Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) (37 page)

              “I’m sorry,” she said, and the tears started to fall. A sob caught in her throat. “I’m so sorry I let you think I would leave you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

              His arms went around her and he kissed her hair.

~*~

Jenny

She pressed the backs of her fingers to Jack’s warm, flushed, tear-streaked cheek. He’d been sleeping under Darla’s watchful care when she first arrived back from the bar, but had since awakened, colicky and screaming, and she’d paced around with him in the cool night air until he’d exhausted himself a few minutes ago.

              “Baby,” she whispered. “Why are you always so unhappy, huh? Where’s my happy boy?”

              “Maybe he’s taking after his mama,” Colin said behind her, startling her.

              She snatched her hand back and whirled, heart fluttering.

              Colin stood braced in the doorway, still in his cut, hands in his jeans pockets, tall, dark, and rumpled. His face was lined with fatigue, but his eyes were sharp, black, as unhappy as the baby’s had been.

              Jenny took a deep breath and realized she was much too tired for another argument. She braced a hand on the rail of the crib. “Is that how you see me?” She kept her voice low, not to wake Jack. “Unhappy?”

              “What would you call it?” His accent got thicker when he was upset, all dark swamp water and Bourbon Street jazz. It did things to her insides, that accent. A sensation almost as acute as when he spoke French to her.

              “Cautious,” she returned.

              “Cautious?” His brows shot up. “Because I’m dangerous, right?” A sneering smile cut across his face.

              “You’re six-four and built like a brick shithouse. You
are
dangerous, Colin, and I think you love it. At least, you seem to when you manhandle me like a rag doll.”

              “And when was the last time I got to do that, huh?” His eyes drilled straight through her skull, sharp with anger, resentment, hurt.

              “So do it, then. Throw me down on the bed. Insist.”

              His jaw clenched.

              “If you’re so starved, why haven’t you demanded?” she asked.

              He took an aggressive step toward her. “Because I’m not the kind of asshole who rapes his girlfriend.”

              She gasped.

              He turned away from her.

              “Colin–”

              “I need a drink.” He left her standing by the crib, footfalls retreating out to the living room. A moment later, she heard the clink of a bottle against a glass.

              She’d had too much to drink before, and she felt drained, stretched then, her thoughts muddied.

              How long
had
it been since they’d had any romantic couple time? She thought, with an inward cringe, that it must have been sometime before Jack was born.

              And yet Colin hadn’t pushed her, or forced her, or…

              Oh, what an idiot she was.

              She glanced around the room – their room – eyes landing on the crib. Jack was six months old, and she’d kept his crib in here with them, where any shifting of a bed spring could wake him.

             
Such
an idiot.

              Still in her dress from tonight, barefoot, she walked out into the living room to find Colin drinking standing up, head tilted back as he drained the glass, other hand on the bottle still, ready to pour a refill.

              Jenny marched up to him, wrenched the bottle from his hand.

              “What the–”

              She caught his face in her hands, dragged his head down, and kissed him.

              It was a hasty, uncoordinated smashing-together of lips. Their teeth clicked.

              But then Colin’s hands found her waist and he kissed her back, nudging her lips apart, sliding his tongue between her teeth.

             
What a fucking idiot
, Jenny thought again, as her entire body came alive with crackling electricity.

              They finally broke apart to catch their breath. Colin’s hands were fisted tight in her dress. His cock stood at full attention behind his fly, pressing insistently into her belly.

              She couldn’t breathe. “Tear my dress off. Fuck me unconscious. And tomorrow we’ll go house-hunting for a place where Jack can have his own room.”

              If she hadn’t been so turned on, she would have laughed at his expression. “House?”

              “I don’t want that ring, baby. It’s beautiful, but I’d rather have a place of our own. And a courthouse wedding.”

              He didn’t say so, but he seemed
very
on board with that plan.

~*~

Michelle

She was setting out butter and strawberry preserves on the small sanctuary kitchen table the next morning when Jenny came shuffling in. She had her honey hair up in a loose knot, dressed in sweats and a baggy tank top that might have been Colin’s. Her face reminded Michelle’s of her own, when she’d looked in the mirror a few minutes ago: dark smudges of exhaustion under the eyes, but an overall glow of contentment.

              The faces of the freshly fucked.

              “Late night?” Michelle asked, innocently.

              Jenny snorted and pulled out a chair. She eased down into it with obvious slowness and care. “I can’t sit down. What do you think?”

              “I think maybe you had an important conversation.”

              “Hmm. And you?” She reached for the carafe and poured herself orange juice. “Shit, I need coffee instead. Juice is never gonna cut it.”

              “I’ll grab some. Don’t get up…even if you can,” Michelle teased.

              When she returned to the table, Jenny said, “That’s a fantastic hickey, by the way.”

              “Thank you.”

              “I think the boys are going to sleep in.”

              “I don’t doubt it.”

              They sat down to a breakfast of frozen American biscuits – how the word “biscuit” got so convoluted in the States, Michelle would never know – and were surprised when someone knocked once at the sanctuary’s main door and then waltzed in.

              They weren’t surprised to discover it was Fox, though.

              “Hungry?” Jenny asked.

              He poured himself coffee and joined them.

              “You smell like three-day-old laundry that’s been left in the sun,” Michelle observed.

              He glanced down at his black sweatshirt and fatigue pants. “Part of the disguise.”

              “Disguise as…?”

              “Did you know,” he said conversationally, “that if you’re very careful, you can take a fingerprint from one source and leave it on another? Same with DNA.”

              Michelle smiled into her coffee. “I thought that was only on television.”

              He shrugged. “Did you also know that two heavily-accented Latino men broke into Agent Fleming’s hotel room last night and attempted to assault her?”

              Jenny’s eyes flared. “I didn’t know that, no.”

              “One was average size, one seemed a bit bigger, but you never know, in the dark, with ski masks. It would be impossible to pick them out of a lineup. So the DNA and prints are the real evidence, there.”

              “The wallets,” Michelle said, smile widening, as understanding dawned.

              Fox shrugged and reached for his coffee. “Remind me to give Felix voice-coaching lessons. He does a terrible Spanish accent.”

Thirty-Five

It was two weeks later that their breakfast-and-morning-news routine was enlivened by a story of particular interest.

              “We take you now to Amanda Leslie in the field,” the desk anchor said, and the camera feed cut to an on-location shot of the barn Michelle and her uncles had infiltrated weeks before. Behind the stern-looking reporter in her blue blazer, men in ATF windbreakers moved back and forth between the barn and a fleet of black vans, wheeled dollies loaded with confiscated cartel property.

              “…Agents stormed the barn last night,” the reporter was saying.

              Candy fist-pumped into the air. “And that,” he said, “is how you do that.”

~*~

Albie

Albie was the sort of person who always gave credit where it was due. And he would give his oldest brother credit for finding them all, uniting them beneath their running black dog banner, giving them the sort of big, boisterous family they’d lacked growing up as bastard children. Bastards, all of them. Nine children without fathers, all a little lost and groundless before their light-eyed oldest brother had come into their lives. And Phil had
raised
Tommy.

              Albie could still remember sitting on the sofa, watching Chelle, holding her tiny body in the crook of his arm, when Phillip and Abigail came in dripping rain onto the rug, a cherub-faced three-year-old boy held safely on Phil’s hip.

              He could remember years later, Tommy as a teenager, comb in hand as he inspected his hair in the hallway mirror, discovering he was handsome for the first time.

              So many things to remember: Fox’s busted lip, blood staining his teeth as she grinned and said, “Bet I can do it next time.”

              King pouring over secondhand college textbooks, learning his sums and more complicated equations through relentless self-directed study, without a prayer of going to university. His rein-callused hands flipping the pages, legs drawn up unconsciously on his stool as if he’d forgotten he was no longer a jockey.

              He remembered the first time Raven hugged him willingly. The twist in his gut when he saw that Cassandra was just a baby, and yet another victim of Devin Green’s curse.

              Michelle’s first tooth. Miles’s first tattoo. Shane’s first bike.

              He supposed his siblings had similar memories of him, but he wouldn’t swear by it – he was an unremarkable sort by nature, and that had always suited him fine. It enabled him, with a hoodie and sunglasses and busted-up Docs, to blend into a coffee shop, nurse a mug of tea, and watch the kids at the next table while he pretended to read the editorial pages.

              There were three of them, ordinary-looking kids with laptops, canvas jackets, skinny jeans. One wore black, plastic-rimmed glasses, the kind that might have been prescription, but might have been just for effect.

              Albie knew their names were John, Raymond, and Denny. He knew they met here at this coffee shop three times a week, bags loaded with textbooks. And he knew, through the thumb drive intel, careful observation and recon, that they were part of a group called Bryan, named for its founding member, used as a way to talk about it without stirring any suspicion. And he knew that Bryan was planning to set off a series of car bombs in the city.

              “No, I’m telling you,” Raymond said. “It’s 1066, not 1065.”

              “Says who?” Denny asked.

              “Says every history book ever!”

              “Google it,” John suggested.

              “
You
Google it.”

              A history paper. Three friends, working on a school assignment…planning to blow up civilians.

              Albie wondered, briefly, in one of those occasional attacks of conscience, if it was his place to judge these three. Was he any better? He, patch-holding member of one of the largest outlaw organizations in the world. Owner of a secret weapons cache, who’d killed men with bullets, with machetes, with garrotes…with his own two hands. Perhaps it wasn’t his place to find sin in the bloodthirsty dreams of three students, three boys, three…innocents.

              But no one was ever really innocent, were they?

              And nations lived and died by the violent actions of dark-hearted men.

              So he stood, made a show of draining his tea and leaving his paper. And as he passed their table, he pressed a tracking device beneath the collar of Raymond’s jacket, left tossed haphazardly over the back of the chair.

              He went outside to wait for them to leave, and then he would follow them.

~*~

Michelle

Albie called while she watched Tommy insinuate himself into the day’s boxing routines.

              “Niko,” she called, from her spot on a bench, coffee in-hand. “Charge him for lessons if he keeps messing up your schedule.”

              “It’s fine,” Niko said with a laugh. “Gives me someone to demonstrate on.”

              “Without busting up the clients,” she agreed, “I like it.”

              “Hey.” Tommy – who by this point she’d figured was trying to get a little more practice and some pointers without looking weak in front of his London brethren back home – turned a frown toward her. “I’m not getting–”

              Niko’s gloved fist connected with his jaw.

              Michelle bit back a laugh and fished her ringing phone from her bag. The sight of Albie’s number on the screen was both a relief and a press of worry in her chest. She loved hearing from him; she always feared he was calling with bad news.

              “Hi,” she greeted.

              “Hello, love.” He didn’t sound panicked, but with his next sentence, he conveyed urgency. “Where’s your uncle? I’ve been trying to reach him.”

              “Currently getting his ass handed to him in the ring.”

              “Am not!” Tommy called, and then let out an
oomph
as he was bested yet again. “Damn it.”

              “Keep your gloves in tighter,” Niko suggested.

              “What do you need?” Michelle asked into her phone. (
Phone
– she was well and truly American now, damn it. She hoped her man appreciated that; if their morning shower was anything to go by, he did.)

              “I need for him and Miles to come home,” Albie said, matter-of-fact. “We need all the manpower we can get.”

              She sat up straight on the bench, feeling like an invisible wire had been pulled at the top of her head, drawing her to complete attention. “Do you need more manpower than them?”

              She heard him take a deep breath, and when he spoke, his words sounded careful, his tone gentle. “No, sweetheart. We’re fine. We–”

              “Things have quieted down here,” she interrupted. “If you need help, say so. Candy owes me a trip to London anyway.”

              Albie sighed. “You know that I love you. And that I respect you. And that I have a surprisingly forward-thinking attitude toward women despite the fact that I’m an outlaw biker, yeah?”

              “I do. I also know you don’t like to endanger anyone. And to that I say ‘fuck off.’ Tell me what you need, Uncle. We’re coming.”

~*~

She found Candy in the office –
her
office, hers and Jenny’s – clicking through the spreadsheets on the computer, eyebrows raised in silent pleasure as he looked at their haul from the first few weeks of business.

              “So,” he said without looking up as she entered, “I have this old lady who’s real damn smart, and she’s figured out how to run a bar that actually makes this club some money. Go figure.”

              “Go figure,” she echoed, perching on the edge of the desk beside him. She reached absently to rake her fingers through the gelled blonde spikes of his hair. He leaned into the touch, making a contented sound in the back of his throat that was probably unconscious.

              “Candy.”

              He finally glanced over at her, and she hated how soft his expression was, because she knew she was about to alter his peaceful mood.

              “Albie called. London needs help.”

              He blinked, but his expression didn’t change, and he said, “How soon can we get there?”

~*~

“We’re meeting up with Walsh in Knoxville and flying on to London from there,” Michelle said, shoving one last pair of socks into her rolling bag and zipping it up. The sound of the zipper running hit her stomach like a punch. She was a little breathless and dizzy, and couldn’t put it all down to excitement.

              On the other side of Candy’s bed, Jenny nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

              “Yeah, it’s…” She wanted to sit down, suddenly, so she did. “God, I think I’m actually nervous.” She held up a trembling hand to demonstrate. “Shit.”

              Jenny smiled. “I didn’t think that was possible.” When Michelle shook her head, she said, “You’ve gotten comfy here.”

              “Yeah, I…yeah.” When she left work every night, she thought to herself
I want to go home
. And that’s just what the sanctuary in the clubhouse had become for her: home. When she thought now about her cramped flat in London, the tiny kitchen and the lonely bed, and the rain streaking down the windows, her nostalgia was nothing but a passing twinge. She didn’t think of walking back into that place with any warmth.

              “It’s easy,” she said, “when I’m here, and things are going well, to assume that everyone back in London is safe and happy too. But they aren’t. And things…things are dangerous there.”

              Jenny tilted her head, considering. “You could stay here, if you wanted. Candy would go over there with the boys.”

              Michelle shook her head. “My city, my family, my man. You think I’m going to sit that out?”

              “No. But I think maybe you want to.”

~*~

Her last night at work before they left. Why did “last” feel so definitive and pressing?

              She stood beside the bar and surveyed the loud and rowdy crowd of Texans who’d come in tonight in search of drink, food, company, dancing, and maybe a little fighting later in back. Lots of boots, lots of rhinestones, lots of tight jeans and western shirts. She thought, briefly, about the pale blue cowgirl boots she’d passed up on buying right after she’d gotten to town. She should have splurged; she could have worn them on the plane tomorrow.

              She sensed a presence beside her; familiar; comforting. She knew he was there a moment before Tommy braced a hand against the bar and let his shoulder bump companionably into hers.

              “You don’t want to leave,” he guessed.

              She sent him a sideways look and saw the overhead Christmas lights dancing in his eyes, like he’d been starstruck. She didn’t answer, instead said, “You like Texas.”

              He shrugged, but his face did something complicated she didn’t understand. “There are things to like in Texas.”

              “Oh really?”

              “Really.”

              She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known exactly what he meant. What he felt. They had drifted. And she didn’t think it was too hurtful; more a natural progression of their separation. Of her finding someone who was hers.

              “You can stay,” he said.

              She turned to face him fully. “Why do people keep saying that?”

              He shrugged. “Maybe they’re afraid you won’t come back from London.”

              She didn’t answer.

~*~

She’d forgotten how humid Tennessee was. Even in the airport, she could feel the cloying heaviness of moisture in the air.

              Walsh waited for them at check-in, Emmie at his side, looking a little pale-faced and worried. And definitely pregnant.

              Michelle felt an immediate twinge of guilt.

              “You don’t have to come with us,” she whispered as her Uncle King pulled her into a hug.

              “Yeah, I do. And Em’ll be fine for a little while.”

              She gave him a questioning look to be sure, when they pulled apart.

              A moment later, when she hugged Emmie, the petite blonde said, “Family first. I’ve got good help while he’s away.”

~*~

              And so they all set off for London, all of them family in some way.