Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  She moved quickly, head down, not making eye contact with any of the bikers and old ladies who were doubtless watching her with open curiosity. She ducked down a hallway, found a door ajar, and slipped inside, shutting and locking it behind her.

  She was in some kind of bedroom, a sagging double bed with a plain blue coverlet across from her. A dresser. A mirror. A desk. An open door through which she could see a bathroom.

  Whitney slumped back against the closed door and blinked furiously. She shouldn’t be upset; should be grateful she had Kev in whatever capacity she had him, even as just friends.

  But it hurt so badly, to hear him phrase it like that. Like there wasn’t a chance for them, like he couldn’t feel that way about her, while she was…she was…God, she wanted him, in ways her stupid virgin body couldn’t begin to decipher. And she knew she shouldn’t, because he was a wreck of a human being, and so was she, and what good could they do each other with their nightmares, and miscommunication, and obsessive worrying?

  She focused on her breathing for a few minutes, venting the deep, shuddering exhalations into the quiet of the room, walking herself back from the edge of tears.

  And then someone knocked on the door and she went to pieces again, gasping and dabbing at her eyes. She’d never thought she could be the kind of girl who locked herself away and refused to have a rational, adult conversation, but there was no way she could talk to Kev right now while she was this raw.

  It was a female voice, though, that called through the door. “Whitney, you alright?” It was Ava. “Can I come in?”

  Saying no would make her look like a brat. So she unlocked the door and opened it, inexplicably grateful to see Ava’s sympathetic expression on the other side.

  She slipped in and said, “Might want to lock it again, or RJ and one of the girls will be stumbling in here with us.”

  Whitney hurried to flick the lock on the knob.

  Ava went to sit on the edge of the bed, posture relaxed. She was at home here, comfy in a dated old dorm room in an MC clubhouse. This was her domain.

  Whitney tried and failed to imagine what it must have been like to grow up here.

  Ava gave her a plain look that, though kind, wasn’t going to tolerate any bullshit. “Jazz said something stupid to you, didn’t she.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m stupid,” Whitney said, leaning against the door again, hands knotted together. “Jasmine asked if I was Kev’s girlfriend – a ‘nice little girl,’ she said – and Kev said that no, we were just friends. And.” She took a deep breath. “I know that. I do. I think I just…” She gestured vaguely. “I’m sorry. Having a chick moment, I guess,” she said with a forced smile.

  Ava sighed, and looked queenly and wiser than her years. “I’m going to hit him. I swear. That moron.”

  So not the reaction Whitney had expected. “You’re…what?”

  “Kev, Kev, Kev,” Ava said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sick to death of these stupid boys denying themselves out of some kind of nobility shtick – which, they’re not noble, not a damn one of them – and accomplishing nothing but making everyone miserable. Idiots,” she huffed.

  Whitney could only stare, shocked.

  Ava grinned. “Mercy broke up with me when I was seventeen and told me, ‘It won’t hurt forever.’ The giant asshole. And then it did hurt forever, and what the hell did we gain by losing five years?”

  Whitney felt oddly privileged to have been given that kind of insight on part of the MC royal family, as it were. But she shook her head. “I think this is different, though.”

  Ava’s expression softened. “Whitney. I was seventeen, and I’d just miscarried our baby, and my dad threatened not to pay for college if Mercy didn’t leave me. It wasn’t your situation, no, but it was shitty.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” Whitney gasped. “I didn’t mean–”

  Ava waved off the apology. “Kev’s bi, and Ian’s possibly insane, and things are messy. Yeah. It’s not enviable. These boys don’t ever seem to get it right on the first try. You should talk to Sam about that,” she said with a snort, shaking her head. “But they’re worth it. If you care about him, and I know you do, then it’s worth sticking out the stupid until their heads catch up to their hearts and they stop sticking their giant booted feet in their mouth.” Her grin turned conspiratorial. “Hey, you’re twenty-one and not pregnant yet, so you’re doing better than me.”

  Whitney shook her head, but grinned. “How can you be so laid back about it?”

  Ava’s smile turned into a smirk. “Target practice. Hell of a stress reliever. The sex doesn’t hurt either.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  ~*~

  “How was I supposed to know?” Jasmine asked, looking both affronted and sorry, mouth at a harsh angle, eyes large and worried as she glanced between Carter and Tango. “I’m happy for you,” she said to Tango. “You don’t gotta get all prickly and ruin it for yourself, baby boy.”

  Tango sighed and got to his feet.

  “Just leave him alone,” he heard Carter say behind him. “He’s…I dunno. Fucked up or something.”

  The remark, said so casually, stung worse than it should have. Carter didn’t know about the razor blade and the bathtub, about Aidan dragging him out of the water and screaming at him not to be dead.

  And probably no one knew that he was hanging by a thread, still, and that Whitney was his main motivation to get up in the morning, though he couldn’t let himself touch her like he wanted, couldn’t ruin everything that way.

  Fuck.

  Whitney hadn’t bolted just now because of anything Jazz had said. But because of what had come out of his own stupid mouth. Just friends. He was an idiot.

  He settled on a stool at the bar, grateful there were no hangarounds tending tonight, and reached across for a bottle of whatever was in reach. Macallan. Ugh. But he got down a glass and poured himself a slug.

  Aidan climbed onto the stool beside him. “Shit, where’d that come from? Is that some shit Candy brought with him last time he was here?” He gestured to the bottle still held in Tango’s hand.

  Tango shrugged and poured another finger.

  “Whoa,” Aidan said, and leaned close, lowering his voice. “I’m not an expert–”

  “On anything.”

  “–but I’m pretty sure getting blind drunk isn’t the way to make you all warm and fuzzy inside. Also – dude, low blow.”

  Tango raised his glass. “I’m pretty sure getting drunk is the best way to get warm and fuzzy inside.”

  Aidan made a face that he would have laughed to see on himself only a year ago. It was a dad face.

  Tango pushed the drink away, intact. “I’m fucking it up,” he said. “I’m not trying to, but I am, and I can’t stop, apparently.”

  “Have you talked about it in your whatever-you-call-them?”

  “Sessions.”

  “Yeah, have you talked to Merc about it?” They were both whispering at this point.

  “A little.” Tango shrugged. “He said not to question it. To just go for it. But…”

  “But you’re guilt-tripping yourself, yeah, I figured.” More dad-face. “Look, bro, I tried all that pushing-away, it’s-for-your-own-good shit with Sam. And it didn’t go over well. And it didn’t help anything.” When Tango continued to stare at him, his expression softened. “You aren’t going to hurt her, or break her, or ruin her, man. Being with you isn’t going to be bad for her, not the way you’re thinking.”

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking.” But it was a weak protest.

  “Yeah, I do. And it’s stupid.”

  “Ugh.” He reached for the Scotch, threw it down with a grimace, and moved off the stool.

  Aidan clapped him on the shoulder on his way out. “You got this.”

  “I never thought I’d get tired of pep talks.”

  “Just wait. They’re gonna get peppier.”

  He ran into Ava in the dorm hallway, and when her d
ark eyes flicked up to his, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to pass her with a nod and keep going.

  She came to a halt, hands on her hips, and he wondered when exactly she’d gone from Aidan’s lanky little sister to this terrifying younger version of her mother.

  “You fucked up,” she said without malice.

  He nodded.

  “Fix it.” She pointed to the first door on the left, and patted him on the shoulder as she walked off.

  To be a boy who was snatched from his home at age seven, he somehow had this plethora of helpful mothers in his life now.

  Mostly helpful.

  With a sigh, he knocked once on the dorm door, said, “Whit, can I come in?” and tested the knob. It was unlocked, but he lingered in the threshold, waiting to get the okay from her.

  Whitney sat on the end of the bed, hands in her lap, expression pensive. She nodded right away, though, and said, “Come in,” in a quiet, distracted voice.

  He eased the door shut behind him and came to sit beside her, slowly, so she had a chance to move away if she wanted to.

  She didn’t.

  “Just friends,” she said, staring at her fingers as she twisted them together. A lock of hair fell forward against her cheek, and Tango itched to tuck it back behind her ear. He wanted to see her face, its dainty profile, the way her dark lashes lay against her cheeks, the way she chewed at her lower lip.

  He’d always been a sucker for a pretty girl, in a way that made him feel feverish and desperate. Like that time…

  He slammed the lid on his memories, heard the resounding thump of it echo through his head.

  And then caught himself.

  She wanted honesty, didn’t she? His whole biker family wanted him to open up, didn’t they?

  Fuck it. He’d open up. What else did he have to lose?

  “Whitney,” he said, and her eyes flicked toward him, a quick glimmer of blue. “When I say that you’re my friend, I mean that you’re really important to me.” He swallowed a rising lump in his throat. “Really important. And it doesn’t mean I don’t want more than friendship. ‘Cause I do. Trust me, I do.”

  Her head turned so she faced him fully. How lovely she was.

  “Shit,” he said, because he didn’t want this to be complicated. He longed to dump all his problems at her feet, and just let himself have her, whatever she’d give him, no matter how selfish that was.

  “Whit,” he tried again. “We’ve talked about this – how sex is weird for me.” Honesty it was going to be; here went nothing. “I can’t call you my girlfriend if I can’t be a good boyfriend. I won’t do that to you.” He dragged his hands through his hair, unable to look at her any longer.

  “I know what you said, and I know it wouldn’t be easy. But I think I deserve to have an opinion about it. It’s not any fun feeling like the little kid you’re trying to protect,” she said, quietly.

  He nodded down at his lap.

  “Ian’s still in love with you.”

  “That’s what he says.” It was hard to breathe.

  “Are you still in love with him?”

  He huffed a laugh. “I’m about to be one of those assholes who says there’s a difference between loving and being in love. Ah, Jesus.”

  It was quiet a beat, and then Whitney said, “I think maybe I really should find my own apartment.”

  Pain sliced through his ribs, an acute physical reaction to the thought that he might lose her so quickly, so easily. “No,” he blurted, gaze swinging back to her.

  She gave him a patient, pained look. “If me being around makes it more difficult for you–”

  “No, it doesn’t. You don’t.” He hated himself for making all of this so muddy and difficult. “Last night was the best sleep of my life.”

  “But, Kev–”

  Enough, a voice in the back of his head snapped. Fucking enough already. He’d pushed her away, and he’d denied both of them, and he just…he just…

  He leaned into the space that separated them, captured her face in his hands and hauled her in close to kiss her.

  It was soft at first, just a brushing of lips. Whitney froze in surprise, and he felt her sharp exhalation.

  He swept his thumbs across her cheeks, warm and soft, and pressed in a little closer, asking for just a little more. Coaxing. He could taste the sweetness of her, the way she was nothing lascivious and calculating, only innocent and kind…and in love with him. Yes, he could taste that. And the sugar rush of it left him wondering why he’d ever thought he could hold out long-term.

  Then Whitney sighed and melted. All the tension bled out of her in a gentle rush, and her hands landed on his chest. Her mouth opened beneath the easy flick of his tongue, and then he was inside it, hot and slick as blood.

  She made a muffled little sound that sent pleased chills skittering across his skin. It felt good to her. It felt good. And even if he was good for absolutely nothing, he knew how to pleasure people.

  He’d been looking at this the wrong way. It wasn’t about ruining her. It was about taking the opportunity to make her first time spectacular. Because he couldn’t talk about his past without breaking down, and he couldn’t keep from stocking his medicine cabinet with razors, but he could do this for her, by God. He could give her the time of her life.

  It’s what The Nest had trained him for, after all.

  He broke the kiss to trail his lips, feather-light, across her cheek. Pressed a wet kiss just under her ear, and felt her shiver. He let his hands ghost down her body, glancing pressure at her collarbones, her breasts, and finally her hips, where he latched on.

  “Let’s go home, baby,” he whispered in her ear, and she nodded.

  ~*~

  Maybe it was stupid (read: pathetic), but Tango was a little bit proud of himself for pumping the brakes at the clubhouse. Restraint wasn’t really his game, and yet he’d paused, pulled back from the brink, no matter how painful it had been to rearrange his jeans and walk back through the clubhouse, say his goodnights to everyone. Ava had given him a knowing and pleased little smile, like maybe she was proud of him too. And he figured that Whitney’s blood would cool on the drive back to the apartment, and she wouldn’t want to continue. But if that was the case, so be it. He owed her more than a dirty romp in a clubhouse dorm. He owed her some important information.

  He caught her shooting him looks as they headed up the iron staircase, but it was too dark to get a good read on her.

  He was almost afraid to flip on the lights when they got inside, afraid he’d see rejection on her face, but did so anyway, taking too long to hang up his jacket and cut, finally meeting her gaze when he offered to take her coat.

  The emotion in her eyes brought him up short. It was trust. Complete and total, adoring trust.

  Dear God, please let him be worthy of that.

  He fumbled to get her coat on the rack without looking, clearing his throat. “Um, okay, well, it’s okay if you…if you don’t…”

  She smiled like she thought it was cute that he couldn’t string a sentence together. “Weren’t we in the middle of something?”

  Oh. Oh yes they were.

  The idea that she still wanted to, that she wanted him, was potent as good brandy, the kind Ian kept in his office. His hand found her waist and he was kissing her again, gentle but warm, with the promise –

  “No,” he gasped, pulling back, forcing his hands off her.

  Whitney looked devastated.

  “No, I meant, just…hold on. For a sec. There’s something I need to tell you. First. Shit, I’m…”

  “Incredibly awkward? I picked up on that, believe it or not.”

  Tango sighed and tried to smile. “I don’t usually have sex with people I care about.”

  Whitney, sweet little inexperienced Whitney, slid an arm around his waist and steered him toward the bedroom. Bless her.

  They sat down on the end of the bed together, and he realized she was trying to recreate the moment back at the clubhouse. A good
plan, especially considering they were now alone, and it was quiet, and the rumpled covers behind them smelled like them, and no one else.

  Whitney rested her head on his shoulder and Tango put his arm around her, thankful for the chance to talk without looking at one another.

  “Okay, so,” he started. “If we’re gonna…then I want us to go into it knowing all the facts. Or you knowing. I’m the one with all the skeletons.”

  “Kev,” she said, gently.

  “I’ve been with a lot of people,” he said, rushing to get it over with. “Mostly men, and mostly safe, but some of it not.” When the clients had been even bigger jackasses than normal. “But I went and got tested. And I’m clean. I wanted you to know that I’m totally clean. I wanted you to know that–” His voice cracked. “I wouldn’t put you at risk like that. I couldn’t live with myself if I got you sick.”

  There. He’d said it. The silence felt heavy and judgmental, and…

  “Oh sweetie,” she said, snuggling in deep beside him. “I trust you.”

  He finally turned his head to look at her, and couldn’t believe how sweet and wonderful she was. “I don’t know why,” he said.

  “Because I care about you, too.” She leaned up to kiss him, tentative and careful, still so new to all this.

  He cupped the back of her head and angled the kiss, adjusted the way their mouths fit, and felt all the awful tension start a slow bleed out of his body. He was clean. He could teach her, take care of her. He could – and for the first time, he didn’t try to run from that realization.

  “Come here, baby,” he urged, and put his hands on her waist.

  She shuffled forward on her knees and let him guide her so she straddled his lap, his hands anchoring her waist.

  Tango pushed a smile across his face, that dreamy smile he’d used at the club, lewd at the edges with the promise of sex, but soft enough to melt grown men. “You’re perfect, you know that?” he asked, and kissed her, nipped lightly at her lower lip.