Mercy twitched a concerned frown. “Everything alright?’
“Not really, no.”
“Yeah.” Merc patted his shoulder. “We usually eat around six-thirty. We’re having pasta tonight.”
Pasta…and baby confessions. How appetizing.
Five
Sam took a bracing sip of Earl Grey and set her mug down carefully on the kitchen table. Beside her, her mother picked at imaginary dirt beneath her fingernails, trembling with anger and emotion, wan with something akin to despair. Across from them, Erin toyed with the frayed hem of her sweatshirt sleeve, refusing to make eye contact.
With her eye makeup scrubbed off, Erin looked even younger than her sixteen years, vulnerable and incredibly naïve. Sam wanted to gather her into her arms, tuck her sleek head beneath her chin and hold her tight, as she’d done when Erin was a baby.
Instead, she said, “Do you understand that what you did this morning was wrong?”
Erin huffed out a breath. “I’m not stupid.”
“And yet you snuck out your window before dawn.”
She shrugged.
Their mother laid a hand on Sam’s forearm. “You aren’t usually so blunt,” she whispered.
“You’re right,” Sam agreed. “I’m not. But I’m also not convinced hoping, praying, and sweet-talking is going to get us anywhere.” The day’s panic and frustration boiled to new life inside her, leaving her chest tight, her breathing rapid. “I’ve tried, Erin,” she said. “I’ve tried to be kind, and tried to make up for Dad not being here, and tried to tell myself this was some sort of phase you need to get through. But I think I’ve been too relaxed.”
“Relaxed?” Erin scoffed, finally lifting her head, shooting a glare across the table. “You’re never anywhere close to relaxed.”
“No, not personally. You’re right. I go to bed at night with a knot in my stomach and wake up from nightmares every morning.” She wasn’t going to mince her way through this argument. She was done with that; this morning had been the last terrifying straw. “You think hiking into town was rough? Did you think at all about the way things could have turned out? What if Jesse and his friends had hit you, thrown you down, ripped your clothes off–”
“Sam!” Mom gasped. “Don’t talk like that.”
Erin’s eyes goggled.
“No, I have to talk like this, or she won’t learn. Erin, you’re lucky you weren’t raped today. Gang-raped. Killed! Don’t you understand that? I’m not trying to wreck your fun. I’m trying to keep you from getting pregnant, from getting hooked on drugs, from getting expelled from school. I’m trying to protect you, damn it.”
“Sam, that’s enough,” Mom said.
Erin blinked, and lifted a sleeve to her face…to dab at the building tears.
Sam pushed out of her chair and crossed the kitchen in three long strides. Out the back door, shutting it firmly behind her. She needed some air. Heaping bucketfuls of air.
Evening crept in with stealthy cool strides; it skirted across her ankles and reminded her that she was barefoot. She’d changed from her work clothes into cropped jeans and a soft t-shirt, one she wished was long-sleeved as she hugged her torso and turned the corner of the house, stepping into the direct draft of the breeze.
A motorcycle sat at the end of the driveway. Aidan swung off of it, removed his helmet, lifted his head toward her. She felt the touch of his eyes across the distance, and didn’t care what he was doing here, or how long he would stay, only that the sight of him made it a little easier to breathe.
“Your sister okay?” he asked as she reached him.
“Apparently I was being too hard on her with the whole lecture thing, but otherwise, yeah. She’s fine. Learning nothing from her mistakes as usual.”
“Hmm.” He studied her a moment, helmet in his hands, expression hard to read. “You usually save that kinda attitude for me. You musta been harsh.”
She sighed…but grinned a little. “I was just born to be a party pooper, I guess. And there’s no bigger sin than ruining everybody’s good time.”
“I want to disagree with you.”
“Want to?”
“But I can’t. Sorry. You’re a total sinner.”
They both laughed at the same time, and it released a tension valve inside her, lightened her insides, brightened her heart. He had a good laugh: deep, rich, smoky on the edges. A man’s laugh, and not a boy’s dorky honking.
Careful, her conscience warned. Don’t let yourself go to that place again, that stupid hopeless wanting.
She told her conscience to stuff it. “Did you find out anything about the dealer?”
He sobered, nodding. “That’s why I came by. I had a little chat with Jesse earlier.”
She shivered, and clamped her arms tighter against her sides. If she was honest with herself, she knew the chill had nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with Aidan looking serious and purposeful as he addressed her problems. “Charming little shit, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.” He snorted. “Merc and I–”
She grinned. “Oh, damn.”
“ – managed to get a phone number off him, but he didn’t know the guy’s name. I called the number.” He looked sympathetic. “It’s out of service.”
She deflated.
“My guess is it’s a disposable, and he ditched it.”
“Makes sense.” She sounded numb and disappointed, and knew it.
“I’m gonna look into it, though,” Aidan said. “I’ll figure out who’s doing it, and I’ll shut it down.”
“You can do that?” Hope blossomed anew.
“Baby, I can do all kinds of things,” he said, grinning.
Her stomach flipped over. Her palms tingled. Baby. Yeah, what sorts of things? she wanted to ask him. Tell me. Better yet, show me.
“Wouldn’t that be very…non-outlaw of you?” she asked in a teasing voice.
“Nah.” He adopted that proud, cocky tone she remembered from all the way back in high school. “We outlaws like to be in charge of that kinda shit.”
“I see.”
He softened a bit, growing more serious. “I also told Jesse to stay the hell away from Erin.”
The words filled her with warmth. “Thank you.”
“Who the hell knows if he’ll listen, but he was about ten seconds from pissing himself, so he might.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Cue the silence. But it wasn’t awkward, it simply was, a full beat of warm, unsaid things between them. Sam wanted to tell him thank you again, and it seemed like he wanted to say something, too, but she didn’t allow herself to romanticize about it.
“Well…” He fiddled with his helmet strap. “I better run. I’m supposed to have dinner with Ava and Mercy.”
“Tell them I said hello.”
“I will.”
It took every ounce of self-control not to hug him. She settled for smiling and waving him off instead. A poor substitute, but after all, wasn’t that her romantic destiny?
~*~
He was pulling into the Lécuyers’ driveway when he finally pinned down the sensation that had stayed with him since leaving Sam. Warmth. She made him feel warm, and what an alien thing that was, in his history with females. They made him hot, made him restless, made him horny and frustrated – but they didn’t leave him warm. Didn’t make him feel like when Maggie had kissed his forehead as a boy and handed him a cookie straight out of the oven. Sam made him feel like that…and also ravenous and in desperate need to push her shirt up and see what color her bra was.
Shit.
The little white house Mercy had bought for his bride looked tidy and fresh these days, yellow mums bursting out of pots on the porch, brilliant as the last light of day winked out of existence. The windows glowed with lamplight, a welcoming spill of butter across the sidewalk, the lawn.
He sat on his silent bike a moment, remembering why he’d come, drawing together the words he wanted to use. He thought about his si
ster bringing him food, forcing his meds on him, raking her nails through his hair like a good little mother after his accident. Mercy helping him shower, helping him walk. They loved him, truly. And he would entrust his dark secret to them and listen to whatever they told him.
He went to the back door, because that’s where they always expected him, and Mercy opened it before he could knock. It should have been incongruous, the big man holding the little baby, but it never was. Cal was passed out cold against his father’s chest, all fat baby face and hands, held securely in one arm.
“Brother,” Mercy greeted, ushering him in.
“Is that Aidan?” Ava called from beyond the mud room, in the kitchen.
“Yeah, and I brought you something,” he said, stepping into the warm, steam-filled room where his once-inept little sister was bustling around with pots and pans and spoons. When she paused to turn to him, he offered the brown-bagged bottle of wine he’d tucked in his saddle bag. “Chardonnay, like you like,” he said, and she gave him a quick hug, a peck on the cheek, and moved off. The wine disappeared from his hand, though he could have sworn she was carrying too many things to take it from him. She was becoming one of them – those magical, multitasking grownup women who juggled the universe with mysterious ease and seemingly eight arms.
“Awesome, it’ll go with the pasta,” she said, and the bottle landed on the counter with a light gong sound.
Remy sat in the floor, like a dog underfoot, playing with a stuffed alligator, which made Aidan grin.
“What kinda beer you want?” Mercy asked him, and he was overcome, suddenly, by the quaint hominess of it all. His sister in cutoffs and a flannel shirt, ponytail, and big brown eyes, and her motherhood so obvious and important. Mercy playing daddy with ease and gusto. The warm light, the delicious food smells, the unlikely normalness of this house and this family.
He wasn’t ever going to have this, was he? He’d never wanted it before, not until after his accident, when he’d come face-to-face with his own mortality and realized he had nothing of his own. He had a shitty apartment and a blue collar job, and just enough spare change for smokes and beer. But nothing that belonged to his heart. Nothing that made him want to get out of bed in the morning.
He’d thought Tonya might be the start of a new chapter.
But she was going to give their baby away, and marry a rich man…and still, he’d have nothing.
Ava was standing in front of him, he realized, looking into his face with curiosity, concern. It was like someone had turned the volume down and then unmuted it all of a sudden, her voice coming at him.
“Aidan? What’s wrong?”
Was he just standing there like a tool? Face blank? Mouth hanging open?
Yes, he was.
“Hey,” Mercy said, and his free hand weighed a hundred pounds against Aidan’s back.
Ava twitched a grin. “You’re not having an attack of the vapors, are you?”
He had no idea what that was, only that he couldn’t breathe.
“I got Tonya pregnant,” he blurted, stupidly. “And she’s giving it up for adoption.”
~*~
The pasta was fettuccini, with spiced sausage, shrimp, peppers, and a light olive oil sauce. Lots of parm on top.
It might as well have been plastic for all that Aidan tasted of it. After his moronic admission, Ava and Mercy had shared one of their silent married looks, communicating without words. “Sit,” Mercy had said, easing him down into a chair at the table. Remy had crawled over to see him, patting at his boots with his little hands. Ava had fixed him a drink, and dinner had been spooned up, served. Remy was popped into his high chair and Cal taken off to bed.
Ava twirled noodles around her fork while her gaze bored into him. “From the beginning,” she prompted, looking and sounding a whole lot like her mother.
He sighed and sagged back into his chair. “There’s not really anything to tell. I didn’t wear a rubber, and now she’s knocked up.”
“Was she trying to get pregnant?”
“Definitely not. She was pissed off that it happened.”
“You sure she isn’t trying to lead you on?” Mercy asked.
“Why would she? What does she want from me? Her family’s stupid rich.”
“Do you have any proof she actually is pregnant?” Ava asked.
He dug the sonogram from his back pocket and slid it across the table.
Ava frowned at it. “I’d want to talk to her doctor. This could be anything.”
“She had the paperwork, the positive test results.”
“Still–”
“She’s really knocked up, Ava, okay?”
She sent him a sharp look. “You know even better than I do how easy it is to fake stuff these days. She could be lying. You need to go with her to an appointment, find out for sure–”
“Why? She’s getting rid of it.”
Ava’s lips compressed; she glanced over at Mercy. “She’ll have to have your consent to put it up for adoption. If one of the parents wants the baby, they get first dibs.”
“Dibs?”
“Do you want her to give it up?” Mercy asked. “Or was that just her idea?”
“Guys, calm down.”
“You tell us you got your girlfriend pregnant,” Ava said, “and you wanna be all ‘calm down’ like I’m the irrational one?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said through his teeth.
“Oh, and that makes it so much better.” She rolled her eyes, but snapped back to serious before he could retort. “You need to think about some stuff. Some heavy stuff. And you need to do it fast, because babies don’t wait.”
“What’s there to think about?”
“Bro…” Mercy said carefully. “I think if you were all settled in your head, you wouldn’t have wanted to talk to us about it.”
“If you wanted her to get rid of it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Ava added.
“I…” It crashed over him again, as fresh and painful as it had been when Tonya told him that morning. “She’s awful,” he muttered, wiping his hands down his face. “She thinks she’s better than everyone in the world. It isn’t that she can’t take care of the baby – I could forgive her that. It’s because it’s mine, and it doesn’t fit into her rich world.”
He lifted a helpless glance to his sister. “She’s just like my mom.”
Right before he closed his eyes, Ava’s face transformed with tenderness and sympathy. And then his lids clamped down, because he was pretty sure if he didn’t screw them shut, he’d start blubbering like a pussy.
He felt her skinny hands on his shoulders, squeezing ineffectually. “It’s alright.” She kissed the top of his head. “We’ll figure it out.”
Mercy’s callused palm closed over his wrist, and he was overwhelmed by the knowledge that, whatever happened, he had the two of them. He didn’t deserve them, but here they were, and he was going to hold tight.
~*~
He didn’t remember drinking, but the bottle of screw-top, cheap-ass red wine he’d bought on the way over was more than half-empty, so he must have been putting the stuff away as he sat here. The guy at the desk had snootily informed him that Mr. Byron was “out for the evening,” and that if Tango wanted to wait, he’d have to do so in the parking garage. Guess they didn’t want a guy with twelve earrings and countless tattoos hanging out in their lobby and throwing off the posh elitist vibe.
He didn’t blame them.
The wine he hadn’t intended to share – he would never offer something so pedestrian to Ian – and he’d parked his ass on the concrete step by the elevators, resigned to wait.
His head weighed a hundred pounds by this point, and his vision fuzzed and faded his surroundings like an Instagram filter.
He heard Ian before he saw him, the distinct beat of his stride, the sharp clip of his dress shoes on the tarmac. The shiny Ferragamos came into view, saddle-colored and spotless; then the slender, tailored pants, dove-
gray. The long legs, the narrow waist, the perfect cut of the shoulders, and finally Ian’s angular face, its corners tweaked with worry, as Tango let his head fall slowly back on his neck.
“Having a bit of a sit-down?” he asked.
Tango took a long, messy swallow of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers trembling.
Ian turned and said something to Bruce, his bodyguard, and the giant thug moved a few paces away, giving them some distance. Then Ian dusted off the curb with a pocket square and sat down beside Tango, close enough so their elbows touched, close enough for his expensive cologne to fill Tango’s nose. His knees were at high angles, his legs too long for sitting on the ground like this. His wide blue-green eyes glittered in the dim security lights.
He said nothing, only waited.
“Ghost knows about us. You told him,” Tango accused. Sadly, all his ire had been muddled by the wine, and all he really wanted to do was lean against the man, rather than yell at him.
Ian’s lips compressed, expression one of careful regret. “I didn’t tell him, no. But I asked a favor of him. One that involves you.”
“What favor?”
Ian’s slender white hand was cool and smooth against his forehead, as he brushed back the unruly forelock of his half-shaved, half-ragged rockstar ‘do. “One that would be good for you.”
Tango meant to knock his hand away…but it felt so nice, stroking back through his hair, that tender, almost-maternal affection he’d never had before. Before the club, before his ailing aunt had tracked him down, Ian had been the first of so many things – lover, caregiver, protector.
“I don’t need any favors,” he heard himself say, voice faraway, unconvinced.
“Of course not, darling. But I want to provide them anyway.”
Tango stopped fighting his impaired balance and slumped sideways into the Armani-covered shoulder beside him; let his face fall against Ian’s neck, grateful for the hand that cupped his head, held him close.
“I’m taking some time off,” he mumbled. “A few days.”
Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) Page 6