The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3)

by Gilley, Lauren

  Across the way, he was pulling the stripper astride him, and it was obvious his jeans were undone.

  Emmie felt her cheeks warm, but she kept her cool, turned to give the other woman a raised-brow look. “Don’t you just love the way he respects her?”

  They both laughed together, and Maggie’s smile looked genuine, her eyes dancing. “God,” she said with a sigh, “I remember my first club party. Waaaay back. I was sixteen,” she said with a glance that was wondering if Emmie would judge her.

  Emmie didn’t.

  “And the second I walked in, there was a guy laid out on the pool table, and a girl was going down on him, and I freaked the hell out.” She laughed again, quietly. “I was halfway down the street before Ghost caught up to me.”

  “He convinced you to come back?”

  “No, he took me to an all-night diner and we had chocolate chip pancakes.” Her smile was directed inward, toward her memories. “And he made me a promise. He said no matter what I saw, no matter how crazy things got, none of that would ever touch me. ‘You’re not a conquest,’ he told me. ‘You’re my girl, and no one else’s.’”

  “They’ve all got a sweet side, don’t they?” Emmie asked.

  Maggie nodded. “The good ones do.”

  ~*~

  Aidan dropped his head to whisper in Tonya’s ear. “Wishing that was you and me?”

  Up close, he could see her cheeks flush, see her skin prickle with gooseflesh. Her eyes were trained on RJ, where one of the naked club girls straddled him, working herself against him, the trailing tail of his belt proving this wasn’t a dry-humping situation.

  “This place is disgusting,” she whispered, but her eyes told a different story when they flashed to his face. Her gaze said Fuck me.

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  Her hand was trembling when he took hold of it, and he knew it had nothing to do with nerves. He led her through the crowd and out of the clubhouse, the clean air punching down into his lungs. He hadn’t even had a drink yet, but he was buzzing.

  Tonya ran her hands up and down his back while he unlocked the bike shop. She pressed her breasts up against him as she followed him through the dark lobby and out into the garage bays.

  The lights came on with a loud thrum, flooding the space with harsh fluorescent light. The customer bike he’d been working on earlier was still parked in the center of the first bay, and the sight of it gave him an idea. One that got him hard.

  When he turned to Tonya, she braced her palms on his chest, leaned forward on her toes.

  “Kiss me,” she said, breathlessly.

  “No.” He hooked his hands in the front of her dress and gave a sharp tug. The silk split down the middle with a tearing sound, and she gasped, but didn’t move to cover herself.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples were hard, aroused points, rosy thanks to her full-body flush. Aidan pinched them between his fingers, harder than he should have, until he heard her swift intake of breath.

  He bent his head toward her, hovered his lips above hers; her neck softened and she tried to melt against him. He held back, not quite kissing her. “Turn around, and put your hands on the bike.”

  “No, I–”

  “Do it.”

  The light in her eyes was feral as she turned to comply, bracing both hands on the bike seat, arching her back and popping her ass toward him. She glanced over her shoulder in silent challenge, egging him on.

  She was going to regret that.

  He pushed up the hem of her dress, all the way up, over her ass, bunched it up at her waist. The rustle of the silk wound him tighter, made his hands jerkier, crueler. She’d told the truth about the no-panties thing, and visible in the dim glow of the garage lights, her sex was already wet and glistening with arousal.

  There wasn’t a drop of blood in his brain at this point, all of it funneling down his body, pounding in his cock with each heartbeat. Nothing in the world mattered as much as getting inside her. He tore at the fastenings of his jeans, freeing his erection. He didn’t take the time to test her with his fingers, stretch her, ready her. He braced a hand on the small of her back, aligned their bodies, and drove into her. Hard.

  Tonya made a sound that was part-yelp, part-moan, and it electrified him. He latched onto her hips and started moving, let the need to thrust into her again and again take over.

  He was rough, hammering into her, digging into her hips with his fingers until he knew he’d leave dark bruises. Her hands slipped on the bike and she almost fell, catching herself at the last moment. He didn’t relent, just kept up the driving rhythm, until he could hear his skin smacking against hers; his hands and her hips were so slick with sweat he could barely hold onto her.

  It wasn’t about Tonya. As he fucked her like a club groupie in the goddamn garage where he worked on bikes, he knew that this moment had nothing to do with her. He’d wanted it to. He’d been attracted to her. Physically, yes…but he’d liked her fire. Had thought that meant something. That maybe she was…special. Something. He didn’t know. She was supposed to be different, the cool, calm, classy broad he needed in his life.

  But she was just a slut with issues, like every girl he’d ever fucked before.

  She let out a high, keening cry as she came, and he didn’t care, bearing down on her harder, working those last hard thrusts to his own release. And that’s all it was for him – a release. Because there was no satisfaction in it.

  He pulled out and turned away from her, straightened his clothes, zipped up. Pushed his sweat-slick hands through his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  He hadn’t changed at all, had he? Same old fuckup Aidan. Same habit, different pussy.

  Tonya’s breathing slowly evened out behind him. Her stilettos clipped across the concrete, and her hands latched onto his triceps. “Aidan.” Her voice was deep, ragged, satiated.

  “We’re leaving,” he said. “We’re done.”

  ~*~

  “Were you the first one to leave?” Holly asked, grinning, as Michael braced a hand on the arm of the couch and leaned down to kiss her. He tasted like smoke and whiskey, and stank of cigarettes, the scent falling off his leather jacket and cut.

  His mouth twitched as he pulled back. “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t have to. We’re fine here. Lucy’s been down for about a half hour. And that guy who was looking in the windows is gone now, right?”

  He sighed and dropped down beside her, arm draping absently across her lap, one hand curling around her knee. “Yeah.” He glanced at the TV and frowned. “What the hell are you watching?”

  She covered his hand with hers. “It’s this cooking competition. They’re making cupcakes, but they have time limits, and they have to use certain ingredients.”

  “Exciting.”

  “It’s fun,” she defended. “And it’s given me some new recipe ideas. How do you feel about maple bacon cupcakes with buttercream frosting?”

  He glanced over and gave her one of his little twitchy Michael-smiles. “You’re a wild woman, Mrs. McCall.”

  “Wilder than you. Why’d you leave the party early?”

  He shrugged and his eyes went back to the TV.

  “I thought things were better. With you and the guys.” Much to her delight, he’d been making friends with all of them. He was never going to be a high-fiving, what’s-up-bro kind of friend, but he had bonds with his brothers now, Mercy and Walsh especially. She and Ava had even managed a double dinner date a couple of times.

  “They are.”

  She stroked his knuckles. Even in summer, they were chapped from the wind, all those hours on the bike. “You’re just not a party animal, are you?”

  He didn’t comment, but his hand tightened on her knee.

  “That’s fine with me.” She leaned sideways, so she could rest her head against his shoulder. “I’d rather have you home, watching cupcake competitions.”

  He snorted, and she knew it meant me too.


  ~*~

  Ava was far enough along that she was in the habit of talking to her belly. Partly because at eight months, the baby felt very much a part of the family, but also because he was a kicker, and their voices seemed to quiet him. “There’s Daddy,” she said as Mercy came in through the back door. “Do you hear him?” She laid a hand on her stomach. “It sounds like there’s a water buffalo shuffling around in my mud room when he takes his boots off. Daddy’s loud,” she added in a stage whisper as Mercy stepped into the kitchen.

  “In Daddy’s defense, so’s Mama when she gets worked up.” He grinned and stepped in to kiss her, put an arm around her and tucked her against him. Even when she was hugely pregnant, he made her feel small. “Baby, why are you on your feet? Go sit down.”

  “He’s restless,” she said, rubbing her belly. “So I’m walking laps. How was the party? You smell like a Marlboro manufacturing plant, so I’m guessing there was a good turnout.”

  “Meh.” He shrugged and steered her toward the living room, and the sofa. “The usual. Walsh brought his girl.”

  “How’d that go?”

  They reached the couch and he helped her lower down, sitting beside her afterward and pulling against his side. “I didn’t talk to her, but she seemed alright, actually. Some of ‘em get that look, you know? Like they can’t believe any of it. But she seemed cool. Saw her sitting with your mom.”

  “The hazer, you mean?”

  “She’s just gotta break ‘em in. You’d do it, if Mags didn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  He chuckled. “Oh yeah, you would.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Anyway. So Emmie’s gonna stick around, do you think?”

  “For Walsh’s sake, I hope so. Not that he’d ever say it or anything, but he’s got it bad.”

  Ava smiled. “I’ve always had this theory about Walsh.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think he’s a total closet Romeo. I think he’s secretly romantic as hell.”

  “I’m telling him you said that.”

  “No, don’t!”

  Mercy laughed. “Too late, it’s out there. I can’t un-think it, and I can’t not say it.”

  “Don’t embarrass him, Merc.”

  “You’re bossy when you’re pregnant.” He squeezed her shoulders and grinned. “I like it.”

  “You’re a doof.” She settled against him more fully, the fatigue washing through her now that she was off her feet. “And now I’m gonna have two doof sons.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky lady.”

  ~*~

  Walsh realized, as the party began to wind down and the local members dispersed, that he’d been waiting for something to happen. His nerves had danced all evening as he waited for Emmie to be offended, to be outraged, to stomp up to him with eyes flashing. It had to be too much for a respectable girl like her – his club world. But he watched her talk to Maggie, saw the tension leave her small shoulders. He’d heard her laugh, had watched her wave a hand through a cloud of cigarette smoke and smile rather than frown.

  It was midnight, and they sat side-by-side on a bench out in front of the clubhouse, the damp night air clearing the secondhand smoke from their nostrils. Their elbows rubbed together, and it was a casual, familiar, comforting touch. It felt like the beginning of coexistence, something more lasting than just sex or protection.

  She took a deep breath that sounded tired, but wasn’t a sigh. “So that’s a club party.”

  “Yep.”

  “Holly and Ava were home with their kids?”

  “Yeah. Ava usually comes when she can.”

  “But she’s very pregnant.”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not always like this. Some parties are wilder. Some are more like family dinners. Just depends.”

  “Hmm.” She nodded, and it sent her shimmering blonde curls falling forward along her face. She pushed them back and gave him a searching look. “Walsh, why do I get the impression you’re still nervous?”

  “Ah…” He exhaled loudly. “Shit.” He faced her, feeling stupid, feeling exposed, unsure how else to do it. This normal, decent, dedicated girl was prying up the veneer of club, getting to the Kingston beneath, and that was terrifying, and he was ill-equipped to handle it. So he had to be honest, for lack of any other plan. “I’m waiting on you to disappear on me,” he said, grimly. “I’m waiting on you to decide it’s too much, load up your horse, and get as far away from all of this as you can.”

  She smiled faintly, and her shoulders slumped. “Glad to hear you’re so confident in my loyalty.”

  “I’ve never seen loyalty anywhere outside the club.”

  She studied him a moment, absorbing the statement. “That might be true, but I wish it wasn’t. Because loyalty exists in other places. It has to…I want it to.” Her voice faded and she glanced away, across the dark parking lot. “Walsh, I’ve spent my whole life working toward something that was never really there. I didn’t ever have a goal, really. I was just loyal. Sometimes I wish that was a habit I could shake.” Her eyes came back to him. “But I can’t. I’m hardwired. And my life may have taken a turn, but I haven’t. I’m your wife. I’m an MC old lady now. And I never thought I’d be one of those, but I’m not one to back down from a challenge,” she said, firmly. “So I’m telling you right now that I’m not going anywhere. I’m not your Rita. And I’m not my mother. I’m here, Walsh. And I’m staying.”

  When he put his arm around her, she came up into his lap; she opened her mouth against his when he kissed her.

  His. Like a benediction inside his head: his, his, his.

  Thirty-Four

  The woman patting him down was stunning: African-American with caramel hair and a body of feminine curves not disguised by her jeans and casual t-shirt.

  “Careful there, Foxy Brown,” he told her as her hands slid to his front pockets. “You might find something there you can’t handle.” He laughed.

  She glanced up at him through her lashes as she felt down both his legs, face expressionless. “Call me that again, and I’ll handle it right off your pasty-ass self with a dull knife and feed it to you.”

  Harlan forced the smile off his face. “Noted.”

  She stood, which put her a good inch taller than him. She was a large woman, and her gleaming arms were padded with muscle. She wasn’t an attack dog, or a bodyguard, or one of the hired guns, was just an assistant of some sort, but was threatening, and whatever else she did for her boss, she took care of herself too.

  “Come with me,” she said, and led him forward down the hall, between a matched pair of thugs with biceps the size of Christmas hams.

  Don had beefed up security since their last encounter. Beefed up his entire enterprise, by the looks of it. From a tumbled-down house to this place: an abandoned, renovated strip mall, four storefronts converted into one giant office, all but a few of the streetside windows bricked up for safety’s sake.

  Foxy led him down a tight hallway that switched back again and again, forks splitting it here and there. Another security measure. They arrived at door with a key card which she swiped them through, and into a spacious room tricked out with plush chairs, couches, tables arranged with magazines, potted plants. A wall-mounted TV was playing CNN without the sound.

  “Wait here,” she told him, and used her card to go through a second door, leaving him alone.

  Sort of alone. Four cameras, one in each corner of the ceiling, watched him.

  Okay, so Don was doing well.

  The second door opened and Foxy stuck her head through. “You can come in,” she said, with obvious contempt. She pushed the door wide and motioned him through it – damn, she smelled nice. Like vanilla and flowers.

  But then all thoughts of her vanished, as he got a look at the room, and the man behind the desk.

  They were in Nashville, and somehow, the office reflected that. Bright red plush carpet, black and white Victorian wallpaper. Sleek chrome and glass furnishi
ngs, and on the walls, lit up with playbill bulbs, were country music concert posters. It was like the lobby of a theater. Flashy, tacky, but somehow fitting, given the city. And Don Ellison – a complete contradiction.

  Tall, built like a bull, square-jawed, he looked like a lineman, or an escaped convict who’d enjoyed his yard time, rough, grizzled, and out of place in his sport coat and open-throated oxford.

  “Grey.” The man’s voice was a whole truckload of gravel dumping out into the room. “I heard you got canned.”

  Harlan ground his molars. “Word travels fast, then.”

  “I have eyes and ears.”

  Which was exactly why he was here. You went up against the Lean Dogs, and by proxy, Shaman, then you needed to bring the big guns to the table.

  “So do I,” Harlan said. “And I hear you’d like to move into east Tennessee.”

  Don shrugged. “Who doesn’t want to expand?”

  “I hear you’re thinking of taking on the Dogs. Maybe even your old boss.”

  For about five years, Don had worked as one of Shaman’s most successful dealers, before he’d decided to break out on his own. According to the rumors in the Bureau, the split had been a nasty one, and now there was no love lost between the two men. No one truly understood how many pies Shaman had his fingers in, or what his ultimate endgame was. But Don was a straightforward guy. He wanted to make money, and he wanted to expand.

  “I hear you took out one of Ghost Teague’s dealers, and the dumbass doesn’t even know it was you.”

  Don’s face creased heavily as he frowned. “You’ve been talking to that Richards kid. That little shit.”

  “I have.” Harlan stepped closer to the desk, growing more excited as he drew on his research. “He’s got a bad case of talking too much, and he told me some things. He said you’ve got ties to the Gannon & Gannon development firm. That you were going to use that condo village to get a toehold in Knoxville, fly in under the radar.”

  The lack of reaction meant Harlan was right, and he grinned triumphantly. “Are you gonna take out Teague’s dealers one at a time? Is that how you think you’ll get him to sit up and take notice of you?”