Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  “I know,” she’d said, smiling. “Isn’t it nice?”

  Truth be told, it was nice, and as he stepped under the hot water and reached for some of her ridiculous coffee bean soap, it felt like Holly was there alongside him, her warmth and light wrapping around him, more soothing than the water and steam. His hands were steady as he washed, his nervous reaction to the night firmly in check.

  The lights were on when he left the bathroom, naked save the towel around his hips. Holly was waiting for him, her expression evidencing relief as her big green eyes tracked across him and found him uninjured and whole.

  Her gaze came to his face. “Is everyone else okay?”

  “Yeah. Tango’s back. Everybody’s good.”

  Her lips twitched, like maybe she wanted to ask for a better summary than that. But then she opened her arms. “Come here.”

  He frowned.

  “You look like you need a hug. Come here, Michael.”

  “Hol, that’s real sappy.” But his feet propelled him forward and when he sat down on the edge of the bed, Holly snuggled up to his side and put her arms around his neck.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deep: the soft scents of her shampoo and the soap they shared, the sweet cherry of her chapstick. He felt the brush of her hair, the press of her breasts, the beat of her heart, and his nerve endings tingled pleasantly.

  “I’m very glad you’re okay,” she whispered against his throat.”

  He looped an arm around her waist. “Me too, baby.”

  ~*~

  All done. At clubhouse if you need me. Walsh’s text came in around three, and Emmie chewed on the words, reflecting that they were the words he always used. If you need me. Was there a subtext she didn’t get? Only call him if she really needed him? Was it the equivalent of a Do Not Disturb Sign? Only bug me if it’s an emergency?

  What about if she just wanted to see her husband?

  At five, she gave up on sleeping, rolled out of bed, and fired off texts to Fred and Becca, asking them to cover the morning feeding. She dressed, left a note for Bea downstairs by the coffeepot, and headed for Dartmoor.

  A sleepy hangaround stood sentry outside the gates and waved her through when he recognized her. A sense of tired peace enfolded her when she climbed out of her truck. Yes, it was dark and shadows lurked between the pools of light thrown by the overhead lampposts. And yes, it was cold, and she shivered. The air stank of the river and frost rimmed the roofs of the club cars and trucks. But there was no charge, so sense of danger or doom. Perhaps it was her own exhaustion; perhaps it was Dartmoor taking a deep breath after completing its mission of the night.

  The clubhouse was open and warmly lit by lamps. Candyman lay snoring on one of the sofas. Behind the bar, Colin was pouring a liberal amount of whiskey into a steaming mug of coffee. And her Walsh sat at one of the round tables, fingers gliding over the keys of his laptop.

  Colin gave her a nod as she crossed the room and she nodded back.

  Walsh glanced up when she pulled out the chair beside him and sat. “You’re up early, love.” He sounded only a little surprised to see her. “Or late.”

  “Both.” She reached to scuff her knuckles along his stubbly jaw. “I’m guessing I look better than you, though.”

  “Obviously.”

  She withdrew her hand and folded it together with the other in her lap.

  He noticed, and did a double take. “Something wrong?”

  “No, I…” She smiled, out of reflex, a little embarrassed now that she’d come all the way down here at five in the morning. “I was worried about you,” she said. “I guess I just wanted to see you with my own eyes and know you were okay.”

  He pulled his hands away from the computer and stared at her. “I just…” A shifting behind his blue eyes, curiosity, wonder maybe? “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Bother me?” she echoed, frowning.

  “Well,” Colin announced loudly. “I’m going to bed. Wouldn’t want to accidently overhear anyone’s relationship bullshit.”

  Walsh snorted.

  “Night,” Emmie said dryly.

  “Morning,” he returned, and was gone down the hallway.

  Walsh was still staring. “Yeah. Bother you.”

  “King, why would calling me to let me know you’re alive be a bother? If our roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want me to call you?”

  His expression didn’t change, but his Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

  She sighed. “I’ve gotten clingy, haven’t I?” She hadn’t been at first, right after their disastrous sham of a wedding. But as she grew more comfortable, as she came to love him more, she was acting more and more wifely, and she didn’t suppose, what with his apparent aversion to children, that Kingston Walsh wanted a wife in the true sense of the word.

  “I’ll go home,” she said, starting to rise. “I know you’re busy.”

  He grabbed her knee and squeezed, holding her in place. The blankness fell away from his face and he looked distinctly worried this time.

  Emmie had to smile as she covered his hand with her own. “I’m not pitching some kind of girl fit, I promise. Horse chick, remember? I’m the one bothering you, so I’m gonna go home and help with feeding. You have important bad guys to take down.”

  “Em,” he said, tone serious. “I didn’t…ah, shit. Look, I’m forty. And this is my first time being married.”

  She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. “I know that.”

  “So I’m not any good at being married,” he said, tone apologetic. “I don’t – I dunno. Sometimes I don’t act like a husband. It’s not that I mean it–”

  She cut him off with a smile. “It’s alright. You do a pretty good job.”

  Baldly, without malice or agenda, he said, “I haven’t ever thought about kids. I don’t hate them, but I didn’t figure I’d have them. And the things that have been going on with the club, bringing babies into that scares me shitless.”

  Emmie nodded, a heavy stroke of tenderness and understanding passing across her heart. “I know, baby. It scares me too. Probably not as bad as you. But still.”

  “I’m not a tyrant, lovey,” he said, quietly. “If you really want them, I’ll make it happen.”

  “Gonna knock me up with one wave of your magic wand?” she asked with a quick laugh. She sobered, though. Sighed, overwhelmed with love for him, touched with reality and sadness. “It’s okay,” she assured him. “Who knows if I’d even be a decent mom anyway.”

  “Emmaline.”

  “I hate when you call me that. Kingston.”

  “I hate when you talk bad about yourself,” he countered. “Put all those stupid ideas out of your head. It’s just one question, pet. Do you want them, yes or no?”

  She stared at his face, his strange pale eyes and the deep lines the sun and wind had pressed around them. She didn’t really have to ask herself; it was all just anxiety talking. “Yes. I want them.”

  “Then we’ll have them.”

  ~*~

  He was back at The Nest. The slinky black and white interior, the low lights filtered with blue, and red, and pink. He could smell the cigar smoke and hear the deep rumbles of male laughter. He was at the edge of the stage. A hand curled around his ankle.

  He screamed.

  His eyes opened.

  Daylight. Ceiling. Food smells. Flat on his back.

  Not The Nest.

  But he was in fact screaming. He closed his mouth and when his teeth clenched together, pain shot through his skull, bright flashes of agony.

  “Oh God,” a female voice said, and suddenly there was a face hovering above him.

  He recognized that face. Through the increasing fog of pain that closed over him more tightly by the second, he registered the big blue eyes, the dark hair, the petite features.

  “Whitney?” His voice was an awful croak.

  An uncertain smile brightened her expression. “Yeah. Hi. Are you okay? What can I get
you?”

  He licked his lips – they were dry, split; he tasted blood. “Where are we?”

  Quick breath of sound: a door opening. Not the angry clang of the cell door sliding back, but a regular house door, gliding over carpet. And then: “I heard him scream. Kev, you alright, baby?”

  “Mags,” he said, and the panic began to ebb.

  She joined Whitney, looking down at him, pretty face lined with maternal concern. “You’re at my house,” she said, as if anticipating what he needed to know. “You’re safe.”

  He closed his eyes. “Jesus.”

  “And,” her voice became wry, “it’s Thanksgiving. How about something to eat?”

  ~*~

  Despite the total chaos of the night before, the girls managed to throw together a Thanksgiving dinner that made the dining room table groan. Tango stayed in the bedroom, and when Maggie returned from taking him a plate, she shook her head, expression troubled.

  Walsh had found out that Whitney – Whitney Howard, she told them – was the sister of someone named Jason Howard…who’d been found dead two nights before in an alley downtown. She buried her face in her hands when Ghost broke the news. Carter offered to drive her to her sister-in-law’s house.

  Sam left early, Aidan going with her, so she could get back to her mother and sister.

  Mercy sat at the cleared table across from his father-in-law, both of them nursing drinks. “Just you and me, old man,” he remarked, trying not to grin.

  Ghost’s brows lifted. “That’s where we’re at?”

  “Yep. Respectfully. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Ava came into the room, preceded by the heady scent of the food they’d just consumed. Mercy hadn’t thought he could eat another bite, but the smell of cornbread dressing still made his mouth water.

  “We packed up some of everything,” she said, setting a stack of sealed foil pans on the table at his elbow. “You wanna run it to the clubhouse for the Texas boys?”

  “You’re trying to feed my brother again, aren’t you?”

  She gave him a blinding, sweet smile. “You can take my truck.” She set the keys on the topmost pan. As she left the room: “Thank you, baby.”

  Ghost snorted in obvious amusement.

  Mercy looked at him.

  “I’m enjoying the fact that it’s not just me anymore. Old man.”

  Traffic was light, the typical stuff of holidays. Mercy made good time getting to Dartmoor and the four Texas bikes lined up out front were a truly sad sight. Mags had wanted to do a big party for everyone, but after last night, everyone had begged off, wanting to be with their families, keep things calm and quiet.

  Inside, the Allman Brothers were playing softly on the sound system and Candy and Jinx were shooting pool, drinks sitting on the edge of the table.

  “The girls sent food,” he announced, setting the tins up on the bar. As if drawn via magnets, Candy, Jinx, and Fox closed in on the bar, sniffing audibly.

  “Damn,” Jinx said. “What is that?”

  “Cornbread dressing – with sausage, I’ll add – sweet potatoes, green beans, hash brown casserole…”

  They were no longer listening.

  Fox snatched the serving spoon out of his hand.

  “Where’s my little bro?” Mercy asked.

  “In his room like a goddamn lovesick teenager,” Candy said with a sneer and a laugh.

  At the dorm door, Mercy knocked once, heard a muffled, “I’ll call you back,” and stepped in to see Colin setting his phone on the nightstand.

  “Aw,” Mercy said, giving him his most annoying grin. “Somebody’s in L-O-V-E, isn’t he?”

  “Bite my ass,” Colin said, but he seemed distracted.

  It wasn’t fun if there was no return snark. Mercy rolled his eyes. “Ava and Mags had me bring food. Turkey and shit. It’s good. You should come eat.”

  Colin nodded, staring at the far wall. “That was sweet of them.”

  “They like to do sweet shit.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Colin.”

  His head lifted.

  “I meant what I said last night. You did a good job out there, and I am proud of you.”

  Colin stared at him, blinking.

  “Anyway.” Mercy smacked the doorframe with his open palm in farewell. “Food’s there. I’m gonna head back home.”

  He was turning for the door when Colin said, voice strained, “I got Jenny Snow pregnant.”

  Mercy froze. Turned slowly back around. Saw his half-brother’s miserable, stricken expression. And burst out laughing.

  Colin surged to his feet, hands curling into fists. “It’s not funny, asshole.”

  “You’re right. It’s hilarious.” He pressed a hand to his chest and tried to get the laughter under control as Colin glowered at him. “No,” he explained, gasping, “really. You’ve been this irresponsible jackoff your whole life, and you finally manage to knock a woman up, and it’s Candy Snow’s little sister. Congrats, man. You’re officially the dumbest sombitch I ever met.”

  When he got really angry, like now, his jaw clenched tight and his brows lowered, it was very hard to pretend Colin wasn’t Remy Lécuyer’s biological son. Well…he was, after all. Through his teeth, he said, “You’re gonna go out there and tell him, aren’t you?”

  Mercy finally stopped laughing, shook his head, and sat down at the desk chair. “No. Calm down.”

  Colin’s expression shifted, colored with surprise.

  “Sit.” When he didn’t comply, Mercy added, “Prospect.”

  Cursing under his breath, Colin sat.

  “By now, I figure you know Jenny was the main reason Candy wanted you in Texas, right?”

  Fast nod.

  “He’s got this theory,” Mercy said, rolling his eyes, “about there being some sorta genetic predisposition toward being a good bodyguard. Really, I think he was just hoping you’d prove to be a loyal, solid guy. Are you those things?”

  Colin looked affronted. But he said, “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Are you just messing around with Jenny?”

  “No.” The answer was immediate, honest.

  “You gonna stick around and be the kid’s dad?”

  Again, without hesitation, “Yeah.”

  Mercy shrugged. “Then tell Candy. He might knock all your teeth down your throat, but he’ll respect that you were honest with him.” He grinned. “You do know that’s why he’s the Candyman, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Dread flickered through Colin’s dark eyes. “He’s got a bad reputation for taking men’s teeth.”

  Mercy curled one of his hands into a fist, glanced down at the scarred knuckles. “I’ve never seen anybody in my life punch like him. That’s why he never steps in for a round when we’re just brawling, like the other night.” No, Candy always stood off to the side, grinning, content to watch.

  “I’ve noticed,” Colin said, quietly.

  Mercy lifted his head. “So you might have to eat through a straw for the rest of your life. But you’ll get to be a dad.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “Yeah.”

  ~*~

  Bea made an orange rum cake with royal icing and she unveiled it just after dark with the caveat that “Charlie” was to be invited over for cake and Irish coffees, or there would be no Thanksgiving dessert. Walsh, silent and grave, had sent a text message, and Emmie had bitten her lip to keep from laughing.

  So that was how Fox became a part of their small circle in front of the fireplace at Briar Hall, devouring orange rum cake and listening to Bea talk about all her Christmas plans. “It’s Thanksgiving, Mum,” Walsh said, which she ignored.

  Emmie returned from refilling her coffee to find a lull in the chatter. Tongue loose with Irish cream, and dying to know besides, she settled onto the couch beside Walsh and said, “So I have to know. What’s the family feud business, boys?” She looked at her husband and Fox in turn.

  “Oh my,” Bea said with
a suppressed giggle. “King, I do adore your wife, you know.”

  “Yeah, she’s adorable,” Walsh deadpanned, and Emmie laughed.

  “I’m curious,” she insisted. “As an only child, it’s hard to imagine being all stiff and weird with a brother, if I had one. I would cherish him,” she said, loftily, and that finally got the best of Shane, who snorted into his coffee cup.

  “He never told you the story?” Fox asked, eyes alight with interest, firelight dancing across his face and making him look distinctly foxy. “Shame, brother, keeping secrets from your wife.”

  Walsh sent him a flat look. “No, brother. I didn’t tell her how you’re a wanker who steals people’s bikes and wrecks them.”

  Emmie forced herself not to laugh again. “He wrecked your bike?”

  “Goodness, he was so upset,” Bea said. “The crash made the news! It was all over the telly, and King wouldn’t even go see Charlie in hospital.”

  “Heartbroke, I was,” Fox said, looking like Walsh did when he was suppressing a smile. “My own flesh and blood wouldn’t even forgive me.”

  “It made the local news,” Walsh corrected, darkly. “For two minutes. ‘Local idiots wrecks perfectly good bike into a fish and chips stand.’ He broke his arm.” He snorted. “In hospital my ass.”

  “King!” Bea said.

  “She was beautiful,” Walsh continued. “A Triumph. An ’87 Bonneville. In white.” He turned wistful, shaking his head. “I told that one to keep his grubby mitts off it, and what did he do, the second I wasn’t looking?”

  “I’d never been on a Bonneville and I wanted to try it,” Fox said.

  “You don’t sit on another man’s bike,” Walsh and Shane said in perfect unison.

  “Not unless he invites you,” Walsh said. “Which I didn’t.”

  “Just like you don’t sleep with another man’s girlfriend,” Shane said, face hardening.

  “Shane, mate,” Fox said, “you have to know Julie was just playing you. You’re better off without that bint anyway.”

  “Okay!” Emmie said, loudly. “Obviously, I shouldn’t have started us down that road.” This was a good lesson in poking her nose into brother dynamics. “I’ll just say ‘my bad’ and we can get back to Thanksgiving, okay?”