He’d addressed the rest of the groupies: “The next time I find one of you bitches back in my part of the house, you’re hitchhiking back into town naked. Understand?”
It hadn’t happened again. At least, not until tonight.
All he’d seen at first was damp hair and bare shoulders and legs, little feminine feet on the rug. The old fury had come rushing back in the span of a heartbeat. Who would dare to come into his space? But in the next moment, her head lifted, and he saw her eyes. Those very familiar blue eyes that he’d grown used to seeing on Fox. She wasn’t the little waist-high girl he’d seen in London, but she was Michelle, no doubt.
Cue the backpedaling.
Well, at least he hadn’t caught her by the hair and dragged her halfway down the hall before he realized who she was.
He tried to drum up a proper apology – though she had been in his room – on the way back across the living area, but found his bedroom empty. Her bag, her comb, the towel – and her naked body inside it – had vanished.
~*~
Michelle
She woke the next morning to the sound of sparrows chirping outside the window and the smell of bacon frying. She wished, for a moment, that she wasn’t aware of her new surroundings, that she could have a few minutes to think this was her London flat, that the sparrows were on the sill, and that the bacon she smelled was cooking in her own kitchen, Raven and Cassandra having invited themselves over for breakfast.
But no, she was in Texas, and she’d slept terribly.
The dorm was clean, and the sheets and blanket crisp and new, but it was still a dorm, and the mattress sagged. She’d been keen to each new sound of the house around her: murmur of strange voices, unfamiliar whirs from the air conditioning, soft pops of the building settling.
Every time she closed her eyes, Candyman filled her mind. Not any of the beloved family she’d left behind and who she missed so dearly. But freaking Candyman. She’d settled into bed the night before, wondering where Tommy was, if he had kept from popping his stitches, if he was safe…and from out of nowhere her brain was plastered with an image of Derek Snow dripping all over the floor, in nothing but those stupid red and black boxers. She shoved him away, roughly. But he kept coming back, just as she started to fall asleep; she would jerk awake and start the process all over again.
“You are not attracted to him,” she said to the ceiling, now. But of course that wasn’t true. A young man, Tommy had suggested. Yeah, no. Young had never been what stirred her.
For the first time in a long time, her thoughts flitted to the first man she’d ever tasted. Paul Avery. A childhood friend of Albie’s, tall, with black hair and the palest blue eyes she’d ever seen. His club brothers called him Loon, and she’d always guessed it was because no task was too crazy or too risky for him. A specialist, like Albie, a composed, serious sort of man with a beautiful smile when he chose to show it.
She’d lost her virginity to him when she was sixteen, in the back of the furniture shop, the smell of leather in her nose, the hard press of his thumbs against the insides of her thighs as he spread them. He was sweet with her – he always had been – even though it became a feverish, needy sort of affair on both their parts, the kind too intense to keep hidden in rare stolen moments.
When she was eighteen, he told her it had to end. He respected Albie and Phillip too much. He traced her mouth with his thumb, kissed her, and whispered that she’d be alright, that he was the one who’d be heartsick about it forever after.
He’d been in prison the past five years, for theft, a club job gone bad.
It had been at least a year since she’d consciously thought of him. She’d finally managed to convince herself it had never been love between them. Now, remembrance brought only a dull sort of sadness…and a hungry ache in the pit of her stomach.
What a sick girl she was, she decided, that she couldn’t just pine for silly boys her own age like everyone else. No, she had to be so serious about everything.
Disgusted with herself, she threw back the covers and got out of bed.
In the communal bathroom – after making sure it was empty – she brushed her teeth, gave herself a quick makeup treatment, brushed out her hair, and dressed. Thus improved, she tracked down the bacon smell.
In the kitchen, the woman from last night, Darla, worked the range with lightning precision, turning bacon, hash, and stirring something in a huge stainless pot. She looked the picture of a mother, with her pinned-back hair springing loose in little curls around her face, in an apron with deep pockets and gravy stains.
“Good morning,” she greeted, sparing Michelle a fast smile. “Breakfast’ll be ready any minute. Did you get any sleep? The mattress do okay for you? I hope none of the boys bothered you.”
“Uh…it’s fine. All of it. All fine.”
“Good. Go sit and I’ll have the food right out.”
“I can help,” Michelle offered.
“Oh no, not on your first day. Go on. You need a full stomach if you’ve got to tackle that office in there.”
That didn’t sound promising. “Okay.” With nothing else to do, feeling supremely like a useless outsider, she went into the common room to find the Texas Dogs spread out at various tables, awaiting breakfast.
Walsh and Fox sat side-by-side at the bar, light and dark bookends, and she joined them, sliding onto the stool next to her Uncle Charlie.
“Hello, pet.” He patted the top of her head.
“It still says ‘England’ on your bottom rocker,” she observed.
“I’m still English. Technically.”
Walsh rolled his eyes and Michelle grinned, glad for the chance to do so. “You don’t want to be officially Texan?”
“I don’t want to be officially anything.”
She laughed; her first laugh since the knife slipped between Tommy’s ribs. Bless Fox.
“Here, sweetheart,” Darla announced, arriving and thumping down a plate in front of Michelle. A full plate.
“None for me?” Fox asked.
“Next trip. Ladies first.”
“I can’t possibly eat all of this,” Michelle said.
“Try,” Darla instructed, gave her a maternal smile, and whisked back to the kitchen.
~*~
Walsh left just after breakfast. Michelle walked out to the truck with him, a lump forming in her throat. “Have a safe trip back. And send my love to Emmie.”
He nodded, eyes traveling over her. His gaze serious, but affectionate, he said, “You’ll get on fine here, Chelle.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” she tried to joke, but it fell horribly flat.
He pulled her into a tight, comforting hug. “Your dad’s terribly proud of you, you know.”
She closed her eyes against the threat of tears. “How do you always know just what to say?”
~*~
Candy
“I called and talked to Jaffrey this morning,” he announced at church. It was ten after ten, and he’d held off calling the meeting as long as he could. He was itchy with nerves at this point. “He’s been past the conference room the feds are using, looked in the door. And guess whose mug shots are wall-papering the place.”
His brothers, lining both sides of the long table, executed variations of an “oh shit” face.
“Am I up there?” Colin wanted to know.
“You ever have your picture taken? Ever?”
He frowned. “Hotwired a car once. When I was twenty.”
“Then yeah, you’re up there. These are the feds; they have deep resources.”
Jinx said, “Riley’s gonna be serious this time around. Which means he’s gonna be smart about it. He’s getting all his shit together before he moves on us.”
“If they press charges, they want them to stick,” Candy agreed.
“It’ll be about the guns,” Fox said.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
They would have to fine-tooth comb every inch of the operati
on, check for holes, plug them up, and possibly move inventory.
Shit.
Marching orders given, he dismissed church, and left the chapel, heading for his office. He found it occupied.
It was a narrow, long sort of room; it had been a pantry at some point in the past. The desk ran the depth of it, his computer set up on one side, an area for visitors to sit on the other – the visitors almost always being Jinx, Fox, or his sister. It was a drab space, without a picture or personal effect. Hair loose on her shoulders, Michelle Calloway was like a little sunbeam in his leather captain’s chair.
He paused at the threshold and allowed himself a moment of inspection. Small, slender hands clicking across the computer keys. Dainty wrists. Her hair was the color of wheat at harvest, like Walsh’s, thick, and shiny down to the middle of her back. He remembered that Phillip’s wife had been pretty, very feminine and fine-featured, and so was Michelle. Little slip of a nose, sweet mouth. She was pale from the London sun, and completely unassuming in a ratty sweater, jeans, and a scuffed pair of Fryes that had seen better days. She studied the computer screen with quiet absorption, eerie blue eyes switching back and forth with the analytical precision that was her family’s trademark.
She wasn’t flamboyant, or seductive, or overtly sexual. Nothing like all his waitresses. She was very pretty, and very young. And so obviously not some pampered brat who spent all her time shopping or texting her friends. Capability radiated off her in waves. This was a girl who’d grown up working, and expected to keep doing so.
She noticed him and glanced over, eyes lasering right through him. “Hello.”
He was used to Fox’s accent. It was different hearing it from a woman. It tightened his stomach in a pleasant way.
He sat down across from her in Jenny’s usual chair, displaced in his own domain. “Making yourself at home?”
She met his gaze without flinching, her tone calm and polite. “Jenny showed me in; said this is where you do the bookkeeping.”
“She showed you the computer password too, I see.” If she could be polite, so could he.
She nodded, unashamed. “I asked for it.”
“’Cause that wasn’t pushy or anything.”
“I was told you needed an accountant,” she said with maddening composure. “This being a temporary situation, I thought it best to get started.”
“You didn’t think you ought to talk to me first?”
She blinked, surprised. She wasn’t used to consulting; in her world, she saw where she was needed and inserted herself.
He gave her a rather nasty grin and didn’t feel as sorry about it as he should have. “It’s my club, you know.”
She swallowed and regathered her composure. “I know that. I like to be helpful, though. Sitting idle isn’t enjoyable.”
“Phillip lets you run all over, doesn’t he?”
Her brows lifted. “I’m sorry?”
“Nevermind. That was rude.” He cleared his throat. “So you found my files and shit?”
“No, actually.” Her gaze flicked to the computer. Without malice: “I can’t make heads or tails of your naming system.”
Well, at least she hadn’t been snooping…yet.
He heaved himself up from the chair and moved to stand behind her. It was a tight fit in the narrow room, and he braced a hand on the chair back, leaning over her shoulder to see the computer.
She smelled nice, like soap and something flowery.
Not that he noticed that or anything.
“Where are you?”
“Your documents folder.”
She was, hovering the cursor over his coded files.
“ ‘Biscuits and Gravy’ is the legit stuff,” he told her. “And ‘Remember the Alamo’ is the…club stuff.” He had no idea how much Phillip had…
“The gun running,” she said, matter-of-factly.
…okay, so the old man told her everything. “Yeah.” He sighed and she tipped her head back to look at him.
It startled him. She was very close, suddenly, her gaze direct and older than it should have been. He wanted to draw back, but decided that would look bad.
“You’re not comfortable with me looking at it,” she guessed.
“I’m not sure you’re old enough to,” he said, bluntly.
A grin tugged at her mouth. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Yeah? Cause you don’t look any bigger than the last time I saw you.”
Surprise. “You remember that?” A note of something indiscernible in her voice.
“You and little Tom were passed out.” He felt his own smile threaten. “Yeah, I remember.”
She straightened, looked away from him and back at the computer. “Well, I can assure you, I’ve seen and done enough to get put away for life. So if you can’t trust me, then you can trust my self-preservation. I don’t want to go to jail – least of all over a snarky Texan’s bad accounting. So.”
Candy laughed. “Shit. Alright, ya criminal. Take a look at it. I’m gonna go grab lunch.”
“Didn’t we just have breakfast?”
“That was two hours ago. You gotta keep the engine running, sweetheart.”
She made an amused sound and a face that reminded him a little of his mother, that patronizing disbelief. Then she grew serious. “I’m sorry I intruded on your room last night. I didn’t mean to.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, he left her to the numbers, prickling with silent inner doubt, and wondering what the hell Phillip Calloway had been thinking raising his daughter this way.
Five
Michelle
She’d told Candy the truth: she did like to be helpful. Idleness made her jumpy. So when he left her alone, she settled down with his spreadsheets. And two things became immediately apparent:
One, he knew how to keep tidy books. Not a surprise given the state of his room, bathroom, and the clubhouse in general. She was fairly certain she could perform surgery in this office.
And two: funds were tight.
She’d hoped maybe that there was a clerical error, poor math, or misplaced line items. But no, the bookkeeping was impeccable, there was simply more money going out than coming in.
One culprit was the massive loan made to the Tennessee Dogs a little over a year ago. That would have been the buying of Walsh and Emmie’s farm. Then there had been several small catastrophes: water heaters going out, repair visits from plumbers, electricians; a new roof had been put on the clubhouse back in the fall.
She finally pushed the chair back, cracked her back, and realized it was four in the afternoon. Damn. She’d been poring over the spreadsheets for hours. Her stomach growled to reinforce the point.
The door opened without warning, and Candyman filled up the threshold with his considerable shoulders. His shirt was short-sleeved, and when he folded his arms across his chest, his biceps swelled, hard bulges of muscle.
Not that she cared.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked, expression friendly, save his eyes; those were assessing.
Michelle settled deep in the chair and said, “Well, you’re flat broke, I’m afraid.”
He nodded and stepped into the room. The door closed, and the space seemed to shrink. “Yeah, I knew that.” He took the chair he’d had before.
“You’ve got a lovely set of books, though.”
He grinned. A sudden, sharp grin that flipped her stomach over. “Well that’s always good to hear.”
Much to her horror, her stomach didn’t stop at flipping; it remained jumpy. So she put on her most businesslike tone and said, “The trick, then, is to get more money coming in.”
“Right. You wouldn’t happen to be anything like your Uncle Walsh, would you?”
“I can’t hold a candle to him.” She was honest. “But I might be better than nothing.”
He made a consenting face. “Yeah.”
“Would you like me to draw up a list of proposals?”
“Can’t hurt, right?”
“I think you need to diversify. I can make some suggestions. I helped Dad map out the plan for Baskerville Hall. And Walsh–”
“Put Dartmoor together. I’m well aware of what your family can do.” Another smile, this one friendlier, but still bearing a predatory gleam. He was measuring and evaluating her every second they were together; that was his right, as the VP, and effective president for this chapter. But it reminded her of the looks she’d been getting before she left home: the newer members who didn’t trust her presence.
The fluttering of attraction in her stomach soured. Before she could check the impulse, she said, “You didn’t really request that I come out here, did you?” It felt bold and uncalled-for, but she wasn’t herself anymore. Not since Tommy. Too tired, stressed, and full of doubt to hold onto any grace.
He studied her a beat, gaze steady. “I asked Walsh if he or Albie could consult with me. Told them I needed some financial advice. Then the thing in London happened, and Albie called and asked if you could come instead of him. Said you needed to get out of the city, and that you were damn good at this. Two birds with one stone, he said. And so I said yes.”
“But you had doubts.”
“I still do. I don’t know you, which means I automatically don’t trust you. It’s nothing personal, sweetheart,” he assured. “That’s just how I’m wired. But I trust your uncles completely. So if they say you’re the girl for the job, then I know you are.”
It was hope-dashing and comforting all at once. “Well…”
“I don’t have a problem with women. I’ve got nothing to prove,” he said, and though it should have come across as cocky, was somehow just authentic.
No, she decided, big, and handsome, and in charge of his club – he wasn’t trying to prove a damn thing to anyone. A real leader, like Dad. Content to allow her to be a cog in the machine. She breathed a deep, relieved sigh.
Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) Page 5
