Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (5 page)

              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.