Snow in Texas (Lean Dogs Legacy #1) (2 page)

Three

Colin

The dorm Candy showed him to was narrow and shabbily furnished, but clean. It smelled like fresh linen and the small window overlooked an expansive back lot full of cars and bikes, all the metal glimmering dimly beneath a security light. He had a twin bed, a dresser and a footlocker. Extra blankets were in a closet down the hall, Candy told him, and there were two communal bathrooms that he would be expected to clean as part of his prospect duties.

              “Have Darla make you something,” Candy said before departing, “and you can get started in the morning.”

              Then he was left alone.

              Colin sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing as he felt a spring dig into his backside. He didn’t understand the contradictions of this place; it had the air of a total dump that someone was desperately trying to turn around, the effort obvious, the motive – not so much. That wasn’t any of his business, though. He just had to keep his mouth shut, follow orders, scrub toilets, run laundry, and keep cold beers in everyone’s hands.

              The charmed life of a prospect.

              He unpacked his meager belongings and went in search of food.

              Darla turned out to be the dark-haired woman he’d spotted in the kitchen before. She was plump in a pleasing, motherly sort of way, her face lined with age and humor. She was Blue’s sister, she told him, and she smiled at him and told him to go sit down at the bar, that she’d bring him a plate.

              The twins were still absorbed in the game, and Blue was playing cards with three of the others – Jinx, for sure, with that beard and hair – but the others he couldn’t quite remember. Fox and Candy were gone, which was just as well. Right now, Colin wanted to eat and be left alone.

              He picked a center stool at the bar, since it was abandoned, and a moment later Darla appeared, sliding a heaping plate beneath his nose, setting down a mason jar of sweet tea that
thump
ed when it hit the bar top. God, it smelled like heaven. An open-faced pulled pork sandwich slathered in sauce, coleslaw, baked beans with big chunks of ham hock, collards, and a fat wedge of cornbread.

              “There’s more if you want another helping,” Darla said, patting his arm. “You’re a big boy, bet you eat a lot.” She gave him a wink and headed back to the kitchen.

              Okay, if he got to eat like this, maybe the transfer was worth it.

              He’d just crammed the biggest bite of sandwich he could tackle into his mouth when someone climbed onto the stool beside him. A skinny, greasy, pimple-faced someone. The other prospect, Pup.

              Awesome.

             
Don’t say anything, don’t say anything…

              The kid looked at him with unguarded curiosity. “Darla’s a real good cook.”

              Damn, he said something.

              “She’s not anybody’s old lady neither. Candy pays her to do the shopping and make us dinner most nights. She makes real good spaghetti. But my favorite is the dessert. She does cannoli, you know, like the Italians do? And they’ve got this cream–”

              “Yeah,” Colin said, shoveling in beans. “I bet.”

              Pup blinked, surprised by the bluntness. But then pressed on, undeterred. “So you’re from New Orleans.”

              “Yep.”

              “I’ve never been there, but I wanna go. Candy’s been, which means Jinx’s been. They’re like this, ya know.” He twisted his first and middle fingers together. “Best friends since, like, forever I think. And I know Fox has been. Fox has been
everywhere
,” he said with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows. “You know. He
specializes
in stuff.”

              Colin set down his fork and twisted his shoulders toward his fellow prospect. Annoying as hell, yeah, but suddenly, he was thinking someone who ran his mouth like this could be of some benefit. He’d have no better chance to get the down-and-dirty on his new brothers. “Specializes in what stuff?”

              “You know.” Pup leaned forward, face comically serious, voice dropping to a hiss. “Killing people kinda stuff.”

              “Ah. Gotcha.”

              Pup sat back, looking pleased that he had an audience. “The guys tell all sorts of stories about him. Shit knows which are true and which are just tales.”

             
The most dangerous man you’re ever gonna meet
, Candy had said of the Englishman. Note to self.

              Colin swallowed a mouthful of barbecue and said, “Where’s y’all’s president? Why didn’t I meet him tonight?”

              Worry flashed across the kid’s face, maybe even a touch of fear. He swallowed, Adam’s apple jumping in his skinny throat. “Crockett…he don’t get out a whole lot anymore. He’s…well, he’s gettin’ up there in years, you know, goes to bed early.” His laugh was nervous.

              Colin read between the lines. “So Candy’s pretty much running the show around here, isn’t he?”

              Pup dampened his lips, hesitating.

              Behind him, Colin heard the distinctive clip of female footfalls, followed by the unmistakable honey smoothness of a female voice.

              “Candy’s thought he runs the show his whole life, wherever he was,” she said, moving around him. He didn’t want to swivel his head and be too obvious in looking at her, so he waited, letting her move through his peripheral vision as she stepped behind the bar and came into full view. “He’s a bossy dick,” she continued, “but lovable enough to get away with it.”

              She was tall, all legs, and crowned with a thick mane of blonde hair. She had one of those narrow, heart-shaped faces that emphasized the lips and eyes. Her makeup was light, tasteful. A small silver pendant of some sort hung from a simple chain around her neck, and his eyes traveled down from there, taking in the way she filled out her simple scoop-neck t-shirt. Fantastic tits, little waist, hips made for hands.

              “Puppy, are you telling stories again?” she asked, pulling a mug down from the overhead rack. They had hard cider on tap, and she drew one, took a healthy sip.

              His eyes lingered on her lips as they touched the glass, her throat as she swallowed.

              It had been a while, he realized suddenly. He was six-four and built like a brick shit-house, so the ladies looked his way, even though he was a prospect. But he’d been kept too busy to indulge much with the club girls in NOLA, always stepping, fetching, mopping and enduring everyone’s hazing.

              Desire teased at his stomach now, watching this woman drink. He liked ‘em tall…and blonde…and stacked.

              Shit, between the food and now the groupie selection, he might never want to go back to Louisiana.

              “No,” Pup answered her, drawing himself up tall on his stool. “I’m just trying to make our new prospect feel welcome.”

              “Hmm.” She set her glass down on the bar, blue eyes narrow and unconvinced. “And how’s that going?”

              “Good,” Colin said, drawing her gaze. He gave her his best smile, the one that landed him invitations into countless bedrooms. “Even better, now that you’re here.”

              She stared at him, and not in a good way.

              “I’m Colin,” he offered.

              She gave him a quick, tight smile. “And I’m not interested.” Her heels were loud as gunshots on the hardwood when she plucked up her glass and stalked off.

              Pup laughed. “You know that song? ‘Shot Down in Flames’?”

              “No.” Colin stuffed more cornbread in his mouth and muttered around it. “Never heard it.”

Four

Jenny

She heard the low rumble of voices on the other side of the sanctuary door, but she didn’t knock. All such formalities had long since been disbanded. And no women were ever allowed in the sanctuary anyway; none save her.

              Inside, the suite of rooms was dim, lit only by the glow of the massive HD TV affixed to the far wall. The living area was cozy, comfortable, and smelled of cigars, Scotch, and other secret masculine things. Candy was parked in his usual chair, socked feet up on the ottoman. It had to be Fox in the recliner opposite; no one else vibrated that kind of calm intensity through the dark the way Charlie Fox did.

              Talk ceased, and their heads turned toward her, just shadows against the TV.

              “Boys,” she greeted.

              Candy was smoking, a thick tendril of cigar smoke curling above his head. “Where you been?”

              She grinned to herself. “Does it matter?”

              “Yeah.” He was dead serious.

              A soft crinkling of leather meant Fox had shifted in his chair; his attention was fixed on her, she could tell.

              She sighed. “Would you two old hens quit worrying? I went to see Aunt Edith. She needed groceries and a little TLC. Is that alright with you?” she challenged.

              Candy exhaled with a low hiss through his teeth. “Did you tell her I said hello?”

              “Yeah. I told her that her favorite no-good nephew said ‘hey.’”

              He snorted. “She always liked me better than you.”

              “Says you.” Jenny sighed as she kicked off her shoes and set them neatly in the rack by the door. She’d spent hours with Aunt Edith, organizing her fridge, cleaning her small apartment, playing Scrabble with the elderly woman until Edith had begun to doze in her chair. Her face hurt from smiling and her back was tight from bending low to hear what her aunt had whispered in her small, frail voice. Being Southern meant taking care of your family, and that was no easy task.

              “I met your new prospect,” she said as she straightened, an image of the tall, dark-headed man filling her mind.
Attractive
was too mild a word. He’d given off that dark vibe that suggested heat, power, and licentious intent. He probably thought of himself as a playboy; she’d detected something more feral and disturbing than that. Something
dangerous
.

              “Yeah?” Candy said. “What do ya think?”

              “I think he’s gonna make a terrible prospect.”

              He laughed. “Too bad you weren’t a boy, Jen. You coulda been my right-hand guy.”

              “You’ve got plenty of those, brother,” she tossed back. “Night, you two.”

              “Night,” two voices – one Texan, one English – said together.

              She was all the way down the hall and just slipping into her room before their conversation started back up again.

              “…Riley?” she heard Fox say, and she froze, one hand curling tight on the edge of the doorframe.

              It was funny how a single word, just a regular ordinary name, could render a person down to her most elemental, reactionary pieces. But that’s what that name always did. Remembered pain fisted her lungs; all the old bruises were long healed, but they flared hot beneath her skin now, memories seared down to the bone.

              “I saw him today,” Candy answered, voice barely audible. He breathed a long, sad sound. “He’s getting out. Couple weeks, probably. Overcrowding or some shit.”

              “Christ,” Fox said.

              Yeah. Christ.

              Jenny couldn’t listen anymore. She ducked into her room and eased the door shut silently, going to the bed and letting it catch her weight before her knees gave out.

              Riley. Getting out.

              She heard a distressed sound building in her throat and pressed her knuckles to her lips. She couldn’t do this, not now. Panicking would solve nothing. And she wasn’t that woman anymore; she didn’t have reactions to things.

              She put both hands down on the mattress beside her and took a sequence of deep, steadying breaths. She tipped her head back, brought her shoulders together, felt her chest open up. The exercise the therapist had walked her through; the therapist Candy had forced her to see, back when he’d first come home.

              The tension bled out of her, draining from her head, down through her throat, leaving through her fingers. She imagined the soft fleece blanket beneath her absorbing the emotion, dispersing it somewhere safe, where it couldn’t take hold of her. When she felt calm, she opened her eyes, straightened, surveyed the room.

              They called this wing of the clubhouse the sanctuary, and that’s exactly what it was. Seven years ago, when Candy came home, when he cleaned out the club
Magnificent Seven
style, he’d promised a new era for the Texas chapter. The renovations, physical and mental, had been slow, but steady. They had started here, with this added-on space that was their home, and then worked their way through the rest of the building. All that remained was the exterior at this point.

              Back here, they each had a bedroom and bathroom. There was the living room where the boys were currently watching TV, plus a small kitchen and a porch that overlooked a long flat stretch of dirt where she watched the sun set most nights.

              Jenny Snow was thirty-nine and she lived in an MC clubhouse with her older brother. A truly charmed existence compared to the life she’d finally shaken off seven years ago.

              The fine tremors had subsided, and the knot in her stomach was gone.

              “Get it together, Snow,” she muttered, and got up to change.

              When she was in yoga pants and one of Candy’s old threadbare Longhorns t-shirts, she headed back out to the kitchen, in search of a snack. She’d skipped dinner, dealing with Aunt Edith, and that new prospect’s loaded-up barbecue plate had set off her hunger.

              “Candy go out?” she asked as she passed through the living room and found only Fox.

              “Yeah.”

              The kitchen was a tiny affair, just a bank of cabinets, stovetop, microwave and fridge. “You hungry?” she asked over her shoulder as she pulled out the makings of a turkey sandwich.

              “Nah. I wouldn’t turn down another drink, though.”

              She grinned and shook her head as she put her sandwich together. She popped it on a plate and grabbed the half-full bottle of Macallan sitting out on the counter.

              He held out his glass when she reached him and she poured a generous two fingers.

              “Charlie, you’ve got a drinking problem, you know that?” she asked, dropping into Candy’s abandoned chair across from him.

              The Scotch caught the light from the TV as he swirled it around. His eyes glinted, an unnerving blue in the dark. “Obviously.”

              She laughed and snuggled back deep into the chair. It smelled like Candy, and that was a comfort.

              He downed half the drink in one practiced swallow. “How much did you hear?”

              She shrugged. “About what?”

              “You know what.”

              She took a bite of sandwich and stalled. “Enough.”

              He sat forward, and his voice gentled, gained traces of something like emotion. “It’s not going to be like it was last time, Jen. I promise you that.”

              “Is that why you’re here?” Her throat tightened, some of the panic lapping back in. “Because of…” She didn’t want to say his name, so she didn’t.

              “He can’t hurt you. Not this time.”

              “No,” she agreed. “I’m a much better shot this time around.”

              He grinned. “Thank God for that.”