Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  He let out a quiet little breath when their lips touched; she thought it sounded like relief and longing both.

  She let go of his cut and smoothed her hands up the cool leather, feeling the solidness of muscle beneath. Looped her arms around his neck and stepped in closer, until they were flush, as her mouth opened to his, and she tasted his tongue: mint and chap-stick and coffee and, again, that caring. She hadn’t ever thought a man’s thoughtfulness and care could have a taste, but it did, and it was Albie Cross.

  Someone cleared their throat – loudly.

  Axelle pulled back and turned to find the guy in the corner glaring at them over his book.

  “You want to mind your own business?” Albie said.

  “You wanna stop making out in the break room?” the man shot back. “Are you even supposed to be in here?”

  Albie sighed. “He does make a point,” he muttered.

  Axelle unlooped her arms from around his neck, and took his hand, biting back a grin. “Come on. You can help me clean out my car.”

  ~*~

  The doctor walked them down a long, bright hallway and through two sets of double doors to the trauma ward, and a small, thankfully empty family waiting room there, with soft, vinyl cushions in the chairs and a cooking show playing on the TV. “Your friend is going into surgery – I’m headed that way now. From what we can tell so far, there’s a bullet lodged somewhere in the lower leg, and one in his hip – the hip will be the tricky part of the operation.”

  Michelle nodded, wincing in sympathy. No wonder he hadn’t been able to support his own weight.

  “He’ll be okay?” Candy asked, worry heavy in his voice.

  The doctor, for her youth, had already developed that physicians’ poker face: grave, but not alarming; conveying gravity, but not instilling fear. “He’s lost a lot of blood” – all over the backseat of Axelle’s pristine GTO, much to her horror – “and we won’t know the extent of the bone or any additional damage until we get inside. But he’s young and strong. Dr. Barnes is very optimistic.”

  Candy nodded, his jaw set.

  “You can wait here and we’ll come update you at intervals.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Michelle said, and was glad for the doctor’s quick departure.

  Even if her stomach writhed with nerves.

  Relief threatened, too, though. She’d known a conversation like this was coming, but she’d thought she would feel keyed-up, defensive, perhaps even fearful. Now, after today, she felt mostly determined – with only a faint edge of nausea.

  Candy stood a long moment, rubbing at the back of his neck in an absent way, every line of his big body drawn taut with what she knew were a dozen different kinds of stress. She hated that she’d added to his anxiety, but she wouldn’t go back and choose to stay home today, no matter how unpleasant this all turned out to be.

  “Babe,” she said, finally, when he showed no signs of turning.

  He rotated toward her, then, slowly, the handsome, familiar, much-loved lines of his face drawn at harsh angles. He was so polite, always so ready with a smile and a laugh, as sweet as his name implied, that it was easy to forget just how damn intimidating he could be. She was reminded of that fact now, looking at the leashed fury in his gaze.

  When he spoke, his tone was even, though tight with restraint. “Explain it to me,” he said. “From the beginning.”

  She took a deep breath, and told him about the day she’d had: about Eden’s invitation, and her ready acceptance; about grilling Eric and Jesse, and running into Jinx; about driving to Sandoval’s, and seeing the cartel roll up, flash and bold, like they owned the city. Told him about Axelle’s wild driving, the chase; about Albie and the twins and Blue and Talis pulling up right on time.

  Her insides shivered the whole time, but she could hear the steadiness of her own voice. She’d spent her whole life learning how to control her nerves; she wasn’t going to quail now, not even for her husband.

  “So,” he drawled when she’d finished. “You thought it would be, what, fun to go running around with those risky broads because, why, you don’t think life’s already dangerous enough?”

  “First off.” She lifted a finger, and watched his gaze snap to it; the kind of gaze that could leave prospects cowering, and enemies cursing and backpedaling. “They’re not broads. Jenny would smack you for saying that. Second: I went because I thought I could be a good help to them – to the club. And to you.

  “Because…” And here was the bad part. The part he’d probably take the worst. “Yes. I am bored.”

  His eyes widened, brows shooting up. Shock moved across his face: loosening his jaw, parting his lips, shrinking his pupils down. He didn’t just look shocked, though; he looked hurt, too.

  “Candy,” she said again, entreating. “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, I know.” He shifted his weight – no, he wavered; the deep, sleepless lines beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. And he’d walked in on his friend’s corpse only a little while ago, Fox had told her. He’d had not only a stressful day, but a shitty one.

  He turned and dropped into a chair, suddenly. Braced his elbows on his knees, wagging his head. “It’s not like you have kids, or a husband, or a full-time job that wears you the hell out. You sit around all day hoping for something to do. Of course you’re bored.”

  “Darling.” She sat down beside him. When she touched his shoulder, she felt the muscle twitch beneath her hand, like a horse shooing flies.

  Well, she was no fly, and she wouldn’t be shooed.

  “Bored is perhaps the wrong word.”

  He lifted his head, and turned toward her, expression grave, now. Resigned. “Is it me?” he asked quietly. “You’re tired of me?”

  “No – Derek, no.” She tightened her hand on his shoulder, leaning in close, imploring. “It’s nothing like that. Baby, don’t take this the wrong way, but it isn’t about you at all.”

  He blinked. “Then what? I know you’ve been unhappy lately. I thought it was the hormones, or too much stress at work, or…” He trailed off, seeming at a loss.

  Sweet man. She leaned her forehead against his a moment, grateful for the pressure of him leaning back. Then she withdrew and took a deep breath. “You know what I used to do when I lived in London. The way I ran ops for my dad with Tommy.”

  His brows went up. “I know he sent you here when one of those ops almost got you killed.”

  “Yeah, and then you went back to London with me and helped put that situation to bed. We’ve worked together before, you and me. We’ve fought together.”

  He tipped his head a fraction in concession. “But.”

  “But what?”

  “That was before.”

  He didn’t have to clarify; she knew exactly what he meant. “Before I had TJ, you mean.”

  He let out a slow breath through his nostrils, gaze shifting to her stomach. “You’re pregnant right now, Chelle. While you were interrogating people, and going for car chases, and getting shot at, you were pregnant.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t get shot at.”

  “Michelle.” Voice sharp now, authoritative.

  “Why am I more at risk because I’m pregnant?” she bristled. “Is it the baby you’re worried about?”

  He stood up, fast, and she had to pull her hand back. He paced the length of the room in long, agitated strides. Fumed silently a moment. Then stopped and turned to her, expression anguished. “Is that what you think? That I’m worried more about the baby than you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Have I given you that much of a wrong impression?”

  “I…” She hadn’t ever thought of it that way. Hadn’t ever suspected that he placed a greater value on the babies than he did on her – but she could see now, with an ugly realization, why he might think that, given what she’d just said. “I thought,” she tried again, “you thought I was weaker. After.”

  Somehow, his eyes widened another
fraction. And then he closed them, and massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger: weary, frustrated, ashamed.

  Silence between them, a long moment. Michelle wasn’t sure how to fill it; wanted to choose her words carefully to keep from making all of this worse.

  Candy dropped his hand, and stared at her, face terribly open, now. His voice was low, contained within the room, but it carried straight to her. “Baby. I promise I’ve never thought you were weak. Not ever. Having TJ…I’d pretty much given up on having kids. It wasn’t something I thought about anymore. It just wasn’t in the cards. And then you came along, and I loved you so much, and we started a family, and I loved you even more. I love you more every damn day.

  “I don’t think you get weaker,” he said. “But I do. I’m the one going soft. Every time I think ‘what if something happens to her?’ I get a little more scared.”

  “Oh,” she said, softly.

  He returned to his chair, head down, gaze on his clasped hands. “I don’t mean to be a big ass about it all the time. Or act like you can’t handle yourself.” He turned to her, uncertainty plain in the notch between his furrowed brows. “But I worry all the time, baby. It’s one thing to be in this life by yourself. It’s another to think the life might get the person you love most hurt.”

  Her heart clenched. “I get it,” she said, and she did. “I think that ended up being Dad’s problem, in the end, when he sent me away.” She could feel the way her smile was rueful.

  “So I’m your dad now. Greeeeaaat.”

  Her smile tugged wider, real amusement washing through her. “Definitely not.”

  He made a face.

  She touched his shoulder again, and there was no shiver this time. She set her chin down on the back of her hand, so her face was right at his, her mouth right at his ear. “My father doesn’t make me want to take my clothes off,” she whispered, chuckling when he groaned.

  “God, your family’s fucked up.”

  “Including you?” she asked with false innocence.

  He turned his head a fraction, the close grain of his evening stubble grazing her cheek, even that small intimacy sending a thrill down her back.

  “Well, yeah,” he said, his voice shifting, finally, touched with humor, with his Texas grandeur, like the real him. “I’ve gotta be the most fucked up of all. Cradle robber,” he said, ticking attributes off on his fingers. “Yank,” he said in a terrible attempt at her accent, which left her laughing. “And not just Yank, but Texan.” He sobered, suddenly; she felt the tension ripple through his body. “Too stupid to realize the cartel was moving in on his territory again.”

  “Not stupid,” she insisted. “Who could have known? That isn’t anything you’ve ever seen before – people being killed like that.”

  “Drugged, too,” he added. “They’re using some kinda new paralytic, Cantrell said; something the lab hasn’t ever seen before. That’s how they’re getting the vics in place before they cut their throats.”

  She frowned. “Why in the world would they be working with a drug like that? That’s what government assassins use.”

  They both picked up their heads and looked at one another, both their gazes wide-eyed.

  “You don’t think…” she started.

  “That this is a government conspiracy?” Candy asked. “No, not really. But I know if you wanna get rich, you sell the kinda shit that makes people feel good. If you’re paralyzing people, it’s for a whole other reason.”

  “Jesus,” she murmured. “Yeah. We’ll ask Fox. He would have some idea.”

  “Or those weirdo kids of his.”

  “Hmm. Tenny especially. He is a government assassin. Or was.”

  Candy nodded. “You had a chance to talk to him yet?”

  “No. I don’t think Albie trusts him.”

  “He’s kind of a dick, from what I’ve seen,” Candy said. “Then again, so are most of your uncles.”

  She swatted his arm, and he chuckled.

  But he grew serious a moment later. “I swear I thought you were happy.”

  “I am happy.” It was what she’d told Eden, and it hadn’t been a lie. She loved Candy, and TJ; already loved the new baby, growing every day, even if it made her queasy.

  But Eden had helped her own a truth she’d been skirting around for a while, now. “I’m happy,” she repeated, “and God knows I’m tired, and I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. But I think I miss being useful.”

  He frowned. “Baby–”

  “No, not useful. I miss being relevant. I miss the thrill of it,” she said, and that’s what it had always been, when her heart was pounding, and they were seconds from being found out, and danger lurked around every corner. “I didn’t think, until recently, until I was out of the game, that I was somebody who enjoys that – the club work. Following leads, and sneaking into places, and serving like that.”

  As she’d spoken, his brows had drawn lower and lower; he looked baffled.

  “I was one of my father’s soldiers,” she continued. “Working wasn’t just a way to pay the bills. It felt like I was helping. Like what I did mattered to my family.”

  That landed; his brows flew up, suddenly.

  “I know I was never one of the boys, but I didn’t feel like somebody’s old lady, either.”

  He studied her a long moment. “Old ladies matter.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I know plenty who’ve been damn important to the fate of the club.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Ava Lécuyer shot a man’s face clean off in Louisiana.”

  “To the admiration of us all. But Ava and I were brought up differently. I can’t be her, or her mother – no one bloody could, the woman’s a legend. But I can be me. I can be like Devin Green’s children – because his blood is mine, too. We’re spies, Candy. All of us. And even if I love my life, and you, and TJ, and this club, and our home, and our bar…I miss being a spy sometimes.”

  He nodded. Turned his head, and stared out into the middle distance. “I don’t guess I ever thought of it like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to make things complicated.”

  He reached up and took her hand into his, his large fingers enfolding hers completely. “No, don’t apologize. We’ll figure something out.” After a beat, he turned a wry smile toward her and said, “I’m just glad you didn’t say I was disappointing you in the bedroom or something.”

  She snorted. “Fat chance of that, love.”

  ~*~

  “So,” Fox said, dropping down into the chair beside Eden’s. “Name me a reason why someone would be producing a new kind of paralytic drug.”

  Eden closed the magazine she’d been pretending to read and turned to regard him. He was slumped down in the chair, hands linked over his flat stomach, pads of his thumbs pressed together. His tone had been casual, bored even, but she saw the professional sparkle in his eyes. He was chewing through a puzzle, and that was his favorite thing.

  “Well,” she said, “no one takes those recreationally.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “Depends on whether you’re trying to paralyze someone permanently, or for a limited period. It could prevent someone from ever testifying or confessing, without killing them.”

  “Let’s say, in this case.” He tapped his thumbs together. It wasn’t quite visible, but there was a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “It’s a temporary paralysis.”

  “Alright, well, it would be a good way to transport someone safely if you were afraid they’d resist…What do you know?” she asked.

  The grin finally peeked out, a little baby one. Very Fox-like. “I just went down to check on Jinx. Candy and Michelle were in the waiting room – looking very cozy, no thanks to your meddling–”

  “If you think I meddled, Charlie Fox–”

  “–and apparently, Cantrell – that’s our FBI bloke – says all the victims had been dosed with a paralytic. If
I were a betting man–”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “–I’d guess that it’s the same drug this Holy Father wanker used on our witnesses to spook them. Your service station boys and one other.”

  He filled her in on the scare tactic ritual, and she felt her brows climb throughout the tale. “Well, they’ve come up with a very effective way of terrifying the shit out people in this city.”

  He nodded.

  “But you think they’re using it for something else, too.”

  “You don’t know I’m thinking that,” he said, coy.

  “You’re more readable than you think. Spill it.”

  “The whole Holy Father business is a distraction. It’s the big stage show. He’s the wizard. But the real business is going on behind the curtain. Cartels like this like to terrorize, sure, but this is taking it to a whole new, very creative level.”

  “Meanwhile,” she said, pulse starting to pick up, “they’re moving major product under everyone’s noses while the club and the FBI scramble around looking for a serial killer.”

  “Give the lady a door prize.”

  “Coke,” she guessed. “Maybe fentanyl.”

  “Yes. But you don’t need a paralytic for that.”

  It hit her, then. Slapped her right in the face and left her feeling stupid. “Oh, shit.”

  “They’re moving people,” he said, and if he was still grinning, he couldn’t be faulted for heartlessness; that was just his way.

  She shifted her gaze across the waiting room, toward the chair in the corner where the receptionist, Gwen, sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, chewing at the ragged sleeve of her hoodie, shell-shocked and trembling.

  “Time to talk to our new friend,” Eden said.

  “And Melanie Menendez.”

  Movement at the sliding doors drew her attention, and she cursed under her breath. Two uniformed officers strode in, sunlight glinting off the cuffs swinging from their gun belts.

  “Jinx has a GSW,” Fox said with a sigh. “This is standard protocol.”