. His cell was wall to the right, to the back, a view of another cell through the bars to his left. And of course the bars straight ahead, hard stainless steel, not even wide enough to allow his arm passage.

He’d come to in here, head throbbing from the blow to the back of it, the memories of his assault fuzzy at the edges. That SUV, and the car behind, men emptying out of both and blocking his path. He’d resisted, but he was just one against many, and fighting hand-to-hand had never been his strong suit. Now, if they’d wanted lap dances…

He groaned and wiped his hands down his face. He was a hostage. Damn it.

A sound somewhere above him, like a door scraping back. Footfalls, breathing echoing off the concrete. Dread coiled tight in his belly as he listened to a descent and then an approach. They were coming for him so soon. He knew what that meant.

But then two goons came into view, a captive held between them, a small, shuffling girl with a mane of dark hair hiding her face, her head downcast. She was dressed in jeans, tall boots, and a brown blazer that was smudged and torn at one front pocket, like they’d been rough with her.

Her guards marched her into the cell beside him, shoved her roughly down, and locked the door, neither of them sparing him a look as they left again. More footfalls, scrape of the door again. And then it was quiet, save the shuddering draw of breath in the cell beside him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, like a total idiot. But he had to say something to the poor girl.

She sat up, slowly, as if she were sore, gathered her legs in front of her, and pushed her hair back. She was very pretty, and very young. Very young. Her eyes were full of tears, but there was no evidence that any had slipped down her face. She took another deep breath and glanced over at him, wary.

“Not really,” she said.

“Me neither.”

She dashed the back of her hand beneath her nose. “Why are you here?”

“Hostage. You?”

“Same. Do you know where we are?”

“No idea.”

She sighed. “Damn.” Her eyes flitted over again. In a semblance of unnecessary bravery, she said, “I’m Whitney.”

He almost smiled. “Kev.”

Twenty-Six

Aidan kicked one of their crappy kitchen chairs and spun away from it in frustration.

“…leave a message.” Beep.

“Kev,” he snapped into his phone, “this is the third fucking message I’ve left you. If you wanna just live with that uptight tea-and-crumpets bastard, whatever, that’s your business. But you didn’t drop rent with the super and he screamed at my ass when I got home.” Beneath his tirade simmered a worry that doubled by the minute. Tango had never come back to work, no call, no text, no explanation. “Call me back, damn it,” he said, and disconnected.

Hope spiked as the apartment door opened, then dimmed when he saw it was Carter.

They shared a moment of oh-it’s-you eye contact before Carter turned to shut the door.

“I forgot you live here,” Aidan said. “How ‘bout doing your laundry some of the damn time.” He toed at an overflowing basket of clothes behind the recliner. “Or cutting a damn rent check for once.”

When Carter turned back, he was wearing that perma-scowl he had on these days. “Something you wanna say to me?”

“I just said it. Get the hell over yourself, you damn girl. I apologized for what happened to Jazz. To her. I don’t owe you shit.”

Carter folded his arms, bowed up his spine, all big-man-ready-for-a-throwdown.

Aidan rolled his eyes. “Jesus. What, are you in love with her or something?”

No answer, just a silent grinding of the guy’s jaw.

Aidan released a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Shit.” He dropped down into the recliner, tense all over and tired of keeping his feet. “You are, aren’t you? Bro, are you that easy? A few times bumping uglies and you’re ready to fight people over her?”

“You hurt–” Carter started.

Aidan cut him off. “I can promise you, I’m not the first one to hurt Jasmine, I’m just the first one to do it on accident.” He gave him a meaningful look and watched some of the angry color drain from the boy’s face. That’s what he was, after all: a boy. It was easy to forget that he was the same age as Ava, because Ava had always been fifty-years-old at heart and currently played the role of wife and mother and smarty-pants author. But Carter was still so young on the inside, and it was showing now.

Aidan sighed and softened his tone. “I really didn’t mean to hurt Jazz. You’ve gotta believe me. I’ve been…a little out of my head lately.”

Carter sank down slowly on their sofa.

“It was wrong what I did. No excuses, and I did apologize to her. I’m sorry if it still bothers her. Does it?”

Looking reluctant, like he was holding onto this stubborn grudge, Carter finally nodded. “Yeah. At the party, I walked up on Candyman talking to her, and she was…she’s not right.”

“Lemme guess. Jockstrap to the rescue?”

“Dude…”

Aidan held up his hands. I’ll back off. “Fair warning, though. Jazz ain’t exactly Cinderella waiting on her prince. Don’t get your hopes up too high, kid. The fall back down always hurts harder than you think it will.”

Carter’s brows lifted. “Speaking from experience?”

He thought of Sam and his gut clenched; his throat tightened. Jesus, Sam… “Probably.”

~*~

Sam always graded papers with a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Not tonight. She didn’t have the heart for routine. She was achy all over, physically pained every time she remembered asking Aidan to leave – and that memory came once every two seconds. So she folded herself beneath a fleece blanket on her bed with a glass of wine to read through the latest batch of student journal entries.

A soft knock sounded at her door. “Come in,” she said, thinking it was Mom.

It was Erin. The girl’s face was scrubbed clean of makeup, beautiful and youthful in a way she hadn’t been in so long. Her expression was unexpected, almost careful, as she peeked around the door.

“Sam?”

“Hi.” Sam set the papers down in her lap. “What’s up?”

“You weren’t downstairs when I got home.”

It was a surprise to know that Erin had noticed or cared. “Yeah, um…I’m up here instead.”

Erin eased the door open wider and came in, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside the bed. Clearly, the disruption in routine had shaken her.

With a jolt, Sam realized she was the stern parental figure in the house. And like with any child, a parent out of whack threw the whole household out of whack.

Sam sat up straighter and set her wine aside on the nightstand. “What’s wrong?”

Erin glanced at her, then away, then back again, chewing at her lip. “Yesterday…I’ve never seen you like that. It…” It had scared her, obviously. “Sam, what happened?”

To be honest? Or to shield a teenager from painful real life truths?

Honesty won out.

Sam gathered a deep breath, willed herself not to break apart as she told the story. “You remember the dark-haired woman who came up beside me at the fence?”

Erin nodded.

“Well, Aidan was with her before he was with me. And she’s…” God, it hurt, it hurt so bad. “She’s pregnant. And she told me, and I…”

“She’s pregnant…with Aidan’s baby?”

“Yes.”

“Holy sh–” She shook her head. “Oh my God. Like, for real? Is he gonna get back with her? Is…”

Sam held up a hand. “According to him, he’s done with her, and was before he ever went out with me, but…” It was so hard to make herself sound dignified in all this. She fell silent.

“So you broke up with him?”

“More or less.”

It was silent a beat. “But you really like him,” Erin said.

“Yeah. I really do.” I love him.

“Did he cheat on you?”

“No.” At least, she was pretty sure he hadn’t. There had been nothing fake about the tears in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice yesterday. He’d been devastated, just as she was.

“And he’d really broken up with her before he was with you?” Erin asked.

“Yes.”

“So…why is her having a baby such a big deal?”

Sam blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you really care if he has a baby with someone else?” Erin looked up at her with an eerie common-sense stare.

“The baby’s not a big deal at all,” Sam said, without thinking, and the truth closed over her hard. For a second there, looking at Erin, she’d wondered if she’d made a horrible mistake. But then she remembered – it wasn’t about the baby, it was about him not stepping up to the plate and being a man about the baby with her.

Eyes burning with tears, Sam said, “He has to grow up, and I’m just afraid he can’t do that while I’m around.”

~*~

The next morning, Maggie sorted through the mail at her desk. Bill, bill, bill, bike magazine, bill…

A fat manila envelope remained on the blotter, addressed simply to “The Lean Dogs,” with no stamp or return address. Someone had stuck it in their mailbox by hand.

A little shiver crawled down her spine as she tore the flap and pulled out the contents.

They were photos: Tango with his hands bound behind his back, blood trickling from a split lip, sitting on a dark concrete floor. A note: We have something of yours.

~*~

Aidan got to the shop early. He hadn’t been able to sleep, hadn’t felt like drinking himself into a stupor, and was restless as all hell. Tango still wasn’t answering his phone – it now went straight to voicemail – and he figured Sam didn’t want another idiotic message left. With nothing else to do, and a baby on the way, he decided OT was his best option.

A small huddle of people stood outside the cinched bike shop doors, under the glow of the overhead security light. Anxiety prickled down his arms as he swung off his bike.

“What’s going on?”

The huddle dispersed, and revealed Maggie, Ghost, and Walsh – the only people ever in at Dartmoor this early, but three people who decidedly didn’t clock any time here at the shop.

Ghost had an envelope in his hands and he passed it over as Aidan reached them. Maggie’s expression was tight. Walsh looked like Walsh.

“In the mailbox this morning,” Ghost explained.

A photo slid out. We have something of yours.

~*~

“What’s this about?” Candy asked around a yawn as they all crowded into the chapel, coffee mugs in hands.

“Emergency,” Ghost said in a tight voice. “Everybody sit down.”

Aidan was already in his chair, drumming his fingers on the glossy old wood of the table. He hadn’t touched his coffee because he didn’t need it; seeing that photo of his best friend had blasted away the last vapors of fatigue. Guilt made it hard to catch his breath. All this time Tango had been destroying himself, one visit at a time with Ian, distancing himself from the club, putting himself in danger out in the far reaches of the city alone. And Aidan hadn’t intervened once. Too wrapped up in his own head, too selfish, too preoccupied with his own shit, when he knew that Tango was two steps away from falling back into darkness at any given moment.

With a final shuffling and scraping of chair legs, everyone got settled, and Ghost didn’t waste any time. He slapped the photo of Tango down in the center of the table.

Everyone pitched forward to get a glimpse of it. Curses. Hisses.

Mercy’s face turned to granite. “Ellison,” he said.

“Ellison,” Ghost repeated.

“How the hell’d they get ahold of him?” Hound asked.

“He’s been distracted lately,” Ghost said in a guarded voice. “And hasn’t been careful. Been spending too much time out alone on the road.” His eyes slid over to Aidan, a silent communication. Only three of them knew all of Tango’s story, and it was going to stay that way, even if they had to lie to their brothers.

~*~

Sam stepped out of her classroom, juggling her bags…and almost ran right into Aidan. She pulled up short with a startled gasp. “Shit.”

“Profs should set a better example for their students than that, Miss Walton,” he said, but his tone was off, his expression too serious. Any pretenses of a smile dropped away and he stepped away from the wall, squaring off from her. “Are you okay?”

“At this moment? Not really.” Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs and all she wanted to do was fling her arms around him. “But in the grand scheme of things, yes, I’m okay.”

His eyes were so deep, and brown, and gorgeous as they drilled into hers, managing warmth and seriousness all at once. “I came by,” he said, “to tell you that there’s some things going on with the club that are–”

“Dangerous.”

He nodded. “And I don’t want you to be afraid, but I want you to be really careful. And alert. Keep an eye out for anything that doesn’t seem right, and call me if you get freaked out for even a second.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head, expression grim. “Just promise you’ll be careful, and you’ll call.”

She studied his face a long moment, tracking the familiar planes and angles, the little lines around his eyes. Something was different, something she couldn’t put her finger on, something internal.

She nodded. “Okay, I promise.”

He pressed a fast kiss to her lips before she could protest and pulled away, walking off without a backward glance.

Twenty-Seven

Whitney, Tango had learned, was twenty-years-old, owned a secondhand iPhone, and worked at a customer service call center. She had two nieces, a sister-in-law who made a mean baked ziti, and a heroin-addicted older brother who was the reason she was currently locked in a cell.

She shook her head. “I don’t blame Jason,” she said of her brother. “He isn’t someone who started using recreationally for the fun of it. He was in serious pain and the doctors wouldn’t give him the meds anymore because, well” – she shrugged – “he was addicted to those, too. So he turned to H, and…” She trailed off, playing with the buttons of her blazer.

She glanced over at Tango through the bars and offered him the sort of shy smile people felt compelled to give when they were trapped in awkward situations with strangers. “You probably think I sound like an idiot.”

He smiled back, because her face was sweet, and because he appreciated the way she was covering her terror with Southern composure. “No,” he assured. “I think you sound like a good sister.”

“But a stupid one.” She took a deep breath and the fear stood out in her eyes; it was too big to hide completely. “They said they let Jason go. That he’s supposed to get the rest of the money together and come back for me.” She caught her lip between her teeth and bit down hard.

“I’m sure he will.” Tango didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re very nice, but you’re a bad liar.”

“Well, yeah, pretty much.”

They shared a miserable grin.

Whitney took another big breath and said, “So, what do you do for a living? I’m guessing you’re some kind of super cool rockstar what with” – she gestured to her own hair and ears – “all of the style.”

“Prepare to be disappointed. I’m a motorcycle mechanic.”

“Who said that wasn’t super cool?” Her smile became truer. “Do you have your own bike?”

“A Harley Dyna Superglide.”

She sat up straighter against the wall, eyes sparkling. “Ooh, you’re a Lean Dog, aren’t you?”

Was there any harm in admitting that to her? Probably not, he decided. “Um…yeah. I am.”

“No way!” She laughed in delight. “When I was a little girl, my dad used to put me up on his shoulders so I could see you guys go down the street.”

When you were a little girl? Tango thought. Aren’t you still? He said, “Well, I wasn’t around then, I’m sure. I was” – stripping and turning tricks – “in school.”

“So I’ve probably seen you on the road recently,” she said, undeterred. She didn’t really look starry-eyed and adoring, but delighted. This was a nice diversion for her, he realized, so he would indulge.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Did you see us on Halloween? We had a whole big ride through the city, old ladies and everything.”

Her nose scrunched up and it was cute. “Do you guys really call your wives ‘old ladies’? I thought that was only on TV.”

“Nope. We really do it.”

She laughed, and then it died suddenly. “Oh no. Yours must be worried sick about you. God, here I am feeling sorry for myself, and you’ve got a wife waiting on you–”

He held up his left hand to cut her off, showing her the bare, tattooed backs of his fingers, the lack of a ring. “I’m not married,” he said. “Nobody’s waiting on me.” It was the truth, and he was currently being held in a private prison God knew where, but for some reason, the words pained him.

Whitney drew her legs up, looped her arms around them and rested her chin on one knee. “I bet that’s not true,” she said quietly. “Even if you don’t have an old lady, I bet someone’s waiting on you. The rest of the Dogs?” she guessed.

It was a small kindness, and the only one she could offer in their bare, adjoining cells, but it made the corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

The door opened above them, and he heard the sharp way she stopped breathing, felt his own lungs seize. In his mind he imagined a cold concrete stairwell; he’d been unconscious when they’d brought him in, but he could construct the stairs, the door, the heavy boots of the men in his imagination.

Three men appeared in front of their cells. Two faceless, muscled thugs. And a medium-sized man with a face of generalities: regular nose, unremarkable brown eyes, thin mouth set evenly above a normal-looking chin. He was a sketch artist’s nightmare, this man, with nothing notable at all to his appearance, not even his soft brown hair. As he stared through the bars, Tango felt a hard shudder move down his back. The longer he looked at the man, the more his bland countenance became unnerving. He was so nondescript as to be perfect; he was nothing and no one by careful design. An unmarked PI car of a human being. Like he wore a camouflage mask over what must be a normal face beneath.

“You,” the man said, and the thugs slid Tango’s door back. “It’s time to make a phone call.”

“Oh God,” Whitney said, voice a tight whisper.

As he got to his feet, Tango threw her a broad fake smile. “Don’t worry, kiddo. There’s nothing I haven’t already lived through.”

~*~

“Hello, Mr. Teague. My name is Bill,” said a modulated voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Bill,” Ghost said, biting down hard on the anger that wanted to bleed into his own voice. He had to play this game; he had to be the president. There was no room here for error – and emotion was never anything but an error. “Can I talk to your boss?”

“No. I’ll be handling this conversation.”

How polite it all was.

Ghost stood in the chapel, the doors shut, flanked by his officers and Mercy. Aidan would have wanted to be here for this, even if all he could do was listen helplessly with the rest of them. But he wasn't back yet, and when this call came through, you didn’t let it go to voicemail.

“Alright.” Ghost put his cellphone on speaker mode and held it in front of him. Michael, Walsh, Ratchet and Mercy crowded close to listen. “You’ve got my attention. Let’s talk.”

Sounds of footsteps on a hard floor, muffled through the phone connection. A shuffling. A rustling. Then Bill again: “I have Kevin Estes with me.”

“I know that,” Ghost said tightly. “Kev, you there?” he asked, just to make sure.

“Yeah, boss. I’m alright.” Tango’s voice was surprisingly steady, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

Mercy folded his arms, massive biceps clenching and releasing with undirected violence.

Ghost felt the same. “You guys want all the rest of your coke back, right?” he said into the phone. “Tell me when and where and we’ll make the swap. Let’s not fuck around here.”

A pause. “Yes, he wants the coke,” Bill said. “But that’s not enough anymore.”

“What?” all of them said at once.

Bill’s voice had a smile to it. “You’re going to pay punitive damages, too, Mr. Teague. To the tune of five-hundred-thousand dollars. Or I will disassemble your boy Kevin piece by piece.”

~*~

Kev was gone for a long time. Whitney stared down at her knees, tracing the buckles of her boots with her fingertips, wanting to do something mindless that grounded her. She was here, she was unharmed…but she was here.

She wondered if Jason was getting the money.

She wondered if he’d abandoned her.

She wondered what they were doing to Kev up there…

She closed her eyes tight and tried not to envision anything. He was sweet, and calm, and he’d been kind to her when he didn’t have to be. At first glimpse, she’d seen the tattoos peeking from beneath his clothes and covering the backs of his fingers; the earrings glittering all down his ears; the hair. But then quickly she’d seen the face beneath it all, the kind blue eyes. He wasn’t scary; he was almost pretty. And for the past however many hours he’d been the only thing keeping her sane.

It seemed like an eternity before she heard the door open. The footsteps that moved toward her were uneven. Someone walking smartly…towing along someone who was having trouble standing.

Oh no.

Kev’s cell door squealed open and he was shoved inside. The door closed with a slam. Kev landed on his hands and knees on the cold concrete, and stayed that way, spine curled, the vertebrae standing out beneath his t-shirt.

His t-shirt that was peppered with blood at the shoulders.

Whitney waited until she heard the upper door close and then she moved, going to the bars that separated their cells, curling her fingers around them. “Kev.”

He breathed rapidly, shallowly, his gasps echoing off the floor beneath him.

“Kev, are you okay?” Her heart began to pound, keeping rhythm with his respiration.

Slowly, he sat back, and she gasped. The blood was coming from his ear, the entire outer edge a mess of red. His earrings were gone; they’d been ripped out, leaving jagged puckers in the skin. He looked like he’d been chewed on by something.

“God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He gave her a smile that was more of a grimace, his eyes glazed over with pain. “It’s always the stuff that doesn’t leave a mark that hurts the worst,” he said, voice faraway. “Remember that.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, forced her voice steady. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.”

“I can,” she insisted. “Come here.”

He stared at her.

“Please.” She slipped her narrow forearm through the bars and held out her hand. “Come here.”

He shuffled over on his knees and then let the bars take his weight. When she reached for his hand with hers, he let her take it, let her squeeze it. He had long-fingered, elegant hands, pale except for the intricate dominoes tattooed on the backs of his fingers.

“I can do this,” she said quietly. “And it’s not much, but it’s something.” At least, she hoped it was. Most likely, outlaw bikers didn’t give a damn about having their hands held.

But Kev didn’t move away, and he rested his head against the bars, close enough for her to smell his fear-sweat, and the fruity gel he’d used to style his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, because she didn’t know what else to do.

He squeezed her fingers. “Thank you.”

Twenty-Eight

Aidan dreamed of money. Floating down out of the heavens, fluttering like fall leaves into his open palms. Half a mil, just what he needed. He counted it, stacked it, bundled it with rubber bands. And then there was Sam, sinking to her knees in front of him, passing her hands up his thighs. “Aidan, I forgive you. Come back to me.”

He woke with the phantom feel of her lips against him, and rolled over to find himself hard, sweating, and utterly desperate, stomach knotted from the stress. All of it was a jumble inside him: desire, grief, worry, fury.

He thought of Tango and that was like dumping cold water into his lap. He hadn’t been at the clubhouse yesterday during the phone call, but Walsh had debriefed him, careful not to say anything inflammatory. It didn’t matter, though. Aidan knew what happened to hostages. He was all too familiar with his brother-in-law’s skillset to be naïve on that front.

He found Carter in the kitchen chugging down a Red Bull. “I’m heading in early,” Aidan said.

“I’ll come with you.”

They were equally subdued. Their brother was being held captive by the enemy; that was a uniting force.

They didn’t even pretend to clock in at the shop when they got to Dartmoor, but went straight to the clubhouse. The common room looked like a busy office: Ratchet chain-smoking and tapping away at his laptop, Walsh on the phone, Ghost on the phone, Candy on the phone.

“Yeah,” Ghost said into his cell and snapped it shut. Then he looked at Aidan. “We’re gathering the money.”

“We gonna have enough?”

“If I have to sell Mags’ car, we’ll make it work.”

“What can I do?”

Ghost shrugged and shook his head.

“He’s my best friend,” Aidan said quietly.

His father gave him a level look. “Yeah, I know that. But I don’t know what to tell you except that we’re working on it.”

And apparently, he wasn’t wanted or needed. He was just the party-hearty fuckup after all, wasn’t he?

His hands shook as he lit up a cigarette on his way back to the shop. Fuck this. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it –

Maggie stepped into his path and he pulled up short and almost swallowed the cig, fumbling to gather himself at the last second.

She put a steadying hand on his arm. She had this way of looking maternal and concerned…and ready to beat so much ass at the same time. He’d always admired that about her, and she looked that way now. “Any news?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Your dad’ll get it sorted.”

“Mags, I really don’t wanna talk about him right now.”

She sighed, but nodded. “Why don’t you come with me? No sense sitting around here and worrying.”

“I was glonna clock in.”

“After we get back,” she insisted. “Tonya’s in her second trimester and she’s got a doctor’s appointment today.”

It felt like someone shoved him, right in the middle of the chest.

“You ready to step up?” Maggie asked.

“I…” No more screwing around. No more being a worthless piece of shit. “Yeah,” he said on an exhale. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

~*~

He’d never been in this wing of the hospital before. When it came to his nephews, he hadn’t become involved until they’d arrived into the world, and the labor and delivery ward wasn’t the same as the OB/Gyn practice. Once he passed through the double doors at Maggie’s side, the hospital fell away, and in its place, a waiting room floored in wood-look tiles, with black and white photography prints on the walls, potted plants, soft lighting, and soothing jazz playing from hidden speakers.

He wanted to make a comment about wishing the rest of the place was this swanky, but there was a lump in his throat.

As if sensing his need for it, Maggie curled her arm around his, giving the impression he was the one supporting her, when the opposite was true. “She knows we’re coming,” she whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

When they reached the desk, Maggie leaned across it to explain their presence to one of the techs.

“Follow me, please,” the young woman said, and came around the desk to lead them through a door, down a hall lined with more black and white prints, to an interior waiting room, this one small and private.

Aidan spied a spread of maternity magazines on one of the coffee tables, alongside a display of brochures with a cartoon uterus on the front.

“You wanna sit?” Maggie asked.

“Not really.”

Maggie sat, jean-clad legs crossing. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now. Right now, this seems like this huge big mess. But I can say with one-hundred percent confidence that you won’t regret keeping your baby.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You never wanted to leave Ava outside the firehouse?”

“Ass. You know I love my baby. I love you. Just like you’ll love yours. But even if–” She couldn’t make herself say it, the idea of him not loving his child too terrible to contemplate. “You would regret giving it up,” she said firmly. “I know you, and you’d hate yourself every day for it.”

Aidan heard the clip of shoes approaching them across the tiles and turned to look.

Tonya was starting to show a little. Not much, because she was lithe and fit, but her clinging shirt belied a slight curve to her belly. Beside her, her mother was the poster child for Elegant Older Ladies.

Maggie stood and came to stand beside him, taking his hand in her warm, strong one. “How’d the appointment go?” she asked in a businesslike voice.

In a matching tone, Tonya’s mother said, “It went well. She and the baby are perfectly healthy.”

A mom-to-mom stare-down of neutral expressions and guarded gazes ensued.

Tonya had a little paper rectangle in her hands. Another photo of some sort, Aidan realized.

“What’s that?” he asked, surprised he was able to get the words out.

She extended it toward him. “It’s for you,” she said in a flat voice. Apparently, he’d knocked all the fight out of her the last time he’d seen her. “You can keep it. It’s the baby.”

A startlingly clear image of the baby this time, no longer a blob, but a life, in unquestionable detail.

“Congratulations,” Tonya said. “It’s a girl.”

Aidan stopped breathing.

Maggie leaned against his shoulder, and her fingers squeezed his as she looked at the image. “A girl,” she breathed. “Your girl, baby.”

Tonya said, “She’ll need a name. Be thinking of one.”

~*~

He hadn’t counted on it hurting this much. The ears, like the fingertips and the ends of the toes, were full of nerves, and the outer edge of his ear stung and pulsed and throbbed. It was making his whole head ache.

He’d had worse, of course he had. A man had taken his virginity at age twelve – and that didn’t count the things that had been done to him in the years preceding. But this still made him clench his teeth. Mostly because he knew there was more to come. Five-hundred grand wasn’t anything Ghost could go withdraw from the bank. And if he were in his president’s shoes, he wasn’t sure he’d roll over so easy.

He held onto the stone solidness of Ghost’s voice over the phone line earlier. “We’re getting you back, Kev. Understand?” And he held onto little Whitney Howard’s hand, like a shameless pussy, because she was small and sweet and she smelled like soft, feminine, comforting things, as her hair flicked through the bars and teased at his face.

“What’s it like?” she asked. “Being a Lean Dog.” And he knew she was seeking to distract him.

He was okay with that. Sitting up a little straighter, but not releasing her hand, he said, “Not that I can speak from experience, but I think it’s like being in one of those great big Italian families.”

“Yeah?” She laughed softly.

“Except nobody’s Italian. Not in Tennessee, anyway. Our New York chapter, yeah. But,” he said, refocusing, “it’s a brotherhood. We’ve got some of the old timers, and the legacies, who are related to the founders. Muscle and brains and the weird awkward ones.” His laugh was a little hollow. “The club is everything,” he said, sobering. “It’s the only thing I’ve got.”

“It sounds like a pretty good thing, though.”

It sort of did, when he laid it out like that. When he didn’t think too hard about where he was.

The outer door opened, up at the top of the concrete stairs.

They both froze. Tango imagined her stomach filled with dread the way his did.

“Get back from the bars,” he told her. When he let go of her hand, the cold air closed over his own. “We don’t want to look weak to them.”

She nodded and scooted toward the center of her cell.

When their captors arrived, they were both quiet and composed, cross-legged on the floor.

Bill the Faceless wasn’t with the two goons this time. That wasn’t a relief.

The two thugs bypassed Tango’s cell at a lazy stroll. Their eyes were on Whitney, and in an instant, the dread in his belly boiled up to become anger, burning back the haze of physical pain. The dogs had been let off the leash…and they’d decided they wanted to play.

One of them whistled, and the other laughed in an unmistakable way as they peered through the bars at Whitney.

“Baby, baby, baby,” one said to the other. “How old you think she is?”

“Betcha she can’t even drink yet,” Number Two responded, voice dark with intent. “Can ya, sweetheart? You even eighteen?”

Tango glanced over at Whitney, saw her wrap her arms around her knees and lift her chin, rebelliously silent.

“Don’t feel like talking?” One said. “Maybe I oughta come in there and see if your tongue’s working.”

Oh shit… Tango’s hands curled into fists.

“Twenty,” Whitney said. “I’m twenty.”

The thugs laughed.

“Just a little piece of veal,” One said.

The sound of the key grating into the lock of her cell door lifted the hair on the back of Tango’s neck. Whitney shot a frantic look toward him, eyes huge – pale blue eyes liquid with fright. It was a look that communicated everything: her terror, her innocence, her panic. Twenty, life only just beginning, and she was about to be violated unspeakably by her captors. It happened every day, all over the country, abuses carried out by sociopathic animals.

But it wasn’t happening on Tango’s watch.

He surged to his feet. “Do you not know who I am?”

“Shut up,” Two said, not interested.

Tango went to the front of his cell, wrapped his fingers around the bars. “No, I don’t think you get it. Do you know who I am?”

They looked over at him, irritated, but distracted from Whitney for a moment. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Those earrings were hooked to his brain,” One suggested. They laughed again.

“You ever heard of The Cuckoo’s Nest?”

You’d either heard of the Nest, or you hadn’t; there was no mistaking it for anyplace else. And clearly, these two had heard. They both stilled, the smiles dropping off their faces.

“I used to work there,” Tango said, and there was nothing true about the word work. His heart pounded as the memories crashed across him. He couldn’t talk about that place without thinking about Miss Carla, about the boys, about Ian, about all of it. “I was one of the features.”

The two guards moved toward him, slowly, a little hesitant, but fascinated.

“You never went in there, did you?” Tango asked. “But you were curious. You thought it was disgusting…but there was that little bit of fascination, wasn’t there?” He was aware of Whitney staring at him, and hated himself as he continued. “You wanna find out?” he asked. “You wanna see one of Miss Carla’s Dancing Boys? Take a good look.”

Thug One walked up to him, glaring down at Tango with utter contempt. He hawked and spat on the concrete. “Shut up, faggot.”

“How many little crying virgin girls have you terrorized?” he taunted them. “Doesn’t that get boring? More of the same, and same, and same. How’s that a challenge? How’s that sport?”

Whitney made a small distressed sound.

Tango delivered his challenge: “You wanna torture somebody? You wanna see who can take it? You start with me.”

Twenty-Nine

It wouldn’t be fair to Erin to deny her riding lessons because of Tonya. So Sam put on her bravest face and drove her sister out to Briar Hall one afternoon after school.

“I swear,” Emmie said, afterward, as Erin was walking Sherman around the arena to cool him down and Em stood beside Sam at the rail. “I had no earthly idea Tonya was pregnant. I would never have put you in that position.”

Sam shrugged, feeling hollow; it was becoming her constant companion, this empty spot in her stomach. “I know you didn’t. It’s nobody’s fault. Except for mine…and Aidan’s.”

“Men are idiots,” Emmie said, tugging at the brim of her baseball cap. She was dressed for her work day, in buff riding breeches, boots, and a sweatshirt beneath a down vest. “Even Walsh, who’s the most intelligent guy I’ve ever met – idiots, all of them.”

“No arguments here.”

Out in the arena, the sun glinted off Erin’s bright ponytail and the horse’s fluffy winter coat. It was a timeless, beautiful picture, girl and horse, loose sand of the arena kicking up beneath their feet. Erin was talking to Sherman, glancing over at him and smiling as she spoke. The big gelding rubbed his ear against her shoulder in answer.

“Sam,” Emmie said, and her voice was different, no longer her officious, no-nonsense instructor tone, but something more personal and feminine.

Sam glanced over at her.

Emmie’s expression was one of deep sympathy. “You might not want to hear this, and that’s your prerogative. I get it. But not very long ago I was the outsider, coming into this crazy biker world, and all the other women had been attached to the club for so long they didn’t remember what it was like to be exposed to the Dogs for the first time.” Her smile was wry. “Walsh and I got off to a rough start, you could say. When I married him, I did it because…well, let’s just say it wasn’t true love propelling us to the altar.”

Sam frowned, curiosity good and piqued. “But you guys are–”

“A perfectly matched set of little blonde salt-and-pepper shakers? Yeah.” She snorted. “But it doesn’t mean it wasn’t rough, and I wasn’t scared, and there weren’t a boatload of miscommunications.” She smiled, and it was eloquent of so many things. “I had a heart-to-heart with myself. And I realized that no matter our issues, I was completely in love with him, and in my life, love was hard to come by.”

Sam fidgeted with the flaking black paint on the fence rail beneath her hands. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Like I said. Idiots. Unfortunately, they can’t stop being idiots just because they love you. It’s part of the whole package, I’m afraid.”

~*~

Walsh got home while she was finishing up with her lesson notes. Emmie heard the bike go past the barn and move up toward the house and frowned to herself, as she jotted in her student journal. Up ‘til now, she hadn’t unloaded on him about the whole Aidan/Sam situation. But after seeing Sam’s devastated face today, she was tired of biting her tongue.

She finished up, closed the office door, shut out the lights – paused a moment to reflect that not so long ago she would have then headed up to the loft apartment to spend the night alone – and started toward the house.

Walsh was in the foyer when she walked in, sorting through the day’s mail at the side table. Her greeting was: “I still can’t believe you didn’t warn me about Tonya and Aidan.”

He glanced up slowly, gave her that mild eyebrow lift she sometimes found sexy…or infuriating. “Wasn’t my business.”

“Oh, bullshit.” He started toward the kitchen, and she followed. “Tonya’s moving her horse to another barn because of it. That’s my business, which makes you obliged to share. And we won’t even mention how humiliated I was when I single-handedly broke the news to Samantha.”

“Think you just mentioned it, love,” he said over his shoulder as they kept walking.

“I told you she was bringing her sister out,” she continued, growing angrier. “You didn’t think a baby was worth mentioning?”

“A baby!” Bea exclaimed as they entered the kitchen.

Oh damn.

Bea pressed her hands to her face, eyes wide with shock and delight. “You’re having a baby?”

“No, Mum,” Walsh said. “We’re not.”

“I’m sorry,” Emmie added when she saw her mother-in-law’s crestfallen expression. “We’re talking about friends.”

“Oh,” Bea said, a wealth of heartbreak in that one word. “I was hoping…” She heaved a deep breath and almost sounded tearful. “I want you two to have a baby…”

Walsh put an arm around her trembling shoulders. “I know, Mum, but you want it to be because we want it, yeah? Not just have a baby to have it.”

Across the island from them, Emmie felt like she’d been shoved. She hadn’t been coy about having children. She’d just turned thirty, and she knew all the medical statistics, knew that if you’d never had a child before, it was imperative that you not wait too long.

She blinked. “Yes,” she said, voice dull, “we wouldn’t want to screw around and accidently get pregnant.”

Walsh glanced toward her…

But she was already leaving the room.

~*~

“What do you want for dinner?” Sam asked as she put the Caprice in park at the curb in front of Leroy’s. “The equestrian gets to pick.”

Erin had helmet hair, and for once in her life didn’t seem to care that she didn’t look her best. She fiddled with her seatbelt. “I want…bacon pasta,” she decreed, chin held at a lofty angle. “With extra parm.”

“But of course, your highness.”

They climbed out of the car rolling their eyes at one another, but feeling sisterly. Sam was still a little shocked by Erin’s visit the other night, the way her little sister, Queen of Bad Decisions, had been so clear-headed about Aidan and the situation with Tonya.

Seeing Emmie today had been good, too. Sam didn’t want to hide and hope it all went away. She had to live her life; she had to push Aidan aside and carry on.

“Go find some crescent rolls,” Sam told Erin when they got inside the store. “I’ll find the pasta and cheese.” And wine, she added silently.

She ought to call Aidan, she decided. They ought to sit down, eat, drink, lay everything out. Because even if she hated what had happened…she could never hate him. She wouldn’t allow herself to fall back into bed with him. No. That would only feed his irresponsibility. But they could be friends. They could…

“Hi, Sam.”

She started, turning around with a jolt as she heard her name. This time she didn’t have to grope for the name of the man standing beside her in the alcohol aisle – she’d seen him recently, after all.

“Greg. Hi.”

He was dressed in jeans and a dark sweatshirt, and held a bottle of whiskey in one hand. His smile was wide, but didn’t touch his eyes. “How are you?” he asked.

A crawling sense of unease tickled up the back of her neck. “Fine. We’re only stopping in for a minute,” she said, hoping to get rid of him. “Just picking up a few things for dinner.”

“Oh, right.” He nodded. “Hey, have you seen Aidan lately?”

That question again. She didn’t like it. A spasm of fear shot through her, and she couldn’t say why, only that it seemed strange.

“No,” she said, “I haven’t. Look, Greg, it’s great to see you, but–”

“Oh, you’re busy. I get it. That’s fine.” Fast, tight grin. “Good to see you again.” And he was gone, walking to the register.

~*~

One phone call and a bacon pasta dinner later, Sam was waiting on the back patio with a glass of white wine, sweater folded tight across her front against the November cold when she heard the bike pull up in her drive. She tensed, braced herself, and Aidan appeared seconds later, chilled and windblown.

He hesitated a moment, like he wanted to kiss her, but sat down hard in a patio chair instead. He pulled out a smoke and lit up, eyes dark and heavy in the light of the overhead security bulb. “Greg?” he asked.

“Twice now,” she said, nodding. “A few weeks ago, and then this afternoon. I didn’t think much of it the first time, but twice now he’s asked me if I’ve been in touch with you. You said to call you if anything seemed strange. So yeah. This strikes me as very strange.”

He took a hard drag, smoke mingling with his words. “You don’t even know, sweetheart,” he said, mostly to himself, shaking his head. He seemed deeply troubled. “He say anything else?”

“Not this time, no. The time before it was just pleasantries.”

“Hmm.”

“Aidan.” Her voice was firm, a surprise to herself and a magnet for his attention; his eyes snapped to her face. “I’m not one of those women who’s going to demand to know what’s going on behind the doors of your meeting room–”

“Chapel.”

“–chapel,” she amended. “But the last time I saw Greg, someone was shaking him down for his lunch money at Knoxville High. But you’re sitting here now worried that he talked to me. So I’m going to need to know what’s going on.”

He stared at her, a long, level look, obviously weighing things in his mind. Without blinking, he said, “The club’s made an enemy of someone more powerful than we thought. Greg’s working for them. And they took Tango.”

She felt the blood drain out of her face. “They took him?”

“They’re holding him hostage until we get the money put together.” He glanced away, swallowing hard. “God knows what they’ll do to him.”

“God,” she breathed. “Kev.” Kevin Estes had always been a sweetheart, even in high school, when Aidan had been the biggest douche alive and hadn’t known she’d existed. Kev had always been polite, kind, almost apologetic on behalf of his best friend.

“Yeah.” He finished his smoke, ground it out on the concrete, and got to his feet.

Sam stood too. “Aidan.”

This time when his eyes came to her, she saw the repressed emotion in them, the brimming regret and longing. “Don’t say my name like that if you don’t mean anything by it,” he said quietly. “Shit is spinning out of control and I need–” He bit down hard on the rest of his sentence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and felt emotion rising in her throat, dampening her eyes. “I hate this. I…”

He stepped in close to her, took her by the arms and pulled her up flush against his tall, hard body. “It’s a girl,” he said, almost whispering. “The baby.” The smile that streaked across his face was more pain than joy. “I’m gonna have a girl, Sam.”

She put both hands on his chest, felt the thunder of his pulse. Felt something unfurling inside her, something she couldn’t describe, even with her writer’s vocabulary.

“Wait for me,” he urged fervently. “I’m gonna get Kev back, and I’m gonna make things right for us. Just please, baby, wait. Because I love you and I can’t do it without you.”

He kissed her, fast, hard, his mouth damp against hers, and then pulled back, released her. “Stay safe,” he said, and then was gone.

Sam groped behind her, found a chair, and sank into it.

Thirty

“Where are we with the money?”

Four sets of bloodshot eyes lifted toward him, one of which was full of fatherly disapproval.

It was six-twenty-six in the morning and Aidan was running off coffee and the Waffle House hash browns and sausage he’d choked down on the way over. Waffle House made him think of Sam – changing her tire in the parking lot – and thoughts of Sam made him feel tall, capable, and in need of a major life readjustment. Whatever was coming at him, bring it. Including his dad. Including this stupid fucking problem with the money.

Ghost, Ratchet, Jinx, and Candy were at a table in the clubhouse common room, reams of paper spread out before them, ash trays full of butts.

Candy took a long swallow out of a glass of Scotch and said, “We’re up to a hundred kay.”

“What?” Aidan demanded.

Ghost made a face he wouldn’t normally. The exhaustion was getting to him. “Nobody’s liquid. After buying the horse farm, all the chapters are strapped.” He picked his cig off the edge of the ashtray, took a drag fraught with unhappiness.

Fortified by coffee, and the sonogram picture in his wallet, Aidan huffed an annoyed breath and said, “So we don’t have the money. Okay. We find another way.”

Candy rolled his eyes and downed more Scotch.

Ratchet and Jinx studied their hands.

“Another way?” Ghost asked, sneering. “And what would that be, Einstein? We take one step toward Ellison or any of his properties, and they’ll put the screws to Tango.”

“Haven’t they already?” Aidan shot back. “If they know his history, they’ll know how to use it against him.”

Ghost’s eyes flared, like he was afraid Aidan would say too much.

How fucking insulting. “We need to get him out now,” Aidan said. He thought he might be snarling, and didn’t care. “And if you won’t think about other options, then I will.”

“Yeah?” Ghost said. “You gonna take some initiative for once in your damn life?”

“I–”

Aidan didn’t get to finish. The front door banged open and a lean shadow preceded the lean shape of Ian Byron as he marched into the common room, backlit by the dawn, tailed by his usual bodyguard, Bruce.

Aidan took one look at the Englishman’s harsh face and stepped back. Let Ghost face this a moment.

“Guys,” Ghost said. “Give us a minute.”

Ratchet, Candy and Jinx seemed glad of the chance to get up and stretch their legs. They left down the back hall, heading no doubt toward dorms and bathrooms, and maybe even pillows if they weren’t called to return.

A door closed with a soft thump, and then they were alone.              Bruce dragged out a chair and sat.

Ian hauled in a deep breath and said, “Where is he?” His crisp English voice was venomous, furious, impressive in its darkness. This was the reason, Aidan reflected dimly, as the man’s eyes flashed, they always cast Brits as villains in movies.

Ghost folded his hands together on the table. “I don’t discuss the whereabouts of my members with outsiders.”

“You fucking asshole! This is on your head,” Ian roared. “I told you to turn him loose. I told you! You owed me that, after what I did for your fucking club, and all I wanted in return was Kevin’s freedom. None of this would be happening if you’d given him to me!” He breathed through his mouth, teeth bared. “I will burn your club to the ground for this.”

With a dramatic spin, long black coat flaring around him like a cape, he stormed for the door, Bruce struggling to keep up with his long legs.

In his wake, Ghost dropped his face in his hands.

Aidan stared at his father, the man angry and helpless as he sat hunched over all that useless paperwork. His president, his leader…and right now, part of the problem. He made a lightning-fast decision; he chased after Ian.

Out in the parking lot, Bruce was holding open the rear door of the black Jag and Ian was folding his considerable lean height down onto the red leather seat.

“Ian. Hold up.”

Bruce glanced at his master, curious.

Ian gave Aidan a cold stare, eyes flicking down and then back up the length of him, then nodded stiffly. Bruce stepped back, giving them at least a sense of privacy.

Aidan braced a hand on top of the car. “How’d you know Kev was MIA?”

His expression was insulted. But he obliged. “One of my informants turned up dead. Ellison thought to kill him, but not to swipe the memory stick from his pocket. He photographed Kev’s capture.” His lashes flickered at the end, a tremor of fear registering in the sharp angles of his jaw. This was not merely a case of a kingpin throwing his weight around. He was distraught.

Aidan leaned closer. “Listen, Ellison wants more than just his coke back; he wants to humiliate us. He’s asking for five-hundred-grand and we don’t have it.”

Ian nodded, stared at the seat back in front of him, still breathing hard. “Done. I can go straight to the bank.” His gaze slid to Aidan, tightening. “Though I can think of much better things to buy with my money than a motorcycle club.”

A chill rippled across his skin. “You wanna leave Kev with Ellison?”

“Do you?” Ian challenged. “Because if I do this, you understand that I will own you, yes? No more owing, no more favors. The Tennessee chapter of the Lean Dogs will belong to me.”

“You’re really gonna use this to your own goddamn advantage?”

Ian made an impatient sound. “The thing you need to understand about the truly successful, Aidan – they never miss an opportunity. Never,” he said, vehemently. “Do you want the money or not?”

There was no choice to be made here. The club wasn’t a club without a brotherhood, and he was going to take care of his brother, by God.

“Yeah. Go get it.”

~*~

The sunrise filled the condensation on the window with round pearls of light, like the glass was on fire. Aidan stared mindlessly at it and lit a fresh cigarette, let it smolder between his fingers as he took another swallow of coffee. The others had never returned to the common room; asleep, he guessed.

“Yeah. I understand,” Ghost said quietly into his cellphone, and then hung up with a beep.

Through the bright glaze of moisture on the window, Aidan saw the black Jag return. “Dad,” he said, turning on his bar stool so he faced his father.

Ghost’s face was weary and lined. “What?”

“Something you tell me over and over again. That I need to get my priorities straight.”

“Yeah? You do.”

“So do you. A half a mil’s about to walk through the door, and I think you ought to take it.”

Ghost frowned. “What?”

This time when Ian entered, it was with his usual poise and grace. He had a bit of a Dracula thing going on with his black coat and harsh-featured white face.

“I’m not in the mood for more of your shit, princess,” Ghost said. “Get out of my clubhouse.”

Silent, Ian accepted a slim black briefcase from Bruce and set it on the desk. “Call Ellison.” He had control of his emotions this time. “Tell him you have the money.”

Ghost looked at the case but didn’t move to touch it. He shot a betrayed glance toward Aidan before fixing his gaze on the Englishman. “Yeah? And then what? Tell him you’re my puppet master?”

“If I’m not mistaken,” Ian said, “you need five-hundred-thousand dollars. There it is. We can work out the particulars of my ownership later.”

Ghost smiled, the expression almost deranged. “Take your goddamn money and get out of my sight.”

“Dad,” Aidan said, “this is our only option, and you know it. Take the money.”

“Yeah? Take the money?” He rounded on Aidan with a snarl. “And hand over this club to him? You’re so fucking stupid sometimes I can’t even believe you’re mine.”

“How can you keep us a club if you let us all get tortured to death one by one?” Aidan shot back.

Ian cleared his throat. “Will you be accepting the money?”

“No,” Ghost said.

“Very well then.” The case was collected. “I’ll see you in hell, gentlemen,” Ian said, and left.

“That’s it then?” Aidan asked when they were alone again. “You’re just going to let them keep Kev. You really are.” The disbelief grew and grew as the words left his mouth. “You’re going to let him get cut apart, piece by piece. When you know it will break him. Even if they don’t kill him, he’ll never recover from this. Never.”

A moment hung heavy between them, bursting with dark memories of the night they’d stormed The Cuckoo’s Nest, Mercy sending bouncers flying as they fought their way to the stage. Tango had just been a heap of bones at that point, eyes glassy from the heroin, and Ghost had pulled him gently down off the dais and carried him out.

“Hate me all you want,” Aidan urged. “Kick me out, take my patches, shoot me in the head if that’s what’ll make you feel better. But don’t do this to Kev.” His tone became pleading. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

A beat. Two. Three…

“A president,” Ghost said heavily, “must always consider the greater good of his men. And he must accept that there will be casualties–”

Aidan didn’t wait to hear the rest. He left the clubhouse at a fast walk, and was jogging by the time he reached the parking lot, sprinting before he reached his bike. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to be gone.

~*~

The silence was a mockery of the chaos inside his head. His pulse throbbed in his temples, an accusation on every beat. He kept seeing Kev’s face, when he was sixteen and strung out, a skinny little abused thing, crying in his arms as he carried him out of that godforsaken club. Ghost had made a promise to him then, that he would never let anything of the sort happen to him again. “You’re safe now,” he’d told him. “You’re with your brothers.”

And now he was at the mercy of a man who would think nothing of exploiting his weaknesses.

Ghost pushed up from the table and stalked out of the clubhouse, across the parking lot, through the cold bright dawn to the central office where Maggie’s parked CTS signaled her presence. The door was shut, because of the change of season, and when he entered, he was hit with the dry warmth of her space heater’s output.

His wife sat behind the desk in a thick cream sweater, her hair the color of the sunrise outside. “Hi, baby,” she greeted.

“Hand me the wastebasket.”

Frowning with curiosity, she did so.

And he threw up in it. It was nothing but coffee and bile, but his stomach wouldn’t stop grabbing. Finally it died to dry heaves, and then stopped. Exhausted from the effort, Ghost set the can aside and sank down against the door, until his ass hit the floor. He stretched his legs out and…sat. Just sat, and let it all course over him.

His throat was raw from retching, and it hurt to speak. “I promised that boy. I promised him, Mags, that I wouldn’t let anything like that happen to him again…”

She got to her feet and came to him, sank down beside him and put her arms around his shoulders. Her cheek was warm and smooth where she pressed her face to his. She smelled clean and feminine, her hair silky down the back of his neck.

“What can we do to get the money?” Her voice was firm and clear. His strong gorgeous girl, ready to do battle.

“I dunno, baby.” All he wanted to do was shut his eyes and fall asleep with his head on her shoulder. “I really don’t.”

~*~

Carter was sorting through the laundry baskets in the living room when Aidan arrived back at the apartment. It felt like noon, but was only nine, and Carter was just getting up, hair damp from the shower, shirtless and sporting nail-shaped crescents all down his back. Jazz had spent the night last night, and Aidan was glad he hadn’t been around to listen to them going at it through the paper-thin walls.

“What’s the status?” Carter asked as soon as Aidan walked through the door. His face was tight with worry. “Any news?”

“The status is that my old man’s a stupid stubborn heartless fuckhead,” Aidan said. “So fuck him.”

Carter stared at him, completely shocked.

“I’m gonna get Kev out myself, but I’m gonna need some help. This is totally off the books. A personal thing. The club isn’t gonnna be behind us. So I get it if–”

“I’m in,” Carter said. “One-hundred-percent.”

Aidan nodded. “Good.” They were going to need more than a two-man rescue crew, but it was a start.

Thirty-One

Time lost all relevance. It seemed like weeks had passed since Kev had said, “Whitney, shut your eyes. Turn away.” And then it had started, whatever it was they were doing to him. She hadn’t wanted to close her eyes; she’d wanted to be there for him, a bracing force in any way she could be, even if that meant witnessing his abuse. He had saved her; the least she could do was be there for him.

The two guards had gone into his cell and the first had hit him so hard across the face he’d gone down to his knees. They’d laughed. They’d torn at his clothes. One had taken him by the throat. And that was when she’d turned away. Because she’d seen Kev’s face, how completely dead it was, and she’d wanted to be sick.

She’d clamped her eyes shut and then covered her ears with her hands. She’d leaned against the back wall of her cell as tremors overtook her body and she listened to the muffled grunts, smacks, and curses. She tried to make sense of what he’d said to them – something about a nest? – but it was meaningless to her. She knew two things: those men had been set to rape her. Kev had drawn them off.

She knew time passed because another guard brought her a tray of food...and something else. A broom handle that he passed across the bars. Back and forth, an oversized xylophone sound echoing against the concrete. And then he’d gone into Kev’s cell with the others.

Finally it was quiet. The cell door slammed and then silence followed. Gripped with fear, heart pounding in her throat, Whitney lowered her hands and crawled toward the connecting bars.

Kev lay on his back, shirtless, holding the torn and stained shirt to a bloody split lip. His torso was pale, dotted here and there with tattoos, and she could see the shadows of forming bruises against the fair skin. His jeans hung low on his skinny hips, the waistband of his Calvin Kleins dotted with blood. His fair hair was plastered down to his head with sweat. His eyes rolled toward her, glassy and unfocused.

A sob left her lips before she could stop it. Her vision clouded over with tears. “Oh my God. Oh my…Oh, what did they do to you? I’m so sorry, I–”

He pulled the shirt away, mouth swollen and messy with blood, and tried to smile at her. “Shh, sweetheart. It’s alright. Better me than you. I can take it. I’ve had worse.”

She couldn’t remember ever wanting to get her hands on someone so badly. She wanted to wipe the blood from him. Help him to sit up. Mop the sweat off his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, feeling helpless. “What can I do? How can I help you?”

“You don’t have any vodka, do you?” He tried to laugh and it was a terrible sound. He took a deep breath and winced. “Maybe you could…can you talk for a little bit? I don’t care what about. Just…say things. I like your voice.”

She dashed at her eyes, willed herself to calm, folded her legs up beneath her. “Okay. Okay.” God, what did you say to someone who’d taken a beating for you? How could she comfort him with her words alone?

But she had to try. “Well…okay, how about this. It’s kind of silly, but I always wanted to be a professional artist when I grew up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like oil pastels. They’re my favorites. I love them because they’re both forgiving, and totally merciless…” Perhaps “merciless” wasn’t the best word choice, given the situation, but she was warming to her topic, falling into the colorful world of her portfolio at home and gaining strength in her voice. “I did a piece recently from a photo I took on vacation…”

Kev’s eyes shut, and he seemed to doze as she rambled.

~*~

A sound woke her. Whitney startled awake and realized she’d fallen asleep against the bars, and that the lights above them had been halved, creating the dim impression of nighttime. Panic flooded her and she glanced around wildly.

Kev still lay on his back on the other side of the bars, shivering in his sleep as the cold concrete leached the heat from his skin. It was his cell door opening that had snapped her from sleep. The door slid back with a grating sound and three men in black stepped into the cell. More thugs. They brought the stink of liquor with them. Drunk thugs.

“Kev,” Whitney whispered, urgently. “Kev, wake up.”

One of the thugs kicked him and he lurched up to a sitting position with a groan.

“Rise and shine, queer-ass,” the kicker said with a dark laugh. “I don’t believe what the boys have been saying about you. Let’s see if it’s true.”

Kev tried to say something, clutching at his head.

He was grabbed under the arms by the other two guards, lifted, and then laid out flat on his stomach. Sound of something rapping against the bars, the floor. The broom handle again.

She didn’t shut her eyes this time.

Thirty-Two

The Teague kitchen was redolent of herbs and roasting meat. The oven light was on and through the window, Aidan could see the chicken thighs, no doubt slathered with butter and dusted with parsley. For the first time in his life, Maggie’s cooking wasn’t a distraction.

He and Carter stood shoulder-to-shoulder in Maggie’s kitchen, watching as Mags and Ava put together side dishes and a salad. The boys were in a playpen over against the wall. Ghost wasn’t home yet.

“So what you’re saying,” Maggie said, pausing as she sliced zucchini, “is that you don’t want us to share this with our husbands.”

“And I tell Mercy everything,” Ava said.

Mother and daughter stared them down, formidable as any firing squad.

“Yeah,” Aidan said, “that’s what I’m saying. I don’t wanna talk to Ghost and Mercy’s old ladies right now. I want to speak with Maggie and Ava. ‘Cause they’re the smartest chicks I know.”

Sam notwithstanding.

The women shared a look, then turned back to him after some silent communication. “You need an accomplice for a super-secret rescue mission,” Maggie said. “I know who I’d pick.”

“Me too,” Ava said. “Though I do wish you’d let Merc help you. He loves Tango and he’d do this off the record, without Dad’s approval.”

Aidan dipped his head in acquiescence. “I appreciate that, yeah. But this needs to be a slim operation.”

Ava shrugged. Together, she and Maggie said, “Fox.”

“Fox?”

“He’s Walsh without the allegiance,” Maggie said.

“And a slippery trigger finger,” Ava added. “I bet you money he’d get on board and keep his mouth shut.”

“He’s still in town?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah, but…”

“Then Godspeed, Aidan Teague,” his stepmother said with a grin. “Godspeed.”

~*~

Bell Bar was full of its usual crowd: part-committed drinkers, part-college kids, mostly regular joes. At the Dogs’ usual high top table, Fox helped himself to more Michelob from the pitcher and said, “So let me get this straight, chaps. You want me to go against your president’s wishes and help you form a rescue party?”

Walsh’s younger brother had that same cool, blue-eyed severity, expressions bland to the point of harsh, manner disinterested in the extreme.

“Yeah,” Aidan said. “Help us, and don’t say anything to anybody.”

This could go so poorly, it wasn’t even funny.

Fox studied his pint glass, swiping a finger up the side of it. “What’s in it for me?”

“You get to kill people. Probably.” Aidan said.

The Englishman thought about it a long moment. Then nodded. “Always a good reason. I’m in.”

~*~

Aidan and Carter took stools at the table and beer was traded for a round of Fireball.

“God, I hate that shit,” Fox said, setting his glass aside with a grimace.

Carter choked on his. That cinnamon was an unwelcome kick at the end. “Then why’d you order it?”

“Clears my head.” The Englishman pushed a hand through his dark hair. “Okay. So.” His shrewd eyes moved between them. “We’re going to do this intelligently, boys, which means doing it my way. We need a where” –he started ticking the points off on his fingers– “we need a when, and we need a how. Supplies,” he continued, “alibis, a location, a plan of attack, and a way in. Which means we need intel.” He lifted his brows. “Ideas?”

Aidan nodded grimly. “You got anything against working with one of your own?”

~*~

The next morning, the sun played through the sleek auburn lengths of Ian’s hair as he spun his desk chair in lazy circles. Downstairs in the funeral parlor part of his operation, the staff had seemed to be expecting them, a lackey in a suit leading them up to the office straightaway.

Ian stopped spinning, face turned toward the window, giving them a glimpse of his profile. It was theatric, the way he folded his hands together and brought the fingertips up to the end of his nose. Drama queen. Literally. “Am I to understand,” he said, “that you’re defying your father’s orders and going against him to stage a secret rescue operation?”

“If you wanna say it all fancy like that, sure. That’s what I’m doing.”

He inhaled, shoulders lifting and then falling. His eyes flicked over. Large eyes, bright with emotion. “He’ll kick you out of the club for this, you know.”

“Give a shit,” Aidan said, holding steady eye contact, wanting his sincerity to translate. “If he lets my best friend get killed, that’s not a club I want to be a part of.”

Expression sparking with interest, Ian swiveled around, facing them now. He glanced at Carter and then Fox in turn. “Do your brothers here share your sentiments?”

“No idea. I won’t ask them to take a fall for this. I’ll take full credit for the whole fucked up mess.”

“I want to ensure that you’re all equally committed, you understand. No sense backing balky horses.”

“Aidan was my sponsor when I came into the club,” Carter said. “I’m with him. All the way.”

What a change of tides. Had they been alone, Aidan would have pulled him into a hug, such was his sudden surge of gratitude. But instead he tipped his head toward Fox, silently asking.

“I don’t balk,” he said, voice flat.

“That’s about the biggest answer you’re gonna get out of him,” Aidan said.

Ian drummed his fingers together, seemed to consider.

“It’s Kev,” Aidan prodded. “I know you–”

“Yes, obviously I’m in.” He sighed. “But I can’t involve my men. That would kick off a Middle-Earth-scale battle neither you nor Knoxville could handle at present.” He held out his arms, inviting them to look at his expensive gray suit, open-throated sky blue shirt. “So you have me, and whatever money and supplies you need from me.”

Aidan snorted. “We have you? Yeah, Rambo, that’ll be a big help.”

Ian grinned darkly. “Just you wait, darling. As you would say, you don’t know shit about me.”

~*~

How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know or care. All he wanted was for someone to put a bullet through his frontal lobe. He was destined for insanity anyway, right? No one could handle the aftereffects of his life thus far. This new torture was physical only; it hadn’t touched his mind – that was already damaged beyond repair. And this was an old familiar pain, that of violation and misuse. He felt the welling of blood and knew that this had been bad; this had been worse than with the paying customers. This had been about making a point and fighting hard against their own sick delight in the act.

Through the wall of bars that separated them, Whitney was sobbing quietly.

Tango rolled his head toward her, but his eyes were puffy, his vision glazed-over. He hated that she’d witnessed it all, but he wasn’t sorry that he’d saved her from it. “S’okay,” he mumbled, voice getting stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. “I’m alright.” He tried to lift a hand to demonstrate, but the limb only shuddered on the concrete.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Whitney chanted. And then, in a low, fierce voice: “I have to get us out of here. I have to.”

Thirty-Three

On Halloween, they’d raided every known Ellison property, and an afternoon of recon proved that none of those houses had been put back to use. Which meant Tango was being held somewhere off the map.

“I have an idea,” Aidan told Ian over the phone. “I’ll call you back when I know something.”

The guy drew breath to say something in response, and Aidan hung up on him. He didn’t have time for all that proper grammar bullshit.

“You actually have an idea?” Carter asked.

“Yeah.” He pocketed his phone and glanced toward the parking lot as he heard the drone of an engine. Mercy was back in one of the club trucks with lunch. “After work,” he said, under his breath, as his brother-in-law climbed out of the truck and carried  a half dozen takeout containers from Stella’s over to the picnic table.

“What’re y’all doing in there?” he called. “Gossiping like chicks?” It sounded only half-teasing.

“Yeah, exactly,” Aidan said. He thumped Carter in the arm and they went out to eat, tingling under the skin with delayed action.

The sharp tang of danger lay heavy on the back of Aidan’s tongue. Since deciding on a course of action, he’d begun to feel the stares of his brothers more acutely; imagined them guessing his thoughts, reading his intent to subvert Ghost’s authority. Which glance would be the final deduction? When would it be dragged before MC court and dismantled?

“They were outta lasagna,” Mercy said as Aidan sat down across from him. “So I got manicotti.”

“That’s cool.”

Mercy knew. Oh shit, he knew! His dark eyes were level and serious on the other side of the table, his face – so jovial most of the time – set at sharp angles that brought out the lean meanness of his features.

“What?” Aidan asked, heart pounding.

“You’re being weird.”

He…didn’t know?

Aidan shook his head and ducked over his food. “Whatever, man.”

~*~

This was the tricky part. He hated that he had to ask for this kind of help, of all helps, but it couldn’t be avoided, and time was of the essence.

“Wait out here?” he asked Carter in the driveway of Sam’s house. The sun was fast setting, the last dull glimmers flitting along the roof of Sam’s battleship car.

Carter took off his helmet and pulled out his phone. Ready to call Jazz no doubt. “Yeah, that’s fine.” The screen of his phone lit up, flashing blue across his face, highlighting the small smile there as his thumb moved across the keys.

Not wanting a front row seat to the Jockstrap & Jazz Sexting Hour, he put his back to his former charge and headed up the back sidewalk with several deep breaths. He attempted to do something to his hair – impossible curly mess that it was. It needed cutting, just like he needed a shave, just like his hoodie needed washing and his cut needed oiling…

Later. This sudden logjam of belated responsibility would make him crazy if he didn’t parse it out one chore at a time. Right now, he needed to get to Greg, which meant going through Erin’s dipshit boyfriend, which meant –

He was at the door sooner than he thought he’d be. He wasn’t ready. Tensing, holding his breath, he knocked politely.

His insides grabbed, a physical pain searing through him as Sam opened the door. She wore loose jeans and a fitted sweater that highlighted her figure and made her seem thinner. Had she lost weight since he’d last held her? Had she been so devastated that she’d had trouble eating? Her beautiful face was like a homing beacon for him. He wanted to wrap her long braid around his wrist and unwind it slowly, piece by piece, until he could bury his hands in the heavy blonde waves and smell the floral notes of her shampoo.

God, he was a sap.

God, he loved her so much.

“Hi,” she said with a brave little smile, knuckling up her glasses. Her cute slip of a nose just didn’t hold them well. “What’s up?”

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” he said before he could catch himself, errand blasted away by the joy of seeing her.

She blushed.

“I mean, really, truly, honest to God gorgeous as all hell. Inside and out.”

Her head tilted, color coming into her cheeks. “Aidan.” A reproach…and a soft, lingering tone that said so many things. She missed him, and that was encouraging; that enabled him to take a deep breath.

“Right,” he said. “I need to ask a favor, is why I’m here. Can I come in?” He lifted his hands, showing her his empty palms. “No funny business, I swear.”

She stepped aside. “Of course. I’m making dinner.”

He sat down at the kitchen table, stomach rumbling as he smelled whatever she had going in the skillet and knew he wouldn’t be allowed to stay for the meal. Boyfriends got dinner; people who needed to grow up got audiences, but that was it.

She went to the stove, picked up a wooden spoon and stirred, releasing the tangy smell of heating onions and garlic. “Are you okay?” she asked, eyes darting over, full of concern.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Mostly. I’m working on a way to get Kev back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, face crimping with a sudden burst of emotion. “Good. That’s…good. I…” She looked at him again, falling silent. “God, Aidan, if I could help in any way…”

“You can, baby,” he assured. “And you’re not gonna like it, but it could be huge for me. For Kev.”

She took a deep breath too, and nodded. “Okay.”

“I need Erin to get me in contact with Jesse. He knows somebody I need to have a little chat with.”

She considered a moment. “This won’t affect Erin?”

“Not even a little.”

She nodded. “Hold on.” And left the room, calling, “Erin! Can you come down here a second?”

Both sisters entered a moment later, Erin shocking in her state of cleanliness and youth. She wore no makeup, and was in jeans and a tame sweatshirt.

“Hi,” she said, sliding into the chair beside him. “Sam said you needed something?”

“Yeah, kid. It’s a favor, and it’s a big one, but it’ll really help me out if you can come through.”

She fiddled with the cuffs of her sweatshirt, glanced at her sister and earned a nod of encouragement. “Okay.”

“Can you give me Jesse’s number?”

She looked startled. “Um, why?”

He wanted to grit his teeth and shake her for being a teenager. Damn, had he been that way at sixteen? He felt extremely sorry for Mags, having to deal with him back then.

“A friend of mine,” he said, forcing patience, “my best friend since high school. My bro, you know?”

She nodded, growing solemn.

“He’s been abducted by some really bad guys.”

“Aid,” Sam said, just a breath. But she didn’t try to stop him. It was time Erin learned that there were more important things in life than eye liner.

Erin gulped visibly.

“There’s someone I need to talk to about this,” Aidan continued. “And the only way I can think to get hold of him is through your boyfriend.”

“Jesse?” Some of her distress eased and she curled her lip in derision. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”
“Good for you,” he said, and meant it. “But I tried going by his place and he’s not there. Do you know where I can find him?”

She nodded. “He likes to go to the pool hall with his friends.”

The pool hall that had once been converted into the Carpathians’ clubhouse, then burned, then been refurbished and reopened as a shiny new hangout spot for college kids.

“Awesome. Thank you. That’s a big help.”

Erin looked pleased. “What are you gonna do to Jesse?”

“Nothing too bad,” Aidan said, and gave her a wink.

She giggled.

“Erin, how’s the homework coming?” Sam asked, clearly trying to derail this line of conversation.

Erin got up from her chair and headed out of the room. “Working on it.”

Sam dumped a package of ground beef into the skillet and it landed with a hiss. “You aren’t actually going to do anything to Jesse, are you? I can’t stand the little shithead, but I don’t know if he deserves a beating.”

“I don’t care about Jesse,” he assured. “And I figure he’ll sing his lungs out the second I get hold of him.”

She snorted.

His business now conducted, there was nothing holding Aidan here. Except the way steam from the pan was curling the loose wisps of Sam’s braid. And the way his insides throbbed with warmth as he watched her work.

“What’re you making?” he asked, and saw a little tension steal across her shoulders. Helping out with Kev was one thing, but he guessed small talk made her nervous. It made him nervous.

“Tacos,” she replied. She attempted a weak smile. “It’s Tuesday, after all.”

“It smells good.”

“Thanks.”

A beat, then:

“Sam–”

“Aidan–”

They stopped and started at the same time, gazes meeting.

Aidan dipped his head. “Ladies first.”

She took a deep breath. “How are you holding up with all of this?” Her blue-green eyes were serious and sympathetic behind her glasses. “Are you okay?”

“Actually, yeah.” He gave her a grim smile. “I mean, I have no idea what I’m gonna do with a little girl. I don’t even know how to change a diaper, much less have a tea party. I’m terrified. And every time I think about Kev I wanna puke. And sitting here right now, looking at you, I miss you so much it hurts. It hurts bad, Sam. Because I wanna lay you over this table and tear your jeans off.”

Her eyes widened.

“And I want you to sleep beside me and tell me it’s all gonna work out. So I’m pretty fucked up,” he concluded. “But I’m okay, yeah. I can handle it.”

Then he turned it back on her. “How ‘bout you? You okay, baby?”

“Well.” She sniffed. “I can’t sleep. And I’m trying really hard not to cry right now. But yeah, I’m okay too.” She swallowed. “God, Aidan, I miss you.”

He stood, and his feet propelled him to the stove. She didn’t resist when he captured her face in both hands, cradling her gently. She shivered, the little ripples of movement telegraphing up his arms.

“I wanna give you your space,” he said, voice raw. “I know you need time to think, because I’m a lot to take on. Fucked up me and my fucked up baggage.”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re not fucked up.”

He pressed on, determined now. “I have a baby coming, and I have a club, and a bad habit of doing stupid shit. You deserve better than that.”

Her eyes moved across his face, filling with moisture. Her lips trembled as she breathed through them.

“But I’ve gotta ask…” He didn’t finish; kissed her instead.

Her mouth was soft and sweet as always, lips supple beneath his tongue as he pressed for entry.

Her hands landed on his chest, fingers flexing, tips pressing against his pecs. She leaned into him, head tipping back as the kiss deepened.

He wanted inside her. That was his first, vivid thought, as he felt the shapes of her breasts through her sweater. He wanted to strip her down and take her up against the kitchen counter while her dinner burned beside them.

But that was the sort of thinking that had led him to so many mistakes. This wasn’t just about her body; he wanted inside her heart and mind, too, and that would require a grace he’d never possessed before.

With a groan of disappointment, he pulled back from her. Her lips were parted and glistening, her eyes half-lidded and hungry. He almost broke his own promise and dove back in headfirst. But he made himself reach to stroke her face.

“You’re the woman I’ve been needing my whole life,” he said, throat tight. “You’re my old lady. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you in my life.”

He kissed her again before she could respond, quickly, and then left.

~*~

As Erin predicted, Jesse was at the pool hall, and he was happy to cooperate in order to save face in front of his friends. As Aidan and Carter stood witness, he called Greg (whom he knew as G) and arranged a meeting at Hamilton House for two hours later.

“What are you gonna do?” Jesse asked as he pocketed his phone.

Aidan gave him a chilly smile. “None of your damn business.”

One hour and fifty-five minutes later, Aidan waited in the mildewed kitchen of Hamilton House, listening to rats scrabble overhead.

“Damn,” Carter muttered. “And I thought this place was creepy during a party.”

“Yeah.”

The moon was nearly full, but between the boarded-over windows and the thick overgrown magnolias outside, only the rare stray moonbeams slipped through the cracks to slant across the floor. It was a dark, haunted place tonight, full of whispers that had gotten caught in the cobwebs, air laced with damp smells and menace. It made Aidan think of the night Mason Stephens had brought his sister here and beat her into unconsciousness. A shudder moved through him, and he wondered if Carter was thinking about that night too.

The house vibrated, suddenly, shifting under the weight of a single step at the front door. “Yo, Jesse?” Greg called, voice echoing as he moved toward the ballroom.

Carter changed his voice, affecting irritation and boredom. “Back here, in the kitchen.”

Mumbled cursing. Sound of a trip and a struggle for balance. “Jesus, it’s dark as shit in here.” His breathing became audible as he passed through the threshold of the kitchen. “Turn on a damn light.”

“Okay,” Carter said. But he waited. And the steps drew closer, closer.

The light came on with a bright flare, a high-powered Energizer number that could have doubled as a weapon.

Greg brought an arm up to shield his eyes, and Aidan jumped on him, tackling him to the ground.

“Hey! What the–”

Greg was a small guy, but he was wiry and quick, and Aidan knew he had to make short work of this capture if he was going to pull it off. He flipped Greg to his stomach and managed to snag his wrists. He bucked and kicked and squirmed. Shit, Aidan was going to lose his grip…

Carter knelt beside him. “Here.” He produced a zip tie and cinched Greg’s wrists together, flashlight sitting on the floor and casting giant, spider-like shadows of Greg’s hands onto the far wall.

“What the fuck?” Greg hissed.

“That’s funny,” Aidan said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

~*~

“Have you ever watched your mate Mercy do this?” Fox asked. He peeled another strip of duct tape off the roll and the sound was obscene as it cracked through the autumn night.

“No,” Aidan said, grimacing. “I don’t have the stomach for it.”

Fox lifted his brows, his expression mocking in the glow of the truck headlights. “Best get over that quick.”

Aidan took a deep breath and squared up his shoulders. “I can do the job. No matter what it takes.”

“Good.” Fox used the strip to further secure Greg’s arm to the chair they’d taped him to and then stepped back. “Here you go.”

“Right.”

Greg sat immobile, bound to the plastic lawn chair, mouth covered with tape, eyes darting between them. His nostrils flared as he looked up at Aidan, the fear in him obvious.

Aidan took another deep breath and asked himself the all important question: What Would Mercy Do?

Well, Mercy was a talker, friendly in his fury, and something about that strategy always got him results. That, or it was just because he was fucking huge and liked to use an ice pick.

Either way.

Aidan took a firm stance in front of Greg and ripped the duct tape from his mouth in one fast jerk that he hoped stung like hell. If Greg’s sharp hiss was anything to do by, mission accomplished.

“Okay, here’s how it’s gonna go,” Aidan said. “I’m not as patient as the guy who normally handles this kinda thing, and I don’t think it’s as fun as he does either. So. I ask you some questions, and you give me the answers. If you don’t, my friend here” – nod to Fox – “is gonna start driving roofing nails through your hands. Get it?”

The headlights provided them with a pool of cold light, but beyond, the cattle property was alive with night sounds and liquid shadows. The contrast turned Greg’s face to something pale and ghoulish. “You talk a better game since I was here last.” He tilted his head, an eloquent mention to their surroundings. “But talk is real cheap. And right now, we’ve got your friend.” He smiled, grimly. “You aren’t gonna do shit, Aidan.”

Well, wasn’t that the story of his life? He wasn’t gonna finish school, wasn’t gonna get the nod for VP, wasn’t gonna do as he was told, wasn’t gonna pull the trigger, wasn’t gonna step up, wasn’t gonna be a decent father, wasn’t gonna have an old lady, wasn’t gonna grow up.

Wasn’t gonna pull the trigger.

In the last few months, he’d learned a lot of important life lessons – specifically that there were things outside of his control.

This moment wasn’t one of them.

“Fox,” he said, surprised his voice didn’t shake. “Hammer and nail.”

Fox stepped up, ready to do the deed himself. “I got you, mate.”

“No,” Aidan said, firmly. “Give them to me.”

Fox gave him a doubtful look – as doubtful a look as a man allergic to facial expressions could deliver. Whatever he saw in Aidan’s gaze convinced him, though, and he passed the items into Aidan’s hands.

Hands that didn’t tremble as he drove the nail clean through the center of Greg’s hand with one hard blow from the hammer.

The scream cut a physical path through the night, primal and shrill. Aidan imagined it flaring red in the dark, to match the blood welling up around the nail head.

Greg sagged forward against his bonds, gasping, sobbing, moaning. This went on for a long time, until the man finally subsided into shivering deep breaths that whistled through his teeth.

“Stop underestimating me,” Aidan said. “You’re going to tell me everything I wanna know. Even if I have to pound it out of you one nail at a time.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Ready? Let’s get started.”

~*~

Dismantling a man, that’s what Mercy had called it once. To torture him was to pick at his seams, take away his humanity piece-by-piece, until he was broken down to his most basic components: fear and love. At the heart of mankind, those were the two driving forces behind every decision. And when it came to torture, well…that just proved how much a man loved himself.

Aidan picked that first loose stone, pried at it, worked it loose, and at some point in the wee hours, Greg had fallen to bits. He told them everything they needed to know about Ellison, Fox taking hurried notes over at the truck. He told them things Aidan didn’t want to know, too: how crushing it had been to learn that the Dogs had used him and that he could never be a member; how his father had knocked him around as a kid; how girls scorned him.

Aidan went to the truck where Fox was folding his notes up neatly and sliding them into his pocket. “If he’s telling the truth,” the Englishman said, “then we’ve got exactly what we need.”

“And if he’s lying?”

A shrug. “There’s not much more we can do to make him sing.”

“Right.” Aidan closed his eyes a moment, felt for the first time how heavy with sleep the lids were. The ground tilted beneath his feet as if he was drunk, and he thought he might pass out.

“You want me to finish it off?” Fox asked, something like kindness in his voice.

Aidan shook his head – bad idea – and forced his eyes open again. “No. This is on me. I shoulda done it a long time ago.” He took his nine mil from his waistband and walked back to Greg.

Despite all that he’d endured, the guy’s head lifted, glassy eyes seeking Aidan’s gaze.

“I’ll give you credit,” Aidan said, quietly. “I didn’t think you’d hold out so long.”

No answer.

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“I’m tied up, ain’t I?”

“Something personal,” Aidan amended. “Not part of the interrogation.”

“I already pissed myself.” There was still temper behind the words. “What the hell have I got to hide now?”

Aidan swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “Why did you come back to Knoxville? Why didn’t you just stay away?”

“I dunno,” Greg said. “Guess I just couldn’t help myself.”

Aidan nodded. Lifted the gun. “I’m sorry, Greg. Really I am.” He fired.

The shot seemed to echo, again and again, traveling across the tossing grasses in waves. Aidan turned away from the slumped form in the chair and set off at a fast walk, past Carter and Fox, away from the light of the truck. His hands curled into fists and the skin was tight with dried blood. His stomach heaved, and he just managed to make it into the shadows before he doubled over and threw up.

He retched for a long time afterward, eyes shut tight, breathing through his mouth in fitful gasps.

A hand landed on his shoulder, the touch radiating comfort. “That was good,” Fox said in his even, calming London accent. “I’m proud of you.”

He wasn’t proud of himself, though.

~*~

Sam knew sleep would evade her, so she didn’t even try. She sat up against her headboard in bed, laptop on her stomach, working on the novel she was writing for school. She’d begun a few weeks ago with the best of intentions: a contemporary, literary novel full of witticisms and post-modern observations. Instead, her imagination had taken hold and it was fast turning into a Gothic sob fest of a book.

When her phone rang, she was glad of the distraction. But then she caught the time on her bedside clock and fear spiked in the pit of her belly. It was almost three in the morning, which meant this wasn’t a social call.

The screen told her it was Aidan.

“Hello?” she said, trying not to sound as worried as she felt. He didn’t respond at first. “Aidan?”

He breathed across the phone, the sound like the rustling of leaves. “I wanna see you.” His voice was all wrong.

Sam sat up and put her laptop off onto the bed. “Where are you?” In her mind, she was already in her car and headed toward him. That voice…a shudder passed through her.

“I don’t want you on the road this late. I’ll come by.” Then: “Can I come by?”

Turning him away didn’t cross her mind. “Of course.”

She was waiting in the kitchen when she heard his bike pull up. She had the door open before he reached it, and he didn’t pause, didn’t give her any space or wait to judge her reaction. He came in from the cold night on a fast lunge, grabbed her up and clasped her tight to his chest. Her feet were lifted off the floor and he carried her back into the kitchen, heeled the door shut.

And then he just held her for long moments, arms tight as iron bands around her back. He was shivering.

Sam waited, hands clasped loosely to his shoulders, letting him work through it. “Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked.

He took a deep breath and let it out against her neck, breath warm, eliciting little tingles of excitement across her skin. “No.”

A chill moved through her – the good kind. She knew without question that she was at one of those on-the-brink moments. If she wanted to, she could step back, turn him gently away, and offer friendship. She could coax him to talk out his problems like a rational adult, provide suggestions. And then she could go back to bed, alone, stare at her computer screen until her eyes glazed over with tears.

But she knew this moment had the potential to go a very different way. And he’d told her he loved her. And his life was upside down. And there was a bloody gaping hole in her heart, one she’d ripped herself when she pushed him away.

Sam pulled back, just far enough to see his face, the total devastation in his dark eyes. A lump formed in her throat. “No more secrets,” she whispered. “That’s the only way we can do this. It has to be all or nothing, Aidan. Full bore, no matter how bad things get. I can’t live without you,” she admitted. “But I can’t live a lie, either.”

He nodded, face grave. Took a deep breath. “I killed a man tonight.”

“By…accident?”

“I shot him in the heart at point blank range. For Kev,” he added. “I had to go through him to get to Kev.”

Sam clutched his biceps and listened to the pounding of her heart, waiting for the revulsion to set it.

It didn’t.

She lifted her hands and pressed them to his face, the bristly planes of his cheeks. She held him still, searched his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, because clearly, it had devastated him.

His smile was grim and humorless. “My life’s not pretty. It’s never gonna be.”

“Nobody’s is.”

When he kissed her, she knew her fate was sealed: good or bad, through bullets or babies, she was with Aidan. She’d never really had a choice in the matter anyway.

Something wild came alive inside him; she felt it in the sudden grab of his hands, the harsh strike of his breath as he pulled back and then went for her mouth again, deeper, more demanding.

In a frantic struggle of arms, tongues, and shuffling feet, they moved into the dark living room, trailing clothes behind them one discarded item at a time.

They didn’t make it to the couch, but wound up naked on the rug.

Aidan pushed her knees up, covered her body with his, and entered on one sure thrust. They both gasped.

“God,” Sam whispered, spine arching away from the carpet.

He flexed his hips, pressing deep inside her, pinning her to the floor, filling her so completely.

She closed her eyes and held onto him with arms and legs as he sought a rhythm. Just before she shattered, he said, “I love you.”

Thirty-Four

“Cinnamon, banana nut, and pumpkin,” the waitress announced as she set a heaping plate of muffins in the middle of their table. Steam curled up from the sugar-coated tops, dispersing the aromas into the air.

Aidan took a deep, appreciative breath. “Thanks, doll.”

The waitress grinned and departed.

“What’s with you yanks and your pumpkin-fucking-everything?” Fox asked, poking at one of said pumpkin muffins with his fork. “Forget apple pie. Nothing’s as American as pumpkin.”

Aidan lifted his brows, bit into a cinnamon muffin, and spoke around it. “So the plan.”

Fox nodded. “The plan.”

“Ellison’s own house isn’t gonna be easy to get into like all those safe houses,” Carter lamented.

“No,” Fox agreed. He’d decided to eat the pumpkin after all, transferring two to his plate and licking his fingers afterward. “Which is why we’re going to have to be smart about it, yeah? We need decoys.”

Aidan’s stomach clenched unhappily at the idea.

Greg had described Ellison’s personal residence as an impressive mansion with iron gates and tight security. Staff came and went through the main gate with a key code. Guests were viewed on camera and buzzed in at the owner’s discretion.

Carter had proposed that they dress as workmen and throw a ladder in the back of the truck. Fox had pointed out that since no workmen were scheduled, that would be suspicious.

“We’re gonna have to use women,” he said now, chewing. “It’s the only way to get inside without tipping them off too soon, and they won’t be expecting us to hit them that way.”

According to Greg, Ellison spent little time at the home, but several of his men were housed there full time and had gotten in the habit of ordering up Friday night entertainment. Every Friday, two call girls arrived at ten o' clock and left sometime after one. Greg had been there a time or two when it happened and knew the name of the agency.

“If two girls get in,” Fox said, “they can help us get in. Being there isn’t the issue, but getting in is.”

Aidan had been thinking the opposite to be true.

“So we’re gonna pay call girls to help sneak us in?” he asked, frowning and full of doubt.

Fox snorted. “You ever met a trustworthy call girl? No. We need someone we can trust. Someone smart. Someone loyal.”

“They know all the old ladies,” Carter said.

Aidan pushed his plate away; he thought he might be sick. “Not all of them. They don’t know mine.”

~*~

Sam had awakened that morning with the night before tattooed across her skin. Little spots of rug burn along her back. A bruise on her shin where they’d tripped heading up the stairs. A high school-worthy hickey just under her ear that she was forced to wear her hair down to hide. When the alarm went off, she’d opened her eyes to find herself snuggled deep in Aidan’s embrace, beneath the down comforter on her bed, the two of them cocooned in warmth, smelling of sex.

Could she regret what happened? No.

Could the light of day force her to rethink things? No.

After her last class let out for the day, she drove to Ava’s house, finding the black truck in the driveway. She knocked at the back door and Ava let her in with Remy clinging to her leg and Cal in her arms.

Smiling, she said, “Look, it’s Auntie Sam!” and passed Cal into Sam’s arms.

Returning the smile with a quieter one of her own, Sam tucked the baby up onto her shoulder and followed Ava through the mud room into the living room. Remy was walking like a little champ, though he still had a fist twisted up in his mama’s pant leg.

In the living room, Ava’s laptop was set up on the sofa and a Winnie-the-Pooh DVD was playing. Remy’s blocks and toy cars and bikes were strewn across the rug. Ava got her oldest seated and invested in the video again before she turned to Sam, hands on her hips, expression bright with unsaid things.

Sam braced herself for the question, but Ava said, “You want a Coke or something?”

“Uh…sure.”

“Ice?”

“Out of the can’s fine.”

But Ava didn’t move toward the kitchen. Her smile seemed to grow, until her dark eyes turned to crescents the way her brother’s did. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“That depends. Have you talked to Aidan today?”

“Briefly.”

Cal was starting to squirm – a much more restless baby than his brother had been – and Sam patted his back, bent her knees and rocked him gently. She met Ava’s smile with a serious expression. “I woke up this morning completely happy. And completely convinced I was making the dumbest decision of my life.”

Ava’s smile dimmed, expression turning thoughtful. “To be honest, I’d probably think less of you if you hadn’t felt that way.”

“Yeah. Well. I was also completely convinced that decision wasn’t the right word. Aidan’s not something I can decide.”

A smaller, more sympathetic smile this time. “I know exactly what you mean. There are people in life who you choose to love, and it’s all very healthy, rational, and safe. And then there’s that person you’re addicted to. And you choose to make that kind of love healthy, rational, and safe. It’s more work…but it’s more worthwhile.”

“I don’t know that I’m ready to be a mom,” Sam said, quietly.

Ava tipped her head, considering, asked a serious question. “Will it be hard for you because it isn’t your flesh and blood?” Something in her voice suggested that she herself would have a hard time with it.

Sam cupped the back of Cal’s downy-soft head, his pale hair like fine-spun silk. She took a deep breath, inhaling the baby smell of him. “No,” she said, and in that moment knew it was true. “That won’t be hard.”

It was going to be a girl. A little precious girl with dark eyes that turned to crescents when she smiled and a headful of almost-black ringlet curls. Aidan’s girl. Aidan’s and…and hers.

~*~

He didn’t like the guy, but Aidan had to admit that Ian knew how to live comfortably. Or work, as it were. The office above the funeral home was sleek, masculine, and soothing. As he sat down in one of the plush leather chairs, Ian leaned across his massive desk for a crystal decanter full of something amber and two short glasses.

“Drink?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

It was smooth, whatever it was; it tasted expensive.

“How go the preparations?” Ian asked. His tone was calm, polite, and more relaxed than Aidan had heard it before. There was a certain air of ease between them now. A dispelling of the usual tension in the room. The common cause had given them a more equal footing, had made the differences less important.

“We found out where he’s being held, and my guy Fox thinks he knows the best way to get us in.”

Ian’s brows lifted in a show of mild interest, but there was nothing mild about the spark of his eyes. “Yes?”

Aidan grimaced. “That’s where I’ve got a problem.” He quickly outlined the idea of using female decoys. Carter had suggested recruiting Jazz, though his jaw had been tight with distaste at the suggestion. And that would leave Sam as the other pretend call girl. His own precious Sam, who loved him and taught Shakespeare to college kids, and who was willing to accept his baby.

“Hmm,” Ian murmured. “A dilemma.”

“A man doesn’t ask his woman to put herself in that kind of danger for him,” Aidan said firmly. “He just doesn’t.”

“A bit sexist, are we?”

“If it’s sexist to want to protect your girl, sure, yeah, I’m a sexist asshole.”

“What does she think of the idea?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“Why not?”

This was getting frustrating. “Because I’ve got a bad feeling she’ll jump all over it, to help Kev. And then what am I gonna do?”

Ian lifted his glass and swirled the contents, studying them with a frown. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? Instinctual. The man wanting to protect his mate. Spare her from the physical dangers of his world. Take the bullet for himself. Cover her with his body. Shield her.” His brows gave a little leap of disbelief. “It’s so highly discouraged in this day and age, and yet it’s arguably the most noble of male behaviors.” His eyes came to Aidan. “Take yourself for example. What have you to offer anyone, save your gun and your shielding arms?”

Aidan pulled his temper back, forcibly checked his reaction. “This is my club, my brother, my business, and my problem. If I involve her, and she gets hurt…” He couldn’t even think about it, much less voice it.

“You need not speak to me of guilt,” Ian said. “I’m all too familiar with it.”

“Shit.” Aidan sank back in the chair and rubbed at his temples. He had a monster headache coming on. “So that’s where we’re at.”

Ian sighed. “I’d offer the use of two of my office staff girls…but I wouldn’t trust them with your club’s business. Your call.”

“I only trust family.”

Ian nodded. “Should I be flattered?”

“If you wanna be.”

~*~

“Sam,” Mom said that evening as they cleaned up the dinner dishes, “I’m worried about you.”

They’d had Cobb salad with grilled chicken on top, and Sam scraped leftover egg crumbles into the garbage. “Why?” she asked, heart giving a little worried bump. She was never on the receiving end of these sorts of talks in her household. That was Erin’s thing, making Mom worry.

“I saw Aidan leave this morning,” Helen said.

“He came over late,” Sam said. “We didn’t wake you coming upstairs, did we? I’m sorry.”

“Samantha.”

There was no avoiding that tone; rarely used, but deeply respected. Sam looked at her mother and saw more than passing concern; a deep and sad sort of sympathy. “I know you love him, Sam,” Helen said. “And I know you haven’t ever loved a man, and you deserve that chance.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

Helen smiled. “I don’t want you to get hurt. And I like Aidan, I do, but I’m afraid he seems the sort who hurts people without even meaning to.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

Sam started to respond and was cut off by the ringing of her cellphone. It was Aidan.

“Can I come pick you up?” His voice was strained. “I wanna talk about something.”

Her stomach clenched, but she said, “Sure.”

When she hung up, she glanced at her mother.

Helen nodded. “Go. Have fun.”

She kissed her mom on the cheek, slipped on her jacket and ankle boots, and was outside on the patio when Aidan turned up, dark and sinister in his leather jacket and cut. He was carrying the spare helmet and leaned in to kiss her, lingeringly, as he passed it into her hands.

“You okay?” he asked as he pulled back.

“Uh-huh. You?”

“Maybe.”

He rode like a demon, the bike seeming to outrun the headlamp, the black road sliding away beneath them. House lights and business signs flashed past in bright pulses, too quick for her to make any sense of the town she’d grown up in. She knew these roads backwards and forwards, but it was different on the back of the bike. The only real thing was Aidan’s muscled torso between her arms, the warmth of his body she felt through all his leather. It was bitterly cold, and the night air found pathways up her sleeves, down into her collar. Her teeth were chattering by the time they pulled over.

“Where are we?” Sam asked when the engine cut off.

There was no light save the moon’s cool glow across the frosted grass. The shadowed bulk of a half-wall gave her pause; the pale light struck a patch of shine on what must be a window; where a roof should have been, jagged beams thrust toward the sky.

“It was a shooting range,” Aidan explained. “Dad brought me here before I was even old enough, let me fire his old .22 for the first time. It burned down about a year ago.” He twisted around so she could see the fast glimmer of his eyes. “Creepy, isn’t it?”

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.

His brows lifted. “Are you shitting me?”

“I wish I was.”

Still holding Remy, he paced across the room, breathing through flared nostrils. “Your uncle’s an idiot,” he told the baby.

He spun back to face Ava. “Really? Really? Why the hell didn’t he tell me?” He seemed genuinely wounded, emotion tweaking his face.

A lump formed in her throat. What was she going to do with her stupid brave husband and her stupid brave brother? “He didn’t want to drag anyone else into it,” she said. “He said because you, and Michael, and so many others have kids…”

Mercy growled under his breath, the sound more animal than human. “He has a kid now too, damn it.”

Just a picture in his wallet, but yes, a little girl, growing and developing, waiting to be passed into her daddy’s arms.

“He made me promise to keep it to myself,” she said, “but Merc, I can’t…”

“No, you shoulda told me.”

Because he was going to do something about it. He was a one-man cavalry, the beast; even if the others didn’t join him, he was going to that house, ready to aid his brother.

“Here.” She opened her arms and he came to her, bent down and let her hug him around the neck. Remy cooed in her ear; she smelled baby and man and she closed her eyes against the pressure of tears. “Please be careful,” she whispered. “I need you to come home to me.”

They were startled – but not surprised – by the sound of the back door opening. The cold evening wind whistled through the opening, funneling straight into the living room. The draft preceded a stone-faced Ghost, all zipped up in a black hoodie, posture eloquent of the flak vest he wore beneath.

He looked at Ava, and then Mercy. “She told you?”

“Yeah.”

His dark eyes came back to Ava, and though the words were accusing, there was nothing but pride in his voice. “You and your mother…”

“Annoying?” she suggested.

He shook his head. Back to Mercy his attention went. “Suit up, son. We’ve got a rescue mission to rescue.”

~*~

“You’re being quiet,” Michael observed over lemon pepper chicken and green beans. Across the kitchen table, Holly was pushing her food around with her fork, locked in her thoughts.

“So are you,” she said, staring at her plate.

“I’m always quiet.” While Holly always filled the conversational void.

She set down her fork and lifted her head, big green eyes troubled. “I’m sorry. I’m just…distracted, I guess.”

Michael wanted to kick himself. He should never have told her about Tango’s abduction. “Honey, I already told you. Nobody’s coming after you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Her lips pressed together. “Do you think I only worry about myself? You don’t think I might be worried about what they’re doing to Tango?”

Well shit. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I’m not that selfish,” she said quietly.

“I know you’re not, baby.”

She sighed and stood up, carried her plate to the sink.

“Hol.”

She turned around and put her back to the counter, massaged her temples. “I’m not angry with you.” She wasn’t usually, but she was in a bit of a temper tonight. “Sometimes I just hate it, you know? The club,” she added, quietly. “I don’t, not really. But sometimes…”

Sometimes she wished it didn’t have a hold on him, and that they could be safe, just the two of them, without any outside threats. He knew this because sometimes he thought the same thing.

She shook her head. “That’s stupid. Because without a club, there wouldn’t be you, and without you…” She took a deep, shaky breath. “There wouldn’t be Lucy…or me.”

“Hol–” He was out of his chair and headed toward her when someone knocked loudly on the door that led out onto the deck.

Ghost and Mercy.

“Get armed,” Ghost said. “I’ll explain on the way.”

~*~

Emmie found her husband in the office off the library, frowning at his computer screen.

“I thought you were done for the day.”

“Tell me, love,” he said distractedly as she came to perch on the edge of the desk, “is your job ever ‘done’?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” A barn manager never truly clocked out. It wasn’t the sort of job that lent itself to firm hours. There was always something else to be done, always an extra mile she could go toward making her barn as successful as possible. “Anything I can do to help?” she offered.

He looked every one of his almost forty years and then some tonight, brow crimped, mouth bracketed by deep lines. “No.” But then he swiveled his chair toward her. “Actually, yeah. You’re pissed at me, I can tell. So you can tell me what’s up with that. That’ll help.”

It was said mildly, but was still the most openly hostile he’d been toward her.

Emmie recoiled. “What? I’m not pissed at you.”

He gave her a flat look.

“Trust me. You don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“How about I decide that for myself?”

She sighed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” When he continued to stare at her, she said, “You don’t want to have kids, do you?”

He hesitated a beat too long. “I never said that.”

“But that’s the way you feel.”

“Did I tell you I wouldn’t have kids with you?”

This was even worse than she’d thought. “Walsh.”

They stared at one another.

“I don’t have anything against kids,” he said at last. “But I don’t have a burning need to become a father, no.”

She didn’t want it to, but disappointment fell hard in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t say why exactly she wanted children; perhaps it was an overflow of joy that she was no longer alone. Perhaps it was simply biological.

“Do you–” she started…

And the doorbell rang.

~*~

Colin lay back on the limp pillow of his dorm room bed and stared up at the ceiling. Same crappy bed, same small room, same gut full of beer he’d had every night here in Knoxville, but all of it rendered irrelevant by the warm female voice coming through the cellphone pressed to his ear.

“Are you behaving?” Jenny asked.

He grunted. “I always behave. Usually. Sometimes.”

Sha laughed. “Let me rephrase that. How are things going with your brother?”

He frowned and reached to touch the spot on his jaw that was only just now starting to feel normal again. “They’re going.”

She paused. “Going bad?”

“Dunno. Whatever. I don’t want to talk about him.” He sighed and forced thoughts of Mercy away on the exhale. “How are you feeling?”

She took a breath that sounded a little shivery with nerves. He couldn’t blame her; his own nerves crawled under his skin like an army of ants. “I’m starting to be a little green, so I guess that part of it’s starting.”

“Hmm. I’m sorry. Want me to bring you some ginger ale?”

“All the way from Tennessee, yeah, that’d be good.”

A flat joke, and they both fell silent afterward. Finally, Jen said, “We’re gonna have to tell Candy soon. I won’t be able to hide it much longer.”

No, there wasn’t much hope hiding a baby.

Colin wished he hadn’t had so much to drink; his stomach cramped and he rolled to his side, phone cradled between his head and the pillow. “It’s gonna be okay,” he told her, because telling her anything else wasn’t an option. Even though he was petrified. Even though he’d never wanted kids.

The good part, though, if there was a good part to any of this, was that she hadn’t wanted children either. So it was terrifying for both of them.

A knock sounded hard against his door a fraction of a second before it opened. Mercy filled up most of the doorframe, wide shoulders blocking the light from the hall. His face was serious, at first. But as he stepped into the room, he spotted the phone in Colin’s hand and grinned.

“Aw, is that your girlfriend?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Colin said, sitting upright.

“What?” Jenny asked.

Shit. “Not you, baby.”

“It is,” Mercy said, delighted. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Jenny!”

“Oh,” Jen said, chuckling. “Brotherly bonding? Hey, Felix.”

“She says ‘hey,’” Colin grudgingly passed along. “What do you want?”

Mercy’s expression changed. “Say goodnight, Casanova. We’ve got business.”

Thirty-Six

Sam tightened her hands on the wheel of the Caprice. Her palms were slicked over with sweat and it was a miracle she’d been able to steer at all. As she braked at the gate, she scrubbed her fingers furiously down the short length of her skirt, releasing a deep, tense breath through her teeth.

“You’re gonna have to calm down,” Jasmine said in the passenger seat, but her voice trembled.

Sam glanced over and saw the woman had her hands knotted together in her lap, eyes white-rimmed and liquid in the dash lights. “That was convincing,” Sam said with a snort. Apparently, the nerves were making her snappish.

“Well, I’m not an actress,” Jasmine defended.

Sam snorted. “I’m a damn professor.”

They shared a moment of doomed silence.

“We’re gonna blow this,” Jasmine said.

“No we’re not. Hush,” Sam said. She couldn’t contemplate failure because she held the superstitious belief that doing so would then cause failure. And not to be melodramatic, but failure wasn’t an option in this scenario. Sometimes, old idioms were true.

Sam took one last deep breath and said, “Here we go. You ready?”

Jasmine echoed her shivery exhale. “Yeah.”

Sam buzzed her window down, leaned out, and pressed the call button on the intercom box.

“Yeah?” a heavy male voice asked from the speaker.

Sam marshalled her meager acting skills and put on her best flirty girl voice. “Your entertainment for the night’s here, baby.” She cringed inwardly, but pasted a wide smile to her face in case the camera could see her.

“Yeah?” the voice repeated, this time with considerably more interest. “You must be new. What’s your name, baby girl?”

Shit. She hadn’t thought of that. “Uh…Honey,” she said, scrambling. “And my friend…” Shit, Jazz already had sort of a hooker name. “Lavender,” she said, and then closed her eyes, bit her lip in total shame and regret.

“Lavender?” Jazz hissed.

But the guy on the intercom laughed. “Honey and Lavender, huh? Come on in, ladies. We’ve been waiting.”

There was an electronic droning sound and then the gate unlocked with a loud clang ahead of them, slowly slid back on its wheels.

Sam rolled the window up. “Sorry.” She glanced over at Jazz and took another of oh-so-many deep breaths. “Alright, Lavender, you ready?”

Jazz shook her head, but said, “Yeah, let’s go get our boy.”

The driveway was wide, but flanked by stone walls crawling with ivy. Sam felt them closing in as their headlights skimmed a path down to the house; felt the gate closing behind them, sealing them off from the world. Fox had bragged about being able to scale the wrought iron fence around this place, and maybe he could, if what Aidan had said of the Englishman was true – but no way was she going to be able to climb over, should things go south. Especially not in these damn stilettos.

The driveway ended in a circle around a multi-tiered fountain at the front of the mansion. A mansion that was tastefully illuminated with landscape lighting and carriage sconces on either side of the massive double doors at the top of a steep stone staircase.

“Jesus,” Jasmine said as they parked behind an Escalade. “Beauty and the fucking Beast around here.”

“Us being the beauties, I take it,” Sam said, grimly. “You’ve got your gun?”

“Yep.”

Last chance to turn back, a small voice whispered in her head. She whispered back, Not a chance. And climbed out of the car.

Her heels clipped across the stone pavers and though she shivered in the cold, she didn’t pull the halves of her jacket together. If it could even be called a jacket. Aidan and Carter in tow to ensure “authenticity,” she and Jasmine had pawed through the Goodwill racks in search of proper call girl getups. Sam had finally settled on a clinging black minidress with a faux fur duster over top. She’d found spike-heeled boots and costume chandelier earrings. She’d troweled on the eye makeup and doused herself in perfume.

Jasmine, she had a feeling, had pulled her own skirt and top from her personal closet, and hadn’t needed to go shopping at all. Whatever. Not judging.

The red blinking eyes of cameras followed their ascent to the top of the stairs. The door opened before they could knock, Sam’s freshly manicured hand hovering above the panel.

The man who awaited them was nearly as broad as he was tall, his head shaved, his features small and piggish.

Sam swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said, “Hey there.”

Jasmine, more practiced, popped a hip and gave him a slow grin. “Howdy.”

He looked between them, inspecting them bottom to top, from heels to hair styles. He grinned and stepped back. “Come in.”

~*~

“Where the hell is Ian?” Aidan hissed under his breath. “He said he was going in with us.”

“This is why we shoulda made that tosser ride with us,” Fox said. “If he doesn’t show, we move in without him. He’d only get in the way, besides.”

“Would I?” the man’s accent floated out of the darkness, and Aidan jumped. Inwardly. At least, he hoped it was only inward.

A thin shadow stepped out of the trees and moved toward them, seeming like nothing more than a trick of the imagination. Then a face suddenly appeared; Ian was drawing his ski mask up, revealing the narrow white jaw and high British cheekbones that made him look feminine in daylight…downright ghoulish now.

“Jesus,” Carter said. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know that most of the manpower is currently housed in the outbuildings. They’ll come running to the main house once someone sounds the alarm, but it should be easy enough getting in, at first.”

Fox snorted.

“You armed?” Aidan asked.

“Of course.” Ian almost sounded offended. “You just worry about you, darling. I’ve got myself all covered.”

~*~

Something Aidan had told her cycled through her head as she crossed the threshold: Pay attention. Be aware. Keep your head on a swivel and don’t get so spooked you don’t pay attention to what’s around you. She latched onto those words, remembered the earnest look in his eyes, and did her best to block out her terror.

A stone-floored entrance hall flanked by mirrors. Open floorplan feeding into a massive formal sitting room. White furniture, roaring fire in the marble fireplace. She counted three other men, lounging on the white leather, drinks in hand. They all perked up as she and Jazz entered. The light in their eyes was nothing like the bright spark of interest she got from Aidan; it was flat and mindless with lust. A dozen mental pictures flicked through her mind, nightmares, all of them.

She had to focus.

Several case openings allowed an exit from the sitting room. One led down a hallway, she could tell, another fed into what looked like a dining room, a long glass table reflecting orbs of light from the overhead fixtures.

To the right, an opening led into a slate-floored sunroom. No doors, only windows. But through the sunroom was a restroom…right across from the mud room. And there was an exterior door there, if Fox’s recon work had been accurate. That was her goal: the mud room door. She had no idea how the boys were going to get across the lawn without being seen, but she didn’t have to know. All she had to do was get to that door.

Without being raped first.

No big.

Beside her, Jasmine stepped boldly forward, her walk a rolling, hip-popping gait that dripped pure sex. The woman cast a fast look over her shoulder at Sam, her blue eyes intense, frightening. She nodded, ever so slightly. She was going to be the distraction, she’d decided, while Sam went for the door. Putting herself in the line of fire.

Sam wanted to hug her. Instead, she nodded back.

Jazz put on a bright smile and said, “So fellas, I’ve just been awful lonely, and I’m wondering if a couple of you might wanna keep me company.” She strode into the center of the room and posed like a showpiece.

Sam spun to face the man who’d let them in the house. Her fake sultry smile hurt her face, the muscles around her mouth not used to that sort of expression. “One quick thing,” she said, trying to bat her lashes at him. “Can I use the restroom real quick?” When he frowned, she scrambled to improvise. “You see, I was a little…overexcited about coming to meet you boys tonight” – oh barf – “and I had a little teensy sip of vodka to settle my nerves” – she was talking like her sister, which meant she was going to have a serious discussion with Erin about life choices in the near future– “and now I, well, you know.” She forced a high pitched giggle. “Let me just nip in and out and I’ll be all ready for you guys.” Oh, major fucking barf.

But he bought it.

“Sure, yeah.” His eyes raked over her, lingering on her cleavage. “Right through there.”

Worried for Jasmine, she skirted around the corner, the casement, and into the sunroom. The room was cold and dark, the windows gleaming with moonlight. Beyond, she could already see a fresh blanket of white frost across the grass.

She searched through the glass as she walked, looking for signs of approaching bikers. They’d be in all black, and so she saw nothing, and kept moving. Clip-clip-clip across the slate.

The mud room stank of old cigar smoke, and on the bench beneath the hanging jackets, she spotted lots of empty cups and beer bottles, a few crushed-out cigarette butts. This must be where the goons came to smoke and piss out into the bushes.

The door had a large glass pane in its center, but an impressive sequence of locks. Locks designed to keep people out. She was able to throw all of them from the inside with a release of a chain and a turn of a few bolts.

Her hand was on the knob when a ghostly face appeared on the other side of the glass.

She stifled a scream and recognized Aidan.

He pressed a gloved hand to the pane and spoke through it. “Check for an alarm.” With his other hand, he pointed upward. He was nothing save a face, all the rest of him black-wrapped.

Heart thundering, she glanced up and saw two plastic rectangles: the sensor and its mated half. Shit.

“There is one,” she said. “What should I do?”

Three more dark shapes crowded in behind him: Carter, Ian, and Fox. He shook his head. “You’re gonna have to trip it, and we’re gonna have to move fast.”

Fox’s voice floated through the door. “It’ll only be the motion detector, love, but they’ll hear it.”

Right. So. Move fast.

She twisted the knob and yanked the door open, a blast of frigid air pouring in around the boys as they hustled past her into the house. As predicted, the motion detector gave an electronic chime of alert, but no major alarms went off.

“Where’s Jazz?” Carter asked.

“Down the hall, in the sitting room. She was distracting them.”

He growled something unintelligible.

Sam glanced out the open door, the cold air stinging her face, and thought she might be sick as she thought about fleeing. That was the plan, sure, but the idea of running away as Aidan was running in, saving herself, when –

His hands locked on her wrists and he turned her to face him, his dark eyes shining in the moonlight. “Sam,” he said, like he knew what she’d been thinking. “Go. Like we talked about. Go now.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered. “But I know. I’m going.” Her eyes stung. “God, Aidan, be careful. Please.”

“I will.” He kissed her, then shoved her out the door.

She went three steps before she realized the shoes had to go. She stepped out of them, snatched them up, and fled, light-footed across the grass, gritting her teeth against the cold sting of the frost against her bare soles.

They had talked this moment to death, and now she was glad for it. Most of Ellison’s property was crowded with trees, but a single wedge of lawn provided access to the pool, pool house, guest cottage, and a section of fence that wasn’t crawling with ivy. The cameras would catch her, undoubtedly, but with the boys inside making a big commotion, what kind of threat was she?

Still. Fast applied here too.

She sprinted, sucking cold air down into her lungs, her coat flapping wildly around her like a cape. Despite the landscape lighting at the foot of each building, and around the pool, this patch of grass was dark, and her imagination conjured countless terrors.

Lights came on in the guest house.

She kept running.

“Hey!” someone shouted.

She kept running.

The fence reared up, closer than she’d thought, and she found the place where Fox had blow-torched a gap. She turned sideways, leapt through it, and landed with a gasp in the leaf litter of the woods beyond.

She was off the property.

But that didn’t mean she was safe.

Sam scrambled to her feet, dragged in a deep breath…

And was promptly lifted right off her feet, a pair of arms like steel bands closing around her and swinging her up off the ground.

Before she could scream, a warm, familiar voice spoke in her ear. “Hey, it’s me.”

Mercy.

“Jesus,” she hissed, and he set her down. She whirled to face him, so relieved, so thankful, so pissed off that he’d scared her like that.

Ava’s husband loomed colossal above her, another man beside him nearly as tall. His brother, Colin, had to be. It was dark, but the moon glimmered down the steel handles of the sledgehammers they carried.

“Aidan and the guys inside?” Mercy asked.

“I just left him,” she said, nodding, trying to catch her breath. A runner she was not. She clutched at her side. “Ava told you?”

“Yeah.”

“My God, I’m glad to see you guys.”

Fast gleam of white as he grinned. “And we brought the whole crew.”

That was when she heard the crunching of footfalls in the leaves. Lots of footfalls.

Mercy turned and pointed up the hill with his hammer. “Sam, run up there. Littlejohn’s waiting at the top of the rise. Stay with him, and if shit goes too south, y’all run like hell for the truck, okay?”

“Be safe,” she countered, “okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, chuckling darkly.

She ran up the hill to Littlejohn.

~*~

There was a hallway, Greg had told them, that ran a wide loop around the first floor of the mansion. The door to the basement was on the far side from the sunroom, beside the entrance to the kitchen. The door looked like it opened into a closet, he’d said, but if you walked all the way in, you found the inner door. It required a key card to gain access – a card Greg himself hadn’t been in possession of. Which meant they were going to have to snag a card off one of Ellison’s men.

The least of their worries considering they couldn’t go any deeper into the house without revealing themselves. Better to go in guns blazing than risk starting a firefight.

They paused in the sunroom, and Fox’s blue eyes gleamed with a preternatural light in the incoming fall of moonglow. He looked at each of them in turn.

“No hesitating,” he whispered. “You kill, and you kill quick. I don’t wanna see no shots in the legs or arms, yeah? Center of mass, or in the head, boyos. Let’s get this done.”

Aidan pulled in a deep breath, held it…and felt something dark and sinister lock into place inside him. Every house raid he’d ever conducted had been accompanied by shakes, chills, quick bursts of nausea.

Not this time. In this moment, a solid ball of hate coalesced in his belly. His hands were steady as he double-checked the silencer on his gun one last time. “Yeah,” he told Fox. “We’re ready.” He had no doubts about his performance, no matter what was about to unfold.

Killing made him sick? Was watching the people he loved put in the crosshairs somehow less sickening?

No. Not at all.

Fox pulled at the Velcro straps of his vest and nodded. “Okay. Move.”

With quick, fleet-footed steps like police ghosting up to a scene, they slid through the sunroom and out into a lounge area tricked out in white on white, a fire crackling. There were four men, and all of them were greatly distracted by Jasmine, who stood in the center of the room, her jacket in a puddle at her feet, as she reached to untie the neck of her halter top.

She heard them come in – a little twitch of her shoulders to show she was startled – but she didn’t turn toward them, didn’t betray them. Good girl.

Aidan was on the left, so he aimed at the man on the far left, and dropped him with one shot.

Low gasps of sound, as the silencers did their work.

One of the men managed to turn toward them, eyes wide with shock, but Fox put him down before he could reach for his own weapon.

Jasmine snatched up her jacket and rushed toward them, her expression wild with fright. “God.”

“Go.” Carter caught her quickly around the waist, kissed her forehead, and shoved her toward the sunroom. “Follow Sam, go!” he hissed, and she went, high heels louder than their gunfire had been.

“Kitchen,” Fox said, striding across the room. “I see it.” He leaned toward one of the fallen bodies without breaking stride and swiped the ID card from his jacket pocket.

As they walked, Aidan registered a loud thump from the floor above them. “We’re gonna have company in a minute.”

“Then hurry.”

Greg – bless his stupid, mildly-evil dead heart – had told them the truth. They found the closet, and the door within it. Fox slid the card through, and the lock flashed a green light and beeped. Disengaged.

“Thank fuck,” Carter muttered.

The door swung inward, and cold, damp air rushed toward them. A steep set of concrete stairs led downward, bare bulbs in cages providing overhead illumination.

“Shit, it’s like out of a movie,” Fox muttered.

Before they could head down, Aidan heard the sounds of pursuit: thundering footsteps, alarmed shouts. The bodies had been found, obviously.

Aidan started to turn back the way they’d come, and Fox laid a hand on his shoulder. “Go get your mate.” His face was absolute granite. “I’ve got this.”

“Charlie–” Aidan started.

“Go!”

Shit…but he couldn’t argue. “You heard him,” Ian snapped, and he plunged down the stairs, the other two chasing at his heels.

They encountered a man halfway down, another black-dressed goon. “What the–”

Aidan shot him in the face, felt the hot splash of blood on his own. The man fell backward and slid down the stairs, thump-thump-thump, his head sounding like a hollow melon as it struck each tread.

He slumped at a sick angle when they hit the bottom. Aidan leapt over him, and found himself in the middle of a nightmare.

Cells. Like prison cells, with iron bars, overhead tube lights, stainless toilets and rock-hard cots. Three of them, stretched out before him. And in the first…

“Oh shit,” he whispered, surging forward, wrapping his hands around the bars. “Tango? Kev!”

His best friend looked small and frail, crumpled in a heap against the far right wall of his cell. His clothes were filthy and torn, his jeans hanging off his bony hips. His hair lay flat, dingy as straw on top of his head. And his face had been beaten badly…so badly. He would have been unrecognizable if not for the tattoos on his hands, and Aidan’s innate sense that this was one of his favorite people in the world.

Ian came to stand beside him, breath catching audibly. “Oh, Jesus…”

“Kev,” Aidan called again, and that was when he noticed there was someone in the next cell. Someone who was, best as he could tell, resting a tiny hand on Kev’s shoulder, through the bars. “Hey, who are you?” he called. Over his shoulder: “Carter, go back and try to find keys off that asshole I shot.”

“Got it.”

Aidan prowled down to the front of the next cell, and got a look at whoever was touching Kev.

It was a girl, a small, trembling, dark-haired girl who didn’t look like she was out of high school.

Aidan sighed and forced himself to calm. He could hear gunshots overhead, and he was panicking about Fox…but he had to be the good guy here. “Hey,” he said, softly. “Who are you?”

She lifted her chin in defiance, but said nothing.

He heard Carter coming up behind him, the rattle of keys the most beautiful sound in the world. “Sweetheart,” he said, even more gently. “My name’s Aidan, and I’m a Lean Dog, like Kev.” He was betting, given the way she crouched over him, that the two had shared personal details. “He’s my very best friend, and I’m here to take him home.”

“Aidan?” Her expression changed, stark fear bleeding through the defensive mask. “Oh God. Really? He said…” Tears filled her eyes and she pressed her lips together.

“Aidan?” Tango’s croaky, but unmistakable voice asked. “You’re there?”

“I’m here.” He took the keys from Carter and tried one, the next… “I’m here, I’m here.” Ah, that one worked. The door slid back on oiled rollers and Aidan charged into the cell.

Tried to. Ian crowded him, attempted to get in first. Aidan elbowed him roughly. “Stay back, asshole. He doesn’t need your shit right now.”

A long-fingered hand clamped on his arm and he shook it off. “Carter, if that English prick touches me again, shoot him.”

“I’d be glad to. But, dude, you need to hurry.”

He turned back to Tango, moved toward him once more. “We’re here to bust you out.” He’d meant it as a joke, but it fell flat, his smile unable to take hold as he drew close and got a good look at his friend.

“God, what’d they do to you?” he whispered.

Tango forced himself upright, teeth gritted, grunting with pain. Aidan knelt and helped him, arms looping around his ribcage.

Tango’s eyes glittered feverishly through swollen lids, but his gaze was nevertheless steady. “What’s going on?”

“Like I said. This is a rescue mission.”

“The club…?”

“Just me. And the kid. And Fox. You know how he is, crazy like a motherfucking fox, always looking for a good shootout.”

Tango groaned. “You shouldn’t have…gone against wishes…”

“Shut up,” Aidan said, gently. “You didn’t think I’d leave you here, did you? I’m trying to turn gay, remember?”

“So not funny.”

“Right. Come on, can you stand?”

Tango flung an arm across his shoulders, but his eyes snapped wide – as wide as was possible, given the swelling. “Whitney,” he gasped.

Aidan darted a glance to the girl, saw her staring at them with her lip caught between her teeth. “Is that you?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“I’m not leaving without her,” Tango said. “You get her out too, or you leave me here.”

“Leave the little bint,” Ian said, sharply.

Aidan frowned, but he wasn’t about to squabble over something as minor as one little chick. He jerked his head to Carter. “Get her.”

Then he took a firm hold of Tango. “We’re gonna stand up, alright?”

Tango nodded, and he tightened up in Aidan’s arms.

“One…two…three…”

Tango let out a strangled sound, but he managed to lock his knees and keep his feet.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Like hell, but there was no choice. Aidan began walking them slowly toward the door, knowing it was too slow, teeth grinding in anxiety. How were they ever going to flee like this? How could he get Tango through the hole in the fence? Up the hill? Shit, Carter would have to help carry him. That was if Fox wasn’t already dead and could provide cover.

Ian came around to Tango’s other side, drew the guy’s arm across his shoulder. When Aidan saw his expression, the absolute devastation of it, he felt a little guilty for what he’d said before. Ian Byron was a lot of things, but his feelings were genuine. This was as difficult for him as it was for any of them.

Carter had gotten the girl – Whitney’s – cell open and she rushed now toward Tango, face creased with worry.

“Oh, he’s hurt so bad,” she said, voice choked with tears.              “He’ll be fine,” Aidan said, thinking that was probably a lie. But he didn’t have time for truths. “Lead the way up,” he said to Carter. “Let’s see if our fox is still alive up there.”

It was a long, slow, painful trip up the stairs. Tango cursed and muttered, but he managed to make his feet cooperate. Ian pulled his weight – or Tango’s weight, as it were. When this was over, Aidan decided he owed the guy a thank you.

“One foot after the next,” the Englishman whispered to Tango. “That’s it, darling. Not much farther.”

They were two steps down from the top when Carter, ahead of them, said, “Oh my fucking God.”

A few lurching strides later, and Aidan was at the threshold.

“Shit,” he muttered. Because there were simply no other words.

The hallway was littered with bodies. All of them Ellison’s men. Fox stood, polishing the barrel of his gun on the hem of his shirt, expression almost bored.

“Fox,” Aidan said, stunned. “You’re not dead.”

“Dead?” the Englishman scoffed. “You thought I couldn’t handle this?”

“How many people did you just kill?” Carter asked.

“Eleven? Twelve? Dunno, you ladies ready?”

“Uh…yeah,” Aidan said.

The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, Candy always described him. Clearly, that wasn’t an exaggeration.

“You okay?” Aidan asked in an undertone as Fox and Carter led them back down the hall.

Tango, shuffling and struggling to keep up, letting Aidan and Ian carry his weight, said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Jesus Christ, no he wasn’t.

“It’s okay,” Whitney soothed. “We’re leaving. It’s all over now.”

Aidan pushed all his questions aside in the interest of expediency; but when they got out, he was going to have some things to ask Miss Whitney.

They reached the sitting room after what felt like ten years.

Fox turned around and gave them an assessing glance. “Can he move any faster than that?”

“Probably not,” Aidan said through his teeth.

“We–” Fox started.

A man appeared in the sitting room, standing upright and holding an AK.

“Shit,” Aidan said, scrambling for his own gun.

Another man appeared, then another, then…

It was Ghost, and Walsh, and Mercy, and Candy, and Colin.

Holy…

“Kev,” Ghost said, voice booming, heavy with emotion. “You okay, son?”

“Yeah,” Tango lied.

“Is that…?”

“It’s me,” Ian said. “Wonderful to see you too, Mr. Teague,” he said in a mocking tone.

“Aidan?” Ghost asked.

“We’re good, Dad.”

“Good,” the president said. “’Cause we got hostiles pouring in. We’re gonna have to shoot our way out, boys. Guns at the ready.”

Mercy hefted his sledgehammer over his shoulder. “Bring ‘em on,” he said, grinning. “I need the exercise.”

Aidan swallowed, and realized there was a lump in his throat.

His father walked toward them.

“Dad–”

“Mags told me,” Ghost said, voice going soft as he stepped forward and closed in on them. He wore a ski cap, flak vest, and carried not only the AK but a sidearm as well, his body strapped with more weapons and magazines, in full-on soldier mode. He offered a lopsided smile full of emotion. “You didn’t think I’d come help my boys?”

Okay, not a good time to get emotional.

Ghost reached out and put one hand on Aidan’s shoulder, the other on Tango’s. “Let’s go home,” he whispered. Then, to Aidan, “You ready to kill some motherfuckers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He turned around, hands still in place, shouting toward the Lécuyer brothers. “Boys, you clear them a path, okay? We gotta get Kev away. And Mercy” – he grinned hugely – “don’t show any mercy, okay?”

“No, sir!” Mercy said, laughing. To Aidan: “Come on, brother. We got your back.”

~*~

It was frigid outside, and Aidan wished they’d thought to bring clothes for Tango. Not that there was time to worry about it. Whoever lived in the pool house had called in reinforcements and there were men streaming onto the property, firing wild into the night.

Aidan ducked his head low, tightened his grip on Tango, and followed his brother-in-law.

Mercy had his sledge in one hand, gun in the other, firing off shots as he led them…using the hammer when someone broke through the line and got too close.

One goon managed to break loose and set upon them. Mercy swung a wide arc and caved the bastard’s head in with the hammer, one deadly stroke from his massive arm.

“Oh,” Whitney said in front of them.

“Don’t look,” Aidan told her. “Just keep going.”

Colin was no slouch. He clipped a guy in the shoulder with his own hammer and then finished him off with a round from his .45.

And then suddenly they were at the fence, the hole Fox had cut, and they were awkwardly pushing Tango through it.

“Go, go!” Colin shouted.

Aidan turned back and saw the two brothers fending off a pair of guards. “Merc,” he called.

“Take Kev,” the big man said. “Let my brother and me handle this.”

So they went. Aidan half-carried, half-dragged a semi-conscious Tango up the leaf-strewn hill, Ian and Whitney helping, the most unlikely duo of accomplices ever.

Gunshots echoed behind him. Shouts. The sharp crackle of fire.

And then the sweetest sound reached his ears.

“Aidan?” Sam’s voice called. “Aidan, baby, oh…”

They were at the hill. Littlejohn. Jazz. The waiting escape vehicles. And Sam. His gorgeous Sam.

“Baby,” she said, coming to him, touching his face and filling his field of vision with her perfect expression of concern. “God,” she said. And then she turned to Tango. “Kev, Jesus…”

Aidan tipped his head back, felt the hard press of his best friend’s arm across his shoulder, felt the cold prickle of icy air in his lungs, saw the stars reeling overhead as he fought to catch his balance.

“Thank you,” he said, not knowing who he was talking to. God, maybe. “Thank you. Thank God.”

~*~

“Well hell, it got stuck,” Mercy said, sounding incredulous. As Ghost watched, he braced a foot on the fallen henchman’s shoulder and gave the sledge a good yank; the hammer head came loose of the caved-in skull with a sticky sound.

Ghost’s stomach grabbed, but he smiled, too, turning away from his son-in-law to survey what was left of Ellison’s top of the line kitchen. Four dead here, and many more beyond, out on the lawn, by the pool, in other rooms.

Men had come pouring out of the pool and guest houses, when they realized what was going on, guns at the ready. At one point, two SUVs had pulled up out front with reinforcements, but the effort was wasted. The Lean Dogs mowed them all down.

The kitchen looked like a war zone now, smashed up by the hammers, sprayed with blood like an impressionist painter’s canvas.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Mercy said, coming around the wide marble island to join him.

Colin was breathing hard through his mouth, chest heaving – whether from exertion or disgust, Ghost didn’t know. He looked a little green and dazed as he gazed around at the carnage.

“Col, you alright?” Ghost asked, sharply.

The guy nodded, swallowed, and shook his head. “Yeah. Fine.”

Mercy rolled his eyes, but a little smile lurked at the corners of his lips. Proud big brother moment? Maybe.

Ghost unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it. “Walsh, what’s the status upstairs?”

“Secure,” the VP answered. “But we got one live one, and he wants to talk to you.”

He sighed. “Yeah. On my way.” He gestured to Mercy as he left the room. “You two round up the others and start cleaning house. I want this place smoking in ten minutes, no more.”

A solid “yes, sir” from both of them.

As he crossed through the sitting room and hit the curved marble staircase – Harry falling into step behind him as sentry – he made a mental note to never decorate his evil bad guy lair in white. There was red everywhere. The copper tang of blood burned in his nose as he took a deep breath and climbed.

The upstairs was laid out like a hotel hallway, thick carpeting, potted plants, little window nooks that overlooked the grounds. Walsh waited for him in the open doorway of a bedroom that turned out to be an office. The man who wanted an audience was trussed up like a turkey on the rug in front of the desk, Fox’s gun trained on him. He was a plain-featured man, nothing distinct about him at all, not the slight build, nor the indistinct nose, nor the flat brown eyes.

Everyone else they’d killed tonight had been either a thug or a slack-jawed lackey kid. But this man was different.

‘Lemme guess,” Ghost said, “Bill?”

The man nodded and tipped his head back, revealing a trickle of blood on his chin, evidence of a split lip.

“Which one of my boys hit you?”

Bill darted a glance toward Fox.

“Hit him again, Foxy.”

Fox obliged, stepping behind him and kicking him in the kidneys. A hard kick, and from a motorcycle boot no less.

Bill grunted and arched away from the pain, breathing heavily through his nose. But he didn’t scream. When he’d subsided onto the carpet, Ghost crouched down in front of him.

“What’d you want to talk to me about?”

When the man opened his mouth, a loud gasp escaped his lips. He drew in a ragged breath and said, “Ellison knows this is happening. He’s been alerted.”

“Right. Right. Where is he, then? Was that the best he’s got? The idiots he sent? The ones my crew painted across the walls?”

Bill closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“You weren’t hoping to bargain for your life, were you, Bill?”

No answer, which meant yes.

“Tell me: when you were hurting my boy, did you get off on that? Did it give you pleasure to make him scream?”

Bill’s eyes came to his face, and something was glittering through the flat professional façade. Fear. Desperation. “I was doing my job. Don’t pretend you don’t know how it works.”

“Oh, I won’t. I got a guy downstairs with your job. And I know he likes it, the big sick fuck.” Ghost pulled his gun off his hip. “Just like I know I’m gonna enjoy this.”

He stood, and put a round through Bill the Torturer’s head.

“Rottie,” he said into his radio. “We got one more up here, then have the guys bring the kerosene in.”

“Got it,” the tracker said back.

He looked at the two English brothers before him. “I want every computer in his house. Every flash drive you can find.”

“Yeah,” Walsh said.

~*~

“You know,” Mercy said as he dragged one of the corpses across the tiled poolside toward the house, “that’s what sucks about being the big ones. You gotta do all the heavy lifting.”

Colin grunted beside him, equally burdened. “Yeah, that damn Fox. Little bastard,” he said, dryly. “Never has to do the dirty work.”

Mercy laughed. Both of them had been shocked and delighted by the destruction Walsh’s little brother had wrought before their arrival. You didn’t mess with Charlie Fox. You just didn’t.

They reached the door that led into the kitchen and paused to catch their breath. Mercy reached for the door handle and glanced over at his brother. He was tired, sure, like all of them, but he was holding up alright. And he’d thrown his whole weight into the swing of the hammer, when they’d entered the fray.

“Hey,” Mercy said, and the seriousness of his voice drew Colin’s gaze. “You did good tonight. I’m proud of you.”

Colin’s grin was more of a grimace. “Oh, you’re proud?”

Mercy shrugged. “That’s what big brothers do.” Before Colin could respond, he opened the door and said, “Come on. We gotta build this funeral pyre.”

~*~

They laid Kev out in the backseat of one of the trucks. By the time they’d settled him and covered him up with jackets, he’d passed out.

“Better for him to sleep,” Sam said, easing the truck door shut. “He probably ought to be drugged, truth be told.”

Aidan shook his head. “He doesn’t like to take anything like that. He used to be a heroin junkie.”

Sam looked at him, gleam of her eyes in the shadows evidencing surprise.

“He was?” Whitney asked. She was crouched on the ground beside the rear tire, leaning back against it, small and curled up like some kind of woodland creature.

“Yeah,” Aidan said, and then he did what he’d needed to do since all of this had started. He snatched Sam into his arms and crushed her against his chest, face buried in the loose pale waves of her hair. “Sam. Jesus.”

She hugged him back, her arms tight around his neck. She shivered.

The wind stirred around them, rustling leaves, tugging at their clothes. Jazz was sobbing quietly somewhere behind them, Carter murmuring to her. It was the adrenaline bleeding out, Aidan knew. He wanted to sob himself; but his eyes were dry, and his breathing came easy as he held his girl and inhaled the sweet floral scent of her shampoo.

“You told Ava,” he said after a while, pulling back a little.

It was hard to tell, but it looked like she blushed. There was no mistaking the firm tone of her voice, though. “It was the right thing to do. We needed backup.”

“We did?” He grinned.

“Yeah. And correct me if I’m wrong, but Kev was taken because of some decision your dad made. Your dad’s mess, not yours. You’re learning to clean up yours,” she added, softly, “it’s time he learned the same thing.”

No one had ever put it to him like that before. He kissed her, on impulse, because she was too right and too perfect, in that moment, dressed like a hooker in the woods.

A sound startled him, a sudden whoomp and a rush, like steam escaping a tight pot lid. An explosion, he realized.

He turned to look back down the hill, Sam clasped tight to his side. They’d set the house on fire. It was still contained inside, but he saw the bright tongues leap in the first floor windows.

He also saw his club, all his brothers, dark shapes walking across the lawn, moving toward them. He thought he could pick them out through general size and shape, but really he couldn’t. They were all the same, from this vantage point. Just his brothers. His family.

Thirty-Seven

They were in someone’s house. Maggie, the woman had said her name was. A pretty blonde with an unmistakable aura of authority. She’d led them down a hall to a bathroom, and then a set of bedrooms. Whitney had been handed clothes that she’d since changed into: sweatpants, a sweatshirt, pale gray and feminine in cut.

She sat now on the edge of a bed, in a warm room full of gentle lamplight, alongside Kev, who lay back against the pillows, smelling of soap, glistening with healing ointments that had been smeared on his neck, his arms, his face. Maggie and her daughter, Ava, had been waiting with warm towels when a huge man named Mercy brought Kev from the shower, his big hands gentle and sweet as he’d laid him out on the bed. The women had dressed him, doctored him.

Maggie had finally looked at Whitney, afterward. “Oh, baby, you ought to sleep.”

Whitney had shaken her head. “No.”

“Coffee?” Ava had guessed.

“That’d be great.”

She curled her hand around the warm mug now, and stared down at Kev’s unconscious shape beneath the sheets.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to him. “I wish I could take what happened to you and put it on myself.”

His eyes flipped open, and his voice croaked from between split lips. “Don’t say that.”

It filled her with joy to see his eyes open. Such pretty eyes, baby blue and liquid with emotion, though his face was stiff with bruises and swelling.

“I do wish it,” she said. “I hate what happened to you.” Her eyes filled with tears at the memory.

“No,” he said. “Don’t cry.” His own eyes fluttered shut, his face going slack.

Whitney thought about going back into the main part of the house, with the murmuring crowd of people.

Instead, she lay down beside Kev, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

~*~

Aidan took a long swallow of whiskey-laced coffee and set it down with a deep sigh. “Shit,” he said, for the sake of his bruises, those of his brothers, and his own shaking fallout of adrenaline. He couldn’t remember being this exhausted in his life. Nothing had ever tasted as good as this spiked coffee. Nothing had ever been as beautiful as his family standing around him as he sat at Maggie’s kitchen table with his father.

“Kev’s asleep, I think,” Maggie said, sipping her own coffee.

Aidan felt his father’s gaze and glanced toward him.

“You’re an idiot,” Ghost said, then grinned. “But damn. I raise my glass.”

Aidan knew that there would be a real discussion later, but for now, he clinked his mug against Ghost’s.

The women were sitting at the table with him – his women. Sam, Mags, Ava. “You three,” he said, giving them a pretend stern look. “You rats.”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Maggie said.

“Someone had to be the brains of the operation,” Ava added. “And we figured none of y’all were up for it.”

Where he stood leaning against the cabinets, Mercy chuckled, and Ava’s eyes darted to him a moment, her quick smile warm.

Aidan felt Sam giving him that same look: that I love you, you big idiot look. He gave her back his own version: I love you, baby. Don’t give up on me yet.

Maggie looked at Ghost. “We aren’t about to get raided, are we?”

He shook his head. “Underground chatter is quiet. Ellison took a major hit tonight. I mean, major.”

Aidan knew all too well: most of his men dead, all his files and intel confiscated, and, thanks to Vince Fielding’s new allegiances, the cops had put the word out on a breaking news update that Don Ellison was wanted by police for sabotaging his own people and torching his own house. There was no evidence to support any of that, and it would quickly fall apart at the hands of the media. But it bought them a little time. It sent Ellison running, for the time being.

“You boys look dead on your feet,” Maggie observed. “You ought to try and grab some sleep before the sun’s up.”

“Yeah,” Ghost said.

But none of them made a move to leave the kitchen. It was three a.m. and the room held that magic buzz of up-late and doing-important-things. One of those nights when all the mundane responsibilities were burned away by the hot stroke of a fortunate mission. When he was a kid, this feeling had accompanied Christmas Eve. Now it dogged a job well done.

“Kev,” Ava said, quietly. “This will have…been damaging for him.”

They all nodded.

With a sudden flush of helplessness, Aidan said, “I dunno what we can do for him. Bruises will heal, but…”

It didn’t need to be said. They all remembered the fallout from his first rescue, years before. He’d never shaken that trauma.

“Where’d Shaman go?” Mercy asked.

Aidan shook his head. “He took off when we got Kev in the truck. He just disappeared into the trees, same as when he showed up.” It had been creepy as hell, if he was honest.

“I still can’t believe you let that bastard help you,” Ghost muttered. “He was all dressed up like he was in goddamn Mission Impossible.”

“He wanted to come,” Aidan said with a shrug. “Which is more than I could say for some people.”

A sharp look from Ghost.

Fuck you, old man.

“Anyway,” Mercy said, loudly. “Where’d the girl come from?”

“Her name’s Whitney,” Sam said. “Her brother owed Ellison and she was being held as collateral. She’s rattled. And doesn’t want to get more than ten feet from Kev.” She shrugged with her brows, as if to say who could blame her.

“Trauma like that makes people close,” Ava said.

“I’ll take her home,” Ghost offered. “She doesn’t need to be involved in any of this.”

Sam nodded, getting to her feet. “I’ll go get her.”

Their moment of basking in the kitchen was dispersing; he could feel it.

Ghost’s phone rang, and he stepped out the back door to answer it.

“Come on, Mama,” Mercy said, pushing off the cabinets. “I wanna go to bed.”

Ava unfolded her long legs and stood. “Me too. It’d be nice to grab a little sleep before the boys are awake.” Before she left the room, though, she came to Aidan, kissed the top of his head. “You’re a good guy, Aidan,” she whispered. “A good friend, good son, good brother. Whatever Dad says, don’t forget that. We all love you.”

A lump formed in his throat, so he nodded as she stepped away, smiling warmly at him.

Mercy clapped him on the shoulder as he left the room. A silent communication that said so many things.

When he was alone with Maggie, she eyed him over her coffee mug and gave him one of her patented, all-knowing queenly smiles.

“What?” A loaded question with her, always.

Her smile widened. “Do you remember, when you were ten, and we had to make that pirate ship out of popsicle sticks for your history project?”

He nodded. “Black Beard, right?”

“Yep.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you had to do a presentation, and I made you that red coat and the little felt beard to wear?”

“Most embarrassing moment of my life.”

She laughed. “You were precious.”

And she’d been eighteen, and a fabulous mother, standing in the back of his classroom, Ava on her hip, whistling and cheering after he took his final bow.

“And afterward,” she said, voice softening, “you said, ‘I wish Dad could have come.’ Because you wanted him to see you doing so well.” Her eyes filled with moisture. “He was there tonight, baby. He saw you doing so well.”

“Mags–”

“I know I’m not your mama. But you’re my boy. So trust me when I tell you this. Your daddy’s a complete idiot, and nothing he ever says comes out right. But he’s so proud of you. I know he is. When you’re talking to him, later, remember that, and don’t get too caught up in his incredibly stupid word choice.”

He nodded. “One thing, though.”

She lifted her brows.

“Do me a favor and don’t ever say you’re not my mama again, okay?”

She started to speak, then nodded instead, lips pressed together as emotion overtook her.

The back door opened and Ghost returned, his gaze moving between them. “Everything alright?”

“Fine, baby.” Maggie stood and went to pour her coffee out in the sink. “I’m gonna go see if the girls need anything.” She kissed Ghost on her way through; kissed Aidan on the cheek too.

Then they were alone. Father and son. The sitdown Aidan had been dreading for months.

He waited for the old familiar writhing in his gut, the band of perspiration that always broke out beneath his collar.

But they didn’t come. Numb…or, maybe…calm, finally, he watched Ghost drag out a chair and sit down across from him.

So often lately he’d noticed his dad looking old and weary. But tonight there was a new vibrancy to the man, an echo of the tan boxing champ who’d once swept Maggie Lowe off her high-heeled feet. The fighting had invigorated him. For the first time in months, his face was free of strain, the sun and laugh lines softer than normal in his wind-roughened face.

They sat a moment, the silence gathering between them…but not in a sinister way. Aidan could sense no malice radiating off his father, and that was when he realized what was about to happen: not a lecture, but a conversation.

They hadn’t had one since their talk in the spare bedroom of Ava and Mercy’s house, right after his hideous bike crash.

Ghost said, “Right after Ava was born, we had this guy come in as a prospect, and he turned out to be a mole for a rival club. You remember?”

Vaguely. He’d been just a kid, and no one had explained things to him outright, but he remembered the tension around the dinner table, the way Maggie had peeked out the windows more than usual, her face tight with worry. He nodded.

“Duane was an impatient man, but a very patient president,” he said of his uncle. “So he thought it prudent to keep this mole on, let him think we didn’t know what he was up to, let him lead us back to his people when the time was right.”

“Sounds smart.”

“It was. And dangerous. I had two kids, and a wife fresh outta high school, and I didn’t have the stomach for waiting. So I killed the guy. Slit his throat and burned the body.” The matter of fact way he revealed this brought up the fine hairs on the back of Aidan’s neck. That’s what it was, to become a president of the Lean Dogs – you lost the part of yourself who found horror in the unspeakable.

“What did Duane say?” Aidan asked.

“He was furious. Called me names. Threatened to take my patches. He didn’t mean any of it, obviously.” He shrugged. “But he said I was a stupid kid, acting rashly out of fear. That fear would get me killed one of these days, he told me. It would get my brothers killed.”

Aidan stared at his father, finding it hard to see even a trace of fear in the man sitting across from him.

“I was afraid,” Ghost consented. “I still am. I’m scared shitless all the damn time. And you know what?” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Duane was wrong.”

Aidan felt his brows go up.

“A little fear’s healthy. The day we stop being afraid is probably the day we stop being human.”

“What are you afraid of?” Aidan asked.

“Failure.” The answer was immediate. “Failing in a way that gets everyone hurt. I’m afraid for Mags, and you, and your sister, and all our brothers.”

He reached for his coffee. “And when you figure out what you’re afraid of, you figure out what you have to do. The things you can live with, and the things you have to change. You were afraid for Tango,” he said. “And you couldn’t live with letting something happen to him. I couldn’t either.” His voice lowered, became rougher. “But you made the smart call, and I didn’t.”

Shock went through him like champagne, fizzy and golden. A pleasant shock; one that felt like a deep compliment – well, because it was.

“Dad.”

Ghost gave him a look that was laid-bare, stripped of all presidential or paternal authority. “You made the right call.” He grinned. “Coulda gotten us all killed, but it was what you had to do. What we all had to do. You don’t leave a brother behind.” He nodded, growing serious again. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

~*~

A strip of light shone beneath the door of the bathroom and Aidan heard the rush of water running. Across the hall, Sam was just stepping out of Ava’s old room where they’d put Tango.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered. “And, um, so is Whitney.”

“She’s in the bed with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. What has she got, Stockholm Syndrome?”

“It’s only Stockholm Syndrome if you attach to your captor. Not your fellow captive.”

“Oh.”

“I feel bad, though,” Sam went on. “I want to call someone for her, but I don’t want to wake her up. Someone has to be worried about her.”

“One more night won’t make a difference,” Aidan said, and she nodded.

“Yeah. Guess not.” She scrubbed at her forehead with one hand and that was when he realized just how alert she’d been pretending to be.

“Baby, you need to get some sleep.”

She gave him an exhausted smile. “Yeah. Are we on the floor?”

“Fold-out couch, actually.”

“Ah. Fancy.”

Why was this awkward? It was, though.

“I already unfolded it and there’s sheets and blankets,” he said. “I’m gonna check on Kev and I’ll be out there in a minute.”

“Okay.” She shuffled down the hall, yawning, leaving him alone with the doorknob…and a suddenly-clammy hand. It wasn’t as if there were any surprises waiting for him on the other side of the door. And yet, something cold settled in his stomach, made him hesitant as he slowly opened the door and eased inside.

~*~

No fold-out sofa bed had ever looked so lovely. Aidan had indeed dressed it with sheets and blanket, though sloppily. Sam gave them a few quick tugs in an attempt to straighten them, gave up, and slid under the covers. She pulled in a deep breath, let it out on a sigh…and realized she was shaking all over.

She sat up. Lifted her hands to her face and saw the violent trembling in her fingers. It radiated up her arms, tightened her chest and rattled her insides.

“God,” she whispered.

“It’s the nerves.”

She jumped. Ghost stood at the foot of the makeshift bed, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. She hadn’t seen or heard him come into the room; how like his club name of him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your nerves,” he repeated. “It doesn’t matter that it’s over, now. They’re all shot to hell and they’re gonna make you shake for a little while.”

She nodded. “Well that’s…fun.”

“Here.” He held the glass toward her. “In my experience, time and a little of this is all that helps.”

She took the glass, nose wrinkling as she caught a whiff of its contents. “What is this?”

“Bourbon.”

She took a sip and managed not to choke, but he grinned when he saw her face.

“It gets easier the farther you go.”

“I’m sure.” She added, “Thanks.”

Ghost gave her a nod and turned for the hallway. He paused, though, and glanced back at her. “Hey, Sam.”

“Yes?” The glass clicked against her teeth as the shaking intensified.

“In case shit gets crazy, and I forget to say it. Welcome to the family.”

~*~

Tango looked like a corpse laid out in Ava’s old bed. Aidan resisted the urge to lean over him and check that he was breathing, but it was a strong impulse.

The guy’s bedmate didn’t look much better. Whitney lay on her side, not touching Tango, but very close, her face pale and her brow creased with a worry that had chased her into sleep. Aidan felt like he ought to wake her, ask her where her parents were and drive her home. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

Plus…

He spotted a face in the window.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, recognizing the narrow features the moment panic struck.

They’d left the lights on in the room – previous experience had taught them Tango wouldn’t want to wake up in the dark after his ordeal – and Ian Byron’s expression was a study in elegant concern on the other side of the glass.

Aidan crossed the room, yanked open the window, and whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with you, you goddamn creep-ass?”

Ian was still dressed up in his black catsuit, secret agent costume, whatever the fuck it was. He didn’t react to Aidan’s question, but glanced around him, into the room. “How is he?”

“Asleep.”

“Obviously. But how is he?”

Aidan sighed. “My best guess is pretty awful. But we’ll know more in the morning.”

Ian exhaled loudly and slumped sideways against the window frame.

“He’s where he belongs, Ian.”

The other man’s pale eyes lifted, luminous with anger. “You think I don’t know that. I…” As quick as it had come, his temper faded. “My God,” he murmured to the open air.

“Yeah,” Aidan said. “I know the feeling.”

It was the coldest part of the night, the hour when the frost lay thickest and the air seemed to become a solid crystalline sheet. A car started, somewhere down the street: someone headed in for an early shift, or trying to beat the sunrise after a late night.

“What will you do with the girl?” Ian asked.

“Find out where she belongs.”

The Englishman nodded. “I tried to call in my favor with your father, you know. The one he owes me.” His tone was eerily conversational. “I told him to release Kevin from the club.”

“Huh,” Aidan said, a cold knot forming in his belly.

Ian’s eyes flicked over. “I won’t insist on it. No. But I want your word that if he wants to leave, you’ll let him.”

“He won’t want to leave.”

“He might.”

Aidan gritted his teeth. It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea, Kev wanting out of the club. In his heart, he wasn’t much of an outlaw. He wasn’t the sort of guy who lived for the thrill of it. But he loved them all, Aidan was sure. Needed their fraternal support.

“You have my word,” he ground out. “There, you happy?”

“No.” Ian shoved away from the wall. “That’s the thing, darling. I’ll never be happy.” And he melted away into the darkness.

Aidan closed the window and slipped out of the room without making a sound. Sam was waiting for him, sitting up in their makeshift bed, sipping a glass of something that didn’t look her speed.

“Your dad said bourbon would help with the nervous shakes.” She extended a steady hand for him to inspect. “He wasn’t wrong.”

Aidan plucked the glass from her grasp, drained it in a fast gulp, and climbed in beside her. “You gonna turn into a hardcore liquor drinker now?” he teased, but his voice fell flat.

“I might.” Her voice was flat too.

They stared at one another a moment; he searched her face and felt her doing the same to him.

Then he put both arms around her and pulled her into his chest. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Thirty-Eight

It was delicate business, coming into the house at three-thirty in the morning. He had to be quiet enough not to wake the baby, but loud enough not to scare the living hell out of Holly. After he’d locked the door behind him, Michael went straight to the washing machine, stripped off everything he was wearing and started a load with an extra capful of detergent. He couldn’t stand the idea of staying in blood-flecked clothes a second longer.

The lights were off in the bedroom, but he saw that Holly was awake, her silhouette a darker shadow backlit by the soft ambient light from the window.

“You’re home,” she said, voice full of relief.

“Yeah. I gotta take a shower, baby.”

Of the many improvements Holly had made to his bachelor pad, the bathroom was probably his favorite. It was the same old utilitarian plumbing and fixtures, but she’d painted the walls a warm suede color and bought a whole set of new cream towels that matched the also-new shower curtain. Scented candles, a potted plant, luxurious soaps that, for reasons unknown to him, had coffee beans in them.

“It’s like some kinda spa,” he’d told her, nose wrinkled.

“I know,” she’d said, smiling. “Isn’t it nice?”

Truth be told, it was nice, and as he stepped under the hot water and reached for some of her ridiculous coffee bean soap, it felt like Holly was there alongside him, her warmth and light wrapping around him, more soothing than the water and steam. His hands were steady as he washed, his nervous reaction to the night firmly in check.

The lights were on when he left the bathroom, naked save the towel around his hips. Holly was waiting for him, her expression evidencing relief as her big green eyes tracked across him and found him uninjured and whole.

Her gaze came to his face. “Is everyone else okay?”

“Yeah. Tango’s back. Everybody’s good.”

Her lips twitched, like maybe she wanted to ask for a better summary than that. But then she opened her arms. “Come here.”

He frowned.

“You look like you need a hug. Come here, Michael.”

“Hol, that’s real sappy.” But his feet propelled him forward and when he sat down on the edge of the bed, Holly snuggled up to his side and put her arms around his neck.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep: the soft scents of her shampoo and the soap they shared, the sweet cherry of her chapstick. He felt the brush of her hair, the press of her breasts, the beat of her heart, and his nerve endings tingled pleasantly.

“I’m very glad you’re okay,” she whispered against his throat.”

He looped an arm around her waist. “Me too, baby.”

~*~

All done. At clubhouse if you need me. Walsh’s text came in around three, and Emmie chewed on the words, reflecting that they were the words he always used. If you need me. Was there a subtext she didn’t get? Only call him if she really needed him? Was it the equivalent of a Do Not Disturb Sign? Only bug me if it’s an emergency?

What about if she just wanted to see her husband?

At five, she gave up on sleeping, rolled out of bed, and fired off texts to Fred and Becca, asking them to cover the morning feeding. She dressed, left a note for Bea downstairs by the coffeepot, and headed for Dartmoor.

A sleepy hangaround stood sentry outside the gates and waved her through when he recognized her. A sense of tired peace enfolded her when she climbed out of her truck. Yes, it was dark and shadows lurked between the pools of light thrown by the overhead lampposts. And yes, it was cold, and she shivered. The air stank of the river and frost rimmed the roofs of the club cars and trucks. But there was no charge, so sense of danger or doom. Perhaps it was her own exhaustion; perhaps it was Dartmoor taking a deep breath after completing its mission of the night.

The clubhouse was open and warmly lit by lamps. Candyman lay snoring on one of the sofas. Behind the bar, Colin was pouring a liberal amount of whiskey into a steaming mug of coffee. And her Walsh sat at one of the round tables, fingers gliding over the keys of his laptop.

Colin gave her a nod as she crossed the room and she nodded back.

Walsh glanced up when she pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “You’re up early, love.” He sounded only a little surprised to see her. “Or late.”

“Both.” She reached to scuff her knuckles along his stubbly jaw. “I’m guessing I look better than you, though.”

“Obviously.”

She withdrew her hand and folded it together with the other in her lap.

He noticed, and did a double take. “Something wrong?”

“No, I…” She smiled, out of reflex, a little embarrassed now that she’d come all the way down here at five in the morning. “I was worried about you,” she said. “I guess I just wanted to see you with my own eyes and know you were okay.”

He pulled his hands away from the computer and stared at her. “I just…” A shifting behind his blue eyes, curiosity, wonder maybe? “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” she echoed, frowning.

“Well,” Colin announced loudly. “I’m going to bed. Wouldn’t want to accidently overhear anyone’s relationship bullshit.”

Walsh snorted.

“Night,” Emmie said dryly.

“Morning,” he returned, and was gone down the hallway.

Walsh was still staring. “Yeah. Bother you.”

“King, why would calling me to let me know you’re alive be a bother? If our roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want me to call you?”

His expression didn’t change, but his Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

She sighed. “I’ve gotten clingy, haven’t I?” She hadn’t been at first, right after their disastrous sham of a wedding. But as she grew more comfortable, as she came to love him more, she was acting more and more wifely, and she didn’t suppose, what with his apparent aversion to children, that Kingston Walsh wanted a wife in the true sense of the word.

“I’ll go home,” she said, starting to rise. “I know you’re busy.”

He grabbed her knee and squeezed, holding her in place. The blankness fell away from his face and he looked distinctly worried this time.

Emmie had to smile as she covered his hand with her own. “I’m not pitching some kind of girl fit, I promise. Horse chick, remember? I’m the one bothering you, so I’m gonna go home and help with feeding. You have important bad guys to take down.”

“Em,” he said, tone serious. “I didn’t…ah, shit. Look, I’m forty. And this is my first time being married.”

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. “I know that.”

“So I’m not any good at being married,” he said, tone apologetic. “I don’t – I dunno. Sometimes I don’t act like a husband. It’s not that I mean it–”

She cut him off with a smile. “It’s alright. You do a pretty good job.”

Baldly, without malice or agenda, he said, “I haven’t ever thought about kids. I don’t hate them, but I didn’t figure I’d have them. And the things that have been going on with the club, bringing babies into that scares me shitless.”

Emmie nodded, a heavy stroke of tenderness and understanding passing across her heart. “I know, baby. It scares me too. Probably not as bad as you. But still.”

“I’m not a tyrant, lovey,” he said, quietly. “If you really want them, I’ll make it happen.”

“Gonna knock me up with one wave of your magic wand?” she asked with a quick laugh. She sobered, though. Sighed, overwhelmed with love for him, touched with reality and sadness. “It’s okay,” she assured him. “Who knows if I’d even be a decent mom anyway.”

“Emmaline.”

“I hate when you call me that. Kingston.”

“I hate when you talk bad about yourself,” he countered. “Put all those stupid ideas out of your head. It’s just one question, pet. Do you want them, yes or no?”

She stared at his face, his strange pale eyes and the deep lines the sun and wind had pressed around them. She didn’t really have to ask herself; it was all just anxiety talking. “Yes. I want them.”

“Then we’ll have them.”

~*~

He was back at The Nest. The slinky black and white interior, the low lights filtered with blue, and red, and pink. He could smell the cigar smoke and hear the deep rumbles of male laughter. He was at the edge of the stage. A hand curled around his ankle.

He screamed.

His eyes opened.

Daylight. Ceiling. Food smells. Flat on his back.

Not The Nest.

But he was in fact screaming. He closed his mouth and when his teeth clenched together, pain shot through his skull, bright flashes of agony.

“Oh God,” a female voice said, and suddenly there was a face hovering above him.

He recognized that face. Through the increasing fog of pain that closed over him more tightly by the second, he registered the big blue eyes, the dark hair, the petite features.

“Whitney?” His voice was an awful croak.

An uncertain smile brightened her expression. “Yeah. Hi. Are you okay? What can I get you?”

He licked his lips – they were dry, split; he tasted blood. “Where are we?”

Quick breath of sound: a door opening. Not the angry clang of the cell door sliding back, but a regular house door, gliding over carpet. And then: “I heard him scream. Kev, you alright, baby?”

“Mags,” he said, and the panic began to ebb.

She joined Whitney, looking down at him, pretty face lined with maternal concern. “You’re at my house,” she said, as if anticipating what he needed to know. “You’re safe.”

He closed his eyes. “Jesus.”

“And,” her voice became wry, “it’s Thanksgiving. How about something to eat?”

~*~

Despite the total chaos of the night before, the girls managed to throw together a Thanksgiving dinner that made the dining room table groan. Tango stayed in the bedroom, and when Maggie returned from taking him a plate, she shook her head, expression troubled.

Walsh had found out that Whitney – Whitney Howard, she told them – was the sister of someone named Jason Howard…who’d been found dead two nights before in an alley downtown. She buried her face in her hands when Ghost broke the news. Carter offered to drive her to her sister-in-law’s house.

Sam left early, Aidan going with her, so she could get back to her mother and sister.

Mercy sat at the cleared table across from his father-in-law, both of them nursing drinks. “Just you and me, old man,” he remarked, trying not to grin.

Ghost’s brows lifted. “That’s where we’re at?”

“Yep. Respectfully. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Ava came into the room, preceded by the heady scent of the food they’d just consumed. Mercy hadn’t thought he could eat another bite, but the smell of cornbread dressing still made his mouth water.

“We packed up some of everything,” she said, setting a stack of sealed foil pans on the table at his elbow. “You wanna run it to the clubhouse for the Texas boys?”

“You’re trying to feed my brother again, aren’t you?”

She gave him a blinding, sweet smile. “You can take my truck.” She set the keys on the topmost pan. As she left the room: “Thank you, baby.”

Ghost snorted in obvious amusement.

Mercy looked at him.

“I’m enjoying the fact that it’s not just me anymore. Old man.”

Traffic was light, the typical stuff of holidays. Mercy made good time getting to Dartmoor and the four Texas bikes lined up out front were a truly sad sight. Mags had wanted to do a big party for everyone, but after last night, everyone had begged off, wanting to be with their families, keep things calm and quiet.

Inside, the Allman Brothers were playing softly on the sound system and Candy and Jinx were shooting pool, drinks sitting on the edge of the table.

“The girls sent food,” he announced, setting the tins up on the bar. As if drawn via magnets, Candy, Jinx, and Fox closed in on the bar, sniffing audibly.

“Damn,” Jinx said. “What is that?”

“Cornbread dressing – with sausage, I’ll add – sweet potatoes, green beans, hash brown casserole…”

They were no longer listening.

Fox snatched the serving spoon out of his hand.

“Where’s my little bro?” Mercy asked.

“In his room like a goddamn lovesick teenager,” Candy said with a sneer and a laugh.

At the dorm door, Mercy knocked once, heard a muffled, “I’ll call you back,” and stepped in to see Colin setting his phone on the nightstand.

“Aw,” Mercy said, giving him his most annoying grin. “Somebody’s in L-O-V-E, isn’t he?”

“Bite my ass,” Colin said, but he seemed distracted.

It wasn’t fun if there was no return snark. Mercy rolled his eyes. “Ava and Mags had me bring food. Turkey and shit. It’s good. You should come eat.”

Colin nodded, staring at the far wall. “That was sweet of them.”

“They like to do sweet shit.”

“Hmm.”

“Colin.”

His head lifted.

“I meant what I said last night. You did a good job out there, and I am proud of you.”

Colin stared at him, blinking.

“Anyway.” Mercy smacked the doorframe with his open palm in farewell. “Food’s there. I’m gonna head back home.”

He was turning for the door when Colin said, voice strained, “I got Jenny Snow pregnant.”

Mercy froze. Turned slowly back around. Saw his half-brother’s miserable, stricken expression. And burst out laughing.

Colin surged to his feet, hands curling into fists. “It’s not funny, asshole.”

“You’re right. It’s hilarious.” He pressed a hand to his chest and tried to get the laughter under control as Colin glowered at him. “No,” he explained, gasping, “really. You’ve been this irresponsible jackoff your whole life, and you finally manage to knock a woman up, and it’s Candy Snow’s little sister. Congrats, man. You’re officially the dumbest sombitch I ever met.”

When he got really angry, like now, his jaw clenched tight and his brows lowered, it was very hard to pretend Colin wasn’t Remy Lécuyer’s biological son. Well…he was, after all. Through his teeth, he said, “You’re gonna go out there and tell him, aren’t you?”

Mercy finally stopped laughing, shook his head, and sat down at the desk chair. “No. Calm down.”

Colin’s expression shifted, colored with surprise.

“Sit.” When he didn’t comply, Mercy added, “Prospect.”

Cursing under his breath, Colin sat.

“By now, I figure you know Jenny was the main reason Candy wanted you in Texas, right?”

Fast nod.

“He’s got this theory,” Mercy said, rolling his eyes, “about there being some sorta genetic predisposition toward being a good bodyguard. Really, I think he was just hoping you’d prove to be a loyal, solid guy. Are you those things?”

Colin looked affronted. But he said, “Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you just messing around with Jenny?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, honest.

“You gonna stick around and be the kid’s dad?”

Again, without hesitation, “Yeah.”

Mercy shrugged. “Then tell Candy. He might knock all your teeth down your throat, but he’ll respect that you were honest with him.” He grinned. “You do know that’s why he’s the Candyman, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Dread flickered through Colin’s dark eyes. “He’s got a bad reputation for taking men’s teeth.”

Mercy curled one of his hands into a fist, glanced down at the scarred knuckles. “I’ve never seen anybody in my life punch like him. That’s why he never steps in for a round when we’re just brawling, like the other night.” No, Candy always stood off to the side, grinning, content to watch.

“I’ve noticed,” Colin said, quietly.

Mercy lifted his head. “So you might have to eat through a straw for the rest of your life. But you’ll get to be a dad.”

“Is it worth it?”

“Yeah.”

~*~

Bea made an orange rum cake with royal icing and she unveiled it just after dark with the caveat that “Charlie” was to be invited over for cake and Irish coffees, or there would be no Thanksgiving dessert. Walsh, silent and grave, had sent a text message, and Emmie had bitten her lip to keep from laughing.

So that was how Fox became a part of their small circle in front of the fireplace at Briar Hall, devouring orange rum cake and listening to Bea talk about all her Christmas plans. “It’s Thanksgiving, Mum,” Walsh said, which she ignored.

Emmie returned from refilling her coffee to find a lull in the chatter. Tongue loose with Irish cream, and dying to know besides, she settled onto the couch beside Walsh and said, “So I have to know. What’s the family feud business, boys?” She looked at her husband and Fox in turn.

“Oh my,” Bea said with a suppressed giggle. “King, I do adore your wife, you know.”

“Yeah, she’s adorable,” Walsh deadpanned, and Emmie laughed.

“I’m curious,” she insisted. “As an only child, it’s hard to imagine being all stiff and weird with a brother, if I had one. I would cherish him,” she said, loftily, and that finally got the best of Shane, who snorted into his coffee cup.

“He never told you the story?” Fox asked, eyes alight with interest, firelight dancing across his face and making him look distinctly foxy. “Shame, brother, keeping secrets from your wife.”

Walsh sent him a flat look. “No, brother. I didn’t tell her how you’re a wanker who steals people’s bikes and wrecks them.”

Emmie forced herself not to laugh again. “He wrecked your bike?”

“Goodness, he was so upset,” Bea said. “The crash made the news! It was all over the telly, and King wouldn’t even go see Charlie in hospital.”

“Heartbroke, I was,” Fox said, looking like Walsh did when he was suppressing a smile. “My own flesh and blood wouldn’t even forgive me.”

“It made the local news,” Walsh corrected, darkly. “For two minutes. ‘Local idiots wrecks perfectly good bike into a fish and chips stand.’ He broke his arm.” He snorted. “In hospital my ass.”

“King!” Bea said.

“She was beautiful,” Walsh continued. “A Triumph. An ’87 Bonneville. In white.” He turned wistful, shaking his head. “I told that one to keep his grubby mitts off it, and what did he do, the second I wasn’t looking?”

“I’d never been on a Bonneville and I wanted to try it,” Fox said.

“You don’t sit on another man’s bike,” Walsh and Shane said in perfect unison.

“Not unless he invites you,” Walsh said. “Which I didn’t.”

“Just like you don’t sleep with another man’s girlfriend,” Shane said, face hardening.

“Shane, mate,” Fox said, “you have to know Julie was just playing you. You’re better off without that bint anyway.”

“Okay!” Emmie said, loudly. “Obviously, I shouldn’t have started us down that road.” This was a good lesson in poking her nose into brother dynamics. “I’ll just say ‘my bad’ and we can get back to Thanksgiving, okay?”

It was tense a moment, two…

Walsh’s arm went around her and the negative energy dissipated at once.

“More cake, anyone?” Bea asked, rising.

Emmie dropped her head onto her husband’s shoulder. “Over a bike,” she murmured, smiling.

“See what you married into?” Walsh asked, and she knew he was teasing.

“Siblings,” she answered, smiling.

December

Thirty-Nine

With the doors at either end flung wide, the barn aisle at Briar Hall was icy cold, horse breath pluming like smoke in the bright afternoon light.

“This must be dedication,” Sam said, “because usually I can’t even get her to take out the trash if it’s this cold.”

Emmie was wearing a long down jacket that made her look even tinier, usual baseball cap crammed low and covered over with a beanie. She blew the steam off her coffee and said, “Yeah. She’s really putting the work in, and she’s doing well.” She glanced over with a smile. “In my experience, horses have the power to make girls do things they never would ordinarily.”

“Thank God for horses, then.”

In the wash rack in front of them, Erin was busy unsaddling Sherman, crooning and talking to him, absorbed in her task in a way Sam had never seen.

“And thank you,” Sam said in an undertone. “Emmie, seriously. I was so afraid she’d end up in some kind of alternative school or something. And her grades are better, and she’s making her bed, helping around the house.”

Emmie waved off the gratitude. “Nah, it’s not me. Like I said, it’s the horses. Who knows where I would have ended up if it wasn’t for this place.”

Tack set off to the side on all the proper racks and hooks, Erin selected a brush from the box and began to curry Sherman’s thick winter fur, putting her whole arm into the effort, until the horse’s chestnut coat stood up in sweat-damp cowlicks.

Sam had no real desire to take up riding herself, but she could watch her sister groom one all day. It had that lulling, fish tank effect, the regular strokes of the brushes, the quiet sound of the horse breathing, like bellows working. She’d come to love their trips to Briar Hall, Erin’s lessons peaceful hours of escape, when the various worries of the day were overtaken by the scents of hay and sawdust. Emmie was good company, when she wasn’t delivering calm, competent instruction. Sam had come to realize that she and Walsh’s wife had more than just bikers in common – they were both teachers, in their own fields, both consumed by knowledge that they then wanted to impart to the next generation.

But as lovely as it was, the world of Briar Hall could only hold back reality for so long.

“Emmie, can I ask a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Will you give me Tonya Sinclair’s home address?”

Emmie gave her an assessing look. “You really want it?”

“Yes.”

~*~

Aidan clenched his teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter as he swung off his bike. No matter how many layers, or how thick his gloves, or how much coffee he drank beforehand, riding in this kind of weather always ate through the leather and sank into skin and bone. It was a dry cold, the sky bright, Dartmoor windswept. He’d used his lunch break to run an errand, and was glad to see that Mercy and Carter were still out, only Tango inside. Good. He could kill two birds with one stone…so to speak.

The roll top doors were half-closed against the cold and Aidan ducked beneath one, stepping into the relative warmth of the shop bays. They had big radiant heaters plugged in, and they took the chill out of the air.

Tango sat on a stool beside a client bike, bundled up in a hoodie and fingerless gloves, hair hidden under a stocking cap. Even in profile, he looked like shit. Like he didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, and didn’t care about anything. His broken fingers had healed, and his bruises had faded. But mentally? He was still in bits.

“Hey,” Aidan greeted, taking the stool opposite.

“Hey.” His look was one Aidan hadn’t seen in years, laced with a caution that hit Aidan like a shove to the chest.

He decided to ignore it, push past and see if he could draw the guy back. So far, Tango hadn’t wanted to talk about anything that had happened, clamming up when anyone broached the subject. It was unhealthy; he was a powder keg ready to blow. But they couldn’t force him.

“I wanted to show you something,” Aidan said, reaching into his pocket for the velvet box he’d just picked up at the jeweler’s. “What do you think?” He opened the lid and showed him the modest white gold band with it’s even more modest diamond solitaire. “The saleslady tried to get me to look at one of those round ones, with all the little diamonds around it, but damn, everybody has a ring like that now. And I wanted…” He trailed off, feeling stupid.

Tango’s mouth twitched, a pathetic smile. “You wanted it to be special. Like Sam.”

“Yeah.” He blushed; actually felt the warmth and color come up in his cheeks and ducked his head.

“Hey.” Tango’s expression was absolutely haunted when Aidan looked at him. “You deserve to be happy. And she deserves a ring.”

Aidan said, “Any hope of you being happy?”

“No. None.”

~*~

Tonya was trim and fit, and so her baby bump was just that, a bump beneath her sweater, her arms, legs, and hips still slender. She took a seat in a plush cream chair by the fireplace of her parents’ palatial family room and invited Sam to sit in the chair opposite with an elegant gesture.

Aware that she’d come from the barn, she sat carefully on the edge of the chair, hands clasped in her lap. “You’re engaged.”

Tonya lifted her left hand so the sunlight glinted off the massive rock adorning her third finger. “For about a month now.”

“And you really don’t want the baby?”

“No. Is that why you’re here? To threaten me the way his stepmother did?”

“I happen to know that Maggie Teague doesn’t threaten people,” Sam said, voice hardening. “Please don’t cheapen the woman’s confidence that way.”

Tonya’s brows lifted.

“And no. I’m here to tell you that I won’t be intimidated by you. We aren’t little girls anymore, Tonya. And because I needed to see you in person, to see if you were being honest.”

Tonya gave her a measuring look.

“I need to know you won’t renege and pull some stunt after the baby’s born, try to keep it.”

“The paperwork’s already been signed. Aidan’s oh-so-charming father and his lawyer actually put together a contract.” She snorted. “Rest assured. You’ll get your baby, Samantha.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about Aidan. I’m just looking out for him.”

Tonya’s head tilted, beautiful dark hair cascading down her arm. “You really do love him, don’t you?”

The woman’s expression, and her question, struck Sam as beyond odd. She returned: “And you’re not capable of love, are you?”

Tonya shrugged. “Maybe. One day. Maybe I learned to suppress it.” Her smile was cool, bitter. “More power to you, then.”

~*~

In truth, Sam wasn’t sure what she’d been searching for, going to see Tonya. To reassure herself, perhaps. Deep down, she was anxious about the baby. The birth was still a ways off, and though things had been good with Aidan – things had been wonderful – she felt the distant pressure of his little girl’s arrival, growing stronger by the day.

His little girl. A lump formed in her throat every time she revisited her mental picture of the child – which was often.

Last night, when Aidan was still inside her, as they’d lay gasping together, hot and slick with sweat, she’d closed her eyes and imagined the baby, little wrinkled pink features and tiny fingers and toes. She thought her womb had tightened, a deep longing that echoed through her whole body. I want a baby. Well, she was going to have one. And maybe one day…

But all of this was shadowed, still. She didn’t know why, couldn’t put her finger on it, but some small seed of worry kept growing roots in the back of her mind.

Maybe because Don Ellison was still alive out there, slinking around the underworld, eluding the club’s tracking efforts.

Yes, that was it.

Probably.

She’d dropped Erin off at home after her lesson, told her to hit the books, and checked the soup in the crock pot before heading to Tonya’s. As she pulled back into the driveway, she was surprised to find Aidan’s bike parked alongside her mother’s car. They hadn’t made plans for tonight. In fact, he’d been evasive over the phone earlier, and she’d chalked it up to him being distracted by Tango.

Poor Tango. To Sam’s knowledge, he hadn’t cracked a smile once since his rescue.

“Mom?” she called when she stepped through the back door.

“In here,” Helen’s voice came from the living room.

Sam found her mother and boyfriend sitting side-by-side on the couch. Helen had a crumpled tissue in her hand and dabbed at her eyes. Aidan looked slightly nauseas.

“What’s wrong?” Sam’s heart leapt behind her breastbone.

“Oh nothing.” Helen got to her feet, blowing her nose. She shook her head and gave Sam a watery smile. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” She came to Sam and hugged her.

“Mom, you’re freaking me out.”

“Don’t pay any attention to me. You stay here, and I’m going to check in on Erin before dinner, okay?” Another tear-filled smile before she left the room.

“Mom…” But Helen was disappearing up the staircase. So Sam turned to Aidan. “What’s going on? Is somebody hurt? Is there–”

He grinned, the movement sudden, and even if she didn’t know what was going on yet, the way his eyes crinkled up allayed her immediate fear.

“Aidan?”

“Do me a favor, and keep standing there just like that.”

“Okay…”

Still seated on the couch, he looked up at her, and his face became tight with some emotional strain, smile plucking hard at the corners, the lines around his eyes deepening.

“Aidan,” she repeated, concerned anew.

“Just stand there,” he urged. “And bear with me as I butcher all kinds of grammar, like Ava always tells me I do.”

Her heart rate picked up another fraction.

“This year has been…insane,” he began. “And a lot of bad shit happened. A lot.”

She nodded.

“But the best thing happened, too.”

That was when she saw the box in his hands. The little black velvet box.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Aidan’s eyes looked too bright, his smile almost apologetic. “Aw damn, I had this whole speech planned out, but it was stupid. So…” He heaved a deep breath. “Sam, I can’t live without you. I’m a smarter, stronger, better person since you came into my life. I love you like hell, and I want to wake up with you every morning, and I want you to be the mother of my baby. She’s gonna need a mom. My real mom wasn’t worth a shit, but my stepmom – she’s my mama. And that’s what I want. I want you to be my wife, my old lady, and her mama.” In a rushed afterthought, voice thin with fear, he said, “If you want to. If you can stand it. I know I’m not…”

She leaned forward, framed his face with her hands, and kissed him. She felt him smile against her lips; felt his fast, startled breath. “That sounded like a speech,” she said as she pulled back, eyes filling with tears. “And it wasn’t a bit stupid.”

He opened the box, and it was a pitifully small ring. She’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Will you marry me?”

Her hand shook as he slid the ring onto her finger. And they were both shaking when he stood up and hugged her tight to his chest.

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…

“Hello?” She had a pretty voice. He’d thought that earlier, when she called his name, but it was even pretty over the phone, which wasn’t always the case.

“Whitney? It’s Kev.”

She took a breath. “Hi.” And just that one word conveyed her disappointment in him.

The spinning stars were making him sick, so he closed his eyes. Then he was shut off from the world, alone with Whitney’s voice, just as he had been back in the cell.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an asshole to you, and I shouldn’t have been.”

He heard her sigh, and it struck him as a maternal sound, like when Maggie was put out with Aidan, but unable to withhold tenderness. “It wasn’t true, you know, what you said.”

“I know.”

“Addiction has nothing to do with being a bad person or a good person.”

He swallowed hard, felt bile stirring in his belly and searching for his throat. “I know.”

“You sound drunk.”

“I’m very drunk.”

“Kev.” Reprimanding.

“I’m sorry about your brother, too,” he continued. “I don’t know that I ever said that, but I am. It’s awful what happened.”

“Poor Jason. He struggled for a long time. He didn’t deserve this.” She paused, then: “You don’t deserve what’s happened to you either, Kev. You’re a good man.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His turn to sigh. “If only you knew. I’m not worth shit.”

“Don’t say that.” A note of ferocity. “You…what you did for me…”

She fell silent, and the moment spun into a lovely quiet, punctuated by her soft reproach.

“Where are you?” she finally asked.

“The clubhouse.”

A beat. “Can I come see you?”

He considered it for a second. Thought of her climbing up to sit on the table, taking his head in her lap; imagined he felt her small fingers sifting through his hair.

But he said, “No, you should be with your family.” And more importantly, he didn’t need to bother her anymore.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m…” Unsure, terrified, in desperate need to feel human arms around him. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” How depressed she sounded. “Well don’t drink anymore. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She wasn’t ready to hang up, he could tell, but she said, “Good night.”

“Night.”

He disconnected the call, took firm hold of his dizziness, rolled off the table and went inside in search of whiskey.

Forty-One

Sam didn’t care about the ring. Not in a technical sense. Carats, cut, clarity, retail value – none of that meant a thing to her. The ring on her left hand was the most precious and beautiful thing she’d seen because Aidan had given it to her, and with it, his promise of forever. And with that, the slippery thread she’d been grabbing for, not even sure what it was. The night he proposed, she curled up beside him and slept deeply, so deeply, filled to the tips of her fingers and toes with a peace she thought must radiate through her skin.

She had a feeling the women around her now didn’t care about the ring either, but they all asked to see it and oohed and ahhed appropriately.

“So when’s the big day?” Mina asked as she untangled knotted strings of Christmas lights.

The Lean Dogs women were gathered in the clubhouse common room, ranged around the massive tree Mercy had toted in from Home Depot a few hours ago. The men had wisely decided to leave them to the decorating and had been put in charge of watching the kids.

“Oh, um…” Sam plucked another ornament – a tear-drop-shaped crystal piece that glittered when she spun it on its hanger – and frowned. “We haven’t really talked about it much. We were thinking, once we get the license, of heading up to the–”

“Please don’t say courthouse,” Maggie interrupted. She stood by the tree, untangled lights in-hand, carefully stringing them onto the branches. “Has one woman in this room had a wedding that wasn’t at that damn courthouse?”

“No,” Mina said.

“That’s where we got hitched,” Nell said.

“And us,” Ava chimed in.

Emmie nodded. “Us too.”

“And me,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Seventeen and pregnant.”

“We got married in a church,” Holly said, shyly.

“Oh, that’s right. I was a witness.” Ava raised her hand. “It was really pretty.”

Holly smiled, pleased, a little embarrassed. That was her way, Sam had learned. “It wasn’t much. But it was…it was sweet.”

Sam caught Maggie’s wry expression, an echo of what they were all thinking but would never say: Only Holly could think there was anything sweet about Michael McCall.

“Except for Holly,” Maggie said, “we all got married in that Knoxville courthouse. So.” Her eyes came to Sam, bright with something like mischief. “I say it’s time we had a real biker wedding. Really do it up right.”

“That’s not necessary,” Sam said, “I don’t want to make a fuss, or put anyone out.”

But every old lady in the room was now looking at her, alert with interest.

“What makes a wedding a ‘real biker wedding’?” Emmie asked.

“It’s a regular wedding,” Maggie said, “plus cuts and a whole lotta engine revving.”

“Do y’all remember Boone and Rita’s wedding in Little Rock?” Nell asked.

“I was, what, six?” Ava asked.

Maggie nodded. “Yep. God, that was a party. The next day, the prospects had to scrape half the New York chapter up off the pavement with shovels.”

Maggie and Nell shared a laugh, remembering.

Ava said, “Her dress was huge.” She mimed a veil and train. “I mean, I swear Hostess made it.”

“That was two chapters coming together,” Maggie explained, for those of them who hadn’t been there. “Rita’s old man used to be the Arkansas sergeant, and after he died, she got hooked up with Boone, who transferred down from New York. It was the biggest damn wedding I’ve ever seen.”

“Um,” Sam said, swallowing, “no offense, but I don’t like the sound of a ‘big damn wedding.’”

“It won’t be like that,” Maggie said, waving off her concern. “Just us local folks.”

Emmie jerked upright, eyes springing wide, unspooled ribbon in her hands. “We can have it at the farm. There’s plenty of room. No rental fee.” She grinned. “We’d waive it for you guys.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You already have bridesmaids,” Mina said with a sweet smile and a game show arm flourish, indicating herself and the others.

Ava said, “I think it would be a good mood-boost for everybody. I’ll be the first one to dismiss weddings. But I got married in a hectic rush, as we were fleeing town.” She smiled. “It’d be kind of nice to take our time and celebrate you guys.”

“Say ‘yes,’” Maggie urged. “You know you want to.”

What else could she say? “Okay. Yes.”

January

Forty-Two

“Mr. Teague, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Ms. Beardsley asked. Anyone who had Ms. Beardsley for Bio and knew her hatred for interruptions could have seen her face growing purple now and wisely ducked beneath his desk, silent as a church mouse.

Anyone but Aidan Teague.

From her vantage point against the classroom’s far wall, Sam watched him sigh and roll his eyes at Amy Sharp who sat behind him. “For real?” he asked. “Mr. Teague is my old man.”

Amy giggled and tried to suppress it with her hand, eyes delighted and nervous.

Aidan turned back around in his chair and then slid down into it, lazy and insolent. “S’up?”

The other kids joined in Amy’s giggles. One of the boys said, “Dude!”

Ms. Beardsley pressed her lips into disappearance and raised herself up to her full five foot height, giant bosom heaving. Sam had never met anyone outside of old book heroines who had a “bosom,” but Ms. Beardsley was the real-life exception.

“What did you just say?” she snapped.

“I said,” Aidan answered, sighing again, “S’up?”

“Mr. Teague–”

“Aw, save it.”

Here it comes, Sam thought. He’s done it yet again.

“Detention!”

~*~

Sam opened her eyes and blinked as white January sun streamed into the window and into her face. Of all the memories she had of her fiancé, that was the one her mind had chosen to conjure just now, as she sat in front of a mirror and let Mina expertly apply her makeup. She smiled as she recalled Ms. Beardsley’s fury, and Aidan’s nonchalant shrugging-off of the punishment. She’d loved him with a schoolgirl stupidity then, knowing what a fool he was, not even sure she could change him, just wanting the chance to get close.

Now, she knew the man who dwelled beneath the brat. The man who’d come to the surface. She never could have imagined this day…Well, that wasn’t true. She just hadn’t thought she could actually live it.

It was her wedding day.

“What?” Mina asked, smiling back, as she withdrew the brush she’d been using.

“Just remembering something,” Sam said. She took in a deep, trembling breath as she slid back into the present. “How are we doing on time?”

“Right on time,” Mina assured. “Now close your eyes so I can do the shadow.”

~*~

“Those go over there,” Emmie directed, using her walkie-talkie to signal the hangaround who was lugging a big stainless steel tub of white roses into the arena. Walsh smiled as he watched her being the competent, in-control queen of her equine domain, her long down instructing jacket worn over her bridesmaid dress, her hair already done up in fancy pins and bobbies he knew he’d spend whole minutes disentangling from her blonde curls later.

“Yes, ma’am,” the hangaround – Walsh thought his name was Jim – said and hurried to follow orders. Walsh approved; the smart hangarounds realized that the women were just as important when it came to sucking up and jumping to.

Emmie spoke into her walkie-talkie: “Are the drinks here yet?”

Walsh walked up behind her, steps silent over the sand, and framed her narrow waist with his hands. Through the thick layer of her jacket, he felt her relax immediately into his grip. She knew it was him, even through a padding of goose down.

She twisted her head around to look at him. “What do you think?” She gestured to the arena.

The sand footing had been scraped free of hoofprints and smoothed flat with a tractor attachment. A white carpet had been rolled down to serve as aisle, flanked by white wooden chairs, all of it leading up to the plywood dais he and Shane had made. The structure had been covered over with more of the white carpeting, and a small arbor situated as backdrop, decorated with white roses and thick fir branch swags.

“Lovely.”

She pursed her lips, a wry smile. “You’re just saying that, aren’t you?”

“No. It is lovely.” He shrugged. “If you care about that sort of thing.”

She laughed.

A thought occurred to him, an unpleasant one. “You don’t wish you’d had something like this, do you?” he asked, studying her face for hidden longings. There wasn’t much he could do to rectify what had already happened. And she seemed too practical to insist on a ceremony just for the pomp and finery. But he had to ask; he was her husband, after all, and he couldn’t take her happiness for granted.

Emotion moved in her eyes, but not sadness or regret. “No,” she said, “I don’t wish I’d had a big wedding.”

“Maybe one you actually liked, though?”

She smiled, softly. “It started out rough. But by the wedding night, I think it was going pretty well.”

“Yeah.” He returned her smile.

“Besides.” She made a face and tugged at the strapless bodice of her red dress. “I might get fancied up for someone else, but I never would have done it for myself.”

Then, seeming to remember how busy she was, she consulted the crumpled paper list in her hand. “Oh shit. The bouquets.” Her eyes snapped up to his, now filled with determination. “And you’re supposed to be getting ready.”

And she thought there was a chance she wouldn’t be a good mother. Unthinkable.

~*~

Maggie lifted the hem of her skirt and left the dusty path, stepping toward the crabapple trees decked out with lanterns. Finished having her hair and makeup done, she’d gone to the arena to find that Emmie had the ceremony space well in hand, things progressing smoothly there. She decided to check in with Holly and the lighting crew.

Holly, puffy coat over her red bridesmaid dress, watched several hangarounds place the lanterns on branches. “A little to the left, I think. We don’t want them too close together. There.”

Maggie drew up beside her. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” Holly sounded a little out of breath with nerves, but that was usual. What was a little out of character, though, was the way she looked over, gaze almost assessing. “How are you?”

Maggie blinked, surprised. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t know if anyone ever gets mother-of-the-groom jitters, but I wanted to ask. Make sure, you know.” Sweet smile. “In case you needed anything.”

“Well…no, I’m fine,” Maggie repeated, not sure what to think. “But thanks for asking.”

“You’re very proud of Aidan, I know.”

She smiled, knowing exactly what to think of that. “Very.”

Seeing that all was well with the lanterns, she excused herself and stepped into the tent where the reception would take place. Lots of tables, lots of liquor, beer and wine ready behind the makeshift bar. Ratchet was going to DJ, and he had a station set up at the far end. She, Mina and Ava had set up this area earlier, the little personal touches the rental company hadn’t provided: centerpieces, potted ferns for ambiance, the photos lined up on the waiting buffet tables. They caught her eye now, the old family pictures in their silver frames, and she moved across the grass floor to get to them.

She’d set them out herself, so the images were no surprise…but for some reason, it felt like she was seeing them for the first time.

Aidan at sixteen, with his first bike, smiling like a loon. Aidan at eighteen, a forced Christmas photo in front of the tree with Ava, him looking too cool and sullen for the holiday. Aidan at eight, standing beside an awkward-looking Ghost at the park.

She remembered that day vividly; it unfolded in her mind, creases still sharp, colors still bright. One of their first outings as a threesome, with little skinny, curly-headed Aidan in tow. Maggie had been the one to suggest the park; they’d stopped on the way and bought a plastic whiffle bat and ball. The grass had been springy underfoot; it had smelled damp and green as Maggie slid across it, rolling over twice, laughing, before Ghost declared her out and now relegated to pitching duty.

Maggie recalled with perfect clarity the transformation in Aidan that day, from solemn and uncertain to beaming and laughing. She’d loved Ghost already – for all his lack of charm – but that was the day she’d fallen in love with his precious little boy, the bright notes of his laughter, his bubbling excitement over the game. She’d urged father and son to stand together, so she could snap a photo. She remembered Ghost as he appeared now in the eight-by-ten in her hands: uncertain of his effect on the boy, awkward in the way he dropped a hand on Aidan’s shoulder. A man who had no idea how to be a good father. And Aidan, a child without a clue how to teach his old man the ropes of tenderness and patience.

She didn’t realize there were tears in her eyes until she was forced to dab at them. She set the frame back on the table, pulling in a deep breath. Ava was her baby, her blood, the child she’d carried in her womb and nursed at her breast. But Ava had been strong from the first, always so sure of herself. Aidan had been the one who needed her most.

“It doesn’t seem real, does it?” a voice said behind her, and she turned, startled, to find Sam’s mother, Helen.

Helen was dressed in a modest champagne-colored dress with matching jacket, a pea coat over it for warmth. Mina had done her hair in a conservative, tasteful style. Her eyes looked red and watery already.

She took a deep breath, her smile trembling, narrow shoulders lifting. “She’s been this grown up, responsible, contributing adult for so long now, but, for some reason, I woke up this morning and it didn’t seem like my little girl could possibly be old enough to get married.”

Maggie nodded. “I know the feeling. Well – I felt it with Ava. With Aidan? He hasn’t been all that grown up, responsible, or capable of contributing for very long.” She chuckled. “Not to freak you out or anything.”

Helen shook her head. “I’m not worried about that. Aidan loves Sam, and a man can do great things when he’s motivated by love.”

Maggie grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

~*~

He could smoke them, and he always made a manly show of it, but Aidan didn’t like cigars. He took a hard puff on the one in his mouth and was grateful to exhale.

Beside him at the deck rail, Mercy seemed to be enjoying each drag, holding it for long moments. “You nervous?”

“Nah.” Which wasn’t a total lie. “At least, not about today.”

Mercy made a knowing sound in his throat. “The wedding’s just a party. It’s being a husband every day that’s the hard part.”

“Yeah. Were you nervous?”

“No.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. “That makes me feel better.”

“You want me to lie?” Mercy’s black brows jumped, grin teasing at one corner of his mouth. Growing more serious: “There wasn’t anything I wanted more in the world than Ava. Lots of shit makes me nervous, but not being married.”

“You enjoy it, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“Making the rest of us look like unromantic assholes.”

Mercy chuckled. “Yeah. I kinda do.” But he added, “I think it’s probably normal. Maybe if you’re nervous, you’re less likely to fuck everything up.” He gave Aidan a companionable bump with his shoulder – which was a bit like being bumped by a truck.

Aidan took another drag on his cigar, grimacing. “Yeah.”

“Speaking of fucking things up…” Mercy put his back to the rail and surveyed the sprawling deck and back of the stone house. “Where’s your best man?”

He grimaced again. “Last I saw, he was in the kitchen.” Probably looking for Walsh’s vodka stash.

“We’re gonna have to do something about him,” Mercy said, almost to himself.

“I know.” Aidan ground his cigar out in the glass ashtray on the rail and headed for the door that led inside. “I’ll go see if he’s about ready.”

“No,” Mercy said, pulling him up short. “I don’t just mean about now.” He gave Aidan a meaningful look. “He’s in bad danger of slipping away.” From the club, from his friends, his makeshift family. And slipping into nothing good, Aidan knew.

The word suicide drifted on the air between them, but neither of them would dare speak it.

“I know,” Aidan repeated.

He found Tango in the industrial-sized kitchen, half-full bottle of Smirnoff in one hand, bloodshot eyes lazily tracking the movements of the caterers. Aidan waited until the two aproned women had left the room – back to the van to drag in more of something, probably – before he drew up alongside his best friend and extended a hand for the bottle.

“Can I have some?”

Tango regarded him a beat too long before finally passing over the vodka.

“Thanks.” Aidan turned around and poured all of it down the sink.

“What the fuck?!” Tango lunged for him, clawing toward the bottle, movements clumsy.

It was no effort to hold him back. “It’s for your own good.”

His laugh was dark and ugly. “You really wanna go there? You of all people?”

Months before, that would have cut deep, and Aidan would have lashed out in response. Now it glanced off him. “Kev,” he said firmly, “we’re not talking about me.” When his friend glared at him, he gave him an even stare back. “You’re done for today.”

“Afraid I’ll fall down in the middle of your wedding?”

“Give a shit if you do. It’ll give us something to talk about. No.” He set the empty bottle on the counter and closed the distance between them, noting the way Tango shrank back. “I’m worried about you.”

Emotion flashed through Tango’s eyes, further paled his face. He turned away, but Aidan caught him by the shoulder.

“No. Come sit down.” He urged his friend to one of the stools around the island. Tango dragged his toes, but complied. “I’m gonna make you some coffee.”

“I don’t–”

“Shut up. I’m making coffee.”

Tango heaved a breath and folded his arms on the counter, slumping forward, gaze unfocused. He looked even worse when he gave up fighting. Shit.

Walsh and Emmie had one of those fancy-ass coffee makers that required NASA training to operate. After a full minute of staring at the thing, Aidan ventured into the pantry and found tea bags. Boiling water he could manage. He filled a sauce pot and put it on the stove, turned and faced Tango, who looked like he might have fallen asleep.

He hadn’t, though. Aidan could see his eyelashes flickering.

“You can talk about it, you know.”

Tango’s head lifted, gaze narrowed and cautious. “Talk about what?” But he knew; his face revealed that he did.

“You probably don’t want to unpack it all, but if it would make it easier to take if you walked through it all–”

“No. I can’t.”

Aidan nodded. “I get that. I do. But how are you gonna move past it?”

Tango shrugged. “I don’t guess I’m going to.”

The water was ready. Aidan poured some into a mug – slopping a good bit onto the counter – and added the tea bags to steep.

“No peppermint,” he said as he set it in front of Tango. “But it’s still tea.” He offered a quick smile. “Maybe it’ll help.”

Tango wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at its contents for a long time, as the water began to darken. Finally, he lifted his head. “You’re different, brother.” A raw voice, quaking and vulnerable.

“I…” Aidan groped for what to say.

“In a good way,” Tango assured. “Much better.” He twitched a small smile.

It wasn’t an insult or even a compliment, but an observation. A deep one, coming from a place of long-held friendship.

It filled him with a great sadness, to see Tango in this shape. Mercy was right; they were going to have to do something, and fast, or they’d lose their fragile hold on him.

“You could be different too,” Aidan said, and meant it to be encouraging.

Tango raised his mug to his lips. “I don’t think I have it in me.”

~*~

The dress was simple, fluted, and cream, with sheer lace sleeves down to the wrist. Tasteful and elegant, and a steal too, since she’d bought it off the rack. It came with a headband adorned with seed pearls and small white roses. Sam wore it standing in front of Emmie’s floor-length mirror and didn’t recognize herself.

In the reflection, she saw Helen move in close to stand beside her. Her mother was teary-eyed, but beaming, face radiating nothing less than maternal joy. “You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart.”

“I wish Dad was here,” Sam murmured, because suddenly, there was a lump in her throat and it hurt to swallow.

“I do too.”

Sam watched herself smile in the mirror, a sad smile. “Although, Dad would probably hate that I’m marrying a biker.”

Helen breathed a laugh. “I don’t know if he would or not.”

“That’s comforting,” Sam said with a snort.

“Your father would want you to be loved, and happy, and to make your own decisions.” Her brows plucked with worry. “This is a big decision, Sam. Aidan. His child.”

God, was it ever.

“But I know you,” Helen said, voice firm. “And I know you love Aidan, and so I’ve never had any doubts about the kind of man he is. Because of you.”

Because of me, Sam echoed in her thoughts. No pressure, right?

But it didn’t feel like a burden had been laid across her. It had never been that way with Aidan.

“I didn’t change him, Mom,” she said, quietly. “He just didn’t know what he was capable of.”

“Oh, jeez,” Erin said, rolling her eyes as she came up on Sam’s other side. “You guys are so cheesy. Barf.”

Sam checked her smile and glanced over at her sister. “You don’t like weddings?”

“I don’t like cheese.” She made a comical face.

“Well, you look really pretty in your dress.”

She might not have appreciated the finer points of sap, but Erin couldn’t resist preening when the chance presented itself. Her expression changed to one of satisfaction as she smoothed a hand down the bodice of her red dress. “I do like it,” she admitted. “You actually picked out something that looks good.”

“Erin,” Helen scolded.

But when Erin’s head lifted, there were tears standing in her bright, makeup-free eyes. “I kinda can’t believe you’re really getting married.”

“Me either,” Sam admitted.

And then, to her shock, her little sister stepped in close and hugged her. “I’m glad,” Erin whispered. “You deserve it.”

~*~

The best man was bleary-eyed, but in position, and Mercy was standing beside him in case he decided to pass out. Emmie and Holly assured him that every last detail was taken care of, and they were all set to go. The guests were being seated; Stella spotted him where he stood by the arena rail and waved at him with the fringed end of her red scarf. He waved back.

“Sweatin’ bullets yet?” Ghost asked, materializing beside him. These days, he marched through life with a typical president’s blustering, but sometimes, the man slipped back into his original skin, that of the specter who could sneak up on anyone.

Aidan turned to his father. They were both dressed in black button-ups with thermal underlayers, their cuts buffed with oil. Maggie had declared them “mirror images” earlier. So Aidan guessed he was staring at his future self – however exact a replica that might turn out to be.

“Nah,” he said. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” RJ had gone so far as to say, “I don’t pray, but I’m gonna pray for you, man.”

“It’s just the shit people say. We gotta give you a hard time, you know that.” Ghost’s eyes tracked over him, assessing. “You are calm, aren’t you?”

“This is the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Aidan said. He tried to smile, but it was thin.

Ghost studied him a long moment, then glanced up the hill toward the house, where the women had gone for one last gathering before the bride came down. “Your Sam,” he said, voice edged with faraway emotions of memory, a little nostalgic. “She’s nothing like your mother.” His gaze came to Aidan, and gave him the strong sense that his father was trying to convey something to him, non-verbally. Something urgent; something he needed Aidan to understand.

“You know,” Aidan said, “I don’t have any actual memories of Mom.”

“You don’t?”

“I remember the day she left,” he said, recalling the slant of late winter sun through the windows, turning the dust motes into swarms of fireflies. “I remember she wasn’t crying.” He’d thought that strange, for some reason, her with the American Tourister luggage set all stacked up by the door as the cabbie came to fetch them. She’d been in high heels and her mother’s diamonds and she’d looked down at him with the driest, coldest eyes. “She said, ‘You’re better off with him. You’re his kind.’ That was the last thing she said to me, and we didn’t speak again until ten years later.” She’d shown up on the day he should have graduated high school, appalled to learn he’d dropped out.

“But I don’t remember anything else about growing up with her,” he continued. “I almost think my mind just wiped her out.”

“Self-preservation,” Ghost said wryly. “You’re not missing much. She was a shit mom. Always at the salon. She woulda turned you into a total pussy if she’d stuck around.”

They shared a chuckle and matching grins.

“Thank God for Mags,” Aidan said.

“Thank God,” Ghost agreed.

“Dad?” Aidan said, struck with a sudden, intense curiosity.

“Yeah?”

“Were you scared when you found out Ava was gonna be a girl?”

“Shitless,” Ghost assured, nodding. “Having a girl’s different; all you see is every dangerous thing, and all you expect is pink tutus and tea parties.” He smiled. “But then you realize they’re people too, and then you realize they’re damn tougher than you are. Mama died when I was little,” he said, voice going soft, “and then Olivia was everything I’d been told to expect – shallow, vain, vicious. Mags showed me what a strong woman looks like. And then so did your sister.” He put a hand on Aidan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sam’s strong, and smart. She’ll handle all the shit you can’t. And don’t make the mistake I did,” he added, “and treat your little girl like she doesn’t know her own mind. Save yourself five years of grief, yeah?”

Aidan nodded. “Yeah.”

~*~

There would be many moments in Aidan’s life that awed and humbled him, left him feeling small and reverent. Joyous moments, tragic ones. But as an old man, he would tell his children that the moment of total and complete sea change – the moment that laid the groundwork for all the others, for all gorgeous sights – was the moment their mother walked down the aisle toward him. In a converted riding arena, watched by the only family that mattered to him, under a cold and brilliant January sky, Samantha Walton walked arm-in-arm with her mother toward him.

Her dress was simple, classy, and beautiful.

Her face, and her trembling, tearful smile ten times so.

All of it seemed detached, like something out of a dream sequence. Up until Helen stepped back and Sam’s hand slid into his. Her skin was warm, its texture familiar and soothing. She took her place in front of him, and as the minister welcomed their dearly beloved, she whispered, “Before it gets formal, I just wanted to tell you how very much I love you.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears and her hand tightened on his.

He squeezed back. “You saved my life, you know that?”

And the ceremony began.

~*~

Ava wasn’t one for weddings, but this one she allowed herself to thoroughly enjoy. It was lovely, the afternoon melting into evening at Briar Hall, hangarounds lighting the candles in the hanging lanterns. The tent had that whole winter wonderland vibe going and Ratchet was an excellent DJ.

Her brother had married one of her best friends, and for the moment, all was right with the world.

Ava drained the last sip of her wine and set the glass down on the table, swaying slightly to the rhythm of “Simple Man.”

“There’s a wedding song,” Mercy said, returning to his chair beside her.

A little warm and dull with wine, Ava turned a smile toward him. “Better than our wedding music.” Which was none, because they’d spent their wedding night on the run, sleeping in Sly and Layla Hammond’s spare bedroom.

He tipped his head and grinned. “Oui.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “You look awful handsome,” she said, reaching to pass a hand down the buttons on the front of his black shirt.

“Kinda drunk, aren’t you?” he asked with a soft laugh.

“I can think my man is handsome.”

“Yeah, but you don’t say things like ‘awful handsome’ unless you’ve had a few and the Southern gal comes out in full force.”

They laughed together. “Okay,” she said, “so I’m a little tipsy.”

“All the better to take advantage of you.”

“Oh, you didn’t hear? I was planning on being real easy tonight.”

“Oh really?” A spark of mischief flared in his dark eyes. “That’s a shame. I like to work at it a little bit.”

“You’re SOL, baby.”

“Shit, how much have you had to drink?”

She reined in her silliness. “Just enough to have a little glow,” she assured. Her hand was still on him, where it had stopped its button-exploration in his lap. She shifted it, slid a grip to the inside of his thigh. “Mercy,” she said, emotion welling inside her.

He sensed the change in her immediately. His voice dropped, became smoky and warm. “What, fillette?”

“It was a pretty wedding, wasn’t it?”

His gaze took a trip around the tent, their club and loved ones talking, eating, Hound and Nell dancing remarkably well out on the floor. Then his eyes returned to hers. "Yeah, it was.”

“I want another one,” she whispered, hand tightening on him.

He reached for her empty wine glass.

“No. I want another baby. I want one more.”

He looked at her a long moment, the harsh, angular lines of his narrow face overlaid with a tender expression, a softening that came from the sweet center of his heart. He was the most brutal, violent, demented man she knew. And the kindest, the gentlest, the most loving.

“You want a third?” His big hand closed around her wrist, his fingertips teasing lightly at her pulse point.

“I do.”

A delighted grin spread slowly across his face, radiant with happiness. “When do you wanna start? I don’t think there’s anybody in the barn.”

If not for the wine, she might have shaken her head. Instead, she reached for his other hand, and let him lead her out into the night.

~*~

Maggie let her head fall sideways onto Ghost’s shoulder. “You know what?”

Neither Sam nor Aidan was any kind of dancer, but they’d been coerced out onto the floor and were doing a middle school slow dance number.

Ghost watched them. “What?”

“We’ve got good kids.”

He made a half-satisfied, half-amused sound in his throat. “For the most part.”

She slapped his arm and he broke into a real laugh. When he settled, his voice grew doubtful, strained. “He turned out alright, didn’t he?” Like he was seeking her approval.

If only his men knew, Maggie thought, how much he doubted and wondered. If they could see the nights she’d held his head in her lap, and assured him it would all be okay. Her stubborn, brave, asshole man. As fragile as all the rest, but putting up a good front.

“I never doubted for a second,” she assured, finding his rough hand and sliding her own inside it.

“No?”

“No.”

He turned his head toward her, bristles on his jaw scraping at her forehead. “I love you,” he said, quietly, just for her.

“I know, baby. I love you too.”

Forty-Three

“Aidan…oh…God.” She threaded her fingers through his hair and put pressure at the back of his head, her hips seeming to levitate off the mattress.

He was between her legs with his mouth, his broad shoulders pushing her thighs apart, and he showed her no mercy.

The orgasm crashed over her, a wave of sensation, tinged briefly with regret. She’d wanted them to be together, their first time on their wedding night. She felt selfish…but satiated, hot with bliss as the pulses rippled through her and she stared up at the ceiling.

At their reflection on the ceiling.

This motel was a disturbingly out-of-the-way place just off the interstate, a place she would never have ventured on her own. But Aidan had gripped her hand outside their door, turned shining eyes on her and said, “There’s a surprise inside.”

The surprise had been the mirror affixed to the canopy of the bed, and she got to watch him go down on her in it.

Through lowered lids, she watched herself arch, gasp, claw gently at his scalp. Saw the ivory sheen of her damp skin, the shiny wetness on her nipples from his mouth, the flexing tattooed expanse of his back as his tongue slid up her sex one last time.

She could come again just watching, the harshly erotic novelty of it almost overwhelming.

“Aidan,” she repeated, and he slid up her body, blocking her view with his smiling face.

“What, baby?”

Her ring caught the lamplight, flaring as she brushed the damp curls off his forehead. She could have stared at his excited expression all night. But instead she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and said, “Can I be your wife now?”

He kissed her in answer, his tongue flicking between her teeth to stroke against her tongue.

The minister had pronounced them hours ago, but it wouldn’t feel wholly real until…

He touched her, briefly, where she was sopping wet, and then his cock pressed inside, plunging deep, his hips meeting hers.

She loved watching: his strong, gleaming, tattooed frame thrusting between her thighs, every imperfect inch of him hers. But she closed her eyes and turned her face into his neck. Breathed the salt on his skin and dug her fingers into his back, memorizing every sensation, relishing the physical power of him.

After, they lay tangled on the cheap sheets, too hot, but refusing to separate by so much as an inch.

“Congratulations on your wedding,” she teased, skimming a fingertip down his nose. He had his father’s nose; a strong, masculine nose.

“Congrats to you, Mrs. Teague.” He tangled his fingers in her hair.

As their heartbeats slowed to more regular thumps, sounds from the motel intruded. A loud engine in the parking lot. Rattle of the Coke machine on the landing outside their room. Voices from below.

Tomorrow, they were headed into the mountains, to a secluded cabin Hound had offered them the use of for a few days. They couldn’t afford the beaches of Key West or Mexico, but Sam didn’t want them. A long weekend in the woods, by the firelight, would be heaven. And still…there was something about tonight, about this first joining as husband and wife in this crappy motel, that touched her deeply.

“Thank you,” she said. “This is wonderful.”

He snorted. “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is,” she insisted, snuggling even closer to him.

His arm tightened around her waist. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take you somewhere fancy.”

“Aidan, don’t…”

“I’m probably gonna have to say that a lot.”

She laid a hand alongside his cheek and turned his face so they were eye-to-eye. “Aidan,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Stop doing that. Stop belittling yourself and the things you give me.”

His lips twitched. “No more ‘sorrys’?”

“Only if you do something really stupid.” She felt her own smile threaten.

“Okay, but fair warning, I’m gonna have to say ‘sorry’ a lot.”

She laughed. “Oh, you’re awful.”

“Sorry.”

She laughed harder and he cut her off with a kiss.

April

Forty-Four

His ass had long since gone numb in the hard plastic chair where they’d been sitting for what felt like hours now. Aidan jiggled his foot up and down, and his wallet chain rattled against the edge of the chair.

Sam put her hand on his knee and gave a gentle squeeze. It’s alright, her grip said. It’s going to be fine. She’d said so with words all throughout the last week. And tonight, before they’d left for the hospital. He didn’t believe her for a second, but her insistence was keeping him whole, when his mind wanted to scatter to bits.

On the other side of the waiting room, the Sinclair family attorney sat with arms and legs crossed, dark head resting back against the wall, bored. Aidan glanced away from him, toward the clock again. They’d arrived several hours into the birthing process, and had been here for two. How much longer would it take? Would things go smoothly? Would there be complications?

They’d seen little of Tonya in the months since the wedding, but Sam had opened up an email correspondence with her, and Tonya had shared updates, sonograms and 3D photos as the baby developed.

More often than he would have thought, Aidan found himself stealing glances of Sam’s flat stomach, wishing like hell that she was the one carrying his baby, nurturing and growing his little girl with her body. An impossible wish, but one that made him ache, left his teeth clenched at night, after Sam fell asleep, and he was the only one awake in their cramped bed.

“It doesn’t seem real,” he murmured, “that this is actually happening.”

Sam chuckled softly. “We have a whole apartment full of baby stuff. That doesn’t seem real?”

Sam, brave girl, had tackled his shitty apartment with everything she had. It was still a shitty apartment, but it had a fresh coat of paint, was sparkling clean, and boasted usable furniture that had either been repaired or replaced. The baby stuff they’d bought two weeks ago. Crib, swing, changing table, rocking chair, toys, diapers, formula.

They hadn’t asked them to, but Carter and Tango had both moved into the clubhouse. “You guys need space,” Tango had said with a sincere, if tired smile. “We don’t mind.”

But Aidan carried dread like a heavy stone in his belly. His best friend stood on treacherous emotional footing. Every time Aidan tried to reach out beyond their typical club and bro talk, he ran face-first into a glacial wall that spooked him, if he was honest. Tango wasn’t okay. Tango was going to do something rash. And short of strong-arming him into therapy, Aidan was running out of ideas.

The door to their private waiting room opened. “Is she here?” Maggie asked without preamble as she and Ghost entered.

The lawyer flicked them a curious glance, then shut his eyes and pretended to sleep.

Aidan’s throat tightened up and he had to swallow.

“Not yet,” Sam answered. She smiled as Ghost and Mags sat down across from them. “But a nurse came by a little while ago and said everything was going well so far.”

“That happened?” He had zero memory of it.

Sam patted his knee. “Yes, baby. It’s all fine. It just takes a little time to have a baby.”

Maggie nodded. “And as uptight as Tonya is–” She cut herself off, grinning, and Sam snorted.

Ghost adopted what was becoming his waiting-for-a-baby-to-be-born pose: arms folded across his chest, feet splayed out on the tile, a general air of don’t-talk-to-me. The MC president equivalent of a queen’s little royal wave. His eyes were bright, though, with what Aidan could only read as grandfatherly excitement.

“You all set up at home?” he asked.

Aidan nodded. “It only took me two days to figure out that fucking crib” – Ghost grinned – “but yeah, everything’s ready.”

“You think the crib is bad, wait till you see the stroller.”

“Greeeaaaat….”

“The stroller wasn’t that bad,” Maggie said. “Your father just refused to read the instructions.”

“They were in goddamn Spanish.”

“Only on the one side. You had to flip it over.”

“Who’s got time for that?”

“Apparently not the man who beat the stroller shut on the sidewalk in the pouring rain.”

Sam made a sound Aidan knew was a squelched laugh, and he glanced over to see her biting her lip, a smile dancing in her eyes. Her cheeks glowed pink with humor…and excitement. She was excited. His amazing old lady – she couldn’t wait to welcome their baby home.

I love you, he thought.

The softening of her gaze told him she’d read his mind, and that she loved him too.

The door opened.

That old adage about a pin dropping? It was happening now. All heads turned toward the threshold, toward the white-coated doctor and the nurse who stood in the doorway. The doctor held a tiny bundle wrapped in white in her arms, and she beamed at all of them.

“I have a little girl here who’d really like to meet her daddy.”

“Oh God,” Maggie whispered.

Ghost stiffened, drew upright.

Sam clutched his shoulder, fingers digging tight.

Aidan couldn’t breathe. His lungs stopped working. He looked at his stepmother, at the tears standing in her hazel eyes. Looked at his wife, at her encouraging smile, wavering with emotion. He tried to draw air into his chest and failed, looked back at the doctor instead.

Such a little thing, that bundle. Such a tiny footnote of a human.

His.

His baby.

His daughter.

Waiting to meet him.

He thought his knees might buckle as he got to his feet. His pulse thumped hard in his ears, drowning out the small sounds, the rustle of clothes and shifting of shoes on the tile. He had to clear his throat twice. “She’s mine,” he croaked, and the doctor moved toward him.

His arms lifted, awkward, like two tree branches. The baby was placed in them.

“You have her?” the doctor asked.

He…

Her face. Tiny, wrinkled, red and smushed. Not even a face, but a button, eyes and mouth puckered shut. Remy and Cal had looked like this, just like this, but he wondered suddenly if she was okay, if she was supposed to look like that.

His arms softened and tightened, brought her in flush against his chest. She was so light, but so solid, so real, so warm, in her hospital blanket. He felt her pulse, thumping through her whole being. Like he held a heart against his own.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Sam pressed against his back, took a look at the baby around his arm. “Oh…” she whispered. He felt her heart too, against his shoulder blade, where her breast rested against his ribs.

Caught between his two girls.

“What’s her name?” the nurse asked. She had the birth certificate in her hands, ready to take down the letters.

Again he cleared his throat. “Alaina,” he said, sounding choked. “Alaina Margaret Teague.”

~*~

How could something so tiny scream so loudly? How could her mouth open so wide? How could her lungs possibly be this powerful?

“The doctor said she was perfectly healthy,” Sam said, smile wry as she came into the living room with a freshly warmed bottle in her hand. “And I guess she’s not shy when she’s hungry.”

Aidan shifted her to one arm so he could take the bottle. “Thanks, baby.”

“You got it?”

“Yeah, I…” Was consumed with stress and worry. He sank down into their new recliner and contemplated his offspring. “Do I just stick it in her mouth?”

Sam, smile amused, came and perched on the arm of the chair. “Yes. And you hold it at an angle – there, like that. Perfect.”

Lainie clamped her lips on the bottle’s nipple, invisible eyebrows knit in frustration.

“Is she drinking?”

“Not yet. You’ll know–”

She latched on. A small shock moved through him when he felt her tug at the bottle.

Sam grinned. “Strong little thing, isn’t she?”

Aidan could only stare.

He’d always thought newborn babies were ugly as sin. Remy and Cal had become cute children, spitting images of their father, Cal’s bright blonde hair an incongruous ode to recessive French genes. But when they’d first come into the world, bawling, they’d been all red and wrinkled and about as adorable as little moles dug up from the ground.

His Lainie was no exception to the ugly rule…and yet…

He realized he was looking for himself, in her tiny nose, in the smooth domes of her closed eyes, her pink cheeks. He felt suddenly floored by biology; the idea that he himself had created this life that he held in his hands. The weight of her head, the fragile line of her body against his arm: not just a baby, but a miniature human who needed him, belonged to him, shared his blood. It was staggering, too much to comprehend.

Sam’s arm settled across his shoulders. Her hair brushed his face as she rested her head against his. “Isn’t she perfect?” she murmured.

He blinked hard. “Yeah. She is.”

~*~

In the way of all newborns, Lainie was up every two hours during the night, and she had healthy lungs. The first time, just after they’d fallen into bed, Sam had rolled toward Aidan and prodded him gently. “Alright, Daddy,” she’d whispered, and his eyes had flown wide, curious and a little hurt. Sam had shaken her head. She loved him, she already loved Lainie, but he was her father, he was the one who’d chosen to act irresponsibly nine months before. It was for his sake that she’d stayed in bed while he scooped the baby from her bassinet and went to heat a bottle. It was part of his transformation, his final great growing up. Babies weren’t just women’s work. This was his child, and he had to bond with her, had to step up and be her daddy.

He didn’t have to be told after that. Every two hours like clockwork, he was up feeding her. In between, he moved her to the bed between them, so she could feel their heat, their breathing. She smelled of fresh baby, with an undernote of powder.

When she woke at five-thirty, Sam took pity on her husband. “I’ve got her,” she said, lifting Lainie up into her arms. “You go back to sleep.”

“Unph,” he mumbled, and rolled onto his back.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Sam murmured, rubbing the baby’s back as she left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. “You hungry? Let’s fix that, hmm?”

Lainie’s fussing had progressed to full-on screaming by the time the bottle was in the microwave.

“Hush, baby, hush. You’re alright. It’s coming, it’s coming.”

She’d heard stories of babies who struggled to latch onto the bottle, but Lainie seemed to have no such trouble. The second the nipple entered her mouth, she stopped yowling and started sucking.

“There.” Sam eased down into the recliner and settled the baby in the crook of her arm. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Lainie regarded her through uncomprehending newborn eyes, the lids open only slits as she concentrated fiercely on nursing.

Sam’s nipples contracted beneath her t-shirt. With a little gasp of shock, she recognized some phantom need, a dull ache in her breasts. Her body responding automatically to the baby she cradled.

Not her baby…

Except that she was. Aidan had called her “Mama” when he first passed Lainie to her. That’s who she was, and would always be to this tiny precious girl. Mama.

Her daughter. Lainie Teague was her daughter.

She’d known it before, in every logical sense, but it hit her hard just then, in the dark before dawn, the room filled with the soft sounds of the baby’s sucking.

She was a mother now.

Tears filled her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m your mama.”

Forty-Five

Ghost walked into the clubhouse at eight a.m. on the nose. Walsh and Ratchet met him halfway across the common room.

Ratchet held out a steaming mug of black coffee toward him.

Walsh smiled smugly. “We found him.”

~*~

“How did you find him?”

Ghost cut into his steak and watched the juice begin to seep across the plate, red as blood. In their previous meetings, he hadn’t wanted to appear settled; hadn’t wanted to look as if he had time for this man’s bullshit theatrics. But he was feeling content, and he was hungry, so he’d accepted the seat at Shaman’s white-draped steakhouse table and ordered himself a ribeye.

“We started working on it the night we raided his properties,” Ghost said, swallowing. A waiter appeared as if by magic, offering him a fresh beer, and he nodded. When the man was gone again, he said, “We figured out Ellison was the retailer, and not the source for the coke, so my boys started tracing the product back to the sources. PD lab connections,” he said smugly. “Chemical ratios of the coke led back to product picked up off cartel mules coming in at the southern border.”

Shaman looked pleased. “So you put word out to the cartel.”

“Applied some pressure.” Ghost said. “Helped them to understand that Ellison was one man in Tennessee, and the Lean Dogs are an international organization with chapters in eight states. My Cali brothers offered to take their business, and they accepted.”

They were talking quietly, in their corner table by the window, well away from the other patrons, Bruce the bodyguard keeping an eye out. Another man stood on the other side of the glass in a black suit, and had a neck like a Christmas ham. More muscle, Ghost knew. He’d left Michael watching the bikes in the parking lot, eyes peeled.

“I can’t go into the particulars, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Shaman echoed. “But I take it our friend is without suppliers?”

“And after what happened at his home, without manpower. And short a shitload of digital intel.”

What Ghost didn’t tell the Englishman was what they’d found on all the laptops and flash drives they’d pulled from Ellison’s place. Ratchet and Walsh had spent night after night trolling through the files and emails, and had managed to piece together a delivery schedule.

“I contacted his clients,” Ghost said with a shrug, cutting more ribeye. “Informed them I’d be taking over their orders.”

Shaman flicked a quick, sharp grin. “I’m completely impressed, Kenny.”

A prickle of irritation crawled down Ghost’s back to hear this man use his given name. But no sense making a fuss.

“A proper dismantling,” the dealer continued. He lifted a single reddish eyebrow. “But it doesn’t explain how you found him.”

“Getting to that. Remember the real estate developers he was backing? Gannon and Gannon? I had their computer too.”

Realizing that radio silence from Ellison meant he’d gone underground, they’d begun searching in earnest for his hideaway. “Gannon deals in real estate, and G&G was Ellison’s first real investment; they were his ticket into Knoxville, so I decided to put a little pressure there.”

“Business or personal pressure?”

“I got into his email. And his photos. The guy owns a beach house in South Carolina. About two weeks ago, he came down before first light to start the coffee brewing” – Ghost smiled – “and I was sitting at his kitchen table.”

“Oh dear.”

“He didn’t have a location, but he had a phone number. It led us to a bait shop in the middle of nowhere up in the mountains. Best we can tell without getting close enough to spook him, Ellison’s in a cabin, holed up with a woman. Someone does his shopping for him. Real Zero Dark Thirty type shit.”

“The woman will be Monica,” Shaman said. “She’s his assistant among…other things.” He sipped his wine. “I don’t supposed you’ll give me the location?”

“No. You understand.”

“I do. I understand a great many things, Mr. Teague. For instance.” His long hands folded together, sharp chin tucking as he regarded Ghost critically across the table. “I understand that it sounds a lot like you’re taking leaps forward in the drug business.”

Ghost had been ready for this. He shook his head and took a swallow of beer. “No, actually. That’s why I wanted to meet with you. I’m sitting on an obscene amount of product at the moment. I want to give three quarters of that to you.”

The resulting grin was wicked in ways Ghost didn’t want to contemplate. “In exchange for what?”

“Nothing. As a gift.” Ghost grinned back. “We’ll call it a favor.”

“Ah yes. And here we are back to favors.”

Ghost sighed, and dropped his voice another notch. “You know I can’t grant you the favor you asked for.”

In an instant, the composed gentleman façade dropped away, and Shaman became the bitter shell of a creature The Cuckoo’s Nest had left him years ago. “I understand that you were going to let him die in Ellison’s basement.”

Guilt twisted his gut, made the steak restless and heavy. “I love that boy like he’s my own son. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to him. It was war; war has casualties.”

“It has leaders, too. Not all of them equally suited for the task.”

Ghost sighed through his nostrils. “And you won’t know if you are until after the fighting starts. It’s not exactly a vicarious learning experience sort of thing.”

He stood. “I’ll contact you about the delivery. Otherwise, thanks for the steak.”

He was shrugging into his light jacket and cut when Shaman said, “Ken.”

Ghost glanced back over his shoulder. “I ought to hit you in the mouth for calling me that.”

The Englishman’s brief, true smile made another flash appearance, tinged with sadness this time. “Kevin needs help,” he said quietly, “and he’s locked me out.”

The poor perverted bugger. He was just as fucked up, but had learned to disguise it so well. “We’ll take care of him,” Ghost promised. That’s what we do.”

“Hmm. Yes. Take care of them once the disease sets in, you mean. Being a part of your club is like breathing secondhand smoke. It doesn’t hurt at first. But by the time the damage is done, it’s too late to do anything about it. And then it kills you.”

Ghost gave him a long, level look. “That could be said of a lot of things.”

“Yes. But we’re talking about you.” He picked up his napkin, folded it idly. “Your son has his eyes on the president’s chair, doesn’t he?”

Ghost nodded, jaw tightening. “Most likely.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you ought to discourage him. He’d be an awful president. His heart’s much bigger than yours.”

Ghost snorted. “Thanks for lunch.”

~*~

“Now hold still,” Aidan instructed. Like running away was a possibility.

Lainie stared up at him, owlish, and somehow judgmental.

“I know I don’t do this as well as Mama. Just humor your old man, alright?”

He was reaching for the tabs of her diaper when someone knocked on the door. A ripple of unease moved down his back. Usually, it was just a neighbor kid pranking him, but this wasn’t the best neighborhood; you never knew. His reaction added to the growing knowledge that it was time he found his family a real home somewhere.

“Come on.” He scooped Lainie up and went to glance through the peephole. “Oh. It’s Poppy.”

Ghost brought an unusual air of contentment with him into the apartment. Whatever sort of visit this was, it wasn’t dire.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Hi, beautiful,” he greeted Lainie, face softening as he took the baby into his arms and laid her up on his shoulder. One work-roughened hand came up to the back of her head in an expert hold. Lainie seemed pale and too-perfect against the tan skin and dusty old leather of her grandfather. Aidan had thought the same thing of himself when he’d held her in front of the mirror. His tats and scars and crow’s feet in dramatic contrast to the unblemished softness of his offspring.

He smiled. “You’re a total pushover of a grandpa.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” Ghost said. “Sam’s at work?”

“Yeah. I was just getting ready to change her.” He nodded toward the baby.

Ghost handed Lainie back and they walked to the bedroom.

“Is this a social visit?” Aidan asking, knowing damn well it wasn’t.

Ghost watched him lay Lainie on the changing table and tackle her dirty diaper with an amused expression. “Not exactly.”

“Ah…shit, that’s nasty.” Aidan tried not to breathe as he set the diaper aside and reached for the box of wipes.

“Wait till she’s eating food,” Ghost said sagely. “Now that’s nasty.”

“I don’t wanna think about it.”

Lainie didn’t hinder the process, but she didn’t exactly help either, little legs wanting to curl up like bird talons. Aidan was afraid of breaking every part of her, and it took him whole minutes to fasten the new diaper into place.

Ghost nodded his approval, and, voice calm, said, “We found Don Ellison.”

Aidan choked on his next breath.

Ghost slapped him on the back.

“Where?” he gasped, eyes streaming as he coughed.

“Lying way under the radar. In a cabin up in the damn mountains.”

Aidan gulped down the last of his choking fit, anxiety spiking along his nerve endings. He and Sam had been in the mountains, had spent their honeymoon naked in front of a crackling fire. Had Ellison been just down the road? Had they passed his footprints in the snow?

“How long’s he been there?” He leaned a hip against the changing table, reaching idly for Lainie with one hand. Her tiny fists thumped against his palm and her fingers curled against his thumb.

“Walsh thinks since February.”

So maybe they hadn’t been in the company of evil, out there in the woods. Some comfort.

“Five months of work to find the bastard,” Ghost continued. “But we’ve got him.”

Aidan’s heart bounded against his ribs, a hard knocking, like he’d just gone for a run. “Shit,” he breathed. Lainie was squirming, and he picked her up and folded her against his chest. Whether for her comfort or his, he didn’t know. “So it’s time to move, then,” he said, looking at his dad.

Ghost nodded. “We need to finish it.” His gaze went to Lainie, the handful of dark wispy hairs on top of her head. “To keep our families safe.”

Aidan nodded. He knew this; was ready for it. But he’d never felt this kind of fear, this acute, painful hesitation before.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” Ghost asked, face softening. “Once you’ve held them. And you think about going out there and putting yourself in danger.”

“Yeah, it…yeah.”

“I don’t know which is the better father. The one who doesn’t risk anything, who gets to go home whole every night to his family. Or the one who sticks his neck out, so they’ll be safe.” His dark eyes crackled with electric conviction. “I only know which kind of father I am. And I can’t change that.”

Aidan took a deep breath. “Right.”

~*~

“You two taking a nap?” Sam woke him with a gentle touch, pushing his hair back off his forehead.

Aidan startled awake and realized he’d fallen asleep with the recliner fully extended in its kicked-back mode. Lainie lay on her stomach on his chest, snoring and snuffling softly.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, and moved to sit up.

“No, stay.” Sam patted his cheek and moved to the sofa. “No sense waking her up.”

Evening had come on, while he’d been sleeping, the light beyond the windows purplish with twilight. He frowned as he came more fully awake. “You’re just getting home?”

“Tutoring tonight, remember?” She kicked her pumps off and sighed with relief as she tucked her feet up beneath her. “God, that feels good.”

“Later, you wanna say that for a different reason?”

She smiled, eyes dancing. “Now that’s an idea.” She flopped her head back against the couch. “What did you guys do today?”

There was a limited amount of stuff you could do with a newborn baby. But he could have told her about feeding, burping, diaper changing, the embarrassing amount of interest he’d paid The Price is Right while he tried to coax Lainie into a nap.

Instead, he blurted, “We found Don Ellison.”

Sam jerked upright, eyes popping. “You did?”

He had to swallow. “Yeah.”

She smoothed her hands down her thighs a few times and then got to her feet, pacing along the couch. Then sat again with a deep exhale. “Sorry. I just…” She gestured toward her chest.

“Yeah. I get it.” He was having the same nervous flutters.

Another deep breath, and she was composed, calm. “Okay. You guys found him. That means…”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “I understand that. You have to do it.” Her voice was wrong, though. “He can’t be allowed to…”

“Sam, baby.” Aidan got to his feet as quickly and deftly as possible. Lainie woke with a little snort and began whimpering. Aidan cradled her close and sat down beside his wife. “We have to finish it with Ellison,” he said gently. “You know that. Probably better than a lot of people.”

“I know.” She reached for Lainie. “Come here, sweetie.” She rested her chin against the top of the baby’s head, pretty face grave with concern. “I do know it,” she repeated. “But that doesn’t make it any less disturbing.”

Aidan put his arm around her – around both his girls – and Sam’s blue-green gaze lifted to his, glimmering behind the lenses of her glasses.

“You can’t go out and die on us,” she whispered. “You’re a dad now. You have to come home.”

She was thinking of her own father, he knew with a pang. Of the way he’d been taken from them far too soon.

“I’ll always come home,” he told her. “I promise.” And he prayed like hell fate wouldn’t make a liar of him.

Forty-Six

It was an eerie sound, the baying of the dogs. Somewhere between a human scream and the lonely howl of a timber wolf. They ran with their noses hovering over the ground, leaping like gazelle through the rough tussocks and clumps of jagged rock.

“Doesn’t matter if we can’t keep up,” Michael said. “They’ll put him at bay.” He had his hand wrapped around the leash of his uncle’s giant black stud dog, the Great Dane they called Cassius, after the Roman conspirator. The beast was obedient enough, but Aidan saw the moon strike a wild light in his eyes, heard the excited strain in his panted breath.

The three dogs brought along were the ones who’d tracked and helped to kill Holly’s father and uncle.

They knew how to track the scent of man.

Not so different from a wild boar, after all. Only a pig of a different color.

“Fan out,” Ghost instructed, and they did, a loose line of hunters closing in on their prey.

Aidan stepped in a hole that sent a jolt straight up his spine and clapped his teeth together. He bit the tip of his tongue and tasted blood. Would Cassius smell it, he wondered. Make a dive for his throat with those great drooling jaws?

Best not to think of it. Just press on through the dark, flashlight pinging across the terrain. Rock, loose bits of gravel, hard-packed dirt, tufts of moss and grass. He skidded and braced a hand against the trunk of a pine tree, the bark rough and sticky beneath his palm.

Were there bears up here? Coyotes? Mountain lions?

Something screamed, a high sharp sound, with a tail end like a cough. His pulse thundered in his ears and he caught his breath to listen.

“Bobcat!” he heard Michael call from off to his right.

He exhaled and started moving again, a little tremor rippling down his spine. “Fucking bobcats. Fucking asshole making a break for it,” he muttered.

They’d come up on the cabin just after nightfall. The windows had glowed with cheery warmth and a thin tail of gray smoke had curled up from the chimney. It was April, but it was cold up here in the mountains; his mind had filled with visions of a crackling fire, mugs of coffee. He’d flashed back to his wintertime honeymoon with Sam: the fire-gilded skin, the way her mouth had tasted like chocolate.

Ellison had had romance on his mind too, obviously. They’d looked in the windows to find him in a compromising position on the couch with his assistant.

Mercy and his sledgehammer of doom had taken down the door. In the chaos that ensued, the assistant was killed.

Ellison managed to grab his pants and flee out the back door.

Unarmed.

White skin gleaming in the moonlight when he left the shelter of the trees.

The dogs were giving chase.

In a strange way, Aidan felt little urgency now. The dogs would catch up to their quarry. It was going to happen, it was just a matter of waiting. This trek through the pine trees was merely a way to pass the time.

His thoughts went to his family, his two girls waiting at home for him. Sam’s tear-bright eyes as she’d kissed him goodbye. Lainie squirming in her arms. All he wanted was to go home to them.

But first, the killing.

The voices of the hounds changed. No longer a questing bark, but hard insistence.

Aidan halted, listening, trying to get his bearings.

Michael materialized beside him, startling him. “They have him.”

A thrill moved through him, a flash of heat in his blood.

Ellison had gone to ground, or tried to anyway, in a small rock cave. But it wasn’t deep. When their flashlights hit it, the space was revealed to be no more than a shallow depression in the face of a huge boulder. Ellison was gleaming with sweat, scratched like he’d been in a fight with a wildcat, feet bloody. He held a long pine branch in one hand that he brandished at the dogs. And then his gaze lifted as he was surrounded by a different kind of Dog.

“Bear. Sammie,” Michael called, snapping his fingers. The Blueticks went to him, long tails wagging, proud of a job well done.

“Mr. Ellison,” Ghost greeted. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Bite my ass, Teague,” the disgraced kingpin said.

“Oh no. I’ll leave that to this big fucking dog we got over here. I just wanted to gloat a little bit.”

“You always had a flair for the dramatic,” Mercy said with a dark laugh. He was as bad as the Dane, reeking of bloodlust, the big monster.

Ghost nodded, gesturing to the whole crew of them with a sweep of his arm. “Take a look, Donnie boy. And understand something.”

“Not sure what good understanding’s going to do at this point,” Walsh said dryly.

“You didn’t make an enemy,” Ghost said. “When you targeted us, our women, our families – you made a whole fleet of enemies. There’s not a man here who wouldn’t run a knife through you.” He grinned, briefly. “But I’m gonna save the honors for my pig-killer.”

Ellison took a deep breath, square jaw trembling, though his eyes remained hard. “You won’t hold onto it forever,” he said.               “Knoxville?”

“This monopoly you’ve got on the underground. The MC way of life is backward. It’s dated, and it has a shelf life. Kill me. Fine. But you can’t hold onto your kingdom.”

A sensation like fingertips tickled up the back of Aidan’s neck. A man as proud as Ellison couldn’t go to his grave without blowing a little smoke. But Aidan wondered if a shred of truth colored this particular cloud of vapors.

Ghost smiled, expression ghoulish in the flashlight glow. He lifted a hand, and gestured to Michael.

“Hold,” Michael said, and turned loose of Cassius.

The Dane rushed in…

And Aidan heard the whisper of Michal’s knife leave the sheath.

He didn’t look away, when it happened. His stomach didn’t cramp and his gorge didn’t rise. He thought of Sam. Of Lainie. His girls.

Safe now.

Forty-Seven

Lainie fell asleep slowly as she ate, until her lips went slack and Sam had to pull the bottle away. “Sleepy girl,” she murmured, smiling. She stared at her peaceful face, and again marveled at the perfection of it, the incomparable wonder of life in its earliest, most innocent state. Her heart was full.

But her mind was fuzzy with worry. Aidan had left yesterday morning, and it was three o’clock of the next day. She hadn’t slept, hands groping through the cold sheets for him.

Lainie’s warm breath fanned across her throat and she closed her eyes, sent another prayer skyward. She couldn’t have found Aidan, the real Aidan, at last, only to lose him so soon. Not when she held their baby in her arms. Not when she loved him this much.

A lump forming in her throat, she went to lay Lainie down in her bassinet. She straightened the blankets, her little socks. Pressed a hand to her tight, full belly, just for the maternal joy of it. She stood and turned around–

“Aidan!” she gasped.

She didn’t know how he’d managed to sneak in behind her, but she didn’t care. She flung her arms around him.

He hugged her back. Hard. Exhaling in a long, deep sigh.

Sam closed her eyes and absorbed the feel of him. The hard padding of muscle beneath his sweatshirt. The steady thump of his heart. The tight clench of his hands at the small of her back.

She became aware of the scents of leaf mold, pine sap, and blood.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, pushing back so she could look over him. His sweatshirt was black, so it would be hard to tell. She started patting him down: chest, shoulders, arms.

He shook his head and took her hand, led her out into the hall and down to the living room.

“You’re alright?” she demanded, growing agitated with his silence.

He nodded and, still holding her hand, sat down in the recliner, pulling her down to sit in his lap.

“Baby,” she said, bracing an arm behind his neck. “Did it go okay?”

Deep blue shadows beneath his eyes spoke of his sleepless night. His smile was tired, but it was still a smile. “Nobody has to worry about that guy again.” His voice cracked with fatigue and he cleared his throat. “Also” – his grin twitched sideways – “don’t ever get on Michael’s bad side.”

“Noted.”

His hand landed on her thigh and squeezed. “Did you get any sleep?”

“No. Neither did you.”

His grin softened, became something special just for her. “You know, I…” He trailed off, shook his head.

She tickled the back of his neck with her fingers. “What?”

“I shouldn’t talk about it. Not about…”

“What it was like to kill a man?” she guessed.

His eyes came to her, a little surprised, and they regarded one another a long moment.

Sam had been thinking about this all night, as she and Lainie kept time alone, waiting on Daddy to come home. She’d made peace with some things that, truly, she’d already accepted. An official sort of peace.

“While you were gone,” she said, “I did some thinking. We both know I’m not an outlaw.” She gave him a thin smile. “You know my mom. My dad was a slightly less neurotic version of her. Safe to say I come from some very boring, law-abiding people.”

“I love your mom,” he said, immediately. “She’s a sweet lady.”

She kissed his forehead. “Thank you.” Then pulled back and continued. “So I’m not the sort of person who grew up thinking it was okay to kill people. Or do…other outlaw things.” She’d heard all the rumors around town growing up, and even if Aidan hadn’t confirmed them all, she’d guessed which were true. “God knows we’re an odd couple.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But,” she went on, “I was raised to believe that family was more important than anything. And we have that in common.” She swallowed, throat tightening. “These are strange, scary times we live in, Aidan. And sometimes keeping a family safe and whole takes…severe measures.”

He reached to push her loose hair back behind her ear, eyes shining with emotion. “Yeah. It does.”

“Don’t spare me the dirty details because you think I can’t handle them,” she said. “The only thing I can’t handle is losing my family.”

He curled a thick lock of her hair around his hand and pulled her face down to his.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he promised, and kissed her.

It was a kiss fraught with promises. Tangled tongues, desperate lips. When Aidan reached for the hem of her shirt, she lifted her arms, helped him draw it over her head. He unsnapped her bra and pulled her up higher in his lap, so she straddled him, as his mouth latched onto her breasts.

Oh, his mouth. It was magic. Gently suckling and tugging. Then more firmly, as she felt the evidence of his excitement against her thigh.

“Wait,” she whispered, pulling back from him.

He released her nipple with a wet sound, hooded eyes flicking up to hers. Why? his gaze asked.

She slid down to the floor, between his split legs, and reached for his belt.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He tangled his hands in her hair when she took him into her mouth. She let her eyes wander across him. The clenched jaw, the head pressed back against the chair, his hips struggling to keep still. She drew him deep and pulled back, teasing at the head of his cock with her tongue. A slow stroke. And repeat. Repeat.

He forced her back before he came. “Stop,” he gasped, tearing at his sweatshirt, yanking it over his head.

Sam sat back on her heels, trying not to smile at his clumsy efforts to get naked. The humor faded, though, by the time he’d ditched his boots and was nothing but tattooed skin in front of her. She bit her lip, fighting a sudden, stupid rush of tears.

His two rivers, his roses, his Lean Dogs’ mementos. His stupid drunk tattoos – Foghorn Leghorn, for one. And his new ink, two names, in a blank space above his heart: Sam. Lainie. His powerful muscles, and his scars, and his sweet dark eyes that had seen too much. Hers. All hers.

He saw that she was crying and hit his knees in front of her. “What, baby?” He caught her face in his hands. “What?”

She sucked in a breath. “I thought I loved you when I was sixteen,” she said, voice quivering. “But I had no idea….I had no idea. I love you so much.”

He kissed her again, eased her back onto the carpet. His skin was hot against her, salt-smelling, vital and thrumming with his pulse, his energy.

She lifted her hips as he stripped off her jeans. He mounted her. And then he was inside her. A deep, hard thrust that brought him to the very heart of her, joining them in a way that was painful and exquisite.

“Samantha.”

She speared her fingers through his hair, held his face above hers.

“Do you want more babies?” His voice was straining with waiting, holding still deep inside her. “Babies that are ours?”

“We already have a baby,” she whispered through her tears. “But I want more.”

He dropped his head and started to move, murmuring sweet, hot things against her throat.

Sometimes, she reflected, it wasn’t as simple as getting the boy. Sometimes it was as difficult, painful, and wonderful as getting the man.

Epilogue

“Y’all say ‘Masters Grads’!” Maggie called, holding up her camera.

Ava and Sam stood shoulder to shoulder in their black caps and gowns, arms thrown around one another. “Masters Grads!” they shouted, and the flash went off with a blinding flare of light.

Aidan hoisted Lainie up higher against his shoulder. “Mama’s a lot smarter than me,” he told his little girl. “You should always ask her for advice, and not me.”

Beside him, Mercy snorted. “Lazy-ass.”

“Nah. Just practical.”

“Me too,” Ghost added. “You know what your problem is?” he said, looking to Mercy. “You’ve got two boys. You need a daughter. See how practical you get then.”

The Cajun shrugged, grinning. “Bring it. I’m ready.”

Ghost groaned. “Shit. She isn’t…?”

“Five weeks.”

“Goddamn.”

Mercy grabbed his father-in-law by the shoulder and gave him a hearty shake as if he were a rag doll. “You know you love it, Poppy.”

“I’m buying you a vasectomy for Christmas.”

“You’d have to talk to your daughter about that. She’s kind of a fan of the equipment.”

“Fuck you,” Ghost said, without malice. He was grinning, beaming from the inside out at the idea of being a grandfather for the fourth time. “She’s doing okay?”

“A little champ,” Mercy assured. “And she’s hoping for a girl too.”

Aidan bit his tongue and smiled to himself. He understood now, the joy of getting a woman pregnant. Your woman. The love of your life. That was something to smile about. It hadn’t happened yet, but they were being smart, waiting until Lainie could at least sleep through the night.

“Boys,” Maggie said, turning to them. “Come stand with your ladies and lemme get a picture.”

Aidan groaned. “Give it up, Mags.”

“Never,” she said. “Now come on. Move.”

Grumbling for show, he and Mercy went to bookend their wives, arms thrown into the mix, across shoulders.

“Here, baby,” Ava said to Remy, positioning him in front of her, her hands on his little shoulders.

Mercy had Cal in one arm, the same way Aidan had Lainie.

Sam leaned sideways into him, and he swore he felt her smiling.

“Congrats,” he whispered. “You gonna put me in your first book?”

She snorted. “You wish.” But he had a feeling she would.

Ghost moved in behind Maggie as she held the camera, wrapped his arms around her waist, dropped his chin onto her shoulder.

Maggie grinned as she lifted the Nikon to her face again. “Ready, everybody?”

Aidan took a deep breath. He was on a mission now, to save his best friend from himself – Tango needed so much help. And he himself had a daughter to raise. A wife to love. New children to make with her…his gorgeous Sam. He had a club to serve, brothers to protect, to keep safe, to hold dear.

In that moment, on the other side of his stepmother’s camera, he felt more alive than he ever had in his life. He sensed the future settling around them, bright with possibility, charged with quiet promise.

Here he stood, with his family. Ready to tackle anything. Awake. Whole.

“Ready,” he said, in the same breath as his wife, his sister, his brother-in-law.

The flash went off, blinding him. Bright as heaven.

THE END

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Lauren Gilley writes Literary Fiction which is sometimes mistaken for Romance. She’s the author of sixteen novels and several short stories. When she’s not writing, she’s at the barn, plotting stories and cleaning horse stalls. She lives in Georgia.

Other Titles From Lauren Gilley

The Walker Series

Keep You

Dream of You

Better Than You

Fix You

Rosewood

Whatever Remains

Shelter

The Russell Series

Made for Breaking

God Love Her

“Things That Go Bang In The Night”

Keeping Bad Company

“Green Like the Water”

The Dartmoor Series

Fearless

Price of Angels

Half My Blood

The Skeleton King

Secondhand Smoke

Snow In Texas (Available in Kindle, Nook, and paperback soon)