Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  “What?” Albie asked, drawing up beside him.

  “We’re not doing a perimeter check. I put someone else on it.”

  Sometimes, Albie wondered if scowling at this particular brother was just his default expression. It was certainly putting little lines in his forehead. “Who?”

  Fox waved, dismissive, and pinned Albie with a look; enough moonlight to see the eerie blue of his eyes. “How’s your rage?”

  “My what?”

  “Don’t play daft. It’s only funny some of the time. Your rage. Where is that at as of now? Still liable to smash someone’s shoulder with a hammer?”

  That rage. He’d known he hadn’t been subtle; hadn’t hidden his emotions away. But it was one thing being seen by the other Dogs, and entirely another to be seen by Fox. Fox studied him like he could see inside his skull; like he knew exactly how shaky and unmoored Albie had been on the inside.

  He wanted to shrink back from those instincts, now; to fidget and redirect, so he held himself very still, and took a good inward look at himself, instead. “It’s under control,” he said.

  Fox didn’t look convinced. “It’s different being that angry because you care so much.”

  “What?” Albie asked, and, okay, he was playing daft, because his pulse thumped hard, a sudden lurch, and he knew exactly what Fox was getting at.

  The twist of Fox’s lips said he wasn’t fooled at all. “You can be angry when you want to. I know you gave Paul a tour of your gun cabinet that time.” Because Fox knew everything. “But this was the first time you’ve had a real relationship with a woman. And she was in danger, and that’s a different kind of rage altogether.”

  “It sounds like you’re suggesting I don’t love my niece.”

  “It’s a different kind of love,” Fox insisted, almost gently. “It’s pure, but it’s not proprietary. Your rage about Axelle didn’t feel like anything you’ve ever felt before,” he insisted. “And you need to get hold of it or else you’ll scare her with it.”

  “I won’t.” But he had scared her, hadn’t he? Not with any one specific act, no, but she’d been so hesitant and cautious around him for so long, and she wasn’t a cautious girl, his driver, but she’d looked at him warily.

  “She’s not like us,” Fox insisted. “Not like Michelle, or Jen, or even Eden. If you go back to her all in a rage still, it won’t matter that it’s not directed at her. She’s like a horse looking for something to shy from.” He glanced away, then, irritated. “Fucking King,” he muttered. “Fucking horse metaphors.”

  Albie started to retort, and took a breath instead; attempted to tamp down the surge of aggression that had been steadily rising like a dark tide while they stood here. He was wrong, and Fox was right – infuriatingly so. His rage was still here, like the lingering pain from a pressed-on bruise, and if he showed it to Axelle, she might bolt. God knew she had every right to.

  “By the way,” Fox said, “when I said she wasn’t like us, that was a compliment.”

  Albie took a few more deep breaths, and found that he could smile, a little.

  Until a black wraith popped into view right in front of them.

  “Jesus!” he swore, seeing only the bright white and blue of eyes, and entertaining wild fears of childhood boogeymen before his brain caught up with his startle reflex, and he realized it was Reese standing there, still all in black and wearing his grease paint. “Jesus,” he said again, massaging at the pulse that hammered behind his breastbone.

  Fox smirked as he turned to the boy. “All clear?”

  “Clear,” Reese said with a little nod, and turned – all but disappearing without the shine of his eyes to betray him.

  “Get some sleep,” Fox called after him, as he descended the slope. Then he turned to Albie. “And you, too. Go find your girl and both of you get some rest.”

  A rare thing: Fox had an excellent idea.

  Albie trooped back down the hill, half-expecting Reese to pop up again like the world’s scariest Jack-in-the-box. But he arrived, finally, unmolested, and was relieved to find that all the squad cars had gone for the moment, and shrouded bodies no longer littered the yard. Things had quieted down inside, too. The prospect was slinging drinks, and most of Albie’s club brothers – battered and exhausted – had settled into the bruised furniture to talk quietly and nurse beer and whiskey. He didn’t spot Candy, though he hadn’t expected to. Made his way quietly back to the sanctuary where the president lived with his family, and rapped gently on the door.

  Jenny opened it a moment later, a glass of red wine in her other hand. “Oh. Hi.” She looked as exhausted as the boys out front, but lovelier with it, and she attempted a smile of genuine warmth; Southern hostesses were a thing, he was learning. “Candy is, uh – indisposed, I think.” She offered a soft laugh, edged with tiredness – but real gladness.

  “Oh. Um. I’m looking for Axelle, actually.”

  “Oh.” Her brows went up. “She’s not here anymore. I think she went to her dorm.”

  “Oh.” He wished Jenny a good night and headed that way with some trepidation.

  But the dorm was empty; the en-suite, too.

  He went back to the common room with his heart pounding, and scanned the room carefully, thoroughly. Fought to keep his voice even when he said, “Anybody seen Axe?”

  Blue scratched at his beard and said, “Saw her go out the front door a few minutes ago.”

  She left. That was his first, gut-clenching thought as he headed that way. She’d had enough; tonight was the last straw, and so she’d decided on the only logical course of action: escape.

  It wasn’t a rational thought on his part; a fuzzy, fizzing static of panic in his chest and his head. He wasn’t thinking about the fact that he’d just seen her suitcase in her dorm, didn’t reason that she wouldn’t leave town without her curling iron, and her lip gloss, both of which he’d just seen on the bathroom counter.

  He hit the parking lot and stood a moment, gaze sweeping side to side across the moon-silvered night, the dry cold painful in his lungs. It was with dread that he turned to search for her car – but his pulse skipped when he saw that the GTO was still there. And, visible as a silhouette in the glow of the porch lights, Axelle was sitting behind the wheel, head tipped back against the seat.

  Of course. Of course she’d gone to the place she felt safest, the most in-control and like herself.

  He walked over slowly, getting his breathing under control, and rapped gently on the passenger window. He hated that she startled – a fast jerk of her head, her eyes wild – but he hadn’t wanted to try the handle and frighten her even more.

  He smiled through the glass, and she relaxed and waved him in.

  The GTO was cherry; she kept it in perfect condition, waxed, and buffed, and tuned up. The seats, butter-soft deep tan leather, smelled of the conditioning wipes she used on them, and, faintly still, the Lysol they’d used to clean Jinx’s blood out of the back with. But even so, it was an old car, and Albie loved the way it settled like one as he climbed in and shut the door; the way it rocked and swayed in that old way before safety and efficiency had been so high on the Detroit automakers’ priority lists.

  He sat with his hands on his thighs and stared through the windshield, silent a moment. Amarillo was a dustier city than Knoxville, and the porch lights picked out the glitter of it in the faint dusting across the glass and on the hood, gleaming and still-clean beneath a powder coat of it. Axelle, he could see from the corner of his eye, held both hands loosely at six o’clock on the wheel, fingers hooked through, more relaxed than he’d seen them throughout most of this trip.

  He realized, as the seconds ticked by, that he had no idea what to say. How to begin this conversation – nor what conversation she would even want to have right now. He could only guess what she was thinking, and he was thinking, far too loudly, about what Fox had told him a few minutes ago: about the ways she wasn’t like the rest of them. And he’d never had to reconcile his life, his fami
ly, his kind with someone so fundamentally different. It scared him, more than a little.

  Finally, she gathered a deep breath, one that sent dread pulsing through him. Whatever she said, he wouldn’t blame her; he would be gracious. He’d earned any number of reprimands; he deserved her fear in return – in spades.

  She said, “I get it.”

  Albie heard the words, but they didn’t land right. He turned to look at her full-on then. “What?” Was that the only thing he was capable of saying tonight?

  She stared back at him steadily, and she still looked a little spooked – who wouldn’t after what had happened? – but he was surprised to see a very obvious resolve in the elegant curves of her mouth and jaw; in the lift of her chin and the set of her shoulders. “I get it,” she repeated. “I think maybe I always have, but–” She bit her lip, pain touching her features. “What happened to my dad, you know? It was – it was really hard to get over that.”

  He didn’t dare speak, barely even breathed. He didn’t know what she was working toward, but he had a suspicion he hoped was correct. Oh, he so hoped.

  She took another breath, visibly gathering herself, digging deep. “It’s not about breaking the law – I break about a dozen traffic laws on the regular. I used to think it was about hurting people, but people hurt other people all the time, in a hundred little ways, and people hurt themselves. That’s what my dad did: he hurt himself, and that hurt me. And…” She met his gaze with a sudden fierceness. “Guys like Luis, his cartel, they’ve always existed. They’re always going to exist. And you can either play by all the rules, and do all the right things, and hope nobody ever kidnaps you and tries to sell you, or strong-arms your garage into helping them, or shoots you dead, or ties you out and cuts your throat.” She swallowed, fingertips ghosting up to her own throat as she imagined the horror of it. “You can hope it never happens. Or you can make sure it doesn’t.”

  I couldn’t keep it from happening to you, he thought, aching. I couldn’t keep you safe, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.

  “The club does some bad shit, but it does some really good shit, too.” The corners of her mouth fluttered, a hopeful little smile. “So I get why the club does what it does. Why they sell drugs, and guns, and why they fight, and kill. Those girls Luis took – civilian life didn’t keep them safe. If I have my choice, I choose to take my chances with the club.” She wet her lips, uncertain now. “With you. If – if you still want–”

  He reached across the center console and she met him halfway with a glad little exhalation full of relief. It was awkward, leaning together, but Albie didn’t care. He wrapped her up and felt her fingers hook tight in the back of his cut; felt the shaky dampness of her breath as she pressed her face into his throat.

  He cupped the back of her head, fingers sliding against the silkiness of her hair. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  He was afraid he might be crushing her, but he couldn’t bear to let go, not yet. “I didn’t keep you safe, I didn’t–”

  She laughed, unsteady, but bell-bright and wonderful. “Your expectations are really too high, you know that?”

  He felt his face heat, but said, stubbornly, “You trusted me, and I let you down.”

  She drew back – he let her go with reluctance – and took his face in both her hands. She smiled, and blinked against the glimmer of fresh tears. “You are a very sweet man, with a very big heart. But it’s not your job to save me.”

  He took a ragged breath; his chest hurt. “If anything had happened to you–”

  “But it didn’t. I mean.” She winced. “I’m not proud. I was really freaked out. If Michelle hadn’t kept her head…and I’m definitely gonna have nightmares…but I chose to come. I chose to help. If you’re in this, then you’re in it, and things get scary sometimes. It’s not down to you to save me every time.” Another smile, tremulous, but true. Brave.

  If she’d sat here and told him that she couldn’t handle this; that the club was too dangerous and frightening, and that she wanted a quiet, normal civilian life, she wouldn’t have been the first woman to do. It would have only been the natural response.

  But Fox was wrong. She wasn’t different from them.

  Albie touched her face in turn and reeled her to in to kiss her. A slow, sweet, salty-tasting kiss, and he didn’t care whose tears they were, only that they could have this now – and in the future.

  ~*~

  Reese had a post-op routine. A ritualistic, specific practice that, once completed, left him feeling empty inside in a pleasant way, tired and ready for rest. First, he stripped off all his weapons and cleaned them appropriately, until the steel gleamed, and the guns smelled strongly of oil. Put them all away in their proper places, secured them. Then he stripped off his clothes, showered; worked the grease paint from his face with a rough cloth and plenty of soap. Dressed in clean things – or as clean as he had to hand. There had been some rough living when he’d first arrived in Knoxville, when he was following Roman and longing for a true sense of direction. Things were better, now; his routines could be preserved.

  But not tonight. Not yet. He had a room, and a bathroom, and harsh soap, and rough cloths, and all that he needed to properly care for his weapons…but it was a room he shared with Tenny, and a quick look moments ago had revealed that Tenny was asleep again, pale-faced, whimpering quietly. So Reese had come back outside and sat now on a low bench against the clubhouse wall, wiping what he could of his face with a handkerchief from his pocket. He’d used one corner of it to wipe his knife clean, earlier, and so he tried not to rub other men’s blood into his eyes.

  He heard a door open, and the crunch of boots over gravel: whoever it was wasn’t trying to be quiet; was in fact, Reese decided, trying to be loud. Trying to alert him that he was being approached, down to the overexaggerated click-inhale-exhale of lighting a cigarette. A moment later, Mercy’s unmistakable silhouette appeared around the corner, and dropped down beside him on the bench. The old wood creaked beneath his weight, but held.

  There was just enough ambient light to make out the gray plume of smoke Mercy exhaled up toward the sky. “That was fun, huh?”

  Fun was still a concept with which Reese struggled. He’d developed a general idea of it: it was most often applied to parties, to drinking, and laughing, and to evenings that began with a woman sliding down into someone’s lap. But there was an individual component to it, too; fun meant different things to different people. Kris had said shopping for pots and pans for her new apartment was fun. With Mercy, fun usually involved bloodshed.

  “Contributing was…satisfying,” Reese said. Because it had been. He felt heavy inside, glad to have been productive and successful. Unfinished ops nagged at him like hangnails.

  Mercy chuckled – but not in an insulting way. Never that. Something as simple as a laugh always sounded like understanding.

  “I didn’t know you were coming.” After he said it, Reese decided that it wasn’t something he would have said a month ago; his tongue felt loose inside his mouth, more connected to what had once been fleeting thoughts, but which now pushed their way more and more to the forefront. More like a human, he thought, with a hint of wry amusement – also new.

  “I didn’t know I was coming until the last minute,” Mercy said, easily, like he hadn’t noticed Reese was acting strangely. Or wasn’t going to remark on it, even if he had. “Fox called, and he didn’t ask for help, really, but we could tell things were tight. And when Ghost heard Cali was sending guys – well, he couldn’t let Knoxville look bad,” he said with another laugh.

  “Fox called?”

  “Yep. Kept us updated the whole time. Had some very complimentary things to say about you, by the way.” Reese could tell that he turned toward him, his brows lifted in silent question, while his cigarette curled thin ribbons up toward the stars. Then he voiced the question: “How are things with you and him, by the way?”

  “Things?”
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  “Fox. You hate him a little less now?”

  “I don’t hate.” Except for Tenny, and that wasn’t hate at all, not really, not anymore.

  Mercy nudged his shoulder with his own; Reese had learned that to be an affectionate gesture, one he didn’t feel able to reciprocate. Not yet. “I told you he was pushing you on purpose. Fox has his issues – hell, who of us doesn’t – but he’s not a monster.” He leaned back and stretched his longs legs out. “That’s my title, after all,” he said, proudly.

  Reese wiped his eyelids again and then held the handkerchief in his lap; his face itched where the paint had been. “I was very angry with him.”

  “I could tell.” It was said lightly, without heat or humor. An acknowledgement. Reese appreciated that. “That’s okay, though. That’s the thing about the club: guys like us have to follow orders. But sometimes those orders piss us off. And sometimes those orders are wrong. It’s okay to speak up when they are. Sometimes you just have to do what’s right, you know?”

  Reese tightened his hand on the dirty cloth, the grease paint sliding between his fingers. Thought about the night of the house raid, and of Tenny’s blood hot and slick between his fingers, very much like the paint. Thought of challenging Fox…and of being right.

  “I know,” he said, and he thought he did.

  Mercy clapped him on the shoulder, and he knew that was affectionate, too. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

  When he smiled, it didn’t feel so much like a facial malfunction anymore.

  Fifty-Seven

  “Officer Jaffrey’s been very obliging,” Eden said the next morning at breakfast, standing at the makeshift head of several pushed-together tables. She held a crisp manilla folder and pulled paperwork out a sheet at a time, laying the pages out in front of her eggs. “These ten girls were local to the Amarillo area. These,” a second row, “are from various cities in Arizona. And then New Mexico.”