The Dartmoor Series
Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke
Loverboy
American Hellhound
Shaman
Lone Star
The Lean Dogs Legacy Series
Snow In Texas
Tastes Like Candy
Prodigal Son
Homecoming
Dartmoor Book VIII
by
Lauren Gilley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are all the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental, or meant to serve as entertainment, rather than fact.
Names and characters are property of the author and may not be duplicated.
HOMECOMING
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Gilley
Cover design copyright © 2020 by Lauren Gilley
HP Press®
Atlanta, GA
All rights reserved.
HOMECOMING
One
The rain tapered off, the last crystalline drops of a pop-up spring shower flashing in the sunlight. Umbrellas snapped shut, tires hissed over pavement, and the glaze of rainwater flared, bright and slick as sugar frosting over everything.
Ghost took another drag on the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to be having – he kept promising he’d quit, for his own health, for Mags, for Ash’s sake – and turned away from the idyllic view of the street, and toward the boarded-up windows of Bell Bar. Of his new bar. Construction was still underway, and in the way of all construction, was taking forever. Grand Re-Opening Coming Soon, it read on the sign taped to the plywood covering the front window.
Someone had spray-painted under it: Fuck the Lean Dogs.
And, in Sharpie, on the sign itself: Don’t let them take over our city!
He exhaled a plume of smoke. “We’ll have to get some new plywood up.”
“That’s the third time in the last two weeks,” Walsh said. He stood with his hands in his pockets, expression inscrutable save the groove pressed between his brows. “It’ll keep happening.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down the sidewalk, to the other storefronts they now owned: the planned café for Mags, the home of the future Maude’s, a failed old music store he still hadn’t decided what to do with yet. Fuck the Lean Dogs seemed to be the consensus all the way down. “Here’s what I don’t get: how do people know we bought these storefronts?”
Walsh shrugged. “That sort of thing is in the public records. Someone could look it up – if they wanted to.”
“But that’s my point: who would want to?”
Walsh gave him a flat look that managed to suggest he was stupid. He managed to do that in a way that wasn’t insulting. “We’re not exactly the Boys and Girls club, Kenny.”
Ghost sighed out his next exhale of smoke. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Word gets around,” Walsh continued. “We can set up some cameras inside and see if he we catch anyone on film.”
“Yeah.”
Behind him: the sound of a car pulling up, the engine cutting off.
He turned to find Jasmine’s silver Toyota at the curb. She smiled at him through the window, but he could see the tightness in it. The uncertainty. Could see it in her body language, too, as she climbed out and joined them, heels clipping on the cement. “Hi.” She was on her way to class, Ghost figured, based on the jeans, and the light jacket she wore over her low-cut top. Jazz didn’t do modest, as a general rule, or flat-heeled shoes, but she’d toned her usual look down a fraction.
Carter had said she was unexpectedly excited about her afternoon GED classes at the high school, but Ghost didn’t think it was unexpected at all.
Lean Bitches tended to come and go. Those who’d been looking for a thrill and a taste of danger usually got spooked and took off the first time things got dicey. Some had been hoping to become old ladies – and some did – but, for others, the shine of wildness wore off quickly.
Jazz was one of the ones who’d stayed. Ghost could still remember her kneeling at his uncle Duane’s feet, young, and terrified, but already committed, for whatever reason. No one would have blamed her for bolting after Duane died, but she’d stayed. Through the shootouts, and the rival clubs, and the revolving door of Lean Dogs. Throughout the duration of the club’s slow, inexorable climb to the top in Knoxville.
Ghost knew you didn’t stick around that long without wanting something for yourself. Some recognition for loyalty; you didn’t hang around somewhere most of your life without acquiring a dream or two.
“Hey,” he echoed, careful to keep his expression neutral. “You off to class?”
“In a little while, yeah.” Her face brightened immediately at mention of it. “We’re talking about the Revolutionary War tonight.” She toyed with a honeyed curl of hair in a rare show of self-consciousness. “It’s pretty cool.”
“Hmm,” Walsh hummed, his back to them, still, and Jazz cracked a grin.
“Not for you, I don’t guess,” she teased.
“He married an American, he’s got no room to judge,” Ghost said.
She laughed. Her eyes held a question, though, as they flicked to him. And a hunger, when she glanced toward the boarded-up front of Bell Bar.
Maggie was the one she’d asked about it, a few months ago, when Ghost first bought the place. Mags said her brows had gone up, and her hands had frozen on the salad tongs, and she’d said, “Who’s gonna run it?” in a show of forced casual interest.
When he’d considered it, he’d thought why not? Everyone else was busy with his or her own stuff, and Jazz had long since proved her dedication to the club and all its members and family. She ran the clubhouse like a drill sergeant – only better to look at. She had an easy, friendly way with strangers, that Southern hostess skill that seemed ingrained at birth here in Tennessee, plus the kind of flirtation skills that would have men emptying their pockets when they passed the tip jar at night.
Ghost hadn’t promised her anything yet, or even asked if she wanted to, but she’d started taking classes anyway. And he could see the want plain as day on her face now, as the post-storm sunlight caught the sparkle of her eyes.
“Construction’s been slower than we thought,” Ghost said, gesturing to the building. “There was mold in the walls and some of the wiring was bad. A whole lead paint situation. But the dry wall’s going up next week. We managed to keep the original bar. Now we’ve gotta figure out what we want it to look like inside.”
She nodded, gaze still tracking over the exterior façade. “Right.”
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to help with that.”
It took a moment for the sentence to land. She started to nod, and then her eyes widened, and her gaze snapped to his face. Her throat jumped as she swallowed. “Really?” Cautious, doubtful, wanting to be pleased.
He reached into his cut pocket and offered her what he’d just picked up on the ride over. The nametag.
It was just a bit of plastic with a pin on the back. But on the front, engraved in sleek caps, was JASMINE. And, under it, Manager.
“If you’re up for it,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“I…” She sucked in a breath. Pressed one shaking hand to her mouth, and reached slowly toward the tag with the other. She hesitated, manicured nails hovering over his palm. Her gaze darted up. “Really?” she whispered.
“Really. A bar needs a manager, right?”
“I…” For a moment, he thought she’d cry, and he wasn’t equipped to deal with that – shot a glance toward Walsh who onl
y smirked at him. But then she took a deep breath, gathered herself, and picked up the tag. Curled her hand tight around it, knuckles white, like she was afraid he’d take it back. “I…thank you. Oh my God. Thank you. You won’t regret it. I won’t let you down.”
“I didn’t figure you would.”
She squealed, and threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh. Um. You’re welcome.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and Walsh grinned.
~*~
He still dreamed of it: more often than he’d like to. The field. Sometimes the bright green and the low bleachers of Knoxville High; the scent of popcorn and hot dogs, and the stink of sweat, his uniformed brothers all around him. The blurred faces of students, and parents, and girlfriends. The taste of youth, and success, and hope. That magic hope – that wild, crazy confidence that scholarships awaited. Contracts. Money, and fame, and notoriety, and a spot behind an ESPN desk one day, retired at thirty, sitting on piles of cash, and proud, so proud of what he’d accomplished. No more tumbledown house; no more of Dad’s hand against the side of his head.
He dreamed of the next step, too. Of Kyle Field. Of the tens of thousands; the screaming, the blur of swinging towels, the boom and crackle of the loudspeaker. The Home of the Twelfth Man. The hot lights blasting down on him. The prayers, the huddles. The ball, light in his hands, fingertips sure, his feet quick, quick over the grass. Three-man rush, but he was quicker; aim, and away. Perfect slant. Perfect bomb. Touchdown.
He dreamed of everything he’d thought his life would be. But then he opened his eyes, and he was just Carter Michaels, Knoxville local. A rising star who’d fallen.
A Lean Dog.
A criminal.
Virtually everything about his outlook on life had changed in the last few years. But he still dreamed. And it still hurt, more than it should, to sit on the bleachers by the practice field and watch spring training unfold in all its miserable, sweaty glory.
Knoxville High’s varsity team was dressed out in matching t-shirts and shorts, doing up-downs at the sound of the whistle. The strength coach was a red-faced bulldog of a man, a holdover from Carter’s days here, and between whistle blasts he shouted encouragements that felt like insults. Carter watched and felt a sympathetic burn in his quads and calves; vicariously breathless, skin prickling as if he was the one sweating through his clothes and praying for a breather.
His hand flexed in his lap, remembering the ball. Its heft, and texture; the way it had felt to launch it, and know already that it would land in his receiver’s hands. A perfect throw.
The sharp rap of heeled shoes on the bleachers snatched him from reverie. He blinked, and the team was jogging laps now around the perimeter of the field. The cheering he’d thought he’d heard died away; became the rustle of the spring breeze in the row of pears behind him.
Jazz settled down beside him, legs crossed, one spike-heeled pink slingback swinging lightly in his periphery.
“How was class?” he asked when he turned to her.
The sun was beginning its descent behind her, its rays the fragile lemon of April, fanning out behind her head and shoulders like something from a painting; it gilded her hair, and backlit her face in a way that left her skin glowing. She’d never looked her age, but she seemed even younger now, lately, with a little less mascara, and with a whole lot of enthusiasm for the new direction her life was taking. She was beautiful; a blind man could have seen that.
But that hollow ache behind his breastbone remained.
“It was good!” She beamed. “Only a few more classes, and I can take my test. God, I’m so nervous.”
He’d never seen her smile like this before she started studying for her GED. It was lovely to see her genuinely excited about something. “You’ll pass. All you do is study anymore.”
Her grin shifted into wicked territory, and she hooked her chin on his shoulder while both her arms looped through one of his. “Aw, have I been neglecting you, baby boy?”
Their sex life wasn’t what it had been at first, but he hadn’t been thinking about it, honestly. His cheeks warmed now, though. “No.”
She chuckled, low and throat, full of promise. “Oh, no, I have been. Poor baby. We’ll have to do something about that.”
His belly tightened pleasantly. “Yeah. Alright.”
She kissed the corner of his jaw, lingering and warm, and he knew he’d have a lipstick print there.
Then she pulled back, suddenly. “Oh! You’ll never guess. I have to show you something.” She leaned away from him so she could search through her bag. She came out holding something small and plastic that she brandished with a flourish, smile achingly wide. She giggled like a thrilled little girl.
It was a name tag, he saw. With her name, and the title of manager, and a little bell logo.
“For real? He gave you the job?”
“No interview or anything!” She laughed again, emotion glimmering in her eyes. She dropped her gaze a moment, traced a fingertip across her name in shiny new all-caps. “Can you believe it?”
He smiled, full of warmth and true gladness. “Absolutely I can, yeah.”
She lifted her head, brow quirked.
“You deserve this. You earned it.”
“Ha.” Her brightness dimmed, like the sun going behind a cloud. “You suck enough dick, you eventually get a job offer, I guess,” she tried to joke, her smile wry – resigned.
“No.” His voice firmed, drawing a startled glance from her. He could feel his jaw set; feel his pulse give a hard, sure throb. This was something that hadn’t changed since his first night with her – that first awful night that had started heated, and slick, and impossible, and thrilling, there with Tango…and had ended with Jazz choking, and Carter ready to strangle Aidan in turn. He’d never felt so wildly protective of someone, not ever, not even when his stupid, misguided teenage heart had found itself fluttering in Ava’s direction. Seeing strong, tough, sex-on-legs Jazz shrink back from a man in fear – the very idea that someone as willing and friendly as her should have to feel fear from a man – had left him damn near murderous.
He still felt that way, even if other things had grown hazy and tangled.
“It’s alright,” she said, quietly, laying a hand on his knee.
He wondered if his protectiveness had ever scared her; if she’d wanted to shrink away from the anger that boiled up in her defense. “No, it’s not. You earned that job because you’re loyal to the club; because you run the clubhouse, and the club girls, and you get shit done. Maybe Maggie’s the queen, or whatever, but the Lean Dogs couldn’t function without you. If anybody gives you any bullshit about sucking dick to get that job…” His hands curled to fists.
“Send ‘em to you?” she asked with a little smirk – one that quickly melted into a truer, softer look. “You’re a sweet boy, and I appreciate it, but you don’t have to go to bat for me, darlin’.”
“Yeah, I really do.”
Gently, she said, “No, it’s okay. I’m not your old lady.”
He started to protest – and she rested a finger against his lips.
“Hush,” she said, her smile soft, her voice sweet. “It’s not your fault. It’s not like you haven’t tried.”
But he’d failed, he guessed. They more or less lived together, and they slept together, and she’d shown up to one of Maggie’s big dinners at the farm on the back of his bike, but it wasn’t official, was it? No ring, no tat, no heartfelt declaration of love. He’d not rescued her from kidnappers, or killed for her. Nor knelt at her feet and offered her forever.
He was a quarterback, but not really, not anymore. He was a Lean Dog, but not an essential one. No reputation, no striking of fear into enemies’ hearts. And he was her old man – but not really. No one saw him as that.
The story of Carter Michaels was a story of almost. Of nice try. Of obscurity and inadequacy.
Sometimes he wondered why he ever bothered trying. Anything.
“Hey,” she said,
and cupped his chin. “It’s alright. We’re alright.”
He swallowed, and it hurt.
“Take me to dinner, huh?” She cocked her head, imploring, smile encouraging. “We’ve got to celebrate.”
He swallowed again. His voice was tight. “Yeah, okay.”
They climbed down the bleachers and headed toward the parking lot with the shrill blast of the coach’s whistle ringing behind them.
Carter didn’t look back. He knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to keep going.
Two
Plans had a funny way of changing.
Leah set the last of her boxes down on top of the stack in the center of her new living room, and cast a look around the space. It wasn’t grand, but she was trying to look on the upside: it was hers, and it was comfortable. It was spacious enough.
Knoxville hadn’t reached Nashville levels of in-demand yet, but it was a college town, and it was constantly expanding, reinventing itself, and becoming all the while more charming, accessible, and trendy. Finding a spot downtown was becoming a tall order; when she’d known she was moving back home, she’d called her parents – and then she’d called Ava. Because Mom and Dad had thrown some Zillow listings her way, but Ava had said, “Lemme ask Mom,” and next thing she knew she had a showing of a second-floor, two-bedroom, two-bath walkup in a charming, sprawling complex occupied mostly be retirees. No wild nighttime parties, no farm animals in the pool, no shootouts or car break-ins. A club old lady, someone newer to town named Kristin she had yet to meet, lived on the ground floor in this same building, and the price had been spectacular. Leah had no doubt either Maggie or Kenny Teague had greased palms and applied the right sort of pressure.
The complex had been built in the early nineties, and looked it: from the laminate floors to the green Formica counters, and the ruffled lace curtains in the bedrooms. But it was spotless, well-maintained, and smelled fresh, like open windows and lemon cleaner. It would take time to get it decorated to her liking, but of all the changes she’d undergone in the past three months, this wasn’t one she could complain about.
Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8) Page 1