Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Whitney swallowed a startled shriek, head whipping around.

  A man loomed beyond the window, dressed in dark clothes, face obscured by shadows. “Put the phone down,” he said, voice penetrating the thin glass.

  She froze, but didn’t comply. This was such a stupid damn mess…

  “Put the phone down!” he shouted, and then she saw the silhouette of the gun in his hand.

  Okay. No arguing with that. She dropped her phone into her open purse and showed him her pale palms.

  “Open the door.”

  She undid the locks and popped the latch, and he opened it wide, cold air funneling into the car, bringing with it the sour, sweaty smell of the man standing above her.

  “You the sister?” he demanded.

  She had to swallow before her tongue would work. “I’m Jason Howard’s sister, yes.”

  “Did you bring it?”

  “The money? Yes.” She reached toward her purse.

  “Hands where I can see them!”

  “Okay, okay.” She took a deep, shaky breath through her mouth. “Please…” Her chest tightened with panic. “Please just take it. I can wait here for my brother.”

  He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Get out.”

  ~*~

  Inside the small, grubby house, Whitney stood beneath the gaze of two heavy-bodied armed men, while a third counted out the bills she’d brought on the kitchen table. The man doing the counting was smaller than the other two, clearly hired for his brains rather than his brawn, a slight bald patch on his head glowing and greasy beneath the overhead lights. She latched her hands together on the handle of her purse and tried to ignore the droplets of perspiration rolling down her back, beneath her clothes. She prayed and prayed, and then prayed some more. She should have gone to church when her grandmother was still alive and urging her to go, she reflected. Maybe she’d be better at praying.

  The room was silent save for the soft whispers of each bill settling onto the table. One after the next. And then they stopped, and the man looked up at her, two neat stacks in front of him. All the money she had in the world.

  “You’re short,” he said.

  Panic lanced through her. “W-what? Are you sure? I-I counted. I counted it twice. Six-thousand, seven-hundred. It’s all there.”

  He gave her a small, grim smile, flashing nicotine stained teeth. “That’s supposed to be seven-thousand, seven-hundred, sweetheart.”

  “What?” A low buzzing started up in her ears. “No, there has to be some mistake. On the phone, he said six. I heard six…”

  “You heard wrong.”

  ~*~

  He no longer had to wonder what it was like to be behind bars. Maybe because he was no good at being an outlaw, because he was too careful, because he was a pussy, Tango had never even spent one night in lockup. Funny, because of all his brothers, he was the one best equipped to get put away and deal with all the indignities prison entailed.

  But this wasn’t prison, where there were guards, gang alliances, and at least some semblance of order. He had a hard bunk, and a toilet, but this was some place of Don Ellison’s design. No club brothers on the inside to join up with, no trading cigs for protection, no flashlights and nightsticks to come to the rescue.

  The hard chill of the concrete floor was seeping through the seat of his jeans, slowly lowering his body temp until he began to shiver. His cell was wall to the right, to the back, a view of another cell through the bars to his left. And of course the bars straight ahead, hard stainless steel, not even wide enough to allow his arm passage.

  He’d come to in here, head throbbing from the blow to the back of it, the memories of his assault fuzzy at the edges. That SUV, and the car behind, men emptying out of both and blocking his path. He’d resisted, but he was just one against many, and fighting hand-to-hand had never been his strong suit. Now, if they’d wanted lap dances…

  He groaned and wiped his hands down his face. He was a hostage. Damn it.

  A sound somewhere above him, like a door scraping back. Footfalls, breathing echoing off the concrete. Dread coiled tight in his belly as he listened to a descent and then an approach. They were coming for him so soon. He knew what that meant.

  But then two goons came into view, a captive held between them, a small, shuffling girl with a mane of dark hair hiding her face, her head downcast. She was dressed in jeans, tall boots, and a brown blazer that was smudged and torn at one front pocket, like they’d been rough with her.

  Her guards marched her into the cell beside him, shoved her roughly down, and locked the door, neither of them sparing him a look as they left again. More footfalls, scrape of the door again. And then it was quiet, save the shuddering draw of breath in the cell beside him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, like a total idiot. But he had to say something to the poor girl.

  She sat up, slowly, as if she were sore, gathered her legs in front of her, and pushed her hair back. She was very pretty, and very young. Very young. Her eyes were full of tears, but there was no evidence that any had slipped down her face. She took another deep breath and glanced over at him, wary.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Me neither.”

  She dashed the back of her hand beneath her nose. “Why are you here?”

  “Hostage. You?”

  “Same. Do you know where we are?”

  “No idea.”

  She sighed. “Damn.” Her eyes flitted over again. In a semblance of unnecessary bravery, she said, “I’m Whitney.”

  He almost smiled. “Kev.”

  Twenty-Six

  Aidan kicked one of their crappy kitchen chairs and spun away from it in frustration.

  “…leave a message.” Beep.

  “Kev,” he snapped into his phone, “this is the third fucking message I’ve left you. If you wanna just live with that uptight tea-and-crumpets bastard, whatever, that’s your business. But you didn’t drop rent with the super and he screamed at my ass when I got home.” Beneath his tirade simmered a worry that doubled by the minute. Tango had never come back to work, no call, no text, no explanation. “Call me back, damn it,” he said, and disconnected.

  Hope spiked as the apartment door opened, then dimmed when he saw it was Carter.

  They shared a moment of oh-it’s-you eye contact before Carter turned to shut the door.

  “I forgot you live here,” Aidan said. “How ‘bout doing your laundry some of the damn time.” He toed at an overflowing basket of clothes behind the recliner. “Or cutting a damn rent check for once.”

  When Carter turned back, he was wearing that perma-scowl he had on these days. “Something you wanna say to me?”

  “I just said it. Get the hell over yourself, you damn girl. I apologized for what happened to Jazz. To her. I don’t owe you shit.”

  Carter folded his arms, bowed up his spine, all big-man-ready-for-a-throwdown.

  Aidan rolled his eyes. “Jesus. What, are you in love with her or something?”

  No answer, just a silent grinding of the guy’s jaw.

  Aidan released a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Shit.” He dropped down into the recliner, tense all over and tired of keeping his feet. “You are, aren’t you? Bro, are you that easy? A few times bumping uglies and you’re ready to fight people over her?”

  “You hurt–” Carter started.

  Aidan cut him off. “I can promise you, I’m not the first one to hurt Jasmine, I’m just the first one to do it on accident.” He gave him a meaningful look and watched some of the angry color drain from the boy’s face. That’s what he was, after all: a boy. It was easy to forget that he was the same age as Ava, because Ava had always been fifty-years-old at heart and currently played the role of wife and mother and smarty-pants author. But Carter was still so young on the inside, and it was showing now.

  Aidan sighed and softened his tone. “I really didn’t mean to hurt Jazz. You’ve gotta believe me. I’ve been…a little out of my head lately
.”

  Carter sank down slowly on their sofa.

  “It was wrong what I did. No excuses, and I did apologize to her. I’m sorry if it still bothers her. Does it?”

  Looking reluctant, like he was holding onto this stubborn grudge, Carter finally nodded. “Yeah. At the party, I walked up on Candyman talking to her, and she was…she’s not right.”

  “Lemme guess. Jockstrap to the rescue?”

  “Dude…”

  Aidan held up his hands. I’ll back off. “Fair warning, though. Jazz ain’t exactly Cinderella waiting on her prince. Don’t get your hopes up too high, kid. The fall back down always hurts harder than you think it will.”

  Carter’s brows lifted. “Speaking from experience?”

  He thought of Sam and his gut clenched; his throat tightened. Jesus, Sam… “Probably.”

  ~*~

  Sam always graded papers with a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Not tonight. She didn’t have the heart for routine. She was achy all over, physically pained every time she remembered asking Aidan to leave – and that memory came once every two seconds. So she folded herself beneath a fleece blanket on her bed with a glass of wine to read through the latest batch of student journal entries.

  A soft knock sounded at her door. “Come in,” she said, thinking it was Mom.

  It was Erin. The girl’s face was scrubbed clean of makeup, beautiful and youthful in a way she hadn’t been in so long. Her expression was unexpected, almost careful, as she peeked around the door.

  “Sam?”

  “Hi.” Sam set the papers down in her lap. “What’s up?”

  “You weren’t downstairs when I got home.”

  It was a surprise to know that Erin had noticed or cared. “Yeah, um…I’m up here instead.”

  Erin eased the door open wider and came in, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside the bed. Clearly, the disruption in routine had shaken her.

  With a jolt, Sam realized she was the stern parental figure in the house. And like with any child, a parent out of whack threw the whole household out of whack.

  Sam sat up straighter and set her wine aside on the nightstand. “What’s wrong?”

  Erin glanced at her, then away, then back again, chewing at her lip. “Yesterday…I’ve never seen you like that. It…” It had scared her, obviously. “Sam, what happened?”

  To be honest? Or to shield a teenager from painful real life truths?

  Honesty won out.

  Sam gathered a deep breath, willed herself not to break apart as she told the story. “You remember the dark-haired woman who came up beside me at the fence?”

  Erin nodded.

  “Well, Aidan was with her before he was with me. And she’s…” God, it hurt, it hurt so bad. “She’s pregnant. And she told me, and I…”

  “She’s pregnant…with Aidan’s baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holy sh–” She shook her head. “Oh my God. Like, for real? Is he gonna get back with her? Is…”

  Sam held up a hand. “According to him, he’s done with her, and was before he ever went out with me, but…” It was so hard to make herself sound dignified in all this. She fell silent.

  “So you broke up with him?”

  “More or less.”

  It was silent a beat. “But you really like him,” Erin said.

  “Yeah. I really do.” I love him.

  “Did he cheat on you?”

  “No.” At least, she was pretty sure he hadn’t. There had been nothing fake about the tears in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice yesterday. He’d been devastated, just as she was.

  “And he’d really broken up with her before he was with you?” Erin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So…why is her having a baby such a big deal?”

  Sam blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you really care if he has a baby with someone else?” Erin looked up at her with an eerie common-sense stare.

  “The baby’s not a big deal at all,” Sam said, without thinking, and the truth closed over her hard. For a second there, looking at Erin, she’d wondered if she’d made a horrible mistake. But then she remembered – it wasn’t about the baby, it was about him not stepping up to the plate and being a man about the baby with her.

  Eyes burning with tears, Sam said, “He has to grow up, and I’m just afraid he can’t do that while I’m around.”

  ~*~

  The next morning, Maggie sorted through the mail at her desk. Bill, bill, bill, bike magazine, bill…

  A fat manila envelope remained on the blotter, addressed simply to “The Lean Dogs,” with no stamp or return address. Someone had stuck it in their mailbox by hand.

  A little shiver crawled down her spine as she tore the flap and pulled out the contents.

  They were photos: Tango with his hands bound behind his back, blood trickling from a split lip, sitting on a dark concrete floor. A note: We have something of yours.

  ~*~

  Aidan got to the shop early. He hadn’t been able to sleep, hadn’t felt like drinking himself into a stupor, and was restless as all hell. Tango still wasn’t answering his phone – it now went straight to voicemail – and he figured Sam didn’t want another idiotic message left. With nothing else to do, and a baby on the way, he decided OT was his best option.

  A small huddle of people stood outside the cinched bike shop doors, under the glow of the overhead security light. Anxiety prickled down his arms as he swung off his bike.

  “What’s going on?”

  The huddle dispersed, and revealed Maggie, Ghost, and Walsh – the only people ever in at Dartmoor this early, but three people who decidedly didn’t clock any time here at the shop.

  Ghost had an envelope in his hands and he passed it over as Aidan reached them. Maggie’s expression was tight. Walsh looked like Walsh.

  “In the mailbox this morning,” Ghost explained.

  A photo slid out. We have something of yours.

  ~*~

  “What’s this about?” Candy asked around a yawn as they all crowded into the chapel, coffee mugs in hands.

  “Emergency,” Ghost said in a tight voice. “Everybody sit down.”

  Aidan was already in his chair, drumming his fingers on the glossy old wood of the table. He hadn’t touched his coffee because he didn’t need it; seeing that photo of his best friend had blasted away the last vapors of fatigue. Guilt made it hard to catch his breath. All this time Tango had been destroying himself, one visit at a time with Ian, distancing himself from the club, putting himself in danger out in the far reaches of the city alone. And Aidan hadn’t intervened once. Too wrapped up in his own head, too selfish, too preoccupied with his own shit, when he knew that Tango was two steps away from falling back into darkness at any given moment.

  With a final shuffling and scraping of chair legs, everyone got settled, and Ghost didn’t waste any time. He slapped the photo of Tango down in the center of the table.

  Everyone pitched forward to get a glimpse of it. Curses. Hisses.

  Mercy’s face turned to granite. “Ellison,” he said.

  “Ellison,” Ghost repeated.

  “How the hell’d they get ahold of him?” Hound asked.

  “He’s been distracted lately,” Ghost said in a guarded voice. “And hasn’t been careful. Been spending too much time out alone on the road.” His eyes slid over to Aidan, a silent communication. Only three of them knew all of Tango’s story, and it was going to stay that way, even if they had to lie to their brothers.

  ~*~

  Sam stepped out of her classroom, juggling her bags…and almost ran right into Aidan. She pulled up short with a startled gasp. “Shit.”

  “Profs should set a better example for their students than that, Miss Walton,” he said, but his tone was off, his expression too serious. Any pretenses of a smile dropped away and he stepped away from the wall, squaring off from her. “Are you okay?”

  “At this moment? Not really.” Her heart
thumped painfully against her ribs and all she wanted to do was fling her arms around him. “But in the grand scheme of things, yes, I’m okay.”

  His eyes were so deep, and brown, and gorgeous as they drilled into hers, managing warmth and seriousness all at once. “I came by,” he said, “to tell you that there’s some things going on with the club that are–”

  “Dangerous.”

  He nodded. “And I don’t want you to be afraid, but I want you to be really careful. And alert. Keep an eye out for anything that doesn’t seem right, and call me if you get freaked out for even a second.”

  “What happened?”

  He shook his head, expression grim. “Just promise you’ll be careful, and you’ll call.”

  She studied his face a long moment, tracking the familiar planes and angles, the little lines around his eyes. Something was different, something she couldn’t put her finger on, something internal.

  She nodded. “Okay, I promise.”

  He pressed a fast kiss to her lips before she could protest and pulled away, walking off without a backward glance.

  Twenty-Seven

  Whitney, Tango had learned, was twenty-years-old, owned a secondhand iPhone, and worked at a customer service call center. She had two nieces, a sister-in-law who made a mean baked ziti, and a heroin-addicted older brother who was the reason she was currently locked in a cell.

  She shook her head. “I don’t blame Jason,” she said of her brother. “He isn’t someone who started using recreationally for the fun of it. He was in serious pain and the doctors wouldn’t give him the meds anymore because, well” – she shrugged – “he was addicted to those, too. So he turned to H, and…” She trailed off, playing with the buttons of her blazer.

  She glanced over at Tango through the bars and offered him the sort of shy smile people felt compelled to give when they were trapped in awkward situations with strangers. “You probably think I sound like an idiot.”