Fox placed his hand on top of his head, and he fell silent. “He is. I know.”
“I am so – I am so angry. I am furious, all the time. They made me, they made me, and they fell apart and threw me away, and they should have just put me down like the others, but they left me alive – why did they live me alive? And you brought me here to this place that I hate – I hate it here. It’s small, and ugly, and backward, and there’s nothing to do, it’s laughable how pathetic all this is, these aren’t even ops, I’m working with petty, small-town drug dealers, and I hate – I hate–” He was hyperventilating.
Fox took a firm grip on his biceps, and though he was taller, and yes, as much as he hated to admit it, stronger than Fox, he was kitten-weak now, and he came when Fox towed him in and enfolded him in a tight, bracing hug. Gripped the back of his neck and let his own body absorb the hard shakes of his. Rocked him a little, side to side.
Abe had done this for him, more than once, when he was a teenager, and the rabid, uncontrollable fury at Devin had come boiling out at the eyes and nose, pathetic, wet dribbles that made him feel helpless and babyish. “This is normal,” he said, because that was what Abe had told him. “You are normal, and anger is normal, and you can’t hold it. You have to let it out. Good lad.”
Tenny shuddered.
“Life is hard,” Fox said, in as soothing a voice as he could manage. “It’s hard enough for ordinary people, but it’s harder still when you’ve been given the kind of knowledge that you have and then dropped like you have. I won’t lie and say it gets easier – only that, over time, it’s easier to pretend. The anger gets less bitter on the back of the tongue.”
Tenny sucked in a ragged breath. “He’s not angry.”
“No, he’s not. But haven’t we already established that he’s better than you?” Fox teased.
“He’s sweet.”
“He is.”
“He gave me my name.”
“I know he did.”
“I love him.”
“I know you do.”
Another breath. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You could try telling him.” That earned a hard shiver. “Or maybe start by trying to be less of a massive dick to everyone all the time.”
That earned a snort, and Fox smiled, as the sun faded blue and gold across the water in dancing crescents.
Forty-Two
Albany, NY
Mav squinted up at the leaden sky and watched a silent tongue of lightning flicker between the clouds. “It’s gonna rain, boys.” Thunder, distant and rolling, like a bowling ball down a lane. “Scratch that, it’s gonna storm. We gotta hurry this up.”
“We’re hurrying!”
Frankie was, but Stu definitely wasn’t.
“Fuckin’ – lift with your legs!” Frankie shouted at him.
“I’m trying!”
Mav cast another glance at the sky and was rewarded by another flash of lightning.
For the past five years, the headquarters of the New York chapter of the Lean Dogs MC had resided in a two-story brick house in the middle of a subdivision that had grown decidedly more hostile about late night bike start-ups and loud parties as time went by. They’d long since worn out their welcome; what had started as a temporary situation, a place for them to have church – the president, Marco’s, own home – had turned into a semi-permanent occupation. Marco’s wife, April, had grudgingly made room for larger sofas, and even a pool table, and her downstairs had been overrun by bikers and biker memorabilia.
They’d finally secured a new place, though: a proper industrial building with a bike shop in front, and a clubhouse in back, separated by a concrete lot where they could string up lights and a pavilion, and party all night, with drum fires and everything.
Today was moving day.
If these idiots would get a move on.
Frankie and Stu had been trying unsuccessfully for at least fifteen minutes now to navigate one of the long, sectional couches in through the back door of the new clubhouse. Stu almost dropped his end again, and Mav stepped forward with a sigh. It seemed he had to do everything around here. They couldn’t even find a prospect who knew how to use a mop properly.
He stepped in next to the kid and added his own hands to the arm of the sofa. “Here, we’ve gotta get it higher so the angles will work. On three, ready? One, two–”
Later, when his eyes fluttered open at last in the hospital, he would remember what happened in quick, colorful snatches, all of it disjointed, pieced together with unmatched edges as he struggled to come up with the reasons why.
He would remember being picked up like a rag doll, being thrown. A terrible force like a wave knocking him back at the beach. Something heavy on top of him: the sofa. A flash of blinding light. And, belatedly, the sound. A roar like a train, like thunder, like his bike when he cranked it.
He caught a glimpse of fire and black smoke in the sky. And then hot wetness ran in his eyes, and the inside of his skull rang like a struck gong, and everything was black.
Forty-Three
Mother’s Day dawned bright and warm. Ghost knew a rare kind of nerves, deep in his belly, and he smoked two cigarettes in quick succession in the kitchen while Maggie showered and did her hair. “Don’t judge me,” he said to Ash, who only blinked at him and continued to shove mushy Cheerios into his mouth.
Maggie sailed into the room a few minutes later, with all the grace and poise of her debutante days – he enjoyed reminding her occasionally that the training had stuck, no matter how hard she’d resisted – and said, “You’ve been smoking.” Not an accusation, but he folded his arms all the same and made a face.
She grinned. “Just admit you’re never gonna quit.”
“No, I’m gonna.”
“Sure, baby.” She patted his cheek, and he leaned into the touch a moment, purely indulgent.
She had her purse on the table, and she checked it before she went to hoist Ash out of his high chair. “You finally gonna tell me what this surprise is?”
“Nope. That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
She turned to him, Ash on her hip, expression delighted – and devious, suddenly. “Kenneth Teague. You’re nervous.”
“No.”
She smiled. “You’re a lying chain-smoker who’s nervous. I love it.”
They took the truck, because they had Ash. He still sometimes marveled that they’d just gotten the house to themselves, and could go out on his bike together, and now they had a kid in diapers again. It felt fitting, though, on Mother’s Day.
They were expected at Ava and Mercy’s for family brunch at eleven, but they’d left a little early. He slowed when they reached Bell Bar, and found a parking spot along the curb.
“Did you want me to look at the tile choices for the bathroom?” Maggie asked, gesturing through the window at the bar, managing to sound almost eager and not as annoyed as he knew she must be.
“No, not now. Come on.”
“Come where?”
“Just out here.”
He took the baby from her when they hit the sidewalk; held him in one arm so he could steer her with a gentle hand between her shoulder blades.
“Ghost,” she protested, curious now, twisting to look back at him.
He repressed a smile. “Look at the glass up there.”
They’d reached the café, and Evan, as instructed, had come by earlier to take the cardboard and plywood off the glass door. A small sign that read Opening Soon hung off the handle. And in artful blue script above, the door proclaimed the place Maggie’s.
He could tell when the shock registered, because her back tensed beneath his hand, lungs expanding on a sudden, shocked breath. He watched her, nerves at their jangling peak, as she stared with wide eyes at the pale blue letters – designed by Ava, because he himself was hopeless, and applied to the glass by an expert – and slowly brought both hands up to her mouth.
In his experience, that could be a good or bad sign.
>
“You can be as involved as you want,” he said. “You can run it, work part-time, or just have your name on the door. We can even rename it, if you want.”
“Don’t you dare,” she breathed, then turned to him, hands clasped together beneath her chin, eyes shiny. “You bought me a restaurant?”
“A café, technically. But yeah.”
She braced both hands on his chest, and stretched up to kiss him.
“Take it you like it alright?” Ghost asked when she pulled back.
She kissed him again in answer. Then stepped back, vibrating with excitement. “I have so many recipes. God, this is gonna be fun!”
And it was fun to watch her imagining it already, sketching plans in the air with her hands, her expression luminous.
Until his phone rang.
~*~
Carter couldn’t remember the last time he’d celebrated Mother’s Day. He certainly never had with a girlfriend and her parents.
The Cooks lived in a small, comfortable ranch house in an old, established neighborhood with lots of mature trees. Sunlight reached the bay window in the kitchen where they were having brunch in kaleidoscopic whirls and dots, leaf patterns dancing across the tabletop and the spread of baked goods, ham, and fresh fruit.
The food was excellent, as expected, but Carter hadn’t been able to eat much, stomach churning with nerves. This was the first time he and Leah had appeared together in front of her parents, as more than friends. Leah had assured him that she’d already told her mom about them, and Marie had been delighted to see him on the doorstep, all ready with a warm hug and a motherly kiss on the cheek.
Marshall, he could tell, was going to be a harder sell. He kept glancing at Carter from the corner of his eye, his expression stern and unreadable. His gaze weighed heavy on the side of Carter’s head, and he wasn’t sure if he should meet it head-on, man-to-man, or give in to his childish impulse to scrunch down in his chair and play meek.
“We signed the lease this week,” Marie said. “And Mr. Shaman”–
“What kinda name is that anyway?” Marshall grumbled in an aside to Carter, like he was looking for agreement.
–“is giving us a much better deal on the rent. We’re saving so much that we’ll be able to make those improvements to the shop we’ve been talking about.”
“Mom, that’s fantastic,” Leah said.
“Isn’t it?” Marie reached across the table, suddenly, and laid her hand over Carter’s, startling him. “And it’s all thanks to you, Carter. You have no idea – this is just…” She trailed off, and her eyes welled up, and he had no idea what he’d do if she started crying. Her fingers flexed and her nails pressed into the back of his hand as it was.
“Oh, well,” he hedged. “Um.”
“Thank you,” she said, voice wobbling. “You saved the shop.”
“Technically Ian – I mean, Mr. Shaman did.” He fought the urge to squirm in his chair.
Marshall said, “Come on, Marie, don’t make the boy uncomfortable.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She pulled her hand back to dab at her eyes, smiling and blinking. “I’m just so grateful.”
Carter looked toward Leah, but she only offered a warm, affectionate look in response.
After they were finished eating, Carter helped Leah clear the table and load the dishwasher. They settled in side by side at a soap-filled sink to wash the knives and pans.
“What Mom said freaked you out,” Leah observed, working a sponge against the grease in the bottom of the pan.
It had, and it was still freaking him out a little, half an hour later. “I’m used to people thanking me.”
She snorted. “Come on.”
“I’m serious.”
She paused, and glanced over at him, gaze thoughtful. “You’re serious.”
“It’s been a long time since I did anything worth being thanked over.”
“Okay, that’s too sad for me to poke fun at.”
“Now I’m freaked out and sad. Great.”
She chuckled, and knocked her hip into his thigh.
He grinned and knocked back, and some of his nerves settled. It was always like that with her, he’d come to learn. Just when he got overwhelmed – by lust, by doubt, by self-recrimination – she detected it and pulled him back. Warmed him like a balm.
“Needless to say, Mom’s a fan,” Leah said, back to scrubbing.
“Yeah, but what about your dad?”
“What about her dad?” Marshall’s voice asked, right behind them, and Carter barely managed to bite back a curse. He considered sticking his head under the tap a moment, and drowning himself.
Leah’s eyes widened, but she didn’t look as worried as he felt. She set the pan back in the water, and turned to her dad, toweling her hands. “Just that you’re a total softy under all the mean faces you make,” she said, sweetly, grinning. “Carter’s not convinced.” The tilt of her head seemed to say, Be nice, Dad.
Marshall made a low, noncommittal sound. “Go sit with your mother on the porch and I’ll help Carter with the dishes.”
Oh no.
“Dad,” Leah started.
“It’s Mother’s Day, and you’re the kid. Go on.”
Carter cast a desperate look toward Leah, but she mouthed sorry and slipped away.
Marshall took her place, rolling up his sleeves, jaw set like a bulldog.
Carter took a measured breath and schooled his features.
They worked in silence a moment, Marshall finishing up the pan and handing it over so Carter could rinse and place it over on the drying rack.
Carter’s pulse thumped. Forget having a meal with the parents – he’d never dated anyone seriously enough to even meet her parents. And he was finally serious with someone, and standing here with her father, in his own kitchen, and he was no longer a football star with a scholarship, but a Lean Dog. One who’d been having lots of sex with the daughter in question.
The moment had shovel talk written all over it.
Marshall picked up a knife and dunked it under the water, its keen edge glinting through the suds.
Carter braced himself.
But he said, “Leah seems happy.”
Carter felt his brows go up. “She does?”
Marshall nodded – stiffly. He brought the knife out of the water to work at the sticky remains of fruit rind with a sponge. “She was real down when she first got home. She’s better, now.” He glanced over, hands still moving, his chin tucked a fraction, his gaze direct. “She likes you.”
Carter swallowed and refused to glance away first. “I like her.”
They held eye contact a long moment, before Marshall nodded again, the creases on his face shifting from stern, to something Carter wanted to label as satisfied. He turned back to the knife before handing it over to he rinsed. “You think I don’t like you, though.”
“I think I’m the biker dating your daughter, and that any father would be worried about that.”
One corner of Marshall’s mouth flicked up, nearly a smile. “You think I don’t like bikers.”
Carter couldn’t withhold a sigh. “I dunno. You tell me.”
Marshall braced both hands on the edge of the sink and twisted to face him fully. He looked very much like the Marine he was in that moment – but he didn’t look threatening. “I like the Lean Dogs.”
“You – do?”
“I’m a military man, not some stock broker. I know they do some things that lots of people don’t agree with. But, then, that’s true of lots of groups, and not just outlaw ones.”
Carter stared at him, disbelieving.
“I’ve always respected Ghost. He loves this city. He looks out for it. If someone needs help, he and his boys are there. The Dogs are brothers. That cut means something – it means loyalty.” He nodded toward the one Carter wore, and smiled a little more obviously. “Reminds me of my uniform days. You take care of your brothers, you die for your brothers, you protect the club and the peo
ple attached to it. The club makes the city better, not worse.”
Carter said, “You really believe all that?”
“I do. And I believe a Dog knows more about loyalty, and about caring for the woman he loves, than that shithead who took her to Chicago.”
Carter wanted to smile. He said, “Yes, sir.”
Marshall stared at him a moment, looking for something. Maybe he found it, Carter thought, because he nodded and turned back to the sink. Picked up the next knife and started washing it. “I’ve got no reason to dislike the guy, but what’s your read on this Shaman we’re paying rent to?”
Feeling like a sizable weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Carter set about trying to explain Ian in a way that made him sound like what he was – a useful ally who seemed to genuinely care about the Dogs.
Until his phone rang.
~*~
Ghost’s expression was downright spooky: a glittering, quiet, and composed sort of anger. The sort that preceded bodies hitting the floor.
“At eleven-fifteen this morning, an improvised explosive device detonated inside the New York chapter’s brand-new clubhouse. It was moving day.” He ground his jaw. “They’ll be picking through the wreckage for a while, so they don’t know exactly what was in the bomb, but the fire department is saying they think it was detonated remotely.
“Three members were killed, including Marco Gonzalez, their president.”
Hisses and low murmurs rippled around the table.
“Maverik is now acting president until they can get a proper vote, and he got beat up pretty bad. He called me from his hospital bed. Sounded like he’d just woken up.”
“Who did it?” Michael asked.
Ghost held up his phone, open to a blown-up photo, one that Carter could see even from halfway down the table. A span of concrete, a cinderblock wall, and spray-painted on it, a bright yellow inverted triangle.
Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8) Page 46