Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Secondhand Smoke

  Dartmoor Book IV

  ____________________

  Lauren Gilley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Names and characters are the property of the author and may not be duplicated.

  SECONDHAND SMOKE

  ISBN -13: 978-1523218509

  Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Gilley

  Cover photograph Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Gilley

  HP Press®

  Atlanta, GA

  All rights reserved.

  The Dartmoor Series

  Fearless

  Price of Angels

  Half My Blood

  The Skeleton King

  Secondhand Smoke

  The Lean Dogs

  Ghost – President

  Walsh – Vice President

  Michael – Sergeant at Arms

  Ratchet – Secretary

  Hound – Tracker

  Rottie – Tracker

  Mercy – Extractor

  Aidan – Ghost’s son

  Tango – Aidan’s best friend

  Dublin

  Briscoe

  RJ

  Troy

  Carter

  Littlejohn

  Harry

  Collier – incarcerated

  The Old Ladies

  Maggie – Ghost

  Ava- Mercy

  Holly – Michael

  Nell – Hound

  Mina – Rottie

  Jackie – Collier

  Samantha – Aidan

  “So, when this loose behaviour I throw off

  And pay the debt I never promisèd,

  By how much better than my word I am,

  By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;

  And like bright metal on a sullen ground,

  My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,

  Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes

  Than that which hath no foil to set it off.

  I’ll so offend to make offence a skill,

  Redeeming time when men think least I will.”

  ― William Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part 1

  “There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.”

  ― Vincent van Gogh

  SECONDHAND

  SMOKE

  ~*~

  I wonder if they knew it would come to this. The Romantics, courting sunrises and standing poetically on grassy overlooks. Inhaling God and exhaling prose fit to make men weep. Could they have predicted such sea changes, do you think? Do you think they would recognize us now? All our talk of organs, and scandal, and fucking, as if any of it meant anything. Do you think they would mourn the death of Romance?

  The words of men and women dead two hundred years hold more meaning than any I’ve heard breathed in my own century. We have to keep the flame alive, we few of us who can. We have to think that Love is something more than a sequence of symbols on a cellphone screen. We have to think we can touch it, cup it in our hands.

  I have to think so, anyway. Because Love is still very much alive, and I won’t let go of it. Not for anything.

  Not when it’s real.

  I thought myself in love once, but I had no idea. Not then. Not until now. Now I know the taste of his skin. My hands know every texture of his scars. If that’s love, then it holds me in thrall. It’s a poison. And it’s perfect. And it’s going to get me killed…

  ~*~

  From the unpublished draft of “A Novel,” by Samantha Walton

  September

  One

  “I’m pregnant. And it’s yours.”

  A weapon of mass destruction, comprised of five words, and a vicious stare. It struck him at impossible speed, blindsided him, exploded in his brain and left behind a mushroom cloud – and nothing else. No protest, no question, no conscious thought.

  He didn’t remember leaving Briar Hall; had no idea how he’d ended up on the curb in front of Leroy’s Gas ‘n’ Grocery. He was staring at his boots, and he had a bottle of Jack Daniels Honey in his hand. He tipped it up, pressed his lips to the sticky mouth of the bottle and opened his throat, let it burn a hole down into his belly.

  The night in the garage – that’s when it must have happened. She’d been feral, wicked, and he’d been too caught up in hating her and wishing she’d been worth something more than sex. They hadn’t been careful.

  But did he believe her?

  The whiskey tasted hideous, but he relished the way it clouded his veins, filled his head with a heavy dullness that eased the sharpness of his fury.

  Pregnant. And it was his.

  He’d never wanted anything less.

  ~*~

  Too much to drink with dinner. Blood moving through his brain in sluggish pulses, a deep gong counterpoint to the throb of the music. A lazy night in the empty clubhouse, filled with the slow simmering promise of only the three of them.

  Just not the three Jasmine had originally requested.

  Tango and Carter left Briar Hall and headed to the clubhouse, not entirely sure if Aidan intended to take his bitch princess back to their place, and not wanting to tempt fate for even the slightest possibility. The couple had been talking on Walsh’s porch, the last Tango had seen.

  They grabbed beers they didn’t need and settled in on one of the long couches, in front of flickering, mindless late night TV.

  A throat clearing. A feminine sound.

  Jasmine appeared, goddess-like, hair cascading down around her face, dressed in nothing but her smooth tan skin and one of Tango’s old shirts, the buttons only half-fastened, a tempting wedge of skin visible down the middle.

  “Well hey, boys.”

  “Hey, baby,” Tango greeted, warmth blooming in his chest, face lifting in a tired smile. The sight of her never failed to shoot sex through his veins, kindle heat deep in his belly. His eyes tracked the sway of her hips as she crossed the room to get to him. His skin prickled as she lowered onto the couch beside him. Between them. Smelling of flowers and sun-dried laundry.

  “Where’ve y’all been?” she asked, and reached to tidy his hair. Light touches, scrape of her nails against his scalp.

  “Dinner at Walsh’s place,” Carter answered, before Tango could.

  “He lives on a farm now, doesn’t he?”

  “Not much like any farm I’ve ever seen,” Carter said with a snort. “The horses live better than I do.”

  “His old lady have money or something?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmm.”

  Meaningless words; beneath their flat innocence, Tango could feel the buzz of restless energy. Jazz wasn’t looking for a conversation, she never was. The air around her crackled with sex, and when her eyes slid over to him, he saw the mischievous spark in their depths.

  She bit her lip in a flash of girlish excitement, and asked him a silent question.

  He didn’t say yes.

  But he didn’t say no.

  She winked at him, and he knew it was off to the races.

  “What a lucky girl I am,” Jasmine said, and reached to trace a fingertip along the shell of Carter’s ear. “Sitting here with two blonde boys.”

  Carter stiffened all over; his shoulders tightened up. His head turned slowly, fractionally, gaze fixed on Jasmine with surprise…and wonder. A little wonder. Had this been a non-club woman, he probably wouldn’t have thought anything of her statement. But he knew Jazz at this point, the way her dirty mind worked.

  Ja
smine smiled at him. “You don’t have a little girlfriend stashed somewhere, do you?” Her voice dropped with every word, that purring seductive tone Tango had heard so many times. He knew she wasn’t exclusive with him, but he never saw her turn the charm toward someone else right in front of him. It sent a jolt through his system. His cock stirred behind his fly, and his stomach clenched.

  “No,” Carter said slowly, and his blue eyes came to Tango. What the hell? they asked.

  Tango shrugged and took a long pull on his beer.

  “Aw.” Jasmine gave a pretend pout. “That’s too bad.” She grinned. “For the girls. Not for me.”

  Her hand slid down the side of Carter’s neck, flirted with the collar of his cut, his t-shirt. Opened against his chest and smoothed down. Slowly. Across his stomach. Landing in his lap.

  Carter jerked a little, sucked in a breath. He looked at Tango again, his gaze almost frantic.

  “What’s the matter, baby?” Jasmine asked, voice gentle, deep. “You ever done this before?”

  His eyes were big, a little frenzied, chest lifting as he breathed. He was aroused – that much was evident by the bulge Jasmine was rubbing through his jeans. But he wasn’t sure if this was against protocol. A good kid, Carter – always conscientious.

  “I’ve done it plenty,” he said, voice tight, and looked like he strained not to lift into her touch. “It’s just that…” Another look thrown Tango’s direction. Help me here, man. This is your woman.

  Jasmine turned to glance at Tango, and grinned before putting her attention back on Carter. “Oh, you’re worried? Don’t be, baby. Lemme tell you something about our pretty Tango-baby. He promised he’d get me a present.” Her hand continued to rub at the boy’s straining erection, working him with slow skill over the fly of his jeans.

  “Yeah?” he asked distractedly, eyes going to her ministrations. “What sorta present?”

  She reached for the button of his jeans. Thumbed it open with deft precision. “He promised he’d talk to Aidan for me. About the three of us.” The sound of the zipper going down seemed thunderous to Tango. Or maybe that was just all the beer. Or maybe the way the blood was pounding. “The three of us together,” Jazz continued. “But he hasn’t done it yet.”

  She pulled Carter’s cock out, took it in both her hands. “Maybe,” she purred, “it’s just as well. ‘Cause then we wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

  Tango watched, as if in a drugged hallucination, as Jasmine got up onto the couch on her knees between them, her back to him, and bent forward, leaned low. Took Carter’s stiff cock into her mouth.

  Carter’s head kicked back against the sofa and he inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring.

  Tango knew just what her mouth felt like, could relate perfectly to that rush of sensation.

  She reached back with one hand and hiked her shirt up, exposing the firm curves of her ass. She was naked, of course, and Tango knew what she wanted.

  He reached between her legs, found her damp sex and stroked her.

  Years ago, when he was just a kid, before Jasmine, there had been Misty. And it had been her, and him, and Aidan in that dorm room, the night of Aidan’s deflowering, and that woman had been wicked and insatiable, and she’d wanted both of them. That’s how it went with these groupies, didn’t it? They did everything, had everyone, and eventually, none of it was enough. He’d thought – stupidly – that maybe he and Jazz could be something more for each other. That she’d stop seeking out the others, stop needing that reckless high of the forbidden.

  But she couldn’t change. And neither could he; after all, he was just a sex toy. That’s all he’d ever be.

  Jasmine sat up with a slow slurping sound, rubbing her damp lips together, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming.

  “Tango,” she murmured, looking drugged as she turned to him. “Can we? Please?”

  He spent most of his nights in Ian Byron’s bed these days. Who was he to say no to anything?

  “Sure, baby.”

  Her grin was bright with excitement as she stood and motioned for them to follow her.

  Carter tucked himself away as he stood, spine curled awkwardly as he struggled against the overwhelming effects of arousal.

  “Hey, man,” he whispered as they started after Jasmine. “I’m not trying to…I mean, if you’re not okay with this…”

  “I want Jazz to have what she wants,” Tango said simply, without inflection. “It’s fine. All of it. Any of it.”

  And what Jazz wanted in this moment was a thrill. She ushered them into a dorm, closed the door, and then came to Tango, beaming, face flushed. She braced her hands on his chest and stretched up on her toes to kiss him, pressing her breasts into his pecs. She slid her tongue into his mouth, and Tango knew all too well the taste of man on her lips.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she stepped back. “This is gonna be so fun. I’ll make it so good for you, baby. For both of you,” she added, and then her attention went to Carter.

  The new boy. The younger boy. The fresh plaything she’d never had before.

  She kissed him for long moments, until his mouth softened, until his hands found her hips and clamped down hard.

  Tango felt the faint stirrings of jealousy, but worse than that was the overwhelming sadness of it all.

  Jazz finally pulled back, and she undid the first button of the shirt she wore, eased it aside so her breasts were exposed. Carter’s eyes flicked down to them; he wet his lips. And then he looked at Tango.

  You’re sure? Is this alright?

  She undid the rest of the buttons and the shirt slid down off her shoulders, landed on the floor with a soft sound. The lamp gilded her nakedness. Carved deep shadows beneath her heavy breasts, in the sharp inward grooves of her waist. Tango had the rear view, but Carter had the front, and Tango watched, saw the other man’s eyes drink her up.

  “Take your clothes off,” Jasmine said, voice rough, low. “Both of you.”

  Sounds of boots hitting the floor, zippers, belt buckles, shirts and jeans landing like fall leaves.

  Carter was beautiful, densely muscled, his skin smooth, his cock standing proudly.

  Jasmine made a happy purring sound in the back of her throat. “Hmm, look at you.” She reached for Carter’s sex, curled her hand tight around his cock and stroked, stroked, stroked…until his hips flexed and he grunted through clenched teeth. His eyes came to Tango, half-drugged with lust, but a little cautious. Asking again, wondering one last time.

  Tango nodded.

  Jasmine stepped back toward the bed, towing Carter with her. “Come on, baby,” she whispered to him. “Let’s play.”

  That was the moment Tango watched shame leave the boy; instinct took over.

  Jazz laid back on the bed, making a sensual show of it, legs parting, hips lifting. She cupped her breasts and stroked them. Licked her lips slowly.

  Carter was done hesitating, obviously. He climbed on the bed, between her legs. Passed a hand up her stomach, nudged her hand out of the way, closed his over her breast.

  His other hand went to her sex, touched her boldly.

  She laughed softly. “Yeah, you want it, little boy. I’ve seen you watching me.”

  He pinched her nipple, tugged at it, his eyes feral. “I want to fuck you so damn bad.”

  She rolled her hips as his fingers worked against her. “So do it. Fuck me good, newbie. Show me what you’re made of.”

  Tango snagged a condom off the nightstand and tossed it onto the bed. “Wrap it up.”

  Carter tore at the foil, rolled the thing on.

  “Hurry, baby,” Jazz murmured. “I’m getting lonesome over–”

  Carter reared up and drove into her, and her words dissolved into a sharp gasp. Her mouth opened, lips a painted O, head kicking back.

  Cater buried himself to the hilt in her glistening sex. “Fuck,” he breathed. He braced his hands on the mattress, and started to move, slowly at first.

  Jasmine put her hands on his shoulder
s, stared up at him a moment, gaze transfixed as he rode her.

  Then she seemed to remember Tango. “Here, baby boy.” Her voice was breathy, uncharacteristic. “Come get in my mouth.”

  He got onto his knees on the mattress at her head, took his cock in his hand, guided it to her waiting lips. She took him in, clamped tight around him, wet and warm. And he took her mouth, while his club brother took her pussy.

  Tango’s eyes were everywhere. On Jasmine’s slick lips around his cock as he pushed into her mouth and then withdrew, cradling her head, keeping his rhythm slow because he could see the way the sex was consuming her. On Carter, as the complex musculature of his back flexed and strained, his hips grinding, thrusting. It was spectacular, the sight of him between Jasmine’s thighs, driving his cock into her, body torqueing as he went deeper, harder. He grunted and cursed. He gripped Jasmine’s thigh and angled her leg, spread her wider, took the penetration deeper. He dropped his head over her breasts, covered her nipples with his tongue. And Jazz seemed to levitate, bowing upward into his mouth, into his driving cock, her hips trying to meet the kiss of his, moaning as she sucked on Tango. The sounds were a vibration through her mouth, shooting up his cock.

  Tango pulled out of her mouth, sat back, hard and aching, watching. She kicked her head back and gasped. “Oh. Oh. Oooohhhh.” He knew the flush of her cheeks, the way she bit her lip – a real orgasm, and not a show.

  Carter made a sharp growling sound and tensed, ass clenching as he drove into her hard, pressed her down into the mattress, and found his own release.

  Jazz heaved a deep, satisfied sigh; ran her hands down Carter’s back, to his ass, squeezing, holding him where he was. Both of them panting, gleaming with sweat. A moment Tango should never have been witness to, much less a part of.

  Then Jazz turned her head and looked at him. “Baby boy. Come here to me.”

  An invitation. The woman who made him feel like both a sheltered boy and a man. And a man who had no idea of his sordid history; didn’t know that in a way, his own nakedness was as much a part of the temptation as Jasmine’s.