Ghost’s voice floated down from above. “You were there, weren’t you? At The Nest?”
Kev could only nod, voice too tight to speak.
“How long were you there?” Ghost pressed.
Kev couldn’t answer, trying to breathe, trying not to pass out.
“Where are your parents?”
“Dad,” Aidan protested.
The sound of heavy boots echoed against the linoleum as Ghost moved around the table to get to them. When Kev tipped his head back, his airway closed, and he saw the man’s harsh frown, the darkness of his eyes.
“Dad,” Aidan said again.
And Kev passed out.
~*~
He was in bed when he came to. Which meant someone had carried him back to the bedroom, handled him while he was unconscious. He wondered if he’d been touched. He clenched his thighs together, searching for tenderness, the telltale burn of post-penetration – but didn’t find it.
Early sunlight filtered through the window blinds, slanted stripes of shadow across the covers on the bed.
Kev rolled onto his side and saw the desk chair pulled up beside the bed, Ghost sitting on it, arms folded, still dark and menacing as before. Aidan wasn’t there; it was just the two of them.
But Ghost’s voice was gentle when he said, “You’re one of her dancing boys, aren’t you?”
Kev swallowed hard and nodded, pillow rustling beneath his cheek.
Ghost sighed. Long, and deep, and weary. “Shit,” he muttered. “For how long?”
The truth sat like a tight ball of sickness high in his gut. If he let it come up his throat, let it out into the room, then Ghost would know about the cancer of the spirit that lay deep in his bones. He would know about the clients, about the dancing, about the man whose house he’d fled. And worse yet, he might turn him back over to Miss Carla, and she would punish him for spilling her secrets. That he knew without question.
“Kev. Kiddo.” Ghost leaned forward and placed one of his large, rough hands gently on top of Kev’s head, cupped carefully over the dome of his skull. Kev shuddered. “I burned that goddamn place to the ground. You will never go back there again. She can’t touch you anymore, I promise you that.”
The awful ball rolled in his stomach, and he gasped, all the air forced out of his lungs. “Never?” he asked, weakly.
“Never. Hand to God.”
And finally, finally, for the first time, the soul-quenching tears of relief came, pouring silently down his face.
And tears of grief, too, because what about Ian? What about Ian?
~*~
Ghost Teague was a hard-working, sharp-tongued, matter-of-fact blue collar man, but there was a certain rough poetry to the way he spun a tale.
Miss Carla’s real name, as Ghost told it, was Carla Burgess, and she was – again, in his words – a notorious bitch of a madam. That’s what you called a woman who held the leashes of prostitutes: a madam. Ghost called her other things, obscenities laced with truths Kev knew all too well, chiefly that Miss Carla’s boys weren’t prostitutes, but property. Stolen boys made to dance and perform, because she liked the money…and because she liked the spectacle. And what she did was very, very illegal.
She’d never been arrested, though, because apparently she had a PD connection, and because the club kept moving around. Sometimes it stayed in place for only a few weeks, but Kev knew the latest location had been in place for at least two years, as long as he’d been there.
What surprised him was Ghost’s apology. “We always knew she had to be somewhere, and that she wasn’t getting picked up by PD anytime soon, but we should have pursued her. I’m sorry, kid. I should have taken her out a long time ago, then this wouldn’t have happened to you.”
What were the Lean Dogs, then? That they could “take someone out”?
“What happened to them?” he asked, voice a croak.
Ghost didn’t seem to need any clarification on “them.” “We burned the place to the ground. The FD’s gonna have a field day with it. Took out a few of her thugs.” He shrugged. No big deal; like he killed people all the time. “Made it look like an accident. But” – and here he looked regretful – “Carla and her boys were already gone. They’re on the run.”
Oh God. Ian. Ian, Ian, Ian.
“All of them?”
Ghost’s expression softened. “You have friends there, yeah?”
He nodded, throat constricting too hard to speak.
“We’ll find them,” Ghost said, and it sounded like a promise.
~*~
“You know the story after that.” Tango sipped from his fourth cup of coffee – he was going to regret this later – and tapped ash off his third cigarette. “Ghost found my aunt – Mom was already dead. She killed herself,” he said, without inflection.
Sure she’d never find him, exhausted, unemployed, Mama filled the bathtub and drew a razor across both wrists. Like mother like son. It ran in the family, the urge to end oneself.
Mama’s sister, Anne, had taken him in; she’d moved to Knoxville and they’d settled into a modest duplex near the high school, where he was enrolled and went to class with Aidan.
A small part of him marveled that he could sit in a chair like this, calmly smoking, and talk about the total reversal of his young, fucked-up life without shaking apart at his many fault lines. That must be the Lean Dog in him taking over, the hardened biker riding out the ice floes of doubt and heartbreak that his real self couldn’t handle.
Mercy drew a massive breath into his massive chest and said, “You’re still thinking about that real therapist, right?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Twenty-Four
There were of course parts of his story that he didn’t have to tell Mercy. Parts that he already knew, and had even been involved in, to an extent.
His recapture. The second act of his personal Shakespearean tragedy.
He knew who needed to hear that story.
~*~
Being back at work helped in a different, but just as important way. It was the same job, the same steady stream of Harleys and imports, the same old tools, and greasy rags, and low wooden benches, and big heaters they used to keep the shop warm in the winter months. But after his stint in the basement, back on heroin, he’d lost sight of the magic of having a job – having this job. Ghost Teague had trained him, mostly raised him, and gifted him with this mechanic position, which he’d never dreamed of and never thought he could deserve.
He’d lost sight of his blessings. He hated himself for that.
Evening was settling in quick and dark, and he was just finishing up for the day, stowing his tools in the large red Craftsman chests between the bays, when he heard a female voice call, “Hey, Handsome.”
He turned and saw that it was Jazz, her too-thin denim jacket buttoned tight against the cold, the strategic rips in her jeans revealing tan skin pebbled with goosebumps. She looked sexy, because she always did, but she also looked cold, and she had on too much makeup, and she looked tired to Tango. Maybe it was all the time he’d spent in Whitney’s young presence…but mostly he thought it was Jasmine’s lifestyle catching up to her, finally. She’d spent her entire adult life partying as hard as she could, and it had dimmed her inner light.
“Looking for Carter?” he asked. “I think he went to talk to Mags.”
“No, looking for you, actually.” She climbed up onto the picnic table and patted the wood beside her. “Come sit with me.”
He hesitated, and both of them realized that he did at once, Jazz’s smile freezing, his stomach dropping. It was the first time he’d ever hesitated in their history together. Things had changed. They didn’t have a claim on each other anymore.
Tango felt a brief pang of sadness as he walked out and climbed up beside her, there and gone again. They had both moved on; there was nothing close to heartbreak between them.
Jazz cupped the top of his knee with one hand. “How you doin’, baby boy?”
&nbs
p; He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, enjoying the scrape of cold air in his lungs, eyes spotting the faint ghosts of stars along the purpling horizon, waiting to come fully into view. “I’m doing okay,” he said, and it didn’t feel like an empty statement this time.
“Yeah?” She sent him a soft, sad smile. “No more bad thoughts in there?” She reached and tapped his temple with a fingertip.
“Only manageable ones.”
She knocked her shoulder sideways into his. “You’re not funny.”
“Never have been.”
“I’m serious, though, Tango.”
He took another deep breath; it felt cleansing. Healing. It felt good. “I’m better. I’m working through it.”
“I’m glad.” She relaxed against his side, head resting on his shoulder. “You finally found a sweet little good girl to settle down with.”
“I’m not settled down, Jazz. It’s still early.”
“Whatever. She’s exactly what you always needed. I can tell.”
“Jazz the Mystic and Powerful.”
“Shut up.” She shifted a little closer as the sun swept out of sight below the trees, and the wind tightened its chill grip around them. She had something on her mind; he could feel its weight, pressed up tight to the edge of his shoulder, filling her head. She shivered and said, “Carter said I was his old lady yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
Her voice came out almost shy, which he could safely say he’d never heard before. “He tried to give me some money. Shit, I told him no, that I wouldn’t take his charity. But he said he was going to take care of his old lady.” She let out a breath that was part-surprised, part-worried. “I’ve been hanging around here almost twenty-five years, and ain’t nobody ever wanted me to be his old lady.”
He turned his head a fraction so he could kiss the top of her head. She smelled like hair spray. “You deserve it.”
“Said one whore to another.”
“Yep.” He slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Absolutely.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Letting go of you. That was a shitty thing to do. All of a sudden, the way I did it.”
He rubbed her arm, and for the first time, touching her felt platonic. “Nah,” he assured. “I’m not sure you ever really had me.”
~*~
It was full dark by the time he headed home, the Christmas lights in the shop windows along Main Street shining happily, the illuminated swags on the lampposts reflecting along dark upper stories, dazzling in stray puddles. The air smelled of snow, and Frasier fir as he passed the tree lot set up on the corner.
Would Whitney like a tree? The thought flickered through his mind and found soft places to take root. Yes, Whitney ought to have a tree.
By the time he pulled up behind her car in the alley, he was smiling to himself. A strange lightness echoed in his chest.
He was happy, he realized. Right now, in this moment, he was happy. Happy for Jazz, happy to have laid his demons out in the light. He was thinking about Christmas trees and the pretty girl waiting for him upstairs, and he was happy. Imagine that.
He took the iron stairs two at a time and let himself into the apartment to find Whitney standing in his kitchen, peering out at the Christmas lights on the street, smiling to herself, the smell of sautéed onions curling around her in visible wisps of steam.
“Hi,” she greeted, turning away from the window to give him one of her guileless, beautiful smiles. She had the sleeves of her sweater pushed up, a wooden spoon in her hand; her socks were a thick gray wool with little snowflakes on them.
The sight of her hit him hard, a fierce shove against his breastbone. He was in love with her.
He didn’t return her greeting. He crossed the small apartment in a few strides, captured her face in both hands, and kissed her, long and deep.
Her breath hitched when he pulled back, a little puff of surprise against his lips. “Hi,” she repeated, warm and melty this time.
He smiled so wide it actually hurt. “Hi.” Then he had to let go of her, or risk setting her up on the counter and ruining his plans for the evening. “What are you making?”
“Uh…” she said, pink-cheeked and flustered, and Tango grinned to himself. “Spaghetti.”
“Sounds good.” And it did; his bachelor life’s version of spaghetti came in a can. “How long ‘til it’s ready?”
“Well, I was about to put the tomato sauce in, and then the sauce needs to simmer about thirty minutes. Hungry?”
“No. Well, yeah, I am. But I want to do something first, before we eat.”
She gave him a knowing look, smile turning sultry at the edges. Shit, when had she learned how to do that? “Okay.”
“Oh! No, not that. Well, um, yes that, but later.” He scrubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “I wondered if maybe you wanted to walk over and get a tree.”
Whitney abandoned all pretenses of seduction and gasped. “Really? You would do that?”
“Yeah, what do you say?”
“I say yes! Hold on, let me…and then I’ll just get my coat…”
He went to fetch her jacket for her, that lightness in his chest somehow expanding.
They left the sauce simmering, vowed to be quick, called themselves idiots for leaving the stove on purposefully, and made the short walk down the sidewalk to the tree lot. They picked out a small tree (“Look at you two cuties,” the woman working the till said), and Tango lugged it back home while Whitney carried the stand they’d bought to put it in.
“I’ve never actually set one of these up,” he admitted when they got back to the apartment and he stood with the fir propped against the front wall, hands sticky with sap.
“It’s easy,” Whitney assured. “If you’ve got the muscle, I’ve got the know-how.”
With minimal cursing, and only a few near-disasters, they got the tree all set up in the corner, its stand full of fresh cold water, its branches slowly relaxing now that the plastic mesh had been cut away.
Tango admired their handiwork and said, “Well, shit, we don’t have lights or ornaments.”
“We could go get some after we eat,” Whitney offered, coming to lean up against his side. His arm slipped around her automatically. “Home Depot will still be open.”
“Hmm,” he said, noncommittally. It was cold, and dark, and the prospect of fighting through the crowded Home Depot garden center didn’t appeal to him all that much right now.
Whitney leaned in a little closer, her small body warm against his, through their clothes. “Or we could just stay in.”
“Yeah.” Something sharp and painful turned over inside him, something he knew had to come out. “Yeah, I…Whit, I need to tell you something.” He glanced down at her and saw that her face was tipped up, her expression concerned. “I need to explain it to you. Why I…why I am the way that I am.”
He hated himself already, but he knew he needed this one last test. One more chance to push her away with the horrible truth of his past. If she could survive this story, then she could survive all of it. He was in love with her, and he couldn’t turn her loose at this point, not even to spare her. But he could share his dark secrets with her, and let her walk away on her own, if she wanted. He owed her that, at least.
One last chance to save her from himself, the Dogs, all of it.
She swallowed, eyes already a little wet, and said, “Okay. I’ll fix our plates and then okay, you can tell me whatever you need to, sweetie.”
Holy shit, here went nothing…
~*~
It was probably a good thing Tango had no idea what a regular sixteen-year-old’s life was like, because he was pretty sure being a sixteen-year-old Lean Dog would have broken a regular kid’s brain.
A fist pounded on the door, and Ghost’s voice echoed through: “Five minutes! Get your asses out here!”
In the mirror above the dorm room dresser, Tango buttoned his gray flannel shi
rt and checked that his eyes weren’t too bloodshot.
Beside him, Aidan raked his hair into shape and flashed a pretend smirk at his reflection, image-conscious as ever.
Behind them on the bed, Misty took her cigarette from her mouth. “Boys,” she whined, “do you have to go? Really?”
“Really, doll, sorry,” Aidan said, grinning in a smug, self-satisfied way as he turned around to face her.
Tango turned too, and he was too tired and spent to take much interest in the naked, disheveled state of the groupie lounging back on the bed, plumping her breasts together with her arms and pouting at them. She wrapped her lips around the cigarette filter in an unmistakable way.
She sighed dramatically, chest heaving. “I’ll miss you.” A mischievous grin cut across her mouth. “Later, then.”
“Absolutely,” Aidan said, and leaned forward to tweak her nipple, earning a squeal of a laugh, as they headed for the door.
In the hallway, the door shut behind them, Aidan clapped Tango on the shoulder and kept his hand there, squeezing. “You okay?”
Tango pulled in a deep breath and could smell sex on both of them, the scent of the woman they’d just shared. He always wondered, secretly, if Aidan thought it was weird to do it that way. Personally, after nothing but sex with men, he found it a little comforting having his best friend with him.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Aidan’s hand squeezed again. “You’ve been kinda quiet.”
He snorted. “I’m always kinda quiet.”
The hallway emptied and spilled them out into the crowded common room, preventing further discussion.
“Finally,” Ghost said, shooting them an exasperated look. “Get laid on your own time.”
Up by the bar, James held court, explaining their next run.
Tango tuned him out. He knew he shouldn’t; what he did with the club was dangerous. But Ghost would repeat it to him and Aidan later, whether he listened or not. And it sounded like it was just a regular run, escorting a truck full of hidden guns. Unless they were pulled over by the cops – and even then they had protocols in play and good camo to keep their wares from being found – or ambushed by a rival club, the run would handle itself. All he had to do was fall in formation, and make sure Maggie wrote him a note excusing him from school.
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 29