Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  “When I what?”

  “Could hurt me so very badly.”

  He sat back. “It’s just sex.”

  “No it’s not, actually, and you know it.”

  He snorted. “So this is what rejection feels like.”

  “No. This is just self-control.”

  ~*~

  Odell’s was the same shithole it had been the day before, only now Michelle saw it through the lens of possibility. Each mildewed baseboard, every rip in the billiards table felt was a chance for improvement. Not faults, her dad had always said, but opportunities. There was nothing in the world that couldn’t be improved upon, whether it was orphan half-brothers to be taken in as sons, or businesses that could be resuscitated and given new life.

  She stood on the gallery, overlooking the place, while the Dogs had a look and a poke around.

  Candy stood in the center of the main floor, talking to Chester.

  “Are you shitting me?” the old man asked. “You want the place? Whatever in the hell for?”

  “I want to have a go at it,” Candy said, and Michelle knew he was being as tactful as possible to keep from hurting Chester’s feelings.

  Her heart gave a little bump. Was she doing the right thing keeping to herself? Guarding her sentiments?

  Her body sure didn’t think so. His blue t-shirt was driving her mad, the way the short sleeves stretched over his massive shoulders and biceps. She hadn’t ever thought herself so shallow, but something about the way he was put together stirred her. Maybe it was the visual paired with the carnal knowledge of him, the remembered feel of his hands and mouth on her.

  Shit.

  She glanced away from him, eyes scanning. Gringo was mounting the stairs and came to join her, folding his arms over the gallery rail.

  “I didn’t even know this place existed,” he said, scraping at the flaking varnish with his thumb nail. He was as handsome as before, and smelled clean, like fresh smoke and deodorant, but in his presence her pulse slowed, and her blood cooled. Not dislike, just not the hot-blooded attraction she felt for Candy.

  “How’d you know about it?” Gringo asked.

  “I was here yesterday. Jenny and I bumped into Candy and Colin while we were out shopping, and Candy wanted to bring us here for lunch. He used to come with his father.”

  He smirked. “Bumped into, huh?”

  She smirked back, and felt a true grin threaten. With his dark hair, and his boyishly cute face, he reminded her, suddenly, of Tommy. That was why she’d agreed to have a beer with him; it was a brotherly sense she’d felt, and not a romantic one. “Quite accidentally, I assure you.”

  “Uh-huh. When do I have to start calling you ‘ma’am?’ Before or after the wedding?”

  “How about right now?”

  He laughed. “Shit. I’m glad you like him instead of me. You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ll take that as the highest of compliments,” she said, loftily, lifting her nose in a queenly parody.

  “You do that, sweetheart.”

  She laughed too.

  “Michelle!” Candy had cupped his hands around his mouth, brows knitted together, shouting without necessity. “You gonna come do a walkthrough or what?”

  Jealousy? She didn’t know, only that he was peeved now, and hadn’t been before. In fact, he’d been in a fantastic mood since church that morning; all the boys had been inspired by the prospect of owning a big swinging downtown saloon.

  “Coming,” she called, and headed down the stairs.

  Surprisingly, the kitchen wasn’t too bad, just in need of a good scouring. The booths could stay, most of the tables, but they needed new chairs, new carpet, and there was the new décor to consider. Then Candy walked her back to the ring.

  It was a regulation ring, with mat and ropes, stools in opposite corners. It was a wide, cold, concrete-floored room, stacks of metal folding chairs off to one side, long tables that had probably once served as concessions. Plenty of room for her planned bull and the boxing matches.

  “You still like it?” he asked, hands going in his pockets.

  They were alone. It dawned on her, a sudden awareness. Just her, and him, and this big, cold, concrete room. And he was staring at her, reading her reactions, gaze missing nothing.

  “It needs a little spit and polish,” she said, smiling at him, “but it’s perfectly fine. I still like it.”

  He nodded and moved past her, beginning a slow lap around the ring.

  She fell in beside him. “How did it work before? The fighting?”

  “Chester had a house fighter. Alex. He was decent. Other guys, amateurs or guys hopeful to go and box big time, would come in and challenge him. Betting’s illegal in Texas, so Ches made his money on concessions and beer and shit during the matches. Even sold cigars,” he said with a little chuckle. “Real old fashioned. Betting happened under the table – they didn’t keep a tight lid on it. And I guess he finally got caught for it.”

  “How will you do it?”

  “The same way, I guess. Some things never change: people always love a good fight.”

  “Yes.”

  Their footfalls echoed through the expansive space, boot heels loud against the concrete.

  “Did you ever fight here?” she asked. She felt his gaze as they walked. Their arms brushed.

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?” He could have wiped the mat with anyone, she knew.

  “You said you remember me from London.”

  Quick flush of warmth, a hyper-awareness in her skin. “I do.”

  “What do you remember?”

  It was easier than she expected to tunnel back through her memories and pick out that night behind the pub, Candy young and gleaming and laughing as he gave Cagey a concussion. “You were…” Beautiful. “Very big.” She grinned when she heard his huff of laughter. “And full of muscles. And very pleased with yourself.”

  “I was?” He was grinning widely when she glanced at him, eyes bright, delighted.

  “Oh yes. Poor Cagey never had a chance, and you were just thrilled.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. It was fun. God, I was…” His voice flooded with nostalgia. “I was about sixteen, I think, when I realized that I wasn’t just strong, but that I was strong, you know?” He wasn’t bragging; she could find no traces of smugness in his expression. “And I had a knack for fighting. I was good at it. I guess – it just felt good to be able to do something really well.”

  “I get that.”

  “Secretly a ninja, huh?”

  She smiled. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  He sobered. “I think,” he said, voice growing careful, “maybe I liked being good at it a little too much. I like the hitting,” he said like an admission. “Not the dodging, and weaving, and sparring of it, but the actual…hurting. There was a little part of me that loved it when a guy spit his teeth out on the concrete. Or, well…not that little of a part.” He flicked a glance her direction. “It wasn’t fighting anymore. It was just laying guys out on the ground. And that’s…that’s not something to be proud of.”

  Her chest squeezed for him. “The way I’ve heard it, you lay guys out in a way that really helps the club.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes. But I can’t spar anymore. I can’t fight my brothers for fun.” He shook his head, smile small and wry. “It’s too much fun. Shit.” He dragged a hand down his face. “That’s what a lady wants to hear,” he muttered. “‘I like punching people so much, and I have terrible self-control.’” He sent Michelle a look that melted her completely.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  His brows lifted in an obvious yes.

  “There’s no exaggeration to the tales of your fists.” She raised her own in demonstration and earned a small grin. “I’ve never seen anyone hit a man like you do. I think most would use that to their advantage.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Maybe.”r />
  They were on the back side of the ring now, standing in a little puddle of shadow, and she came to a halt, squared off from him. “I think it’s quite brave, actually, restraining yourself like this. You could make a killing in that ring – monetarily speaking, of course.”

  “Of course,” he echoed, smirking.

  “You’ve got a lot of power, Candyman,” she said softly. “And you don’t abuse it. That’s…that’s exactly the sort of thing a lady wants to hear. Sometimes being honorable is the bravest thing a man can do.”

  She saw the sudden change in him, the way her words touched something masculine and animal inside him. His head lifted and his blue eyes took on a feral glint. When he spoke, his voice was full of dark, erotic promise. “See, this is the problem with you,” he said, his smile sharp. “You say you gotta be Miss Independent. And then you say something like that, and I think you’re trying to start something.”

  She breathed a laugh, and her pulse gave a hard knock in her chest. “I promise I never try to give that impression. It just seems to…happen…when I’m around you.”

  One long stride brought him into her personal space, right up close in front of her, so she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. She shivered, and he saw, his grin positively evil as his hands found her waist and squeezed.

  “You’re very hard on a girl’s self-control, you know,” she said, voice shaking.

  “Hmm. I know. Care to rethink that whole going to bed alone thing?”

  “I might take a little convin–”

  Her mouth stopped working when he cupped her face in one big hand. His skin was warm, rough from work and riding; he smelled faintly of motor oil, and clean sweat, and sunshine. Her neck went weak and she didn’t try to hide the way her eyelids grew heavy, the way her breath hitched.

  Fuck her self-control anyway.

  “I don’t mind doing a little convincing,” he said, and ducked his head to kiss her.

  The second his mouth touched hers, it seemed really, really stupid that she’d gone to bed alone last night. Because his mouth rendered her completely helpless.

  She opened her lips and welcomed the bold hot stroke of his tongue. Stretched up on her toes so she could put her hands on his shoulders. A slanting, wet, instantly desperate kiss that wrecked her head on impact.

  And still it somehow wasn’t enough.

  Alone together in the shadows, he pushed her back against the plywood skirting of the ring and his hands slid down to grip her ass. Yes! she thought, a jubilant mental shout. He lifted her up like it was nothing, like she was weightless, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Felt the sharp points of his hips against the soft insides of her thighs and murmured wordless appreciation of the feeling against his lips.

  She felt him smile as he kissed her, and he pressed in even closer, pinning her, plunging deep into her mouth with his tongue…

  “Candy?” someone called, voice loud as a gunshot as it bounced off the walls and floor.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “Fuck.” He drew a desperate, ragged breath. Pressed his forehead to hers.

  Michelle’s vision was misty with want. Her pulse was a steady bass drum beat, in her flushed face, the pit of her stomach, between her legs, in the now-hard points of her nipples.

  Fuck was right. Oh fuck. She was ready for them to tear at one another’s clothes and have it out right here, on the cold hard floor if necessary.

  But someone was coming. Damn him, whoever he was. It heightened the moment, that thrill of discovery.

  Candy pulled back, stared at her face one long, painful moment. “Later,” he whispered, and that sounded like forever away.

  She nodded.

  He set her down, spun away and rearranged himself.

  Michelle raked shaking fingers through her hair, trying to catch her breath.

  “What?” Candy called back to the interloper.

  It was Blue, appearing around the corner, and though he had to be suspicious, his face showed no judgment nor trace of humor. “Ches is looking for you. He wants to talk about an offer.”

  “Alright, coming.”

  Blue nodded and turned back.

  Michelle thought it might be very beneficial to lie down and press her hot cheek to the concrete. Gather her melted composure.

  Candy sent her a look that asked if she was okay.

  She took one last huge breath, stuffed her libido back in its box, and nodded.

  Thirteen

  Michelle

  Odell’s looked different from down on the billiards floor. She felt ant-sized, almost dizzy.

  Though maybe that had more to do with Candy’s kiss than her vantage point.

  Head-spinning notwithstanding, she felt somewhat peaceful. In the moment: not frantic, homesick, or worried. This place – this hokey, dilapidated place – would be the club’s soon, and so far, Candy was showing every sign of letting her have input. A great big project to sink her teeth into. A lovely idea.

  The boys were still kicking the tires, so to speak.

  Duke, the builder of the bunch, was peeling up carpet and searching for hardwood beneath. Colin had climbed up onto a billiards table and was examining the light fixture above it. The twins were behind the bar, rattling glasses and bottles and whatnot. Cowboy and Gringo were talking chairs.

  Michelle walked back into the midst of them at Candy’s side, and she felt the gazes snap their way, the way they lingered, the way they asked what was going on.

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Let them talk if they wanted. She couldn’t stop them and she didn’t much care anymore.

  “Where’s the bull going, boss?” Gringo called.

  Michelle caught the fast flicker of a frown cross Candy’s face. Oh, yes. He hadn’t liked her talking to Gringo before. Hmm. She hoped that wasn’t going to develop into any sort of problem.

  “Back in the back,” he answered. “By the ring.”

  “We gonna get a new fighter?” one of the twins asked.

  “I always loved the fighting,” Blue said, voice reminiscent. “Nothing like the sound of fists hitting faces on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “We’ll get you some fists,” Candy assured. “But first we gotta–”

  The door opened, and in beamed bright afternoon sunlight, a fat bar of it stabbing through the gloom of the restaurant. She squinted against it. Candy raised a hand to shade his eyes.

  Then came the silhouettes. Male. Shoulders squared off in a way that suggested suit jackets. Then the door shut again, and she saw them. Yes, suit jackets. Air of officiousness, threat. Four of them. Law enforcement.

  Her stomach clenched.

  Beside her, Candy drew himself upright; she swore she felt the energy move through him, the adrenaline surge bold as lightning in a man that size.

  The intruders moved forward to the top of the stairs. One stood ahead of the others, his gaze unmistakable as it arrowed down to Candy: They knew one another, and there was no love between them.

  Curses rippled through the Dogs.

  “Good afternoon,” Candy said, voice booming through the building. “I’m glad to see word travels fast, but I have to tell you boys that the club’s not re-opened yet. It’s gonna be a while.”

  “Cute,” the man in front said. He flashed a tight smile. “But I’m afraid your boys are gonna have to play house without you for a little bit.”

  Who is he? she wanted to ask. Why is he here? But she kept quiet, biting at her lip.

  Then the man’s eyes slid over and landed on her. A fast touch, and then back. “Bit young for you, huh?”

  Candy charged forward, shoulders jacked up, jaw set. “Look, don’t talk about the lady.”

  “Fine.” The man put on a bored expression. “I don’t care about her anyway. Derek Snow.” His tone became professional. “You’re wanted for questioning. You can come along quietly, or you can come in cuffs. Your choice.”

  Her heart pounded at the base of her throat. Shit. Shit,
shit, shit.

  “Fine,” Candy muttered. “Jinx.” His friend came to his side, and they conferred quietly.

  Then he glanced over at her, and her heart pounded for a different reason. He sent her a silent communication, a twitchy smile meant to be soothing. And then he headed up the stairs.

  ~*~

  Candy

  The Amarillo PD precinct had no power of fear over him. How many times had he passed through these doors? More than he could count.

  But it was a little different with a phalanx of ATF agents behind him.

  Riley took immense pleasure in escorting him to an interrogation room, shooting smug smiles at the uniformed officers in the bullpen as they passed.

  “I know the drill,” he said when Riley motioned him into the room.

  Riley snorted. “Yeah.”

  Everything was all set up. Folders on the table. Chairs set on either side. Water bottle.

  “Have a seat.”

  “I can give you ten minutes,” Candy said as he complied. “Then I gotta get back. Unlike you, I’ve got a business to run.”

  “You call that a business? How deep are you in the hole?”

  He looked so confident and self-satisfied, in what was obviously a new suit, his hair combed back with water, face dark with an obviously fake tan. He was so cocky, so confident in whatever dirt he’d managed to dig up, that Candy couldn’t pass on a personal low-blow.

  He grinned. “Not as deep as your brother. He’s got himself a six-foot hole.”

  Riley’s expression arrested. And then out came his old usual scowl, fringed with the panic of not-too-distant grief. He shifted in his chair, tugged at his tie. “One of these days,” he said, voice tight, “that big fucking mouth of yours is going to write a check your ass can’t cash.” He reached for the first folder and pulled it in front of him, flipped it open. “Let’s hope today’s that day.” He slid a photo across to Candy. “Do you recognize this man?”