Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  The back door opened. Surprised, Aidan turned that way, arms loosening enough for Sam to duck away, go around the table and put some distance between them.

  Helen stood in the threshold, arms full of grocery bags, gaze concerned. “Is everything alright?”

  “It’s fine, Mom. Here, let me take those.” Sam went for the bags.

  “Sam,” Aidan said.

  She didn’t look at him because she couldn’t. It was bad enough her mom was gaping at her mascara streaks. She didn’t need to puddle to the floor and weep.

  “You should go,” she told him. “Please.”

  A deep inner voice cried for him to resist, to stay.

  “Samantha, what’s wrong?” Helen asked.

  Aidan made a sound in his throat, part-fury, part-anguish. And then he left, booted footfalls heavy across the linoleum. The sharp snort of his bike starting up in the drive ripped across her heart.

  For the first time since her father died, she cried and let her mother hold her.

  Twenty-Four

  It was dinnertime, and certainly not the right time to pay anyone a visit.

  Aidan didn’t give a shit.

  Ava tried to deliver a warning, when he called and demanded Tonya’s new address, the mini mansion where she lived with her parents. “Aidan, what are you–” He hung up on her.

  The Sinclair house was a formless shape in the dark, an unbelievable mass of lit windows and shadowed roof angles. His tailpipes echoed off the tidy row of hedges at the curb, angry and out of place in this neighborhood.

  He leaned over and jammed the intercom button with the side of his fist when he pulled up to the massive wrought iron gates. The thing hissed. “Yes?” a voice said, managing to sound superior with just one word.

  “I wanna talk to Tonya,” Aidan said, “and if you gimme a buncha shit, or try to tell me she’s not here, I’ll go door-to-door and introduce myself as her fiancé to every one of these goddamn neighbors.”

  There was a pause, then the gates began to slide back with a low grating sound. “Come in.”

  A butler in a sweater vest met him at the grand front doors. “Sir,” he greeted stiffly, proving himself the owner of the intercom voice.

  Aidan didn’t pause to wipe his feet or gather his bearings, but charged into an entrance hall worthy of a five-star hotel. “Where is she?”

  “In the library, sir.”

  He took four steps down the hall, realized he had no idea where he was going, and ground his teeth in frustration.

  “If you’ll follow me,” the butler said, stepping around him and leading the way.

  The house was even more expensive and massive than he’d thought. They passed room after room that seemed to serve no purpose other than to display costly furniture and knickknacks. They went through an open, airy space walled with windows that might have been a living room in an ordinary home, if the TV above the mantel was any indication.

  Aidan felt the blood pounding in his ears, his lips, the high points of his cheekbones he knew were flushed with anger. Baby or no baby, all he wanted at the moment was to wring Tonya’s pretty neck.

  Finally, they arrived at a set of open doors and the butler led him into a two-story room lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. Tonya was curled up in a chair beside the fireplace, a roaring fire casting light and shadows across her face. She seemed delicate and lovely in that moment. If he’d had the patience, he might have thought she almost looked human just then.

  But he knew she was all harpy.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Miss Tonya,” he began, and Aidan cut him off.

  “Leave,” he said, in a tone that reminded him of his father. “Now.”

  The man obeyed, moving silently across the carpet.

  Tonya’s stare wasn’t as cold as she must have wanted it to be. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but Aidan swore he saw a flash of fear. Good. He wanted her to be afraid of something for a change.

  She’d been reading a book and closed it slowly as he approached. “Your sister gave you the address,” she guessed.

  He braced a hand on the high back of her chair and leaned into her space, forcing her head to tilt back. “What the fuck did you say to my old lady?”

  She blinked. Yes, she was decidedly scared. “Old lady? That was fast.”

  “I’m not fucking around, Tonya. What did you say to her?”

  She tried to shrug, but the effect was ruined by the angle of her neck. “That I was pregnant, and that you were the father.”

  “I know that. Why did you say it? How the hell did that even come up?”

  He saw the wheels turning behind her eyes, the way she was trying to put some kind of spin on it.

  “You were being a nasty bitch, weren’t you? Thought you’d hurt me by hurting Sam? Is that it?”

  “I–”

  He hated her, in that moment. Absolutely hated. His hand moved before he could check the impulse, fingers going around her slender white throat. He caught himself, didn’t squeeze. But held her, passed his thumb across her windpipe.

  She gasped.

  “You have everything,” he seethed. “Look at this house, that fancy-ass apartment, your car. Daddy’s money, a rich fiancé. Look at it. All of it.” He gave her a small shake and her eyes flew wide. “You have everything. And I’ve got nothing!” he hissed. “But I had Sam, and you couldn’t stand that, could you? You had to take her away from me!”

  “Aidan!” She grabbed at the back of his hand, sunk her nails into his skin.

  He released her and spun away, put his back to her, rubbed at his face and willed himself to keep it together. He couldn’t choke her, bad as he wanted to. She was carrying his child…

  “Christ,” he whispered. “Oh, fuck.”

  Behind him, Tonya’s breathing was erratic. He waited for an insult, but it never came. He’d finally rattled her.

  Slowly, he turned back around, took in her frightened expression, her hands held loosely around the base of her throat. “Why?” he asked. “You’re getting everything you want. Why take something good away from me?”

  She blinked a few times and seemed to compose herself. “She broke up with you?”

  “She…” Had she? He didn’t know. She wanted him to grow up. She wished she were the one having his baby instead. “You broke her heart,” he said, and knew that was true. “Was it fun?”

  “Do you even want this baby?” she countered.

  “What?”

  “Do you want it?” Some of her temper was coming back, but in a more collected way. “You mother and sister said you did, but where have you been? Where’s your voice in all this?”

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “Very. I’m supposed to hand this child over to you in a few months, and you haven’t even begun to step up. I told your girlfriend I was pregnant because she needed to know. Maybe that seems cruel, but it’s no more cruel that you hiding it from her.”

  “You…” Words failed him. For the second time that evening, a woman had highlighted his sins in neon colors. But one had done it in love and anguish, the other in bitterness.

  He drew himself up taller, scowled at her. “You’re a nasty bitch. I mean, real nasty, first rate hell-worthy bitch. You treated me like shit, like I was worse than a dog, like I was gum on the bottom of your shoe.”

  She made a face, shocked.

  “I didn’t mean to knock you up,” he went on, feeling bolder. “And I’m sorry about that, I am, but we were both there, and you wanted it even more than I did.”

  “I–”

  “Shut up, for once in your damn life. You might be richer than me, and smarter than me, but you’re not better than me. You’re sure as hell not better than Sam, who’s the sweetest person I’ve met, and who you hurt bad today. Fucking shame on you for that. I hate you for that.”

  She made a protesting sound.

  “But I want the baby,” he said, and for the first time, by speaking the words, he knew wit
hout question that he really did want it. He could lay claim to few things in life, but that baby was his blood, his legacy. His. He’d no doubt be the shittiest father on record, but he’d known since the moment she showed him the sonogram that he had to have that little life. “I do,” he said, voice growing stronger. “So you’re gonna have to get the fuck over yourself. After it’s born, I hope I don’t ever see you again, but until then, you’re gonna keep me in the loop, and you’re gonna stop being such a damn bitch.”

  She stared at him.

  “Do you understand me?”

  A long moment passed before she nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

  ~*~

  No amount of makeup could disguise the dark circles beneath her eyes the next morning, but Sam spent fifteen minutes in front of the bathroom trying to do just that. She looked pale and hollow, much like she felt.

  Fitting.

  Aidan called five times and she let it go to voicemail, phone vibrating silently in her pocket, making her want to cry.

  Ava showed up during her office hours, without her boys for once, somber in her long black coat and heavy boots.

  “Sam,” she said without preamble, taking the chair opposite the desk. “You have to know that this is killing him.”

  Sam opened her mouth, and a sudden sob threatened to strangle her. She swallowed a few times, blinked. “You think it’s not killing me?”

  “I know it is,” Ava said with complete sympathy.

  “You knew, didn’t you? About the baby?”

  Ava’s guilty look was enough, but she nodded. “He asked me not to tell you. He wanted to wait until the right time, but I told him…” She shook her head. “Damn, what a mess.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Ava sighed. “Mom and I are handling Tonya. You won’t ever have to deal with her.”

  Sam sat back. “Do you think I’m such a pushover that I’m just going to go along with this?”

  Ava looked wounded, surprised. “No, but you and Aidan. You’re not breaking up with him. Are you…?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam stared down into her lap. “I love him…God, I do. But I need some time.”

  A beat, then, “You can have some time,” Ava said quietly. “But he loves you too.”

  ~*~

  It wasn’t smart to smoke and work on gasoline-powered machines, but Aidan had to light one cig after the next: the only thing keeping him sane. He’d wanted to get trashed last night and sleep all day. Instead, he’d gone to bed, awakened, and clocked in ten minutes early. Baby coming. That meant he had to work regular hours and earn his full paycheck. It meant he couldn’t sit around and feel sorry for himself about Sam.

  Even if he wanted to scream and howl.

  She hadn’t returned any of his calls, but he kept calling. Voicemail after voicemail. “Baby, call me back, please. I want to talk to you.”

  He worked with furious focus, the tools clattering loudly onto the concrete as he set down one and picked up another. He almost didn’t notice Tango leaving, but caught a flash of white that was his friend’s shirt and glanced that way.

  Tango was pulling a hoodie down over his garage shirt; he’d washed the dirt and grease off his hands, and when the hoodie was in place, he tidied his hair.

  “Going somewhere?” Aidan asked.

  Tango wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Lunch.”

  Aidan didn’t have any patience at the moment. “Another of those long lunches, clear across town?”

  “You worry about your own long lunches.”

  This wasn’t normal, them sniping at one another.

  “Do what you want,” Aidan muttered, turning back to his bike.

  “I will,” Tango said, more defiant than he’d ever been, and walked out of the garage.

  ~*~

  “You shouldn’t be going off on your own so much,” Ghost had told him a few weeks ago. Tango figured the sternness in the man’s voice had more to do with his destination than his solitude. So for a while he’d tried to sneak away, tried to make up excuses, tried not to be away for too long.

  But something had snapped inside him on Halloween, one last tiny bone in his heart giving way, and he just didn’t care anymore. Let them talk, wonder, and worry. He was fast running out of the ability to give a damn. About anything.

  He traveled through the heart of the city and toward Ian’s high rise at a reckless clip, changing lanes, weaving, the wind scraping his face raw.

  He was turning right on a red light when he spotted the car tailing him. Black Caddy, like Maggie’s, but newer. It followed him through two turns. After the third, he got concerned. He took a detour, swooping down a narrow side street.

  The Cadillac followed.

  Okay, time to ditch whoever this was. He cranked the throttle and swerved hard right into the next turn, down a small street, gunning for the intersection ahead.

  When asked later, he’d have the most distinct memory of the black Escalade rolling across both lanes up ahead, blocking him. It was then that he remembered Ghost’s words, and that he was wearing his colors…and that Ellison’s crew drove Caddies.

  Twenty-Five

  Whitney Howard clicked the Shut Down icon on her computer screen and felt her pulse scatter. It was official now. All afternoon, as the seconds clicked excruciatingly past on the white face of the clock above the water cooler, she’d been able to pretend that this evening was a bad dream, and nothing more. The day had dragged, and she knew her smiles had been brittle. Karen and Jill in the neighboring cubicles had bitten at their lips and given her curious glances, knowing something was wrong, but too polite to pressure her. They were just acquaintances, here at work, and not true friends.

  But suddenly, her computer screen went blank, there was nothing else to do at her desk, and this was happening. This. Her fool’s errand.

  Her palms were slick; her breathing was erratic. She swore she felt the fat bundle of cash, solid and heavy as a brick weighing down the purse in her lap.

  Her gaze slid to the framed photo beside her computer. Her brother, Jason, his cute, plump wife, Madelyn, and their two girls, Charlotte and Ashley. Jason was tan and lean and handsome in the picture, on that May afternoon three years ago, at the barbecue where Madelyn had tried to set Whitney up with a dull-faced coworker. Three years – before the car accident, before the pain pills…the heroin. Before Jason had flushed his entire life down the john.

  Jason was the reason for the cash in her purse, her entire life savings – which was fairly impressive for a twenty-year-old paper pusher, if she said so. Jason was the reason for the phone call she’d received two days ago: “You have forty-eight hours to come up with the cash your brother owes me, or I’ll start sending him home to his wife in pieces.”

  What could she do? She had no parents, no husband, no children…not even a cat at home. And Jason had a family who depended upon him…even if he was a junkie. She’d made peace with that, finally, whispering the word to herself. Junkie. Her brother was a junkie, and he was going to be hacked to bits if she didn’t take money to the address the man on the phone had given her.

  Whitney pulled in a deep breath and got to her feet. Her legs almost gave out, weak as water with nerves. But she made herself walk down the row of cubicles and hit the elevator button.

  “Heading out?” Mark asked, appearing beside her, making her jump. “Whoa, you okay?”

  She glanced over at her coworker, his round freckled face and his headful of carrot orange hair. “I’m fine.” She forced a smile that crumbled.

  “You don’t look so good,” he said with his usual honesty. He was one of the kindest people she knew, but had a knack for awkward observations. “Are you coming down with something?”

  “I don’t think so. Just tired is all.” Just terrified is all, more like it.

  Mark reached up to touch her forehead with the back of his hand, motherly concern shining in his eyes. “You sure?”

  She smiled, for real this time. “I’m sure.”


  They rode down in the elevator together and Mark proved a great distraction, telling her about the date he had coming up on Friday, a gamer chick he met online playing World of Warcraft. She laughed along with him as he described his perilous journey to the mall to find a new outfit for the occasion, and she assured him it would go well, and that his date would find him “completely charming.” He blushed at the praise, going red beneath his freckles.

  Mark walked her to her car in the dark lot, ensured she was safely inside with the doors locked, and waved before he headed off to his own ride.

  Then she was alone with her fear again.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered to the dash. “It’s going to be okay.” She cranked the engine and took off.

  Fifteen minutes later found her in a seedy part of town with flickering streetlamps and chain link fences, pedestrians lounging suspiciously back against parked cars as she crawled through the residential streets. She’d expected the address to belong to a business of some sort, but instead, 4657 was a small white clapboard house with a narrow front stoop and a carport.

  “No,” Whitney said to herself, shaking her head violently back and forth. “Oh no. Hell no.”

  She watched movies. She’d seen innumerable episodes of CSI in syndication. Money drops were made in public places, shopping bags placed in trash cans; envelopes left in restaurant booths while shady men watched from over at the bar. They didn’t happen in tumbledown houses in bad parts of the city. She wasn’t going in there. She wasn’t. She’d never come back out.

  But what about Jason? Madelyn? The girls? Their lives – their life together as a family – was worth more than her own. Yes. But the answer couldn’t be approaching this house. She’d call the number back, demand a different meeting place; she’d call the police right now and have them descend on this location, bust down the door with their ram and haul her brother out of whatever back room he was being held in.

  She was reaching for her iPhone in the cup holder when someone knocked on her driver’s side window.