“How about that pasta now?” she asked, throwing a smile over her shoulder as she got to her feet and reached for the robe hanging off her bedpost.
“Sounds good.”
But this here – whatever it was between them – was one of the reasons he said yes without even thinking when Michelle called a few days later.
Amarillo
Seven
“What can I do to help?” Michelle asked, the morning after Candy had gone to meet Pacer, and survey the scene.
He’d kissed her soundly, and said, “Nothing but stay safe, baby.”
She’d rolled her eyes, and decided to talk to Jenny and Darla about it, see if they could send a care package to Pacer at the very least.
(She spared a thought for the fact that it was only the three of them looking after all these boys, and again wished that some of the bachelors would marry so she didn’t have to worry about them so much.)
Candy and Blue went off to see Pacer again, talking of checking in with the FBI as they tugged their cuts on over thick jackets.
When Darla offered to watched TJ, Michelle went into town, to TLC, just to have a quick meeting with her assistant manager, she vowed…
But suddenly it was the dinner hour, and Candy was standing right in front of her at the hostess station where she’d become involved in trying to reboot the glitchy computer there.
“I see you’re taking it easy today,” he drawled, and she jumped a little, flushing immediately with guilt.
“I am,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. A fruitless effort, she realized, by feel; her elastic had gotten all stretched out and her ponytail was more down than up at this point.
“Uh-huh, looks like it.” His eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth…but they bore dark circles, beneath. His whole face told the story of a long, tiring, frustrating day, down to the too-deep lines bracketing his mouth, smile lines that had been frown lines, today.
His coat was coated in reddish road dust, and she reached out automatically to brush some of it off his president patch. “You okay?” she asked, quietly, and the lead hostess, Janet, turned discreetly away to give them as much privacy as possible, given they stood in the crowded entryway of a popular bar.
“Yeah.” His tone – deeply tired – told another story.
“No luck, then?”
“Nah.” He tilted his head. “Thought I’d come put the fear of God into that barback you think’s nicking the Jack Daniel’s.”
“I’ve already spoken to him,” she said primly.
“Yeah, but.” He lifted one of his Lean Dogs’ famous fists and tightened it until his knuckles cracked. “I figure a little reinforcement couldn’t hurt.” A grin tugged at his mouth, and his eyes had a wholly different gleam, now.
Michelle sighed. “Fine. But don’t get blood on my floors.”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”
He went off, and she and Janet applied themselves to figuring out what the hell was wrong with the monitor in front of them, frozen on the table screen and refusing to update or allow for any kind of navigation. They’d restarted it manually twice, and Michelle had grown frustrated enough to want to smash the thing and buy a new one, when a twangy, female voice said, “Excuse me.”
Michelle glanced up, already searching for one of the other hostesses, regretting that a computer SNAFU had rerouted the whole wait line for the dining tables – and the woman standing opposite arrested her attention.
She was tall – at least a head taller than Michelle – curvy, and blonde. Deeply tan, and wearing a scoop-neck shirt that showed off a lot of cleavage; blood-red nails flashed as she tossed her hair over one shoulder. Her makeup had been applied with a practiced hand, but Michelle noted the fine lines that marked a lot of summers spent laughing in the Texas sunshine. She placed her as fortyish, and as the sort of woman who turned male heads, and liked it. She had a definitive look-at-me aura that left Michelle instantly self-conscious about her falling-down hair and her grubby flannel shirt, one of Candy’s that she’d rolled the sleeves of and belted around her waist to serve as a dress of sorts over leggings.
Not that it mattered. Stupid hormones.
“I’m so sorry about the delay,” Michelle began, “but we have a line forming over there–”
“Oh no, honey, I’m not waiting. At least not yet.” The woman rested an elbow on the edge of the hostess station, and hiked her cowhide purse up higher on her shoulder with a casual motion. “I’m looking for Derek. This is his place, right? Is he here now?” She smiled, teeth very white behind painted red lips.
Michelle wasn’t proud of the flash of possessiveness that flared in the back of her mind. What do you want with him? she thought, with an inward baring of teeth. Plenty of Amarillo natives knew him as Candyman: as the jovial, too-handsome, larger than life biker with the mean swing. He was like a mascot, or a minor local celebrity – but “Candy” was as familiar as it got. He wasn’t “Derek” to any of them. Who was this woman, and how did she know his name?
She must have made a face, because the woman’s smile widened. “I’m an old friend,” she explained. “Melanie Menendez.”
It took a second, but then the last name jumped out. “You’re related to Pacer?” Michelle asked.
Melanie’s brows lifted. “Yeah.” It was her turn to look uncertain. “His sister.”
That…made sense. Michelle told her inner guard dog to cool it.
“Candy’s here,” she conceded. “He’s in the office.” After a beat, one in which she realized Candy would no doubt want to talk to Pacer’s sister about the current situation, she offered, “Come on and I’ll take you there.”
Melanie’s smile widened again. “That’d be great.”
Michelle left Janet in charge, and headed the long, winding way along the outer catwalk of the second floor toward the office, overly aware of the tall woman at her back, the click of her high-heeled boots over the hardwood. She was startled to realize that, in terms of looks, Melanie reminded her a little of Jenny. But Jenny’s manner was much more mellow and blunt; Jenny didn’t walk into a room like she owned it.
You don’t own this place, Mel, she thought, savagely, and immediately berated herself. She wasn’t the jealous girl; the snippy, insecure girl. There was no excuse for the way she was acting here.
“Where are you from, hon?”
It took Michelle a moment to realize that it was Melanie who’d spoken, and that she was the one being spoken to. She twisted her head to look over her shoulder as she navigated the familiar terrain of the catwalk, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“That accent. It sure ain’t from Texas.”
“I’m from London, originally,” she said, stiffly.
“In England?”
“Yes, but I live here now.”
“There’s no place like Texas.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.”
They reached the office, and Michelle opened the door without hesitation.
The barback – a beefy, dodgy guy named Carl – sat in one of the tufted leather chairs across from the desk, and Candy dwarfed the swivel chair where Michelle normally sat. Leaned back, hands laced together over his flat stomach, gaze almost bored. “If you think I can’t put your head all the way through the sheetrock…” he was saying as they entered, and broke off, gaze lifting to the door.
“Hey–” he started when he saw Michelle. And then he must have seen Melanie, because his brows leapt, and he said, “Hey!” in a totally different voice. He put his hands on the arms of the chair, and pushed to his feet. “Get lost, Carl, and remember what I said,” he said, absently.
Carl scrambled out.
Michelle stepped aside to let him through…and Melanie moved past her, already there to meet Candy’s offered hug.
“Look at you!” Melanie exclaimed, winding both arms around his neck and squeezing tight. “You look great!”
“So do you.” He pushed her back to arm’s length, grinning.
“Jesus, it’s been forever.”
“Yeah, but who can tell looking at you.” She swatted him on the chest, familiarly, grinning. “Jesus, do you age at all?”
“Ah, well.” He pushed a hand through his thick, golden hair. “Yeah. The sun, you know?”
“Oh, I know, believe me!” Melanie laughed, and plopped herself down in the chair Carl had vacated.
Candy sat across from her.
“You see these?” Melanie gestured to the skin around her eyes. “Crow’s feet! God, I hate it. I used to think I’d rather die than get old. Now.” She shrugged. “It is what it is. Guess I should just be glad I still have my figure.” She laughed, and Candy laughed, and Michelle felt like she was standing a long, long distance from them, on the other side of some veil of the past they’d pulled around themselves.
They stared at one another across the desk, both wearing fond smiles.
Candy said, “I’m real sorry about what happened to Pacer’s crew.”
Melanie sighed. “I’ve always worried about him. No wife, and just those kids. He’s really broken up about it.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen.”
“He said the FBI are involved. How bad is it, Derek?”
When Candy didn’t answer right away, taking in a breath and sitting forward in his chair, Melanie turned to face Michelle, who still stood just inside the door, hand on the knob.
She smiled broadly. “I think a little privacy might be a good thing, hon.”
Michelle took a breath. Started to respond–
Candy said, “Oh, hell. You can talk in front of her. She’s my old lady.” He sounded explanatory, rather than annoyed.
Melanie’s mouth dropped open, an O of surprise; her eyes popped comically wide. “His old lady?” she said to Michelle in a tone of almost scandalized shock. She whipped around to face Candy. “Your old lady? Did I hear that right?”
Candy chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Get out. I don’t believe you.” She crossed her arms and flopped back dramatically in her chair, which made Candy chuckle again, his eyes crinkling up in the corners in that way that Michelle found so cute and boyish. “You have an old lady? You…have an old lady? Nuh-uh, no way. Not buying it.”
“Hey, why’s that so damn surprising?” he asked, grinning.
“’Cause you’re one of those good for nothing biker types,” she shot back, laughing. “And I can’t believe you’d actually have the balls to settle down.”
“Guess what?” He tilted his head to a conspiratorial angle. “I’ve got a kid, too.”
“Shut up!”
“And one on the way.”
“Derek Snow, you’re the worst liar.” Melanie trailed off into gusty laughter; she slapped her thigh and everything, a loud smack that echoed off the walls of the office.
Michelle shut the door. Hard.
The slam startled Melanie and Candy; Melanie turned around again, laughter dying away slowly, throatily.
“Sorry,” Michelle said flatly. “I didn’t want customers overhearing anything they shouldn’t.”
A furrow appeared between Candy’s brows, his smile fading. He looked a little concerned, and on the verge of asking her something.
But Melanie said, “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, I’m loud as all get out. Never could learn to keep to an inside voice.” She gave an offhand wave, like what’re you gonna do. But she pressed on being too familiar, without any sign of remorse. “So you two, then.” She pointed between them with one red-nailed finger. “How’d that happen? Gosh, you’re so young,” she said to Michelle. To Candy: “You old dog. Ha. Dog.”
Candy gathered a breath to respond – and Michelle realized she didn’t want to hear whatever he was about to say. Would he waggle his brows, and brag on himself, and talk about how he’d landed her? He wouldn’t cheapen their relationship like that…surely…but he also wasn’t one to get overtly sappy in front of other people.
Tone still flat, Michelle said, “My father’s the president of the London chapter. I came here on business, and ended up staying.” There was nothing she could do about her open hostility, no matter how much she’d regret it later. She was running purely off hormones at this point.
Melanie had the decency to look a little more composed; Michelle’s frostiness was getting to her, finally. She nodded. “Makes sense. I always thought you needed someone who cared about the club as much as you.” She nodded. “Glad you wised up after we split.”
Michelle stood there blinking a moment, trying to think of a way after we split could mean something besides the fact that Melanie and Candy had been involved romantically.
She wracked her brain. And she reminded herself that Candy had met her ex in London.
One of them, at least.
And she knew, rationally, that he’d been with lots of women, casually, and probably even a few almost seriously, in all the years prior to meeting her. He didn’t owe her an explanation. She had zero grounds for feeling possessive or anything approaching jealous.
But…hormones.
“Yeah, well…” Candy was saying, color blooming in his tan cheeks. “Had to find the right one, you know?” His gaze cut to her, warm, nearly bashful, but not hiding, not ashamed, not scrambling to explain.
Michelle let out a breath that took a good chunk of her tension with it. She dropped down into one of the chairs up against the wall and said, “How’s Pacer doing?” She thought she did a decent job sounding normal this time.
The last of Melanie’s smiles and giggles died away. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands down her thighs, examining her nails. “Awful,” she said, and lifted her gaze up to meet Candy’s. “He’s awful, Der.”
Der? Michelle thought, and then chastised herself. Not her business; not a threat.
“He was real broken up when Dad died.”
Candy nodded, frowning.
“But I’ve never seen him like this. He feels like this was his fault somehow. He’s got all this guilt – and he’s scared, too.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him scared, not even when he should have been – maybe especially not when he should have been.”
“And I’m guessing he told you not to worry about it,” Candy said.
“You guessed right. But what was I gonna do? I see my brother on the news and I’m just supposed to shrug and say ‘oh well?’” She threw up her hands with a sigh of frustration. “He’s a stubborn old dumbass. But you knew that. Wouldn’t tell me anything.
“I hate just dropping by like this – and at your place, too.” She gestured toward the door, and the sprawling, raucous bar beyond it. “I went by the clubhouse, and Jinx said you were here.”
She’d gone to the clubhouse first. A fact which did not bother Michelle. Nope, nope, not one bit.
“The place is jumping, by the way. Congrats.”
Candy shrugged. “I wanted the place out of nostalgia. Chelle’s the reason it’s a success.” He sent another warm look her way.
It shouldn’t have left her feeling as good as it did.
“Yeah?” Melanie kept her gaze on Candy. “That’s wild. I was never any good with numbers.
“But. Der.” Somber again. “Please tell me you know what’s going on here. Who the hell would want to come after Pace and his boys? They’re harmless.”
“I don’t know anything yet,” Candy said with regret. “I’ve got some feelers out. Made a few calls. And so far, the feds aren’t so busy trying to pen it on my crew that they might actually get some real work done. But I don’t have any idea, yet.”
“Damn.” She raked a hand through her hair, and sagged a little, and looking at her profile, the sleepless circles under her eyes that Michelle hadn’t noticed out at the hostess station, Michelle wanted to kick herself.
She’d spent the past twenty minutes wrestling with her own selfish emotions, left reeling and stupid and downright bitchy in the wake of meeting her very loving, very attentive husband’s ex-girlfriend.
And here was Melani
e, who, while a little more brash and Texas and friendly than Michelle herself, was worried about a brother who’d just lost three close friends. Who was so worried about that brother that she’d come looking for a friend who might be able to help.
Because Pacer’s boys had been staked out hand and foot, murdered, and left for the vultures.
Her stomach turned as she thought of it, and she swallowed down a wave of nausea. God, she was being an idiot.
“Melanie.” Her tone – her real tone, the one she used with friends, and club insiders – pulled Melanie’s attention, finally, and held it. “Whoever’s done this awful thing, Candy and the boys will find them, and nothing like it will happen again.”
It was the sort of hopeful lie that police officers and rescue workers told to shaken victims, an offer of hope to keep their spirits up. But, in this case, she knew Candy would find the bastards, and that they wouldn’t be alive very long after that.
Melanie stared at her a moment, tired and worried, and then she blinked and a slow smile formed. “Listen to you.” Her gaze cut toward Candy. “Yeah, you found one just as ruthless as you, huh?” She chuckled weakly. “Congrats to you both. A killer needs another killer, huh?”
Michelle sat back, idly wondering what the hell the other woman had seen in her gaze to come out with killer.
Whatever it was, she decided she was glad for it.
Eight
Prior to what Jenny – and a few state patrol officers who’d had the pleasure of shoving him in the back of a car in his younger, wilder years – said, Candyman Snow was not an idiot.
Though he’d kept in touch with Pacer before and after his stint in New York, the last he’d seen of Melanie Menendez, she’d been looking at him big-eyed and sympathetic, the wind snatching her sunkissed hair over her shoulder and across her face as she walked backward toward the car of the man she’d left him for. Some plain-faced nothing special guy with too much gel in his hair, and a shiny, generic silver import coupe covered in Texas dust he’d no doubt wash off with a sour expression and a handful of curses later. I’m sorry, Der, she’d said, but there had been no tears; no regret. She’d made up her mind, and the only sorry she was was for him. Almost pitying; a gut-punch. Like he was some poor thing about to need tissues and chocolate.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 4
