“Hm.”
Fox sipped his beer. “You don’t want me here.”
“I do, actually. Coulda used you days ago.”
“But?”
“I didn’t think you’d come with an entourage.”
Fox’s mouth tightened, the first betrayal of any emotion. “The girls wanted to come, and I wasn’t about to tell them no. And the kids are going stir-crazy in Tennessee. I needed a problem to throw them at. Don’t act as if you travel alone, mate.
“Your problem, I think,” he continued, before Candy could speak. “Isn’t that I brought so many people with me. Or that I came.”
“I said I was glad you’re here,” Candy reminded.
“Your problem,” Fox went on, “is that your wife called me, and didn’t tell you about it. Am I right?” When Candy didn’t answer right away, Fox chuckled. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Candy fought the urge to grind his teeth. He said, “My wife can call whoever she wants. You’re her uncle. I’m not surprised she reached out.”
Fox’s grin widened the tiniest fraction. “Yeah, you are. I saw your face when you came in. You looked like you’d been slapped.”
“Did you come here to play psychiatrist?” Candy asked, as calmly as he could at the moment. “Or to actually help me catch whoever’s doing this?”
Fox shrugged. “I can do both.”
“Yeah, well, as the guy in charge of this situation, I’m telling you to do one, and knock it the hell off with the other.”
Fox shrugged again. “Fair enough. Tell me what’s been happening.”
“I thought Michelle already did that over the phone.”
“Tell me in your own words.”
He started with the phone call from Pacer, and laid it all out from there. By the end, Fox’s brows were lifted a fraction – a show of real interest and surprise for him.
“And you’re sure it’s not a cult?”
The fine hair stood up on the back of Candy’s neck. “No. Why would I?”
Fox’s expression went thoughtful. He braced a toe on the floor and rotated his chair fractionally back and forth, head tipped back. His voice had shifted when he spoke; a flat, learned recitation that made him seem almost professorial. “Placing the bodies like that – staking them in place and then killing them. He’s sending a message to someone, yeah, but this is ritualistic.”
“The fed used that word.”
“It’s the right word. A dead body sends a message. You don’t need to do anything special with it. Positioning all the bodies in the same way, that’s about servicing something in the killer’s head. He feels like he has to do it that way.”
Candy frowned. “You keep saying ‘he’ like it’s one person.”
Fox’s head lifted, his gaze narrow and pale. “Cults have leaders, don’t they? He’s got friends to lend a helping hand. Followers. But a single guy thought this up, that I can promise.”
“Gee,” Candy huffed, suppressing a shiver. “He sounds swell.”
~*~
A giant pot of beef stew was already simmering on the stove in the kitchen when Fox and co. arrived, but Darla insisted it wouldn’t be enough food. She enlisted Jenny’s help, told Michelle in no uncertain terms that she was to “sit down and rest,” and hurried to the kitchen to scrape together more food. After a few minutes, Michelle caught a whiff of cornbread baking.
Albie still held TJ, seated now on one of the sofas. TJ stared at his great-uncle with something like rapture; his expression drew a laugh out of Michelle she hadn’t thought herself capable of.
“He’ll be giant,” Albie said seriously, examining the toddler’s feet. “Like his father, I suppose, instead of the lot of us.”
“Dad’s tall,” Michelle said, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “So’s Tommy, and Miles–”
“That’s enough from you,” Albie said, but grinned.
Fox appeared, silent and sudden as was his way. He’d traded his beer for whiskey in a low glass, and held it in one hand while he flicked his fingers toward Albie with the other. “Shove off,” he said, without malice.
Albie sighed, but stood, taking TJ with him.
“Leave the baby,” Fox said, as he slid into his abandoned place.
Albie looked at him with lifted brows, more than skeptical.
“You think I can’t hold a baby?”
Albie’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”
“He’s my nephew,” Fox scoffed.
“What’s his name?”
Michelle watched, laughing silently to herself.
“TJ,” Fox said pleasantly, “you absolute wanker.”
“No cursing in front of the kid,” Albie said, but set TJ down in Fox’s lap anyway.
TJ turned toward him with a happy laugh, and Fox gloated.
Albie sighed, and headed off toward the bar.
“You shouldn’t torment him,” Michelle chided.
“He needs it.” Fox put a steadying hand on TJ’s hip, and held his whiskey out of reach. His gaze cut toward her without his head turning; she stiffened immediately. “And what do you need?”
“What?” she asked, inwardly cursing. She should have known it wouldn’t be as simple as pointing him at the problem and stepping back. Should have known he’d be able to read her like no one else could. Candy had learned so many of her tells and finer expressions; could sense most of her moods. But like knew like, and all of Devin Green’s brood would always understand one another better than anyone else could ever hope to. It was a curse more than it was a blessing, sometimes.
His face said, come on, shadow of a smirk threatening at the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t–” she started, and heard the way her voice shivered.
He said, “Chelle.”
I need this psycho caught, she thought of saying. I need to not be run down on the street. I need my baby safe. I need to take a deep breath. All true; all most of the reason she’d called him.
But she didn’t say anything, a lump caught in her throat.
Fox’s expression softened. A fraction. “I think I know what’s really wrong.”
“You know who’s killing everyone in this town?” she said, more acidic than she’d meant.
He smiled. “No, not that. Not yet.” He bounced TJ and earned happy laughter. “I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to talk.”
I ought to tell him off, she thought, because she was just…angry. So angry. That formless sort of rage too elusive to pin down, too big to ignore.
She swallowed and said, “Yeah. Thanks.”
Twenty
There was so much food. Axelle had thought she was starving, but a few bites into the thickest, heartiest stew she’d ever eaten, fullness had set in along with a crushing tiredness. She’d wound up pushing bits of vegetable around in the broth in an effort not to nod off at the table.
“Oh, honey,” Darla said when she collected her plate. “You hardly ate anything. No wonder you’re so skinny.”
Axelle’s grin was more of a grimace.
“Leave her alone,” Jenny said, intervening. “Come on and I’ll show you where you can stay.”
Another city, another MC clubhouse. She wondered when she’d stop feeling like she’d stepped through the Looking Glass; when it would stop feeling like a betrayal to the prejudices she’d held so long.
The Amarillo headquarters looked like a country-western version of the one in Knoxville: hardwood floors, plenty of seating, big TVs, and a bar in the common room – plus steer skulls and cowhide. (Secretly, she preferred the Old World aesthetic of Baskerville Hall, the way it had felt like a beautiful, creaky beehive rather than a sprawling ranch house.) Jenny led her down a hallway lined with doors, just like in Knoxville, and showed her into a dorm with a similar setup: double bed, dresser, en-suite bathroom. Wood floors, rather than the orange carpet Ghost for some reason hadn’t replaced, and a cowhide rug.
“There’s clean towels in the bathroom,” Jenny said
, moving through the room to push the adjoining door open. “Extra blankets in the bottom drawer there, if you need them. We turn the heat down at night.”
Axelle didn’t realize she was standing there, staring stupidly into the middle distance, until Jenny turned around and said her name, a gentle prompt. She blinked, and focused on her hostess’s face. Jenny had a little groove of concern between her brows.
“Thank you,” Axelle said, and then failed to stifle a yawn.
Jenny lingered, though. Her frown deepened. “Are you okay? You seem nervous.”
“Nervous?” Axelle snorted. “Maybe ‘cause a serial killer’s on the loose? No, I’m just tired. Thanks,” she said again, more firmly.
Jenny waited a beat, then nodded, and finally moved to leave. “If you need anything, the prospect’s in the first dorm on the left. And you can always knock at the sanctuary – there’s a sign. I’m staying here until we get things sorted.”
Axelle didn’t take a deep breath until she was gone; then she shut the door and sank down on the end of the bed with a sigh.
The mattress, like those in Knoxville, was springy and firm. Not broken in, she’d thought with surprise, on her first night at Dartmoor. She’d expected squeaking; jabbing springs; lumps; maybe even a smell.
Bikers were a lot of things, it turned out, but she’d learned they weren’t heathens – much to her dismay.
She sighed again, and flopped backward across the coverlet, eyes already closing.
In retrospect, she should have expected the knock on her door.
Should also have expected that, once she’d hauled herself up to answer it, she’d find Albie waiting on the other side.
The sight of him startled her, though. A little zing of adrenaline went through her, and her sleepiness evaporated.
He stood with both feet planted firmly in the hall, not so much as leaning in toward her, his hands linked in front of him. His expression seemed curious, cautious; mostly closed-off, that mask he and his siblings all wore – though Albie’s was much politer and friendlier than, say, Fox’s, for example.
He searched her face, and his brows lifted a fraction. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”
Had she reacted that way? She was too exhausted to control her face properly; she tried to smooth it. Folded her arms, and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “No. Just. I thought you were Eden.”
A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, I’m not disappointed.” She said it too quick, she thought, but it earned her a true smile.
“I won’t keep you up,” he said, “you look knackered.”
“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like it’s not a compliment.”
“You look sleepy,” he amended, chuckling. “I should let you get to bed. But I wanted to make sure you were okay first.”
A part of her she wasn’t going to grace with any kind of mushy labels found his sentiment very sweet. That he was worried; that he was checking on her. Major points in the win column for Mr. Albert Cross.
“I’m not that sleepy,” she lied. “Just sore from all the driving.”
He lifted his brows, doubtful.
“Beats riding a bike all that way.”
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
This is stupid, she thought, and opened the door all the way, even though her stomach clenched with sudden nerves. “You wanna come in?” she asked.
His brows went higher, surprise plain on his face. “Yeah.” He leaned forward, then hesitated.
Jesus Christ, she thought.
But he said, “Night cap?”
It was late, and she needed to be up early; alcohol couldn’t get them through all their awkwardness – eventually they’d have to learn how to be themselves around each other without any help, if this was ever going to work. But she said, “Sure.”
“Be right back.” He wasn’t even gone long enough for her to have second thoughts, only for her to appreciate the view of him walking away. Then he was back, bottle of Jack Daniel’s in-hand. “This do?”
“Definitely.”
There was nowhere to sit besides the bed, so they sat on the end of it, leaving a gap; room for someone else to have sat between them. Axelle didn’t remember shutting the door, but when she glanced up at it, it was closed. She didn’t feel panicked about that, though.
Albie wasn’t unsafe.
He just left her lungs trembling.
“Shit, I forgot glasses.” He frowned as he twisted off the cap, but had wiped his face smooth – into an expression almost hopeful – when he turned to her, and offered the bottle. “Ladies first. If you don’t mind, I mean.”
In answer, she took the bottle and a big swig. The whiskey burned all the way down; she choked down a cough, and caught a stray drop off her lips with the back of her hand.
It was too soon to feel the effects, but she was blaming the Jack when she said, “Why are we so damn bad at this?”
Another man would have asked for clarification, she thought. Played stupid. But not Albie. He made a considering face as he accepted the bottle back and took a swig of his own – two long swallows, and a deep breath after. “It was different back in London,” he said, brows knitted thoughtfully. He had a good face for thoughtful; it suited him better than cheerful, really. “We were dealing with – all that.” A vague gesture over his shoulder to encompass the craziness of that time. “Worried about our people. We just sort of” – shrug – “fell together. It didn’t take any thought. No effort. But now it’s like…” He trailed off, struggling for the words.
“Like boring old dating,” she supplied.
“It’s not boring,” he was quick to say, gaze snapping to hers, earnest. He wanted her to know that, she thought: that he wasn’t bored with her, or this little dance of theirs. “It’s…this is the hard part. Getting to know each other. It’s hard to know someone.”
She reached for the bottle again. “You brought me flowers.”
He made an apologetic face. “I thought you might like them.”
“I did.” She took a sip, smaller this time; the first was turning warm in her belly, moving through her veins in hot, soothing trails. “But I didn’t think I put out the ‘girl who likes flowers’ vibe.” She couldn’t remember the last time a man who knew she could drive like a demon had assumed there was anything feminine about her.
His smile was small, sideways, and a little bit sad. “Everyone likes pretty things, don’t they?”
She swallowed convulsively. “Yeah. I guess so.” Voice faint. Her throat was dry. “I guess the women you usually date do?”
His gaze never wavered, and she wished it would. Wished he’d have more whiskey, or turn his head, or give in to their usual awkwardness. “I don’t usually date.” Voice low, and serious. An honest voice; he was a criminal, and he’d done terrible things, but he’d struck her – even from the very first – as someone who told the truth whenever he could, even if people didn’t like it. It wasn’t about impressing people for Albie – wasn’t about being liked. He was who he was, and damn anyone who didn’t like it.
The room felt too hot, too close, suddenly. One of those ever-shrinking moments she always had the urge to leap away from. His eyes were the color of old blue jeans in the lamplight; warmly blue, now, and not the cool killer shine they were out in the sunlight.
She wet her lips. “You moved here for me.”
He could have dodged. I moved here to be nearer to my brother. For new business opportunities. To get away from London, and the memories it held of my awful father.
But he kept gazing steadily at her. His throat jumped when he swallowed. “I did.”
“Shit,” she breathed. “I mean…” Her pulse fluttered. “You just said: we’re still getting to know each other.”
“So?”
“So you don’t move across an ocean for someone you don’t know!”
“Axe–”
She stood up – too fast. The blood drai
ned out of her head, and the whiskey swirled in her stomach, and, whoa, a night cap was a bad idea. “I mean,” she said, and started pacing a tight back-and-forth path along the foot of the bed, “I knew you did. Moved here. To be with me. I knew that. That first day, at the post office, when I saw you…But I kept telling myself that was crazy. You had four brothers in Knoxville, and all that shit with your dad had just happened, and you got blown up, and who wouldn’t want to get out of London after that–”
He caught her wrist. Gently, but it stopped her in her tracks, and she turned to look at him. She could feel that she was wild-eyed; her breath hitched unsteadily.
His expression was gentle; his thumb found the pulse point in her wrist, and rubbed back and forth over it, soothingly. “Axelle. Love.”
Oh shit. There was no defending against that.
“You don’t love me,” she said unsteadily.
“No,” he agreed. “Not yet. But I think I could.”
Just a whisper: “What if I end up not being worth it to you? Moving to the States?”
“I’ve lived alone most of my life. I want to try something new.” His smile hitched uncertainly wider. “A man can’t subsist on furniture alone.” When she stared at him, he added, softer, “I’m willing to take that chance if you are.”
When she could, she nodded, chest tight.
“For what it’s worth,” he added. “I think it’ll be worth it.”
“You’re really sweet,” she said. “It’s awful.”
He chuckled. “I can’t disagree.”
She stood for a long moment, gaze drifting to his hand, where it still carefully held her wrist – that’s what it was, a hold and not a grip. He wasn’t pinning her, wasn’t keeping her, but saying I’m here, and I’d like to hold onto you, if you’ll let me.
“I hate to admit this,” she said on a sigh, “but I’m…freaking out.”
“I’m terrified,” he admitted. His fingers shifted on her arm, a soft caress. “Maybe we can be scared together?” Hopeful, cautious.
“Yeah.”
Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe her tiredness; the late hour after a long drive, or the low light, or – probably mostly – the way he was looking at her now. But something clicked into place. An understanding dawned, one that made all the difference.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 15
