Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Why now?” she asked, smoothing her expression to something thoughtful. “Sam and I have been friends for almost two years. Why do you want her all of a sudden?”

  Hot shame passed through him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt like more of an idiot, not even when he’d been sitting across from Tonya in that booth at Stella’s. That sort of regret was normal – making a mistake, kicking himself for it. But this, with Sam – that was about realizing he’d missed something.

  He missed a lot of things, didn’t he?

  He sighed deeply, and the tension bled out of his body, leaving him exhausted.

  “Because the total fucking mess I’ve made of my entire life is catching up to me now. Because I’m tired – tired of getting everything wrong, tired of chicks using me, tired of everything stupid and shallow and fake. I want something real, and Sam’s the realest thing I’ve ever run across.”

  Ava smiled. “Welcome to the land of adults, bro. I’m glad you finally made it.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “But,” she added, “Sam doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the mess if she’s just a balm. If you’re just hoping she’ll be sweet to you and make you feel better.”

  He started to respond –

  “I won’t say anything to her, I promise. And really, I think she’d be good for you. Maybe help get your head on straight. But make sure it’s really about Sam, Aidan, please. She deserves to be loved. Make sure you can love her before you break her heart.”

  He…nodded. That was all he could do.

  Eight

  The thing about gut instincts: they were never wrong. Not in Ghost’s personal experience, anyway. Right now, his gut instincts were screaming that a bunch of dead dealers went beyond a message: this was a total wipe-out, and he had a feeling he knew who was behind it.

  “New construction,” he told his trackers. “Inside or just outside the city. Find it.”

  Rottie called him just after lunch. “New doctor’s office suite going in just down the street from the hospital.”

  So that’s where he headed, his VP and sergeant in tow.

  The new building was in its infancy: the sandy soil scraped clean, black erosion fabric staked up, the footers going in as orange-vested work crews moved across the property. A trailer was parked at one end, its small windows covered from the inside with blinds, a sign tacked up beside the door. It read:

  Gannon & Gannon Development, Inc.

  Lance Gannon: Project Manager

  “Bloody hell,” Walsh said, conversationally, as they parked and stripped off their helmets.

  Some of the crew had stopped working and glanced toward them with the usual local blend of curiosity and trepidation. The men didn’t like to show it openly, not the way women did, but they still had that low spark of fear in their eyes, just visible if you looked close enough. It was a threat to their staid and steady lives, their beer guts and quiet Sunday evenings at home – seeing others of their species who’d chosen to live off the map. They saw the leather and heard the pipes, and didn’t think about the inevitable utility bills, kids, wives, grocery store runs and bouts of the common cold. They didn’t see the humans inside the cuts.

  “When did they break ground?” Ghost asked.

  “Two weeks ago,” Walsh supplied.

  Eyes followed them as they walked to the trailer. The curiosity had a low buzzing sound, like the droning of flies.

  Michael hit the stairs first, hand hovering close to his gun, taking protective point as always. He didn’t knock, but tested the knob and then pushed the door wide, sweeping in with all the grace of a military man, though he’d never been in the service.

  Shame.

  Ghost followed closely, Walsh bringing up the rear in tight formation, and they were rewarded with a sharp gasp of shock from the man at the desk.

  As with most site offices, this one was set up as both a break room – water cooler, coffee maker, card table and chairs – and a workstation. The man at the big drafting desk poring over blueprints had the sleeves of a crisp blue shirt folded back, dark hair combed and styled neatly. Clean-shaven, Ghost saw, as the man turned to them, and sporting a fat Rolex on one wrist.

  “What are you…” The man’s eyes skipped across them, resting on their chests, their assorted patches of rank and merit. That same streak of fear from outside stole through his gaze, and that was all Ghost needed to see. Yes, this man might be working with the enemy, and he might have been bold enough to break ground here, but he was scared. You could always work with scared.

  “Mr. Gannon,” Ghost said, leaving it to his officers to keep an eye on their surroundings. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” When the man worked his mouth soundlessly, Ghost said, “You are Lance Gannon, I’m assuming. Since your name’s by the door.”

  A second of brittle silence, hesitation – then the man swallowed visibly and said, “Yes, I’m Lance. What business is it of yours?”

  “Close the door,” Ghost said, and Walsh obliged.

  Gannon swallowed again, another hot flash of trepidation moving through his expression.

  “I’m assuming you know who we are.”

  Silence which was taken as a “yes.”

  “I want to extend an apology,” Ghost said, “for your lost opportunity. I know you and your people were hoping to turn Briar Hall Stables into a condo development, and obviously” – sharp grin – “that didn’t go so well for you.”

  Gannon’s face compressed with obvious anger, but his voice remained calm. “I’ve been in the development game for a long time, Mr. Teague” – ah, so he knew a good bit about them – “and disappointment is part of the process. Something always needs to be built, and we always land on our feet.”

  Ghost felt Walsh’s elbow at his ribs, a light touch, one Gannon couldn’t have seen. It was both a request and a warning. The solid, unshakeable VP was running scared after what happened to Emmie. Don’t rile them up about the farm, his elbow said. Don’t bring them back to my doorstep.

  Fair enough.

  “Who are you building this for?”

  Gannon shrugged. “Dr. Murphy. He’s a podiatrist.”

  “Does he have any idea who backs you financially?”

  Gannon’s frown deepened.

  “Does he know Don Ellison gave you your start?”

  “No, obviously,” the man said, tightly.

  “Here’s my personal question, though: Ellison didn’t just give you a start, did he? He’s still got you by the short hairs, and he’s wanting a foothold in Knoxville. This isn’t a simple case of you building a doctor’s office, is it?”

  “Mr. Teague, you have a very vivid imagination.”

  “No, that’d be other members of my family.” His writer daughter; his book geek torture-artist son-in-law; Mags with her home reno ideas. “Me – I like to stick to the facts. And the fact is, you and your crew are creating a pathway for a major dealer to worm his way into my city. Gotta say I don’t take kindly to that.”

  Gannon stared at him a moment, then said, “What happened to Amy Richards?”

  Ghost shrugged. “No idea. Maybe the dumbass decided to skip town after she and her son killed her old man.”

  “You–”

  “No you need to listen to what I have to say. Tell Ellison I got his message. Loud and clear. And tell him to back the hell off. ‘Cause I don’t care how hot shit he thinks he is – he doesn’t want to mess with this club. We clear? You can deliver that message, or I can. But I’ll be way less nice about it than you.”

  The air pulsed with snide things that wanted to be said, bristled with the strain of the circumstances.

  Finally, Gannon nodded.

  Ghost gestured for their leave-taking, and the three of them trooped out of the office and back to the bikes without salutation.

  “Posturing isn’t gonna register with Ellison,” Michael said, voice sharp with anger, “not when he’s already pushing back into our turf.”

 
“I know,” Ghost said with a sigh, “but I have to posture anyway.”

  ~*~

  Holly always ran her index finger down the computer screen when she was totaling up invoice figures. She didn’t actually touch the glass, just hovered her fingertip, beautiful face screwed up with concentration as she ran the numbers in her head without benefit of a calculator.

  Michael lingered in the trucking office doorway, letting her finish, watching the way his shadow fell across her and the playpen behind her, where Lucy was taking her afternoon nap.

  He’d saved Holly, hadn’t he? Pulled her out of the nightmare of her family.

  Only to do what – subject her to the nightmare of his club life?

  Pain grabbed in his chest, made it hard to breathe. His beautiful, wonderful girl, who loved him better than anyone ever had, who made it worth waking up each morning.

  He hated himself for what he had to tell her. But he didn’t believe in secrets, not between them, not when she was his sun.

  Holly finished her column and glanced up, face lighting up with happiness at the sight of him.

  How did he deserve that?

  “Hi, baby,” she greeted, and motioned for him to come in. “I was just wondering if you’d show up for lunch. I have leftover caprese salad and rotisserie chicken if you’re hungry.”

  “Is that the stuff with tomatoes and cheese?”

  “And basil, yep.” She shifted paperwork over. “Come sit down.”

  He did, taking the chair across from hers.

  When she stood and moved toward the fridge, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her carefully down so she sat in his lap, both legs hooked over the arm of the chair.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, grinning. “If you want that kind of lunch, you’re going to have to lock the door. And not wake Lucy. I can be quiet if you can.”

  “You can’t be quiet,” he said, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips. He wished this was his errand, to reach down into the low V of her shirt and open her legs over his lap, lose himself in the softness of her body for a little while.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, and she stiffened against him, growing serious.

  “Okay.”

  He took a deep breath and her fingertips pressed into the back of his neck, an encouragement and reassurance. “I can’t tell you all the details, but I think things are about to blow up for the club.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t mean in a booming business sense,” she said softly.

  “No.” He stroked the denim-covered smoothness of her thigh. “There’s someone who has every reason to hurt us – and I think they’re going to.”

  Her eyes moved over his face, huge and green, and lovely. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Stay safe.” He closed his hand over her knee, squeezed, met her gaze with a pleading one of his own. “Please, Hol, just stay safe.”

  She kissed him, her lips soft and gentle. “You too.”

  ~*~

  “Tally,” Becca explained, turning to him as he approached the fence. Em’s working student had a booted foot propped on the lowest board, arms folded over the top rail, eager audience for what was happening in the arena.

  His pulse leapt as he remembered the leggy Thoroughbred who’d jumped the property fence and first introduced him to his old lady. “Is he safe for her to be on?”

  Becca smirked. “Obviously you don’t watch her ride all that much.”

  Agreeing silently, Walsh joined her, folding his arms over the rail.

  It was true: he’d only watched Emmie ride a time or two. It wasn’t novel to him, being on horseback, given his background. And so he’d let business take up most of his day, enjoying his time with his wife while they were both on foot – or in bed.

  It was a shame, though, because she was graceful as a ballerina in the saddle. Mounted on a long-limbed horse, his five-foot-nothing old lady seemed head and shoulders taller, the way she became an extension of the animal she controlled. She had Tally at a big, swinging trot, his forehand collected without strain, his balance rocked back on his hind legs as she sat, deft and unmoving, seeming not to cue the animal at all.

  When they reached the top of the arena, Tally grabbed at the bit and plunged his nose downward, trying to shake her loose, to gain control. A frown crossed Emmie’s face, and Walsh watched her tighten all over, using every muscle in her body to correct her mount, regather him, and send him on with a sharp kick.

  “She’s lovely,” he murmured, and Becca made a pleased sound beside him.

  Emmie brought the gelding down the long side of the arena, then executed a neat downward transition, loosening the reins and patting his neck. “He’s improving,” she called to Becca. “Slowly.”

  “He’s a dumb-dumb,” Becca called back, “that’s probably the only way he can improve.”

  Emmie grinned and then winced as she reached to rub at her shoulder. “He tugged on me good.”

  “Have to give you a massage later,” Walsh said as she drew up alongside them, and she blushed.

  “Did you just get back?” she asked, her eyes speaking to larger worries. She knew he’d been on a club errand, and that it was worrying him, even if she didn’t know the particulars.

  She also knew they couldn’t discuss it in front of Becca.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Becca seemed to catch the vibe. “I better get back to stalls.”

  “Thanks,” Emmie told her, expression tense as she watched her student walk back toward the barn. When the girl was out of earshot, she slid down off the horse and pulled his reins over his head. “I need to walk him out,” she said, and Walsh hopped the fence so he could walk alongside her.

  They fell into step beside one another, ears filled with the sounds of Tally’s heavy breathing and the sand shifting under their feet.

  “You’ve been worried,” Emmie observed, “but I’m guessing this is one of those things you can’t tell me about.”

  A sideways glance from under the brim of her helmet, wry and questioning.

  He grinned back, echoing her expression. “You’re sharp, you know that?”

  “Hmm. And you’re easier to read lately than the horses. What’s going on with you?”

  He exhaled deeply. What was wrong? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought it had something to do with one morning a week ago. The night before at dinner, Bea had been harassing them good-naturedly about giving her grandchildren. He hadn’t put much stock in it until the next morning, just before the alarm sounded at six, when Emmie rolled toward him through the sheets, voice heavy with sleep in the darkness. “Do you want to?” she’d asked. “Have kids? I…I want to, King.”

  She was feeling safe now, secure in the knowledge that she could take a little maternity leave and not lose her job. Delighted by the prospect of loving and being loved and making children together.

  But she couldn’t conceive of the burden already placed upon him. He had her now, and his new employees, his mother, his half-brother, who he’d thankfully placed in a job at the Dartmoor auto shop working on cars with Michael. Marriage had given Emmie wings. Walsh didn’t regret it for a second, but with the dead dealers, with the threat of Ellison – he was stressed, and that was putting it mildly.

  He took another deep breath and let it out. “I said I’d tell you all I was able to, didn’t I?”

  He sensed a sudden tension in her. “You did.”

  Here went nothing… “The man who had you kidnapped,” he said, and watched her eyes go round, “he’s still in town, and he’s still trying to get to the club.”

  She reached out and braced a hand on Tally’s steaming shoulder.

  “It was never personal about you, love, I don’t want you to worry about that part of it. He was trying to force the club’s hand – and I think he’s going to keep trying, only I don’t know how, and I don’t know which direction he’s going to come fro
m.”

  She swallowed, slender throat working, and glanced ahead of them, across the blinding white sand. The breeze played with the trailing end of her ponytail and lifted the scent of sweaty horse to his nostrils. “Okay.” She was making a supreme effort to keep calm, for his sake and Tally’s, and he loved her all the more for it. “Well, what does this guy want? Is it revenge?”

  “Maybe at this point, after…but no, not really. He’s just ambitious, and he wants our territory. Powerful people don’t like for other powerful people to stay in business.”

  “Guess sometimes it sucks to be the big dog in town, huh?” She snorted. “No pun intended.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So. What do you need me to do?”

  He glanced over at her with surprise, and she stared levelly back at him.

  “I know I can’t ride around on a bike, doling out ass-whoopings. I’ll leave that to you.” Quick grin. “But I’m serious. What do you need from my end? What can I do to help?”

  She had floored him, completely, and he suddenly didn’t have the businesslike grace to express that properly. He put an arm around her waist – her clothes clung to damp skin; she smelled faintly of clean perspiration and horse hair – and drew her in close as they walked. “Just have my back, yeah?”

  “Always.”

  He kissed the shiny plastic side of her helmet and hoped she understood the love behind the gesture.

  ~*~

  Maggie’s gaze was fixed to the paper in her hands as Ghost walked into her central office at Dartmoor. It was a crisp day, and the breeze came in through the propped-open door, stirring the invoices and tidy stacks on the desk. Maggie didn’t seem to notice any of it, or even him, as he braced a hip against the corner of the desk and folded his arms, waiting.

  Her eyes lifted, bright with alarm, face tweaked with it. “Harry stopped to get the mail on his way in, and dropped it off to me.”

  “Right.” She was building to something and he knew it, didn’t push her.

  “This” – she shook the paper – “didn’t have a stamp or an address on it, so whoever sent it must have put it in the mailbox himself. It was made out to ‘Mr. and Mrs. Teague,’ so I opened it, thinking it was an invitation or something.”