All the Sky (Signal Bend Series)

by Fanetti, Susan

  At first, Havoc was quiet, too. Cory knew that he’d picked up on the change; he was good at reading people (which spoke to a depth of empathy he generally preferred not to expose). But then his vibe changed; she felt a new tension in his body sitting next to hers, and she realized that he knew, or at least sensed, why the tone had changed, and he was going to strum that sore nerve.

  “So, you gonna train up the colt—Spirit—for the ring, Shorts? You should. That’s a lively boy, and he’s not gonna be too big. He’d be good.”

  Sophie looked at their father. June murmured, “Joe, please.”

  For the first time at the table, Don Mariano spoke. “About time to wean that horse, get him ready to sell. Don’t need no show horses on a farm. Don’t need horses, period. Your sister’s got Mabel. That’s enough. Not a conversation I’m havin’ again.”

  Havoc pushed. Cory could feel in the rigidity of his thigh against hers that he was…not scared, exactly, but not in his comfort zone, either, and she thought again of his scars. “Sophie gets you some ribbons, gets Spirit noticed, could get you some attention. Maybe turn him to stud. You couldn’t have bred Mabel just for the grand you’d get for a pinto play horse. Mabel breeds for speed and agility, but she’s gettin’ old.”

  His father put both his hands flat on the table. He did it quietly, but Havoc still flinched, just a scant retraction of his muscles. Don stood and said, “Don’t you tell me how to run my place, boy. You went off, only come back to take the food from my plate. You got no worth to me now, and you damn sure don’t got a say. Same goes for your sister. Near thirty and living on my back. The colt goes, minute he’s weaned. Maybe I’ll sell Mabel, too. Be done with it.”

  With that, Don Mariano left the table. Before he left, though, he stopped at June’s chair, leaned down, and kissed his wife softly on the head, his hand on her shoulder. “Good meal, Junie.” Then he left the room. A minute later, he left the house.

  ~oOo~

  That night, in Cory’s bed, she lay with her head on Havoc’s chest. The day had been strange and disjointed from the moment his father had left the table. Sophie had said, “Screw you, Joe,” as soon as Don had left the house, and then she was gone, too, and it was just Havoc, Cory, Nolan, and June at the table. June tried to keep the conversation going, but it had died. So Cory helped June clean up, and then they’d left. Havoc had gone off on his bike as soon as they’d gotten back to Cory’s place, and she and Nolan had spent most of the rest of the afternoon and evening quietly, in their respective rooms, coming out only for a light dinner around eight. Then Cory had gone over to Valhalla to do the close.

  Havoc had shown back up after midnight; Cory had already been in bed. He’d come in, stripped to his underwear, and gotten in with her, without saying a word.

  And here they were.

  “You want to talk about it at all, Hav?”

  “No.” His fingers traced circles over her bare shoulder.

  She decided to push. She’d done some thinking while he was gone. Her brain had been ricocheting for hours across that whole scene at his parents’ house. She’d understood some things about herself, and about him, and she had questions she felt she needed answers to. Answers that might tell her important things about who Havoc was, who he might be to her and Nolan if what they had was something that lasted.

  “I do. I want to talk. I need to ask you something.”

  “Cory…” He took his arm from around her shoulder and pushed her off his chest. She went willingly, sitting up and turning around to face him.

  “If I’m way out of line, I’m really sorry, but this is what’s in my head. Did your dad leave those scars on you?”

  “Fuck you, Cory.” He threw back the covers and got up, going for his jeans. She got up, too, and snatched them out of his hand. His eyes flashed menace at her, and she stepped back, but she kept his jeans.

  She had her answer.

  “I won’t ask more. I won’t. I’m just…I’m sorry.”

  He stared at her, and she saw a painful conflict in his dark eyes. She stepped toward him and put her free hand on his muscled chest. Then, her heart pounding against her ribs, she leaned in and kissed the taut, smooth skin between his pecs. “Hav. I think I’m in love with you.”

  He flinched back like she’d shot him. For a long, breathless moment, he stared, now a full-on war raging in his eyes.

  Then he yanked his jeans back, grabbed up the rest of his clothes, and left the room. Cory was still standing where she was, stunned and hurt, when she heard his bike fire up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The clubhouse was quiet already. Omen and Dom were sitting on the couches with a couple of girls, but otherwise, everybody was home already or maybe back in the dorm with their fucks.

  “Jack, Wrench. Just the bottle.”

  Wrench came down to the end of the bar, where Havoc was taking a seat. “Hey, Hav. Thought you were out for the night. Lady trouble?”

  Havoc reached over the bar and grabbed the stupid oaf by the neck of his t-shirt. “Shut your trap, Prospect, and get me the motherfucking bottle.”

  “Yeah, Hav. ‘Course.” Havoc let him go, and he turned and pulled a bottle of Jack from the shelf.

  Havoc opened it and put it to his lips, pulling the amber liquid into his throat in an acrid stream.

  Fuck. He’d thought Cory couldn’t turn his head inside out any more than she already had. What a shitty fucking day. Taking her to his folks’ had been a terrible idea, not that he’d had a choice. This fucking town and its fucking wagging tongues. Like his life was so damn interesting they had to accost his mother in the street, and in the market, and in church for details. Details she hadn’t had, because he hadn’t said anything to anybody about what was going on with him and Cory.

  Because he didn’t fucking know. All he knew was he wanted to be around her. He felt calmer when she was around. Even when they were fighting, he felt calmer. And Christ almighty, fucking her was like nothing he’d known. He’d thought he’d done anything and everything he’d wanted with women. He’d thought he’d felt every good thing a chick could make him feel. Fuck, was he wrong. It was all different with her. He’d thought and thought about it, not able to put his finger on exactly what was different. It wasn’t like they were being kinky or anything. Except for spanking her, and taking her up the ass the other day—which, holy hell, was fantastic—they’d been pretty normal, far as he knew. He didn’t know why it was so goddamn different.

  Except that she touched him in ways he’d rarely let women touch him before. He hadn’t thought he’d liked things like hugging and kissing, or sleeping together, limbs tangled. But he did. He liked the sleeping thing more than she did. He liked all of it. A lot. He found that most of the time, he’d just rather be where she was. It was fucking with his head.

  And then Sophie had come to the clubhouse and yelled at him because their mother was all hurt and pretending not to be, because he had a girl and hadn’t told her. So he’d called home, and within ten minutes was agreeing to bring Cory and Nolan for Sunday dinner.

  That turned out to be just a fucking perfect plan.

  It was his fault. It was always his fault. From the time he was old enough to understand defiance, he’d done shit like that and brought the consequences down on himself. At first it had been indirect, shit like fighting in school, pranking teachers or mouthing off at them, blowing off class, blowing off church. Shit that would get him in trouble, but wasn’t right in his father’s face. He’d never blown off the work his father had assigned him, not one day, not one minute. He’d never fought back, either, not once. But by the time he was in his late teens, as he was on his way out, what he’d pulled had been more like what he’d done at dinner. Poking the bear. Telling a truth he’d known would piss the old man off. Or, no. His father didn’t get angry, not in the way Havoc did. He got severe. He brought consequences. Discipline.

  He’d always been calm about it. In fact, what he’d said today had been the clos
est thing to an angry rant Havoc could remember ever hearing from the man. For Havoc’s whole childhood, he was very steady, explaining exactly what was going to happen and how, and exactly why. Lots of talk through the whole thing about responsibility and consequences. Discipline. Even when he was working up a sweat, cutting into skin, he spoke calmly.

  Once, only once, when the pain of the discipline got the better of him, had Havoc cried. And then he’d faced more discipline for his weakness. Lesson learned.

  There wasn’t anything left the old man could do. Nothing but call him worthless. And still he couldn’t put down the stick and quit poking. He knew it was the way of things, that it was his old man’s way. But he couldn’t just stop and get out of his way.

  Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he did feel resentment. But that was pussy bullshit. He wasn’t the only kid whose father beat him down for discipline. Fuck, most everybody he knew had an old man who was quick with a hand or a belt. And some, like Big Ike, had been just straight-out vile bastards. Havoc had been lucky. He’d earned what he’d gotten.

  But today, he’d brought it down on Sophie, and that was fucked up. It was his job to take care of his baby sister, not throw her in the way of their father—who’d never hurt her physically and never would. But he could and would do other things, and he knew, as Havoc did, how much she wanted that colt. How much she needed to have something good to work toward, when she was stuck working at Fosse’s Finds even though she was one of the few in town who’d gotten out and gotten educated. She needed that damn colt, and now Havoc had stirred up what had probably been a simmering dispute, and he’d gotten the old man to dig his heels in.

  She wouldn’t talk to him. He’d tried calling and texting, and she wouldn’t pick up or respond. He felt like such an asshole, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

  He’d ridden the rest of the day away, glad not to have to worry about Valhalla, glad to know Cory had it; she’d finally taken the fucking job and gotten that place mostly off his back. She’d barely needed any training; she’d been watching him manage for months and had picked most of it up. He was still clearing schedules, but she had it, and he was so fucking glad.

  He’d missed her, though, riding over country roads, the weather chilly and a little damp. He’d thought he’d like to take her riding. He couldn’t—no bitch seat. He’d never had one. Never needed one. And he thought it fucked up the lines of a bike. But riding today, he’d felt lonely and wondered what it would be like to ride with her arms around him.

  Then he’d gone to her—not even wanting to fuck her, necessarily, just wanting to be close. And she’d pried too deep. And then she’d said what she’d said, and his brain had just up and left the building. He couldn’t deal. He’d probably hurt her feelings—he knew he had, how could he not have?—but it was too much. There was too much spiraling around inside him to deal with that, too.

  Deal with what? That she loved him? Why did it hurt him so much to hear that? Wasn’t that fucked up? But what did it mean? What did it change? How did he fucking feel? What did he want?

  Fuck. No. Couldn’t deal. He put the bottle to his mouth again and swallowed until he had to breathe. When he felt the heat in his limbs that said the whiskey was working some ease into them, he sighed. Definitely needed to drink himself out tonight. Definitely. He called Wrench over for another bottle.

  He’d worked his way almost to the bottom of the first bottle and had a nice buzz on—he’d need the other bottle before he’d achieve the level of stupor he was going for—when the front door opened and brought in a gust of chill wind. He turned to see which of his brothers was straggling in and instead saw Cory.

  Jesus, she was pretty. Even without makeup, in her little grey knit pants she wore like pajamas and her puffy, blue, down-filled jacket, she looked sexy.

  He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. She simply came up and stood next to his stool. Wrench came over, but she shook her head, and he went away.

  She looked sad; her eyes glittered wetly. “I’m sorry. For being nosy and for saying what I said. If that was too much, if you’re done, okay. But don’t abandon Nolan. Please. He needs you.”

  He didn’t know what to say, and they just held there, looking into each other’s eyes. But then she nodded and turned toward the door, and the last thing on the entire fucking planet he wanted was for her to leave. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her abruptly back to him.

  “Hav—”

  He stood up and cut her off, dropping her wrist to clutch her face in his hands, feeling the silk of her dark hair wind around his fingers. “Shut up. Don’t talk. I don’t know. I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know. Just please don’t go.”

  She put her hands over his arms, and he kissed her, trying to say something he didn’t have words for, something he didn’t understand. Then he lifted her up and carried her back to his room.

  Later, when she dressed and left to get back to Nolan, he lay alone in the bed and tried to unsnarl the knot she’d made inside him. He needed to understand.

  ~oOo~

  The whole club ran the first weed run, so everyone would be familiar with it, and because they had good cover for a whole-club run, with a bike show happening in Springfield, Illinois. Isaac, Show, Len, Havoc, Badger, Dom, Omen, and Mikey—eight men on Harleys. The Night Horde hadn’t been a big club in years, but they were young as well as small these days. The club needed some seasoning, Havoc thought.

  The county election had not gone their way. Come January, Keith Tyler, longtime friend and associate of the Horde, would have to give up his badge. Leon Seaver would be the new Sheriff in town. And he didn’t look to be friendly. Isaac had ripped Dom a new one right at the table for missing the potential election trouble. There might have been something the Horde could have done if they’d known more than a couple of weeks ahead of time. Havoc thought he’d been too hard on the kid. Isaac was used to Bart, who worked all the angles, not just what he was told. He was managing Dom like he had Bart, but Dom wasn’t nearly as experienced.

  Spilt milk now, anyway. Come January, things could be a lot more interesting, unless by then Dom had found a gap in Sheriff-elect Seaver’s shiny moral armor. They were committed to the gig, no matter who was Sheriff. Isaac and Show had made the plan with an eye toward a more hostile law-enforcement situation on the pick-up side. Attention from law was likely to be hottest on their home turf. Away from home, the greater risk was not from law.

  In the near future, things would be trickier, but the first pick up went smoothly. Trust was at a premium, and Becker had held back the detail about the job originating with the Scorpions, so they’d all been tense and on alert. Isaac had insisted on being shown the cargo, which hadn’t been part of the agreement. Becker had balked at first, and everybody on both sides had put hands on weapons, but eventually he unlocked and rolled up the back of a twenty-foot truck to show a full load of flat-screen televisions—the boxes would be full of a little something extra. Isaac hadn’t asked to open a box, trusting Becker that far. And the tension eased among the men grouped behind a warehouse in Springfield, Missouri. Then Isaac and Show had talked at some length with the two men who’d be in the truck. Setting expectations.

  The run was no sweat. They ran a different formation with this kind of protection. Not wanting to draw too much attention to what they were guarding, they rode more fluidly, staying near and alert but not as tightly grouped as they had when they were riding to Hemsburg with the old ladies, for instance. Havoc loved this work. He loved to ride, even if he did have to stay near the speed limit, and he enjoyed paying attention in the way they had to on a protection run, keeping track of his brothers, knowing where he should be. It was work the older Horde knew well, work they’d done on the meth pipeline for years. This run wasn’t so much different, except the product was rolling over a greater distance and in greater quantity—and people weren’t so affronted by the product itself. Hell, this run might have an expiration date a few years down the line,
as weed got legalized.

  The drop was smooth, too, although Havoc didn’t love the look of the guys taking over. They looked wrong—they were the right guys, the ones they were supposed to meet, but they had an air about them that seemed off in some way. He looked hard at them, their rides, the surroundings of the drop. Len had scented something, too. They met eyes, came to a silent understanding, and looked harder. There was nothing. Havoc supposed the guys were just nasty bastards, and that was what was setting his radar pinging. But he was glad when the drop was done and the Horde rode on to the bike show.

  Isaac was just about done for, though. Four hundred miles since seven in the morning, and he was limping worse than Havoc had ever seen before, at least since he’d been back on a bike. Once they met up with some peeps at the show, he clearly found some last reserves and hid his pain well, but the Horde knew. Havoc saw him discreetly toss back some pills with a beer, and he worried.

  But Isaac made it through the show, and supper afterward, not ducking out until they’d been at the bar after supper for a couple of hours—at which point, he got up quietly, not calling attention to himself. Show and Badger were in some deep conversation. Omen, Dom, and Mikey were up to their elbows in booth bitches, several of whom had glommed onto their group. So was Len.

  When Havoc saw Len untangle himself from his pussy pile, he knew the SAA was heading out to ride at Isaac’s flank to the motel.

  Havoc stood and headed him off. He wasn’t interested in the pussy on offer tonight, so he put his hand on Len’s arm. “Go back to your buffet, brother. I got the boss.”

  Len gave him a skeptical look. “Yeah? You don’t want any of that?” He indicated the several scantily clad girls.

  Nope. He could have some if he wanted. He was on a run, so it wasn’t cheating. But he just didn’t want it. What any of those tarted up bitches could do for him paled in comparison with what Cory made him feel. Wasn’t even worth the hassle. He shook his head.