“What the fuck?” Greg hissed.
“That’s funny,” Aidan said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
~*~
“Have you ever watched your mate Mercy do this?” Fox asked. He peeled another strip of duct tape off the roll and the sound was obscene as it cracked through the autumn night.
“No,” Aidan said, grimacing. “I don’t have the stomach for it.”
Fox lifted his brows, his expression mocking in the glow of the truck headlights. “Best get over that quick.”
Aidan took a deep breath and squared up his shoulders. “I can do the job. No matter what it takes.”
“Good.” Fox used the strip to further secure Greg’s arm to the chair they’d taped him to and then stepped back. “Here you go.”
“Right.”
Greg sat immobile, bound to the plastic lawn chair, mouth covered with tape, eyes darting between them. His nostrils flared as he looked up at Aidan, the fear in him obvious.
Aidan took another deep breath and asked himself the all important question: What Would Mercy Do?
Well, Mercy was a talker, friendly in his fury, and something about that strategy always got him results. That, or it was just because he was fucking huge and liked to use an ice pick.
Either way.
Aidan took a firm stance in front of Greg and ripped the duct tape from his mouth in one fast jerk that he hoped stung like hell. If Greg’s sharp hiss was anything to do by, mission accomplished.
“Okay, here’s how it’s gonna go,” Aidan said. “I’m not as patient as the guy who normally handles this kinda thing, and I don’t think it’s as fun as he does either. So. I ask you some questions, and you give me the answers. If you don’t, my friend here” – nod to Fox – “is gonna start driving roofing nails through your hands. Get it?”
The headlights provided them with a pool of cold light, but beyond, the cattle property was alive with night sounds and liquid shadows. The contrast turned Greg’s face to something pale and ghoulish. “You talk a better game since I was here last.” He tilted his head, an eloquent mention to their surroundings. “But talk is real cheap. And right now, we’ve got your friend.” He smiled, grimly. “You aren’t gonna do shit, Aidan.”
Well, wasn’t that the story of his life? He wasn’t gonna finish school, wasn’t gonna get the nod for VP, wasn’t gonna do as he was told, wasn’t gonna pull the trigger, wasn’t gonna step up, wasn’t gonna be a decent father, wasn’t gonna have an old lady, wasn’t gonna grow up.
Wasn’t gonna pull the trigger.
In the last few months, he’d learned a lot of important life lessons – specifically that there were things outside of his control.
This moment wasn’t one of them.
“Fox,” he said, surprised his voice didn’t shake. “Hammer and nail.”
Fox stepped up, ready to do the deed himself. “I got you, mate.”
“No,” Aidan said, firmly. “Give them to me.”
Fox gave him a doubtful look – as doubtful a look as a man allergic to facial expressions could deliver. Whatever he saw in Aidan’s gaze convinced him, though, and he passed the items into Aidan’s hands.
Hands that didn’t tremble as he drove the nail clean through the center of Greg’s hand with one hard blow from the hammer.
The scream cut a physical path through the night, primal and shrill. Aidan imagined it flaring red in the dark, to match the blood welling up around the nail head.
Greg sagged forward against his bonds, gasping, sobbing, moaning. This went on for a long time, until the man finally subsided into shivering deep breaths that whistled through his teeth.
“Stop underestimating me,” Aidan said. “You’re going to tell me everything I wanna know. Even if I have to pound it out of you one nail at a time.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Ready? Let’s get started.”
~*~
Dismantling a man, that’s what Mercy had called it once. To torture him was to pick at his seams, take away his humanity piece-by-piece, until he was broken down to his most basic components: fear and love. At the heart of mankind, those were the two driving forces behind every decision. And when it came to torture, well…that just proved how much a man loved himself.
Aidan picked that first loose stone, pried at it, worked it loose, and at some point in the wee hours, Greg had fallen to bits. He told them everything they needed to know about Ellison, Fox taking hurried notes over at the truck. He told them things Aidan didn’t want to know, too: how crushing it had been to learn that the Dogs had used him and that he could never be a member; how his father had knocked him around as a kid; how girls scorned him.
Aidan went to the truck where Fox was folding his notes up neatly and sliding them into his pocket. “If he’s telling the truth,” the Englishman said, “then we’ve got exactly what we need.”
“And if he’s lying?”
A shrug. “There’s not much more we can do to make him sing.”
“Right.” Aidan closed his eyes a moment, felt for the first time how heavy with sleep the lids were. The ground tilted beneath his feet as if he was drunk, and he thought he might pass out.
“You want me to finish it off?” Fox asked, something like kindness in his voice.
Aidan shook his head – bad idea – and forced his eyes open again. “No. This is on me. I shoulda done it a long time ago.” He took his nine mil from his waistband and walked back to Greg.
Despite all that he’d endured, the guy’s head lifted, glassy eyes seeking Aidan’s gaze.
“I’ll give you credit,” Aidan said, quietly. “I didn’t think you’d hold out so long.”
No answer.
“Can I ask you one more thing?”
“I’m tied up, ain’t I?”
“Something personal,” Aidan amended. “Not part of the interrogation.”
“I already pissed myself.” There was still temper behind the words. “What the hell have I got to hide now?”
Aidan swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “Why did you come back to Knoxville? Why didn’t you just stay away?”
“I dunno,” Greg said. “Guess I just couldn’t help myself.”
Aidan nodded. Lifted the gun. “I’m sorry, Greg. Really I am.” He fired.
The shot seemed to echo, again and again, traveling across the tossing grasses in waves. Aidan turned away from the slumped form in the chair and set off at a fast walk, past Carter and Fox, away from the light of the truck. His hands curled into fists and the skin was tight with dried blood. His stomach heaved, and he just managed to make it into the shadows before he doubled over and threw up.
He retched for a long time afterward, eyes shut tight, breathing through his mouth in fitful gasps.
A hand landed on his shoulder, the touch radiating comfort. “That was good,” Fox said in his even, calming London accent. “I’m proud of you.”
He wasn’t proud of himself, though.
~*~
Sam knew sleep would evade her, so she didn’t even try. She sat up against her headboard in bed, laptop on her stomach, working on the novel she was writing for school. She’d begun a few weeks ago with the best of intentions: a contemporary, literary novel full of witticisms and post-modern observations. Instead, her imagination had taken hold and it was fast turning into a Gothic sob fest of a book.
When her phone rang, she was glad of the distraction. But then she caught the time on her bedside clock and fear spiked in the pit of her belly. It was almost three in the morning, which meant this wasn’t a social call.
The screen told her it was Aidan.
“Hello?” she said, trying not to sound as worried as she felt. He didn’t respond at first. “Aidan?”
He breathed across the phone, the sound like the rustling of leaves. “I wanna see you.” His voice was all wrong.
Sam sat up and put her laptop off onto the bed. “Where are you?” In her mind, she was already in her car and headed toward him. That voice…a
shudder passed through her.
“I don’t want you on the road this late. I’ll come by.” Then: “Can I come by?”
Turning him away didn’t cross her mind. “Of course.”
She was waiting in the kitchen when she heard his bike pull up. She had the door open before he reached it, and he didn’t pause, didn’t give her any space or wait to judge her reaction. He came in from the cold night on a fast lunge, grabbed her up and clasped her tight to his chest. Her feet were lifted off the floor and he carried her back into the kitchen, heeled the door shut.
And then he just held her for long moments, arms tight as iron bands around her back. He was shivering.
Sam waited, hands clasped loosely to his shoulders, letting him work through it. “Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked.
He took a deep breath and let it out against her neck, breath warm, eliciting little tingles of excitement across her skin. “No.”
A chill moved through her – the good kind. She knew without question that she was at one of those on-the-brink moments. If she wanted to, she could step back, turn him gently away, and offer friendship. She could coax him to talk out his problems like a rational adult, provide suggestions. And then she could go back to bed, alone, stare at her computer screen until her eyes glazed over with tears.
But she knew this moment had the potential to go a very different way. And he’d told her he loved her. And his life was upside down. And there was a bloody gaping hole in her heart, one she’d ripped herself when she pushed him away.
Sam pulled back, just far enough to see his face, the total devastation in his dark eyes. A lump formed in her throat. “No more secrets,” she whispered. “That’s the only way we can do this. It has to be all or nothing, Aidan. Full bore, no matter how bad things get. I can’t live without you,” she admitted. “But I can’t live a lie, either.”
He nodded, face grave. Took a deep breath. “I killed a man tonight.”
“By…accident?”
“I shot him in the heart at point blank range. For Kev,” he added. “I had to go through him to get to Kev.”
Sam clutched his biceps and listened to the pounding of her heart, waiting for the revulsion to set it.
It didn’t.
She lifted her hands and pressed them to his face, the bristly planes of his cheeks. She held him still, searched his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, because clearly, it had devastated him.
His smile was grim and humorless. “My life’s not pretty. It’s never gonna be.”
“Nobody’s is.”
When he kissed her, she knew her fate was sealed: good or bad, through bullets or babies, she was with Aidan. She’d never really had a choice in the matter anyway.
Something wild came alive inside him; she felt it in the sudden grab of his hands, the harsh strike of his breath as he pulled back and then went for her mouth again, deeper, more demanding.
In a frantic struggle of arms, tongues, and shuffling feet, they moved into the dark living room, trailing clothes behind them one discarded item at a time.
They didn’t make it to the couch, but wound up naked on the rug.
Aidan pushed her knees up, covered her body with his, and entered on one sure thrust. They both gasped.
“God,” Sam whispered, spine arching away from the carpet.
He flexed his hips, pressing deep inside her, pinning her to the floor, filling her so completely.
She closed her eyes and held onto him with arms and legs as he sought a rhythm. Just before she shattered, he said, “I love you.”
Thirty-Four
“Cinnamon, banana nut, and pumpkin,” the waitress announced as she set a heaping plate of muffins in the middle of their table. Steam curled up from the sugar-coated tops, dispersing the aromas into the air.
Aidan took a deep, appreciative breath. “Thanks, doll.”
The waitress grinned and departed.
“What’s with you yanks and your pumpkin-fucking-everything?” Fox asked, poking at one of said pumpkin muffins with his fork. “Forget apple pie. Nothing’s as American as pumpkin.”
Aidan lifted his brows, bit into a cinnamon muffin, and spoke around it. “So the plan.”
Fox nodded. “The plan.”
“Ellison’s own house isn’t gonna be easy to get into like all those safe houses,” Carter lamented.
“No,” Fox agreed. He’d decided to eat the pumpkin after all, transferring two to his plate and licking his fingers afterward. “Which is why we’re going to have to be smart about it, yeah? We need decoys.”
Aidan’s stomach clenched unhappily at the idea.
Greg had described Ellison’s personal residence as an impressive mansion with iron gates and tight security. Staff came and went through the main gate with a key code. Guests were viewed on camera and buzzed in at the owner’s discretion.
Carter had proposed that they dress as workmen and throw a ladder in the back of the truck. Fox had pointed out that since no workmen were scheduled, that would be suspicious.
“We’re gonna have to use women,” he said now, chewing. “It’s the only way to get inside without tipping them off too soon, and they won’t be expecting us to hit them that way.”
According to Greg, Ellison spent little time at the home, but several of his men were housed there full time and had gotten in the habit of ordering up Friday night entertainment. Every Friday, two call girls arrived at ten o' clock and left sometime after one. Greg had been there a time or two when it happened and knew the name of the agency.
“If two girls get in,” Fox said, “they can help us get in. Being there isn’t the issue, but getting in is.”
Aidan had been thinking the opposite to be true.
“So we’re gonna pay call girls to help sneak us in?” he asked, frowning and full of doubt.
Fox snorted. “You ever met a trustworthy call girl? No. We need someone we can trust. Someone smart. Someone loyal.”
“They know all the old ladies,” Carter said.
Aidan pushed his plate away; he thought he might be sick. “Not all of them. They don’t know mine.”
~*~
Sam had awakened that morning with the night before tattooed across her skin. Little spots of rug burn along her back. A bruise on her shin where they’d tripped heading up the stairs. A high school-worthy hickey just under her ear that she was forced to wear her hair down to hide. When the alarm went off, she’d opened her eyes to find herself snuggled deep in Aidan’s embrace, beneath the down comforter on her bed, the two of them cocooned in warmth, smelling of sex.
Could she regret what happened? No.
Could the light of day force her to rethink things? No.
After her last class let out for the day, she drove to Ava’s house, finding the black truck in the driveway. She knocked at the back door and Ava let her in with Remy clinging to her leg and Cal in her arms.
Smiling, she said, “Look, it’s Auntie Sam!” and passed Cal into Sam’s arms.
Returning the smile with a quieter one of her own, Sam tucked the baby up onto her shoulder and followed Ava through the mud room into the living room. Remy was walking like a little champ, though he still had a fist twisted up in his mama’s pant leg.
In the living room, Ava’s laptop was set up on the sofa and a Winnie-the-Pooh DVD was playing. Remy’s blocks and toy cars and bikes were strewn across the rug. Ava got her oldest seated and invested in the video again before she turned to Sam, hands on her hips, expression bright with unsaid things.
Sam braced herself for the question, but Ava said, “You want a Coke or something?”
“Uh…sure.”
“Ice?”
“Out of the can’s fine.”
But Ava didn’t move toward the kitchen. Her smile seemed to grow, until her dark eyes turned to crescents the way her brother’s did. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“That depends. Have you talked to Aidan today?”
“
Briefly.”
Cal was starting to squirm – a much more restless baby than his brother had been – and Sam patted his back, bent her knees and rocked him gently. She met Ava’s smile with a serious expression. “I woke up this morning completely happy. And completely convinced I was making the dumbest decision of my life.”
Ava’s smile dimmed, expression turning thoughtful. “To be honest, I’d probably think less of you if you hadn’t felt that way.”
“Yeah. Well. I was also completely convinced that decision wasn’t the right word. Aidan’s not something I can decide.”
A smaller, more sympathetic smile this time. “I know exactly what you mean. There are people in life who you choose to love, and it’s all very healthy, rational, and safe. And then there’s that person you’re addicted to. And you choose to make that kind of love healthy, rational, and safe. It’s more work…but it’s more worthwhile.”
“I don’t know that I’m ready to be a mom,” Sam said, quietly.
Ava tipped her head, considering, asked a serious question. “Will it be hard for you because it isn’t your flesh and blood?” Something in her voice suggested that she herself would have a hard time with it.
Sam cupped the back of Cal’s downy-soft head, his pale hair like fine-spun silk. She took a deep breath, inhaling the baby smell of him. “No,” she said, and in that moment knew it was true. “That won’t be hard.”
It was going to be a girl. A little precious girl with dark eyes that turned to crescents when she smiled and a headful of almost-black ringlet curls. Aidan’s girl. Aidan’s and…and hers.
~*~
He didn’t like the guy, but Aidan had to admit that Ian knew how to live comfortably. Or work, as it were. The office above the funeral home was sleek, masculine, and soothing. As he sat down in one of the plush leather chairs, Ian leaned across his massive desk for a crystal decanter full of something amber and two short glasses.
Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) Page 33
