Fox sat back, and softened his tone. “Truth told, I’m still having some trouble lately. Learning about Dad.”
He waited, and after a moment, Tenny’s eyes cracked open, curious despite his best efforts.
Good, Fox thought, and restrained a smile. One that wouldn’t have lasted anyway, not while thinking about Devin. “I always knew he was a wanker – or, well, not literally, he was putting it somewhere, with nine – ten – children out there in the world. I hated him. I hated him because I loved him when I was a kid, but I could tell he never loved any of us.”
Tenny’s eyes opened a little further, and Fox couldn’t believe he was saying any of this out loud; he didn’t even allow himself to examine it so frankly in his head. It seemed necessary, though; he wasn’t playing in his own mental sandbox, but using his experiences to teach his brother a valuable lesson.
“I worshipped him when I was little, you know? It was just me and Mum all the time, my mates at school, and their fathers were all getting beer guts and worrying about the stock market and spending all weekend in front of the telly watching football. I used to want that – God, did I. To have a real dad, someone to take me down to the comics shop on weekends. A man of the house to–” He cut himself off, abruptly, his throat tight, keenly aware of Ten’s stare, now.
“I wanted to be like the other kids,” he said. “Normal. But then Dad would come waltzing in every few weeks, and Mum would get all giggly, and it was like he’d never left. He had this way about him, especially when he was younger – pulled every eye in a room. Winked at pretty girls, and smirked at everybody, and drew people to him. Magnetic. Tommy’s got the non-lethal version of that charm, and half the brains. Walsh’s got more of the real thing, though he doesn’t use it. A real waste, that. He could have been on my level if he’d ever bothered to play the game. I don’t really know where Phil came from, Mr. Responsibility. And Shane’s just soft. Raven, now – she’s wicked.” He grinned, thinking of his oldest sister. “And Chelle’s full-up of the Green blood. Albie…”
He caught himself again. His accent was getting thicker, less polished.
He sighed, and met Ten’s gaze head-on. “Albie’s the best of both worlds, I suppose. Normal. Makes furniture – for fun, I think. But he’s got a basement full of guns, too.”
Tenny looked close to fascinated.
“They’re all stupid, and they drive me nuts, and they can’t stand me, really, but they’re my family. They’re your family, too. Welcome to this fucked-up bunch, I guess.
“My point is, I wouldn’t have gone after the shooter. I would have saved your sorry ass same as Reese did, because whatever else you are, you are my brother, and that means something. If you’d stop being so angry all the time, it could mean something to you, too.”
Tenny stared at him a moment, then blinked and looked up at the ceiling. He winced when his neck stretched, but Fox knew he would have been the same way: sometimes the pain was a good reminder of one’s vulnerability and imperfection – of your humanity. “I was going to kill you,” he said, quietly, voice rough. “When we fought, in London.”
“No, because I was going to kill you, until I got a look at your eyes.” When Ten didn’t respond, he said, “Did you recognize who I was – who I had to be – straight off?”
Ten’s throat moved. “Yes.”
Fox didn’t ask if Tenny had still meant to kill him, once he figured it out. That was an answer that wouldn’t do either of them any good.
“Okay, so, look,” he said, back to business. “I figure the fed I saw downstairs will be barging in here any minute, flashing his badge and being stupid and tedious. Eden’s good, but she can only hold him off so long.”
At mention of Eden, Ten’s gaze snapped back toward him.
“Yeah, you got that one wrong, too, boyo.”
“You do love her,” he said, wondrously.
“One: have you seen her? Two…” He didn’t try to keep the fond smile off his face. “I’ve tried telling myself I didn’t for a long time, but it never sticks. She’s brilliant, and she kicks my ass.”
He thought Ten looked contrite.
“I’ve been saying this for weeks,” Fox continued, “but you haven’t listened so far. I expect you to listen now, and that’s an order. Until you settle down a little, you’re to think of me as your superior officer. I’m your handler, alright? You’re to do what I say, when I say it, and trust that I don’t give orders lightly or stupidly. Respect your elders – respect this club. It might not be a whole bloody government, but it does undertake some dangerous and important business. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.” Tenny’s blue eyes glittered, but not with obvious defiance or malice. Eagerness, maybe. Fox hoped it was an eagerness to cooperate.
Scuffling, hurried footfalls sounded on the other side of the glass, and Fox turned as the door rushed open to reveal Eden, the agent, and a harried-looking nurse.
Sorry, Eden mouthed over the man’s shoulder.
The nurse said, “Sir, I told you the ICU is for family only–”
“It’s fine,” Fox said, standing. “The FBI’s like a bad rash: it’s not going to go away on its own. Let the agent stay and then we’ll all quit mucking up your ICU.” He flashed her his best grin.
She huffed in indignation, but she was flattered, a little, he could tell. She gave a tight nod, said, “Five minutes,” and then hustled on down the hallway.
Fox finally made eye contact with the man. Offered an elaborate gesture. “Won’t you come in, Agent…?”
“Maddox,” he clipped out, his movements stiff and agitated as he paced across the length of the room and moved to stand on the far side of the bed. He was on the younger side for an agent, and looked like he’d spent at least thirty minutes on his hair, his fine-featured face flushed with annoyance. Later, Fox planned on asking what Eden had said to him to get him so worked up, and then congratulate her on it.
He shot her a quick glance as the door slid shut. She had her arms folded, lips pursed, annoyed, but not upset.
Not like Agent Maddox. Who brushed his suit jacket back when he placed his hands on his hips, a flagrant means to show off the gun he wore at his hip.
It was an effort not to laugh.
“Alright,” Maddox said, bristling, chest puffed out, the works. “This is the second shot Mad Dog in–”
“Lean Dog,” Fox corrected.
“What?”
“Lean Dog. You know that,” Fox said calmly, “because Agent Cantrell must have said it a hundred times by now, but you think this is insulting, and you hate us, so you’re calling us the wrong thing on purpose.” He smiled. “Right?”
He looked between the three of them, fast jerks of his head, brows notched together so tightly they looked in danger of putting a permanent wrinkle there, between them. But then his expression eased a fraction, sliding more toward neutral resignation. He gave a little upward nod, chin-first. “You’re the jackass from the Gilliard scene, then. The one who left that big fucking mess to clean up.”
“Yes. You’re welcome.”
Maddox gave an incredulous cough of a laugh. “Didn’t think they’d stick the perp on bedside duty. You people are getting bold.”
“We people are the only ones who’ve gotten anywhere with this case. I’ll venture to say your boss – and don’t make that face, Cantrell’s running this, I can tell – knows that, which is why he’s told you not to arrest any of us. I saw you in the parking lot with the uniforms – thanks for sending them off, by the way.”
The agent’s jaw worked a moment. He flicked a glance Eden’s way. “I take back what I said: I’d rather deal with you.”
She smirked. “Too late, I’m afraid.”
He sighed, and stared at the polished toes of his shoes a moment, then lifted his head, determined now. Probably, Fox thought, he was a good agent by someone’s standards. “Okay, fine. Walk me through it. What happened
tonight?”
“Why, so I can incriminate myself? Have you got your phone recording all this in your pocket?”
“I’d need a warrant for that.”
“Yeah, but we all know ‘by the book’ doesn’t really apply when it comes to my sort, don’t we?”
Maddox controlled his expression this time – carefully blank – though his hands tightened at his hips; his knuckles whitened.
Eden cleared her throat. “Come on and tell the poor man what happened so he’ll go away.”
“Excuse me?” Maddox asked.
Fox sent her his best disappointed look, and hoped she could see the way his eyes sparkled. The twitch at the corner of her mouth said she did. “Fine,” he said, turning back to Maddox. “Based on tonight’s op–”
“Op?” Maddox said, quietly, incredulous.
“We can tell that the cartel is using Dr. Gilliard’s home as a pick-up for their wider shipping needs. They’re getting the cocaine into the country somehow – and obviously sneakily enough that they should just truck it straight on to their wholesale locations – and then using this as a connection point.” He rattled off what Gwen had told them about the local trucking operations, and gave him a brief recounting of what the Holy Father had been up to with his scare tactics.
“Jesus,” Maddox swore.
“They’re going to a lot more trouble than they need to for all of this.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“The most likely answer is to frighten us. The Lean Dogs,” he clarified, when Maddox frowned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Agent, but if the cartel wants to take bold steps into the United States, they know their main obstacle is going to be our MC. We’re the top dogs, no pun intended. They’ll have to wrest control of certain – market sectors – from us. They’ve tried going at us head-on in the past. This time, they’re taking a more creative approach, and my guess is that’s the work of one man in particular.” He described Luis to him. Based on Melanie Menendez, Gwen, Benny, and now Reese’s descriptions, he had a clear mental picture of the man at this point.
“You’re real full of yourself, huh?” Maddox asked, scrubbing at the back of his neck. He glanced toward the bed. “How’s he not dead?”
Tenny lay there staring at him, unblinking, face a pale mask of distaste.
“Just a lucky boy,” Fox said, and saw the fast dart of Tenny’s eyes come to touch him a moment, and then retreat. In more ways than one.
“Christ.” Maddox turned side to side, looking at the ceiling, executing a sequence of nervous twitches and reaches that painted a vivid portrait of a frustrated man about to say something at odds with all his training. “I don’t like this.”
“Getting that down for the record?” Fox asked, mildly.
“Fuck you. Keep taunting federal agencies like this, and you’ll slip one day and get locked up.” He looked momentarily delighted by the idea, before resignation took hold again. “But right now, it’s about the bigger fish I guess, so. Cantrell says you’ve all been cooperating, and that we have to cooperate, too, if we’re gonna catch these guys.”
Fox smiled again. “Excellent.”
Thirty-Seven
“I could get used to this,” Fox said, after they’d sent Maddox on his way. He and Eden walked side-by-side to the elevators; he’d slowed his pace to match hers, surprised that she wasn’t hurrying. “We get to do all the fun parts, and the badges roll in and handle cleanup afterward. It’s genius.”
She laughed. “It’s dangerous.”
“That’s why it’s fun.” He checked the time on his phone, and saw that it was nearly eight. If the clubhouse wasn’t already a kicked-anthill of activity, it soon would be. “Next, I suppose…” He trailed off when he realized Eden had stopped a few feet behind him. He turned back and found her standing with an unexpected amount of tension, her arms folded, feet braced apart, hips cocked, her eyes…
Oh. This was a particular kind of tension.
He felt his brows go up, even as his stomach tightened, and heat crackled along his nerve endings. “Really?”
“The second we get back to the clubhouse, it’s going to be nothing but work.”
“I’d bet good money that somebody found some time for a quick shag last night.”
“Charlie.”
He laughed. His smile felt delighted, true. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She stalked toward him, her hips swaying, affected, but oh-so-effective, and there was nothing fake about the way her eyes glittered, her pupils already dilated. When she was close enough, she pressed a hand to his chest, and leaned in until their lips nearly touched. Whispered, “If you tell me you haven’t been raring to go since you kicked that guard in the face, you’re a dirty liar, Charlie Fox.”
The heat was unspooling, filling him up. A familiar stirring in the pit of his stomach. “I am a dirty liar, always, but you’re not wrong.”
She grinned, and grabbed the front of his cut. Didn’t have to tug on it, because he followed, hot on her heels, as she ducked into the alcove that led to the restrooms. She paused a moment at the split, looking up at the sign overhead.
“Your choice, love,” he said, and flicked his hand beneath the hem of her jacket in the back, traced his fingertips along the bare skin just above her waistband. Even that slight touch made her shiver.
She took a deep breath. “Right, well, I don’t want any blokes walking in on us.” She towed him through the swinging door into the women’s restroom.
She let go, then, and stalked forward, bending to peek under the doors, ensuring they were alone. When she turned back, her face was flushed, her lips already parted in anticipation, her breath quick.
Fox leaned back against the counter and watched her come to him, enjoying the view, half-hard already with vicarious excitement. She wasn’t wrong: he’d been simmering with want from the moment he took out the guard; from the moment up on the rise surveying the estate; from the second he saw her in all black, propped against his doorframe, assuming that she would come along, and knowing that she would be anything but a liability in a tight spot. She was beautiful, always, even when she played at cool and detached, but this was how he loved her: wild with the thrill of the chase, hot-blooded, and needy, and anything but shy. A woman who knew exactly what she was capable of, and not afraid to say exactly what she wanted.
The restlessness that coursed through him now was of the best kind.
He reached up and caught her, a hand at her shoulder and a hand at her waist, hauled her in the last distance as she went up on her toes and kissed him.
Her mouth was soft, and lush, and hot, and she slipped her tongue between his lips right away – not a shy flirtation, but a bold, insistent demand. Fuck me. Just like that, all thoughts of the club, and the cartel, and this strange case flew out of his head. There was only now, this moment, and Eden pressing up against him.
Her hands found the front of his shirt, and she gripped tight, tugging, stretching the collar, desperate. When he pushed back into the kiss, taking control, her neck went soft, her mouth open, receiving now. “Yeah,” she gasped, in the quick breaths between. “Yeah, Charlie, please.”
That – that tone, that voice, the way her nails scraped at him through fabric – was why random, anonymous sex with club groupies was so boring. Because like this, with Eden, he knew exactly what she wanted and needed, without being asked outright. He always had loved having a plan.
He found the zipper of her jacket with two fingers and she moaned into the next kiss. Drew it down, down, down, unfastened it, and her mouth was hot and wet, totally open to him.
He broke away to trail damp kisses along her jaw, down her throat, and slipped his hands beneath her shirt, a fitted black turtleneck, and push it up. Pulled the cups of her bra down and took her breasts into his hands, her nipples already pebbled.
“Ah,” she breathed, tipping her head to the side, giving him better access to her throbbing pulse point. She was so responsive like this.
So eager.
She rocked her hips forward, grinding against the bulge in his jeans. He was fully hard now, high off all her little sounds and responses.
“Charlie,” she whimpered, as he sucked on her earlobe.
He gripped her waist, and spun them. The fact that she went – with a little sucked-breath, her hands spasming against his chest – was more than permission enough. She wanted him to take charge. He sat her up on the edge of the counter, pushed her thighs apart, and stepped between them. Fastened his lips to her throat, and tweaked her nipples between thumb and forefinger.
She hissed. Oh, she liked that. Tried to lift her hips, to keep them grinding together.
Fox moved his hands to her thighs, and squeezed, holding her still.
She pulled back, lids lowered, mouth open, pink, wet. “If you’re asking for permission…” she drawled, nearly slurring, her voice low and rough.
“When do I do that, darling?”
She arched, thrusting her chest toward him, invitation, plea.
He bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth as he unfastened her jeans. Ran down the zipper. Her skin tasted faintly of clean sweat, and it went straight to his head. He was so hard it hurt, now, desperate too; he needed to be inside of her, to play out this adrenaline rush that had started hours and hours ago.
She shifted her hips to help him work her jeans down, and he didn’t bother with her knickers – black and sleek, just like everything else she had on. He brushed them to the side and slid his fingers against her wetness as he shifted to her other nipple, drawing another sweet moan from her throat.
Here was a secret he’d never told anyone, but which he should probably tell her one day. Sex was generally good. Perfectly acceptable with strangers, a means of scratching an itch.
But he was a trained killer. He could master new skills, sure, but he was best in the areas in which he’d lots and lots of practice. He could get off with new lovers, but with a familiar lover – with a lover whose tastes he’d learned to suit – sex became necessary and electric. With Eden, it was like a favorite knife in his hand; like knowing the exact sighting on a much-loved gun. They knew each other, and their bodies knew one another, and it could just be good without the learning curve.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 32