“What things? The club? The tats? Or the fact that I got–”
“You only tell her what you want to!” Aidan was too tired and weak not to be exasperated “Do you think the guys in this club are totally honest with their old ladies?”
Tango’s blue eyes glimmered with emotion; anger tightened his jaw until the cords in his neck stood out. “Some of them are.”
Aidan snorted. “Sorry I don’t have another sister for you to hook up with.”
Tango gathered himself, tightening all over, like he was preparing to stand, but all he did was turn his head away. When he swallowed, the movement of his throat looked painful.
“Shit.” Aidan sighed. “Kev, you know that all of us – that Dad, and Mags, and Ava and Merc and me – know what happened to you. And we don’t care, and we love you. You’ve got us.” He leaned forward, not caring that his brownie slid off the plate onto the blanket. “You’ve got us.”
Another big, painful, throat-jerking swallow.
“But I think, for you, we’re not enough,” he added as gently as he could, because he didn’t mean it as an insult. “I think you need something we can’t give you.”
“You make it sound like there’s something wrong with me.”
“There is. You’re sad as fuck all the time lately.”
Tango dropped his forehead into his hand. His pale lashes flickered as he blinked. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t gotta be sorry about it.”
“No…I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said against his wrist. “The day you crashed, I shoulda been there. I shoulda been with you. But I was–” He drew in a shallow, ragged breath. “Jesus,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I was–”
“Ian,” Aidan said grimly, and knew it was true when Tango didn’t respond. “You went to see him, didn’t you?”
Silence was his answer.
“Damn it, man. Why? Why would you do that to yourself?”
Tango shook his head. “We’ve just had lunch a few times. Just…not as Tango and Shaman. It’s got nothing to do with the club and his business.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, dude. Why do that to yourself?”
“I can handle it,” he said, swallowing hard, lifting his head with a resolute expression. “It’s just lunch. Talking and shit. And really good wine. I’m not doing anything to myself.”
“Bullshit. That guy’s poison. Being around him is like opening up all your old shit. He’ll bleed all over you.”
“No.”
Aidan sighed through his nose, deeply frustrated. “You get what he’s doing, right? He’s using you. He’s getting you all stuck in the past, and he’s going to try to get club intel out of you. Fuck,” he muttered, angrier the more he talked. “He’s trying to turn you into a goddamn mole, Kev!”
“He’s not.”
“News flash – that’s what enemies do.”
“He’s not my enemy,” Tango said quietly.
Aidan sat back hard against the headboard. “Shit.”
“When it comes to the club, yeah, Shaman’s probably gonna be a problem. But to me? He’s Ian. My friend Ian from way back in the day. The only one who kept me sane during–” His jaw tightened, not willing to say it.
“I was there too,” Aidan said, frowning. “All through high school.”
“Yeah, you were. But you were on the outside of…that part of my life.”
“Oh, what. You miss it or something?”
“Never,” he said emphatically. “But I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And I can’t pretend Ian is just some businessman.”
“You’re stuck in the past.”
“The past is complicated.”
“Shit,” Aidan repeated, letting his head fall back until it thunked against the headboard. “Dad would go ape shit if he knew you were having fucking brandy and cigars with that guy.”
A nervous tension crept into Tango’s voice. “Are you gonna tell him?”
Aidan shut his eyes. “Never.” He echoed his friend’s conviction.
It was silent a long tense beat. Two…three…
“I wish he hadn’t come back to Knoxville.”
“I know,” Aidan said, the tightness in his chest loosening. Kev worked so hard to forget that he’d been owned by someone once, that he’d been addicted to heroin and made to perform for the entire first half of his life.
“But he did.”
“He did.” And a man wasn’t likely to forget the sole friend who’d walked side-by-side with him through that awful dark underground world.
Even if he was toxic.
Even if he had new friends now.
Some past events just refused to fade into memory.
“It’s okay,” Aidan told him, eyes still shut. “I won’t tell anyone.”
And I won’t let you get sucked back into the void, he added silently.
Fourteen
Dad Talk
“You’ve been exercising?” Maggie asked as she cleared empty water bottles into the trash bag she carried. She’d brought an empty Hefty sack in with her and was moving methodically around the room, loading it with empty McDonald’s cups, napkins, bits of receipts, various whatnot that left her lip curled up in maternal disgust.
He sighed and swung his legs up onto the bed in a sequence of smooth movements that were habit by this point. “Down the hall and back twice this morning.”
“I think you should increase it.”
“The doc said–”
“That once we moved past the dangerous time with your neck, it would good to start working back toward a modified daily workout routine.” She gave him a pointed look. “I was there for that conversation, remember?”
Aidan ground his molars together and said nothing. A fraction, that’s what the doctor had said. If his neck had twisted one fraction more, it would have snapped, and he wouldn’t be here littering Ava’s spare bedroom right now.
The bruising, swelling, general inflammation, the strain, the severely misaligned vertebrae – it wouldn’t heal up in a snap of the fingers. He was looking at a long road to his promised full recovery. But he was on the mend. Simply getting out of bed was no longer a major worry. He didn’t need Mercy to wash his hair anymore, thank God.
But he was afraid.
And he didn’t want to admit that to anyone.
“Yeah,” he muttered, letting his head fall back against the high-stacked pillows. It felt better to take the strain off, mimic the natural curve of his neck like this, stretch those little-used muscles.
He heard a bike in the driveway. Damn, that sound was getting old. He was supposed to be the one out there in the driveway, not the sad piece of shit in here listening to Lean Dogs come and go.
Maggie pulled out the ties on the bag and set them in a tidy knot. “That’ll be your dad,” she said, and as Aidan swore quietly to himself, she added, “just hear what he has to say. I think you two need some father/son time, and you’re a captive audience, so to speak.” Her smile started out amused, then became soft and genuine. “He was so worried about you. In the hospital” – her lower lip trembled the slightest – “just try to remember, no matter what he ever says to you, no matter how grouchy he is – he loves you so much.”
He rolled his eyes as she turned her back.
“Okay?”
“If you say so.”
She set the bag in the hall, then came back and kissed his forehead. “Love you.”
“You too.”
Then she was gone, rustling sound of the Hefty bag following her as she dragged it down the hall.
He listened to Ghost enter; heard the two of them exchange words he couldn’t make out. Then the back door opened, closed, and Maggie’s Caddy started with a low purr a moment later.
Ghost’s boots sounded heavy and mean as he moved through the kitchen. Then he toed them off. Thunk. Thunk. And his socked feet came down the hall toward the bedroom.
Normal, everyday sounds, no different than Mercy shedding bo
ots and cut and coming back here to deliver the day’s mail and gossip.
But his gut writhed.
Ghost let the door swing all the way open – a quick push with his fingertips – before he stepped into the room. He was wearing an ancient faded Gilley’s t-shirt he’d picked up on a Texas run years ago. He’d brought shirts for Aidan, too, none of which he could wear anymore; he’d passed them down to Ava when he outgrew them.
Maggie’s words echoed in his head. “He loves you so much.”
Did he really? Was that love? T-shirts?
Over the silkscreen mechanical bull on his shirt, Ghost’s cut looked heavy, burdened with that president patch.
“Hey,” he said, arms folding, taking up a spot against the closet door.
“Hey.”
“You look better.” His mouth twitched in a quick, sideways smile that was identical to the one Aidan flashed himself in the mirror most days. It was more a smirk, really; it felt sinister coming from his father, for reasons he didn’t want to think about. “Like shit, but better.”
“Feels the same. Shit, but better.”
Ghost snorted. “Seeing as how you’re not in a wheelchair, shit is pretty damn good.”
“Yeah.”
Awkward. This was awkward as hell.
Had it ever not been? Aidan tunneled back through his memories, searching for something light, warm, tender even. He knew there had to be moments like that, but hopped up on oxy, he couldn’t bring them to mind.
“Tango said the shop was real busy,” he said, searching for a safe topic.
Ghost nodded, seeming relieved. “Yeah, it’s been good riding weather, so lots of bikes have been coming in. All the regulars, plus” – he chuckled – “had this whole RC come through last week, old ladies on the back. Buncha dentists or accountants or some shit, on a long weekend ride, and one of their Hondas was sputtering like an old cat. Had to send Carter out for a part, so the whole crew took up the parking lot for an hour. Wannabes,” he said with disgust, but grinned. “This one shithead wanted to get chatty with Merc, compare bikes and shit.”
Aidan grinned, envisioning it. “How’d Merc take it?”
“Oh, he ate it up. That guy and his wife left thinking he was a teddy bear.”
“Yeah.”
Ghost sobered. “I think we need to talk.”
Shit. “About what?”
Ghost moved to sit on the foot of the bed. Shoulders slumped. Gaze fixed on Aidan’s feet where they made lumps beneath the covers. “I think there’s some things I took for granted that you already knew. Things you would…grow into with time.”
His gaze lifted and it was stern, fatherly. Presidential. “The truth is, I’ve been worried about being your leader in the club, instead of your father.”
No arguing with that. But hearing the words stirred up an old ache in Aidan’s chest. “You were a shitty sponsor, too.”
Ghost frowned – his automatic response – but then sighed. “Fair enough.” He nodded. “I don’t wanna talk about sponsor/prospect shit. Deal? No patches, no rank, just you and me.”
“Okay.”
And then it got quiet again.
Ghost’s eyes dropped to his hands, the way the fingers of his right hand spun his wedding ring around. Aidan knew he couldn’t get the thing off – not after fracturing that knuckle a few years ago in a fistfight – and that he wasn’t bothered by that. He wouldn’t have removed it anyway.
He lifted his head. “I know you were hoping to be nominated for VP last year, when Walsh got the nod.”
Aidan blinked. He hadn’t said anything, and frankly, with the Carpathians war and Mercy’s accident, he hadn’t expected Ghost to notice.
“You didn’t have to say it; I could tell. And at the time, I thought you knew why I didn’t put your name forward, but now I’m not sure.”
“I wasn’t ready,” Aidan said woodenly.
“You’re not, and you’re not gonna be until you get your life figured out.”
He felt his brows go up. “What?”
“The day you crashed.” Ghost gave him his most unnerving level stare. “What were you doing?”
“I was going to check in with Fisher, like you asked me to.”
“Yeah, but what were you doing when the crash happened?”
There was a snake twisting around in his belly.
“I pulled up on a scene that involves you, a yellow Mustang, a chick flashing too much cleavage and some asshole prick behind the wheel. You were racing.” Not a question.
Aidan swallowed and said nothing.
“You were racing down the center of the city like a teenager, for the sheer hell of it, and you almost killed yourself.” It was said not with censure, but with deep disappointment.
The little boy, though, Aidan said to himself. I could have killed him, but I took the fall instead. I chose him over me.
He’d chosen Greg over himself too, the day he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger.
But Ghost didn’t know about that.
“It was reckless and stupid,” his dad continued. “And we’ve all done reckless, stupid things.”
Surprise blossomed.
Ghost’s gaze drew inward, as he looked back through his memories. His voice changed. “When your mother left us,” he said quietly, “I was in a bad place. All I wanted was to be numb. The drinking, the smoking, the snorting, the fucking. If I wasn’t under a table, I was on top of a groupie. Or two.” Any other man would have blushed or grinned saying that. Ghost was matter-of-fact. “By the time I met Mags, I wasn’t fit for anybody. I was a shit father to you. And then I knocked up a teenager.”
“I’m not sure Mags was ever a teenager.”
That got a small grin. “Definitely not.” He shook his head. “I knew I wanted her. I had no idea she’d pull me up by the roots, shake the dirt off me, and plant me somewhere I could grow into a man again. Mags saved me,” he said. “She made a home for us. She raised you. She held me accountable. I would never have become president of this club without her.”
Aidan could only nod. He understood exactly the power his stepmother wielded.
Ghost sat forward, leaning toward him. “A strong leader needs a support system. He needs stability.”
Oh, so that’s where this was going.
“Behind every strong man is a strong woman?” he guessed.
“Beside,” Ghost corrected. “She’s beside him.”
Because Maggie stood behind no one.
“So you’re saying I need an old lady.”
“Among other things. You need to get on solid ground. Maybe an old lady is the way to do that, and maybe it’s not, but fucking groupies and sorority sluts isn’t exactly helping your focus. A leader must be focused.”
“Okay.”
“Now, my uncle groomed me for this patch” – he tapped the front of his cut – “and I’ve let too much time go by without grooming you…”
Ghost talked for a long time, and it wasn’t a lecture or an ass-chewing. Twice, he got up to get them sodas. He talked until the sternness had left him and his smiles came easier.
The shadows grew long across the floor.
Ava and Mercy both got home, but didn’t come back to disturb them.
And for that time, it felt a lot like having his father back.
A lunch date with Dad. Ava had no idea what to expect. Was there some fresh danger he wanted to caution her about? Was he going to tell her that he and Maggie could no longer allow her to work at Dartmoor? Whatever it was, he’d wanted to hash it out for a while now. But Aidan’s accident had thrown a wrench in everyone’s everything. This asked-for lunch had been delayed, and now loomed, foreboding on the other side of the glass front door of Stella’s.
Ava took a deep breath, hefted Remy’s carrier higher in the crook of her arm, and entered the café.
The air conditioning was cool and soothing as it chased the humidity off her skin. Stella and Julian made a concerted effort to keep it seasonal and co
mfortable, never freezing the patrons. The Italian-authentic interior smelled like basil, tomatoes, and garlic. She was greeted by the usual back-and-forth calls of the kitchen staff, and the low chatter of happy customers.
Ghost had a booth by the window. He sat facing her, signaling with a two-fingered wave. Under his cut, he wore a dark green button-up with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair looked tame and shiny, like he’d put some sort of product in it.
Oh, Dad, she thought, biting back a smile. He was nervous. He’d tried to look nice.
Her worry ebbed.
“Hi,” she said when she reached the booth.
“Hi.” He stood, took the carrier from her and set it on the table. “Is he alright to sit up here?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s where we put him. He’s good.”
Proving his point, Remy kicked his socked feet and worked his lips in and out while he stared up at his grandfather.
Ava smiled. “He says ‘hi’ too.”
Ghost grinned at the baby, that smile he always gave Remy like he was shocked, delighted, and didn’t know quite how to behave around him. The kid had him completely won over.
As they sat down across from one another, the baby commanded their attention and they were left without that normal awkwardness.
The waitress whipped by, took their drink order, and told them about the specials. Julian arrived on her heels, greeted them warmly, exclaimed over Remy. The drinks arrived; meals were ordered. And then…
They were alone.
Cue the awkward.
“So…” Ghost stirred the lemon wedge around in his tea. “How’s school going?”
“It’s great. Most of my professors are really engaging, and the workload’s not too bad. And you know me – any time spent talking about writing is time well-spent.”
His brows twitched, like he still didn’t understand this passion of hers. “You’ve got enough time for” – he gestured toward Remy – “everything?”
“I make time for what’s important, and let the little stuff shake out where it will.”
He nodded. “Do you get to write your stories?”
“Not as much as I used to. But most grad students spend more time writing for class than for themselves. And a few of my school pieces will probably be submission-worthy.”
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