Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  She’d dressed in black skinnies, a white sweater, denim jacket, and black ankle boots. Not exactly Ava Lécuyer biker chic, but not bad either. Her hair was down, blown out, loose and wavy. She dabbed a little lipstick on and forced herself out of the bathroom. No more time to think things through or fiddle with her earrings. Aidan would be here any minute.

  Erin was at the kitchen table, doing her homework in a sullen funk, Helen putting away the groceries she’d brought home.

  “Don’t you look cute!” Mom said as Sam slipped the strap of her bag over her head.

  Erin rolled her eyes.

  Sam said, “You think?” and held her arms out, did a spin, ignoring her sister.

  “Yes,” Helen said decisively. “Have a good time tonight. You don’t do enough fun stuff.”

  Try no fun stuff. Sam nodded, thankful for her mom’s encouragement.

  A knock at the back door. Then Aidan let himself in, and Sam forgot to breathe for a moment.

  When she’d seen the Dogs ride in formation through the city, they were always clad in all black, and today appeared to be no exception. Very dark jeans, black shirt, shined boots, glittering chrome accents, and his cut. He looked downright sinister…until he grinned and said, “Hey.” Then he looked wicked.

  “Dude, you’re drooling,” Erin said, and Sam actually dabbed at her lips before she realized her sister was being a brat. Blushing, she shot Erin a stern look.

  “I’m going to check your guided reading questions later, so make sure to put some effort into them.”

  Erin smirked. “Like you’re gonna be back later.”

  Touché.

  “Okay, we’re leaving,” Sam said, striding toward Aidan and the door…and beyond, freedom.

  “Bye, you two. Have a nice time!” Helen called after them.

  When the door was shut, and they were alone, Aidan caught her around the waist and pulled her up against his chest. “You’re not wearing your glasses,” he said with boyish delight.

  “I got contacts. Better?”

  His smile twitched and he pressed her even closer. “Not better. You’re beautiful all the time.”

  She kissed him. “Come on, Romeo, or we’ll be late.”

  ~*~

  Sam had the sense of stepping back in time. Yes, there were cars, bikes, cell phones, stereos, electric lights. Yes, she smelled exhaust and the ribs that were already on the three massive outdoor grills. But the atmosphere within the chain link fences surrounding Dartmoor was nothing if not medieval.

  King Arthur, and the Knights of the Outlaw Table.

  “Crazy, huh?” Ava said, and Sam could only nod.

  The bikes were lined up in a neat double row, Ghost’s alone up at the head, the others staggered behind it according to rank. The machines gleamed from fresh washings, the few traces of chrome catching fire in the light.

  Men and women she didn’t recognize – club girls and hangarounds, Ava had explained – were stringing lights beneath the pavilion. Steel tubs awaited beer and ice. Fires were being prepared in the fifty-five gallon drums. Carved jack-o-lanterns were being placed carefully. The lot was filled with a bustling sense of preparation, a low-simmering excitement.

  And then there were the Lean Dogs. An army in black leather, breathtaking in their understated ferocity.

  Apparently, more out of town members had shown up just minutes before, and it was a surprise.

  Ghost embraced a tall man, the stranger’s craggy face erupting with lines and wrinkles as he laughed. His bottom rocker proclaimed him from England.

  Maggie smiled. “Phillip Calloway doesn’t come across the pond just for any old reason.” Her smile dimmed and she sighed. “Lord.”

  “That’s the London president,” Ava explained to Sam…and also Holly and Emmie. The womenfolk stood beneath the portico, waiting for the guys to settle down and finally decide to get the show on the road. “He’s Walsh’s brother,” Ava continued. “Well, one of them.”

  As they watched, Phillip pulled back from Ghost and then snatched up Walsh with one arm, reaching with the other for Shane.

  Emmie watched the reunion with a pleased expression. “Fox came by the house yesterday morning. I told Walsh we ought to just save time and go ahead and have a family reunion.”

  Maggie snorted. “How’d that idea go over?”

  “Like a lead balloon.”

  “Fox is the black sheep, from what I can tell,” Maggie said. “But they keep those secrets locked up tight. Ghost said it wasn’t his story to share.” Maggie glanced over at Emmie. “But I’m betting you could work it out of your man.”

  Emmie nodded. “I intend to.”

  In the milling crowd of Dogs, Sam sought Aidan with her eyes, smiling to herself when she found him. He stood with Tango, the best friends shoulder to shoulder, one dark-headed and feral, the other pale and pretty. Poor Kev; none of his piercings, clothes or hair spikes could do a thing to disguise his elfin appearance.

  As if he sensed her stare, Aidan glanced over, the distance shrinking down to nothing as their eyes locked. His smile was devastating, turning her insides to mush, widening her smile into stupid territory. His effect on her was the same as it had always been – that gut-twisting, pulse-pounding heat that had swamped her since high school – but magnified by the physical, carnage knowledge that existed between them now.

  The magic part, though, was the way she suddenly understood it. She’d always imagined she was a hopeless sap with a hopeless crush. But no, that wasn’t it. There was something real and viable between them, that perfect attraction of opposites who filled gaping holes in one another. They had each lived half-lives.

  Until now.

  Until they’d begun to tend to the love between them.

  Okay, so she was still a sap.

  Sam felt a touch at her shoulder and glanced over to see that Ava had been replaced with Maggie. Her stomach tightened. She had a deep affection for the woman because she was so real. Honest to a fault, capable, as at home in an outlaw organization as her own kitchen where she whipped up dinner miracles, Maggie Teague was a Southern grand dame in the truest sense. A woman to be reckoned with on all counts.

  But like any grand dame, she intimidated the hell out of Sam.

  Maggie gave her a slow, sly smile. “He loves you.”

  Sam choked on her own spit. As Maggie reached over to pound on her back, she gasped, “What?”

  “Aidan,” Maggie said. “My little boy. He was a mess when I got him, you know. His mama had just abandoned him and his daddy was totally clueless. I was in high school, but even I could see how broken he was.” She glanced across the lot toward her stepson, her profile lovely. She was still young, Sam realized. She’d just turned forty, and that was young, given all that she’d lived through, given she’d raised another man’s child.

  “He’s handsome like his daddy,” Maggie continued, “and God knows Kenny could…” She trailed off, smile private. Then she seemed to shake herself. “But he doesn’t have a lot of faith in women. Not after what that bitch Olivia did to him,” she said venomously. “How do you leave your own son behind? How do you reject him?”

  “I have no idea,” Sam said quietly. “It makes me sick.”

  Maggie nodded in an approving way. “I know he’s sewn his wild oats, and I know he’s been…” Her expression became pained. “Irresponsible and stupid.”

  “Maggie–” Sam started.

  The woman turned toward her, gaze direct, full of emotion. “But he loves you, Sam. He’s been waiting for someone like you.”

  Sam swallowed hard, throat aching.

  “Please take good care of my little boy,” Maggie said in a whisper. “He needs this. He needs you.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Do you love him?”

  “Completely.”

  Maggie glanced away, looking relieved and satisfied. “Good. Thank God.”

  A sharp whistle broke the mood, captured everyone’s attention. It had been Walsh, thumb
and forefinger in his mouth.

  Ghost said, “Ladies, are we ready?”

  “Yes,” they all replied in chorus.

  ~*~

  Sam had been on the back of his bike only once, and that was on the way over here. He’d presented her with a brand new helmet that still smelled of fresh plastic and had fit her like a glove. “Is it okay?” he’d asked, worried. “I told the sales lady I needed one for a gorgeous chick, and she picked out the size.”

  The same helmet was handed to her now as she settled onto the little bump seat on the back of Aidan’s Harley Dyna Superglide. Sam buckled it into place and scooted forward. With her feet on the pegs, she had no choice but to lean against his back and wrap her arms tight around his waist. It was a bike built for speed, he’d told her, and he’d been worried she’d reject it. This machine that was a part of him.

  Sam wrapped herself around Aidan and propped her chin on his shoulder. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” he said back.

  “Later…after tonight…can we go out on this thing just the two of us?”

  He smiled broadly. “Hell yes, baby. You just name the day.”

  Another whistle from Walsh caught their attention.

  Ghost, at the head of the line, Maggie behind him on his bike, waved an arm. “Let’s go,” he called.

  And they went.

  ~*~

  It never got old. Never. The looks that came their way when they rode through the city in formation. The combined awe and fear; the way pedestrians halted in their tracks to stare.

  At moments, Aidan hated his father. Moments when they quarreled, when Ghost felt the need to lean on his own superiority.

  But now, as he followed along in the phalanx of bikes, his woman’s arms around him, Aidan felt nothing but pride. Pride in his club, in his president, up at the head of the line. Pride in his beautiful, accepting Samantha. And pride in his city, as kids on the sidewalk bounced up and down in excitement and waved to them. This right here – this moment of perfect connection and simplicity – was what it felt like to be alive. All the onlookers were just pretending.

  They moved with such synchronization, swooping around the next turn, passing in front of a plate glass window that echoed the roar of their pipes and flashed their reflections back to them. Aidan stole a glance, saw Sam wrapped tight around him, saw his brothers ahead of him and behind him.

  He wanted to laugh. Laugh like when he was a boy, just tip his head back and howl up at the sky until he was breathless with pure, emotional, childhood laughter. Tonya, Greg, the looming war, all the shit that weighed on him so heavily – it melted away. It was nothing but the street, his club, his city, and his Sam.

  It was going to be okay, he convinced himself in that moment. All of it would work out. All of it. He knew it.

  ~*~

  It was a long ride. They went through the heart of the city, showing off for all the Halloween afternoon traffic. They went down the twisty side streets, through the quiet neighborhoods. It felt a little rude and blasphemous to Sam, disturbing the peace like this, and she realized that was the point. They were making a statement, asserting themselves. Hiking their legs like the Dogs they were.

  As a lifelong dork with zero authority, she took a secret delight in it.

  It was still light when they arrived back at the clubhouse, and Aidan pulled her into his arms, kissed her longer and more intimately than was proper in public.

  “We gotta go out,” he told her, grinning like a fool. “But we’ll be back for trick-or-treating.” His brows jumped and she laughed. “You’ll be okay with Mags and Ava here?”

  “Of course. They’re two of my favorite people.”

  He grinned again, kissed her again, and whispered, “I know what I want in my candy bucket,” before pulling back.

  She blushed furiously.

  That had been a half hour ago. Most of the guys had then ridden out in club trucks and vans, on errands she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about.

  Inside the clubhouse, the atmosphere was that of a party in waiting. Orange lights gleaming, “Thriller” on the sound system, jack-o-lanterns lit, groupies bringing drinks, and hangarounds being generally useful.

  Sam sat on a black leather sofa with Ava and Emmie Walsh, nibbling on the cheese, cracker, and cold cut platter the club girls had set out.

  One of the regular groupies, Chanel, dressed up as a witch with hat, cape, and everything, came to them, full wineglasses balanced perfectly on a tray. “Here we go, ladies,” she said cheerfully.

  “Thanks,” Sam said, taking her Pino.

  “Thank you, Chanel,” Emmie said, smiling at her.

  “You doing okay?” Ava asked.

  “Oh, you know it,” the groupie said, grinning and winking before she whisked off with her tray.

  “She’s sweet,” Sam observed quietly.

  Ava nodded. “Very.”

  It was hard to wrap her head around the idea of groupies, but she decided not to say anything. If the other old ladies were cool with it – and it seemed they were, so long as groupie attention was directed toward the single members – then she wasn’t going to be the one to raise a fuss.

  Emmie leaned forward, glass of white wine held loosely on her knee. “Sam, was this your first ride?”

  Sam nodded. She liked Emmie. The petite blonde was a little reserved, but friendly when spoken to. Sam got that; Sam was that. “Yeah.” Her voice was excited and she didn’t care. “It’s kind of…the best thing ever.”

  Emmie and Ava both laughed.

  “I was so freaked out the first time,” Emmie said, smiling and rolling her eyes. “And Walsh hit me with that whole, ‘But you ride horses,’ bit. But it was my wedding day,” she said, “and I had no idea if he was as good at controlling that bike as I was at controlling horses.”

  Wedding day? There was a story there, and Sam would have loved to know it.

  “I bet you were three your first time,” Emmie said, nudging Ava.

  “Five,” Ava said, face coloring with a slight blush. “I begged and begged, and Dad finally put me up in front of him, just to go down the street and back. I never knew to be afraid of them,” she said, honestly. “And then he would pick me up from school. And then Mercy.” She shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I was riding in the womb.”

  She turned to Sam. “Okay, so, are you an old lady yet?” she asked, eyes glittering with mischief.

  “Uh…” Sam had no idea. Was she? Did girlfriend count? Aidan had been willing to use that title. But did you have to be a wife in order to be an old lady?

  “I think so,” Emmie said, smiling. “I think she is completely.”

  “Me too,” Ava said, echoing the smile.

  “You guys…”

  “Trick-or-treat!”

  Startled, Sam faced forward to see that Rottie and Mina’s two boys stood in front of her, loot bags at the ready. Both were dressed as little bikers, mini versions of their father, complete with lick-on tattoos.

  Sam grinned and reached into the big candy bowl on the coffee table, coming out with generous handfuls of Butterfinger and Snickers for the kids. “You guys look fantastic. Very tough.”

  They beamed.

  “Like Daddy,” the little one said, and Sam wanted to say “aww.”

  Behind them, Mina made an apologetic face.

  “It’s fine,” Sam assured.

  The boys moved down the line to Ava, then Emmie, earning praise and heaps of candy.

  When they had moved on – Chanel and the other girls were making a fuss over them – Sam leaned into Ava and whispered, “I don’t want to know why they’re having to trick-or-treat at the clubhouse, do I?”

  “The same reason Bonita’s in hog heaven in back watching my kids,” she said. “And no, you don’t.”

  ~*~

  Their black ski masks had white skull faces painted on them; they wore all black, down to their leather gloves, so the guns seemed a part of them, arms that ended in weapons instead of
hands. Aidan felt his gut clench and wondered if he’d be sick. He couldn’t enjoy this, not the way his brother-in-law did, no doubt smiling like an idiot under his mask up at the head of their little knot.

  Some stray beam of light glinted along the steel handle of the sledgehammer Mercy carried. “You ready, Mikey?” he asked the shape right behind him.

  The shape nodded. Then whispered one last emotionless order back to Aidan, Tango, and Carter. “If you aren’t comfortable with killing, keep your ass outside.”

  Their orders were not to kill.

  But that didn’t mean Mercy and Michael wouldn’t turn shit sideways.

  The sledge drew back. “On three.”

  One.

  Aidan took a last deep breath and willed his nerves to settle.

  Two.

  Was he really such a pussy that he couldn’t tolerate this side of club life? Was he so inadequate?

  Three.

  The sound of the door splintering around the lock was like a gunshot. The hammer, with all of Mercy’s weight behind it, forced the entry in one dramatic moment, and then they were rushing into the house.

  Above the awful pounding of blood in his ears, Aidan registered things: they were in a cramped living room full of outdated furniture and three of Ellison’s men, all of them struggling to get to their feet, expressions shocked.

  “On the ground,” Michael said, voice flat and cold. When they didn’t comply, he grabbed the nearest roughly by the arm and dragged him to the carpet, pushed him down with a boot on his back. “I said get down.”

  The other two complied, putting their faces to the floor, hands behind their backs.

  Mercy had gone straight through this room and into the next. “Come look at this!” he called.

  Aidan looked at Michael.

  “I got this. Go.”

  He went.

  Mercy was in the kitchen, and the room’s use was immediately obvious. Bricks of cocaine, boxes of small baggies, razors on the table, dusting of white powder.