Snow in Texas (Lean Dogs Legacy #1) (3 page)

Five

Colin

There were worse jobs than scrubbing bathrooms. He knew that. It didn’t make it any more fun, though. After a life lived in various relative’s houses, hotels, the occasional girlfriend’s apartment, he’d never lingered long enough anywhere to be held responsible for its cleanliness. The first time he’d tackled the New Orleans shared half-bath, Bob had come in behind him, discovered missed flecks of soap scum, and withheld dinner.

             
Withheld dinner
.

              Now, he was a bathroom expert.

              At ten after one, Colin wheeled the mop bucket into the utility closet, shut the door with a determined thump, and reached to knuckle the stiffness from his lower back. Jinx had awakened him at six-thirty that morning, and told him to clean
everything
. It didn’t matter that the clubhouse was more or less spotless; he’d swept, mopped, polished, buffed, washed, and dusted all that he could. He’d saved the bathrooms for last, and here it was, middle of the day, and he was done. It spoke positively of keeping a clean house. Less maintenance work.

              He turned around, thinking about lunch…

              And nearly collided with the twins. Both stood beside him in the hall, silent and stone-faced,
The Shining
style.

              “Jesus!” he swore, his voice coming out super-Cajun in his sudden fright.

              “Hey,” one of them said. Who knew whether it was Catcher or Cletus; they were damn identical.

              “Candy wants you to go pick up lunch,” the other one said.

              “Yeah?” He massaged his chest where his heartbeat needed some coaxing to return to normal. When neither of them responded, he said, “Uh, yeah. I don’t have a car. And I have no idea where anything is.”

              One of them held out a set of keys. “Green truck out front. Go to Gabe’s.”

              “Okay.” He had no idea where that was. Did he go left or right out of the drive? What the fuck? “Okay,” he said again, and got nothing in return.

              “Fuck me,” he muttered, palming the keys and moving down the hall.

              It was staggering to step outside into the sunshine. Only once he was squinting did he realized he’d spent all day so far indoors, and that wasn’t at all normal for him.

              Pre-Lean Dogs, that was.

              A handful of guys were standing in the front lawn, groupies, hanging off their arms.

              He spotted Jinx and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Hey, where’s Gabe’s?”

              The bearded, severely tatted member flicked his cig butt into the dirt and regarded him a moment, that same assessing glance everyone gave him. “Go about a mile and a half north, and it’ll be on your right, can’t miss it. Tell Jen we want the usual.”

              Colin ducked his head respectfully. On the inside, it killed him. But he knew he had to go through those motions or risk expulsion. And given that he had no plans for the future, he had no alternative but to patch in and become a Dog.

              The green truck turned out to be a fifteen-year-old Dodge that took two tries to start, and smelled of smoke and BO. But it was a set of wheels, which was more than he had.

              Even if he hadn’t been given directions, he could have found Gabe’s. Endless stretches of desert gave way to a big roadside sign announcing
Gabe’s Just Ahead
and then there was the place itself, the parking lot welcoming him with another sign. He turned in, pulling up to a small building framed in rough cut timbers, cars jammed up at the curb. A narrow porch ran along the front of the restaurant, decorated with rocking chairs. A steer skull was mounted above the door.

              The interior was everything Amarillo crammed into a four-hundred square foot space. Texas license plates, steer skulls and mounted heads. Lassos, old dusty boots, saddles, spurs, bright woven blankets hung up like tapestries. He even spotted a jackalope or two as he wedged past a few patrons and approached the front counter.

              It appeared to be one of those places where you put your order in at the long wooden front counter, the staff passed the ticket back through the window to the kitchen, and you waited. “For here or to go?” the girl at the register asked the guy two people ahead of him.

              Colin stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and settled in to wait, eyes roving over the small restaurant. Most of the patrons were day-laborers in coveralls, jeans, dirty boots and ball caps. He spotted a few guys in road crew orange. A handful of retiree couples who no doubt came to this place every day, sat at the same table, and ordered the same thing. He knew that he was the only tourist in the place; everyone else may as well have had LOCAL stamped across their foreheads.

              “Sir?” The line had cleared out and it was his turn; the girl at the register was talking to him now. He turned toward her. “Hi, welcome to…

              It was the blonde from the clubhouse the night before. And
girl
wasn’t the right word anymore, because she was all woman.

              “…Gabe’s,” she finished, blue eyes widening as she recognized him. Her professional, friendly expression arrested and grew brittle. “It’s you,” she said, voice flat.

              “Colin,” he reminded, flashing her a grin. “Didn’t catch your name last night.”

              “Hi, Colin.” It always amazed him the way a woman could say perfectly normal civil words and make them sound like vicious insults. “I’m still not interested.”

              She was wearing a western denim shirt embroidered with
Gabe’s
above one breast pocket, and above the other, her name.
Jenny
.

              “You sure?” he asked. “’Cause your shirt says you’re Jenny.”

              She sighed and looked away from his smiling face. “Do you wanna order something? And before you hand me one of those corny pickup lines, I’ve heard them all already.”

              “Do they ever work?”

              “Do you wanna quit holding up my line?”

              “This guy bothering you, Jen?” someone behind Colin asked.

              “No, Terry,” she said shooting a smile toward the man in the trucker cap three patrons back. “He was just getting ready to place his order.” Then she pegged Colin with a look of such murderous intent, he had to laugh. “So order,” she said through her teeth. The threat was implied, rather than spoken.

              “Shit. You’re a demon in the sack, aren’t you?”

              “If you wanna live to apologize for that statement, place your damn order.”

              People were starting to stare at this point. Colin didn’t care, because the only stare drawing his attention at the moment was hers, and it was making him all kinds of excited and horny. He liked a little violence in a woman. It was really the only thing he found alluring about his brother’s wife, and it looked damn good on Miss Mystery Jenny.

              “Fine,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Be like that. I was told to get the usual, whatever that is.”

              She nodded crisply and punched buttons on the register. She slid a plastic card, number thirty-two, across the counter toward him, and said, “Wait outside. Someone will bring you the food.” Then she tilted to the side and glanced around him, dismissing him. “Okay, who’s next?”

              He knew when not to push, so he followed her instructions, smiling to himself as he went out on the porch and settled into a rocking chair.

              His only company was an old man in overalls and a cowboy hat down on the opposite end, reading a paper and minding his own business. Perfect.

              Colin leaned back in the chair, the rockers crackling over the grit left on the floorboards. The heat was different here, he reflected. Not the heavy damp hotness of home, but something drier and more finicky. Last night, in the windswept dark, he’d felt chills crawl up his arms. But now, in the middle of the day, a yellow paper sun beamed down unforgivingly, hot enough to cook eggs on the empty stretch of pavement just beyond the parking lot.

              Efficient footfalls announced an employee’s approach, and he glanced up, surprised to see it was Jenny toting out his brown paper bags of food. She was wearing dark jeans to go with her denim shirt, red leather belt, red cowboy boots. She set the bags by his feet and straightened, gaze aloof. “I packed you a sandwich and potatoes, since you didn’t say.”

              “Thanks.”

              When she started to turn, he said. “Hey, hold up a sec,” careful to keep any sort of demand out of his voice.

              She turned back with obvious reluctance, arms folding beneath her breasts in a way that highlighted their fullness.

              “Why are you so pissed off at me when you don’t even know me?”

              “You look at me in a way you shouldn’t.”             

              He grinned. “Seriously? Honey, when a woman’s built like you are, guys are gonna look.”

              She rolled her eyes.

              “Are you somebody’s old lady?”

              There was a brief hesitation, a flicker of something in her blue eyes he couldn’t fathom. But she said, “No.”

              “Girlfriend.”

              “No.” More solid this time.

              “Are you a groupie?”

              “Okay, seriously…” She started to turn again.

              “Jenny.”

              She stilled, waiting, her back to him, her head tilted his direction.

              “I’m just trying to–”

              “Flirt with me? Charm me? Fuck me? Save your breath, prospect. There’s plenty of groupies. And my guess is you won’t be around long enough to work your way through all of them.” She set off at a brisk walk, boot heels clicking.

              For the first time in his life, Colin had struck out.

              It fascinated him. Well…
she
did.

Six

Colin

He settled into a routine. Chores, menial tasks, general go-foring. He tended bar most evenings alongside Pup. He dug through each hauled-in wreck for scrap parts. The club ran a towing and salvage business; at least, that was the business Colin was told about. And day by day, he was given more to do on that front; less housework, more chances to earn a paycheck.

              Darla made dinner most nights, and breakfast a lot of the time. But lunch was always Gabe’s. And Jenny, who managed to slip in and out of the clubhouse without much more than a flicker of blonde hair or a quick glimpse of boot sole.

              Colin’s curiosity was a wild, howling thing, but he was too prideful to ask anyone who she was. He wanted the answer straight from her lips. And until she was ready to give it, he would enjoy the game.

~*~

It was a Friday. He was up early. Colin supposed sleeping in was a luxury afforded patched members, which gave him all the more reason to survive his prospect year and make Dog. He left his dorm, shrugging into his cut, and heard Darla puttering around in the kitchen, the smell of coffee reaching out to welcome him.

              He paused to lean into the kitchen. “What’s on the menu today?” he asked. He was a total brown-noser when he wanted to be, and so deeply Southern it wasn’t funny, so he knew the wisdom that lay in charming mother-types.

              Darla stood at the stove, apron tied around her waist, hair pinned back. She shot him a look that was both exasperated and adoring. “Hash brown casserole and cinnamon buns. Does that work for you?”

              He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. You got any coffee ready yet?”

              She poured a cup with the speed and grace of a talented truck stop waitress and passed the mug over. “Remember to bring that back when you’re done. I don’t wanna go looking all over creation for my mugs.”

              “Yes, ma’am.”

              The clubhouse was empty, as per usual. Colin carried his mug out the front door, intending to load the truck so he could squeeze in three loads to the dump before the inevitable lunch run. He didn’t want to miss lunch. Even if Jenny was waiting tables and all he got was a passing frown, he wanted to be there for that.

              He ground to a halt halfway across the dusty parking lot, rooted in place by the unexpected, but welcome sight of Jenny standing right in his path.

              The sun was only a blush along the horizon, and her hair looked silver, her denim ensemble gray in the pale dawn light. She stood alongside the Jeep Liberty he’d learned was hers, holding her gorgeous hair back with both hands at the nape of her neck, lip caught between her teeth as she stared at the front left tire.

              “Damn it,” he heard her whisper, viciously, painfully, her voice full of emotion that seemed overkill for a flat tire.

              “Need a hand?” he asked.

              She jumped. She leapt back from her Jeep, hands lifting in what was obviously a defensive move, eyes wide and wild, glowing blue through the gloom. She gasped, then released her breath in a long, aggravated rush.

              “You,” she said.

              “You need a hand?” Colin repeated. “Or are you gonna pretend you can change your own tire just to get rid of me?”

              She glared at him, and he thought the harsh slant of her brows was cute. “I know
exactly
how to change my own tire.”

              “Can you, though?”

              Her lips compressed. “I can’t ever get the lug nuts loose.”

              He stepped close, into her personal space, and watched her try her best to draw back from him without taking a step in retreat. Whatever was wrong with his chick, it was bad wrong; it had nothing to do with him, and if he was honest, he was starting to worry that someone around here was hitting her or something.

              Someplace he couldn’t see, though, because her face and arms were flawless.

              He frowned.

              “What?”

              “Nothing.” He held his coffee out to her. “Hold this and I’ll get it changed.”

              She stared at him, and he saw the conflict in her eyes, the way she needed the help, but didn’t want it in the least. “I’ll go inside and ask someone else to–”

              “They’re all still asleep.”

              Her jaw firmed, lips pressing together.

              “You’ll be late for work,” he pointed out.

              She ground her teeth together a long moment, warring with herself. Her eyes clouded and he could see she was having some internal debate. Then she refocused. “Fine.” She took his coffee, snatching the mug from his hand, hot liquid slopping over the side. If it burned her hand, she gave no indication. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I’d really appreciate if you could help with my tire,” in a cold voice.

              “Colin,” he reminded.

              She sighed and nodded. “Yeah, Colin. That’d be great.”

~*~

Jenny

This was bad. Not the helpless part, because try as she might, she was just never going to be as physically strong as the men in her life who popped tires on and off cars like Lego pieces. The Colin part. That was what sent tremors rippling beneath her skin.

              He was fascinated. She could tell; she knew that particular gleam when it came in a man’s eyes. Interest wasn’t uncommon – she lived in a house full of outlaws, for God’s sakes. Men liked women and weren’t all that particular, so she was used to looks and casual inquiries.

              But this new prospect was different. His attention was pointed, laser-focused. She didn’t trust the sharp edges of his smile, or the intense weight of his dark eyes when they rested on her. It wasn’t a question in his gaze, but a promise.
I could break you, and you’d like it
. The last time she met a man with a gaze like that, things went very, very wrong. Hospital wrong. Therapist wrong. Half the chapter excommunicated wrong.

             
It’s a tire
, she told herself.
Stop freaking out
.

              Deep breath. Regroup.

              She forced her voice to be pleasant. “You know, there’s no rush. I can just take one of the club trucks.”

              He was making fast work of those damnable lug nuts, the wrench gliding in his hands, the leap and grab of his biceps the only sign of exertion. “Trust me,” he said with a low laugh. “You don’t wanna be in one of those trucks. The smell’d knock you out.”

              “It’s not that far to work. I can breathe through my mouth.”

              He laughed again, like she’d told a joke. “I’ll be done with this in just a minute, sweetheart. It’s no big deal.”

              She sighed and took a sip of his coffee. “You shouldn’t call me ‘sweetheart.’” The fight had gone out of her voice; all that remained was a deep sadness, the kind that always brought with it a physical ache.

              He slid the tire off and glanced over at her. “You prefer ‘darlin’’?”

              “I hate that one.”

              He grinned as he reached for the spare he’d already laid out. “Baby? Babe? Doll?”

              “I’m just Jenny.”

              He was quiet a moment, as he worked, and she thought maybe he’d given up… “Jenny what?”

              “What?”

              “Yeah, Jenny. But what’s your last name?”

              She caught her lip in her teeth. He didn’t know. He hadn’t that first day at Gabe’s, but she thought he must have asked around by now, put two-and-two together. So he didn’t know who her brother was. Which meant there was a good chance he didn’t know her brother’s real name.

              “Snow,” she said on a shaky exhale. “Jenny Snow.” Then: “Why?”

              “’Cause we haven’t been properly introduced.” He stood, wiped his grimy hand on the leg of his jeans, and offered it to her. “Colin O’Donnell.”

              “O’Donnell?” That was a surprise. “I thought you were Mercy’s little brother.”

              It was a total role reversal. Now he was the one frowning, withdrawing inside himself, his gaze switching to cool and distant. “Half-brother,” he said, firmly. “We’re not close.”

              Oh, this was good. This was ammo.

              Jenny sipped more coffee and braced a hip against the front fender of the club truck parked alongside her. “You look like him.” He did, from what she could remember of Felix Lécuyer. “Only maybe not quite as big and impressive,” she managed to say with a straight face.

              His frown turned into a glare, and he focused all his attention on the new tire as he prepared to attach it.

              “He’s more charming than you, too,” Jenny continued. “He’s got those good Southern manners.”

              He huffed a humorless laugh. “Obviously, you don’t know shit about Felix.”

              “I thought you two weren’t close.”

              On his knees as he attached the lug nuts, he glanced back over his shoulder. “We’re–”

              She bit down hard on a grin and saw one flickering at the corner of his mouth. It was a nice mouth; she liked the color of his lips, all of his skin, actually. If Mercy was Cajun, then so was his brother, and if memory served, that deep tan was the result of some Georgia Cherokee blood thrown into the mix.

              “You’re fucking with me,” he said.

              “Yep. Turnabout’s fair play,
darlin’
.”

              A true smile broke across his face. “Fair enough.” He turned back to the tire, tension leaving his wide shoulders. “Okay, so since we’ve established that you’re just giving me shit, and I really am charming, what’s your deal? You some kinda man hater?”

              Hate. That would have been a helpful emotion to have. Maybe if she’d dug deep and found a little hatred she could have altered the course of collapse, prevented all those hurts. It was her softness that had led to all the awful. That inner flaw, the deep melted center of her that had allowed Riley to… Maybe even encouraged his…

              Weak. She was weak. She should have prayed for hatred, and she might have had it when she’d needed it most.

              “It’s complicated,” she said.

              “You live in a clubhouse, so I sorta guessed it had to be.”

              She felt another grin threaten. “It’s not so bad around here. Good food, decent mattress. And it’s not possible to be lonely.”             

              Finished, he stood, dusting his hands off, glancing at her from under black slanted brows. “Yeah? You really believe that? The lonely part, I mean.”             

              Her smile trembled, faltered. “Sure.”

              He studied her a moment. The sun was climbing higher, just tickling the tops of the trees, and the light kissed his skin, turned it gold. His eyes flashed, lightened, less coffee and more amber. She couldn’t remember how tall Mercy Lécuyer was exactly, but she remembered that sense of being towered over. It was the same with Colin, feeling small and vulnerable…only different, because with Colin she was acutely aware of her pulse in her throat, the faint rushing in her ears. A big man. A strong man. The
wrong
man. If ever she felt an elemental attraction, it had to be a sign of impending disaster.

              “Who do you belong to?” he asked, head tilting toward the clubhouse. “Who’s yours?”

              A chill overtook her. Her mouth felt dry, suddenly. “Candyman,” she said, and shoved the coffee toward him. The moment he took the mug, she stepped away, fumbling with her purse and keys. “Thanks for fixing my tire.”

              “Hey…”

              She didn’t slow down or look back, just hopped in her Jeep and was gone. It was that or give him the chance to see the anxiety steal over her, and
that
she wasn’t doing.