Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Tango took another long pull on the bottle of red.

  Ian came and sat beside him, coat halves folded over his knees, looking half a scarecrow, as thin as he was. A scarecrow with beautiful big eyes and English cheekbones. “What are we drinking?”

  Tango turned the label toward him.

  “Cabernet Sauvignon. Lovely.”

  “Want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Tango took another swallow, and then looked at the man’s face. What had been masked at first now lay exposed, the worry, the sympathetic grief.

  “I am so sorry,” Ian said, voice thick. “I am so sorry for what happened to you.” He laid his arm across Tango’s shoulders, long and lean, but strong, its grip sure.

  Tango shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me. Please.”

  The arm withdrew as if burned. “Of course.” Polite, kind. “I’m sure you must be…still recovering…”

  Mentally. Yeah, sure, he was. And it was a futile effort.

  “Kev–”

  Tango stood, albeit unsteadily, hand clamped tight around the bottle, palm clammy against its dark glass. He breathed in deep through his mouth, staring into the dark cavern of the garage.

  Behind him, Ian said, “Kevin,” voice ragged.

  Tango turned to face him, the garage spinning, eyes closing briefly until he’d caught his bearings. When he opened them, he saw the tears in Ian’s gaze.

  “Come upstairs with me,” he urged.

  Tango swirled the contents of the bottle. His tongue cried out for the musky heat of the wine. His body cried too, a fast surge of longing – it wanted to be used, to be released. And just as quickly, revulsion rippled across his skin. He was nothing. Nothing but his body and what it could do and receive.

  He hated everything about himself.

  “No,” he said. “I think I’m going to become celibate. I think I need it.”

  He took one last deep swallow of Cabernet and turned away from his lover.

  “Kevin.”

  “’Night, Ian. I’ll catch you later.”

  He was too drunk to ride, but straddled his bike anyway, shoved the corked bottle in his hoodie pocket. It wasn’t like he was a danger to others, on his Harley. If he wrecked, the only casualty would be him.

  ~*~

  Ian ripped the scarf from his throat and relished the quick press of cashmere stretched tight over his windpipe. Ought he to save time and strangle himself with it? More than likely he couldn’t do that. But Bruce could. He could ask his faithful driver and bodyguard to do the honors. Bruce, be a dear, won’t you, and choke the life from me?

  As if sensing he was needed, Bruce said, “Sir?” from behind him.

  Ian shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on its peg, alongside the scarf. Such order and cleanliness in his personal apartment. It eased the chaos in his mind: the cool grays and blacks, the sharp lines, the organization and neatness. Everything in his life had been designed to bring him peace; indulging in his expensive tastes and furnishing his regular spaces in trendy minimalist style was a little trick. Something menial to focus on so he could avoid memory.

  It wasn’t working tonight. He turned to face his open concept high-rise – its low sofas, hidden flat screen TVs, chrome kitchen – and felt panic close around his throat like a vise.

  When he spoke, his voice sounded faraway and flat. “Bruce, you’re dismissed for the night. I won’t be needing anything else.”

  He heard Bruce take a step forward, his tread heavy on the wood-look tiles of the entryway. “But, sir.” Worry in his voice, a concern for the generous employer who’d clothed him in Armani suits and gorgeous calfskin boots. The boss who’d bought and furnished the apartment below for him. “Won’t you be–”

  “Bruce.” Ian turned to face him. “I dismissed you. That means I want you to leave. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  The big man’s face, always so closed down with professionalism, colored with shock. His eyes tracked across Ian’s face. Then he finally schooled his features, nodded, and backed through the still-open door. “Yes, sir. I have my cell if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Bruce.”

  Ian went to the door when he was gone, and latched all five of the deadbolts. Slid the chain in place. Then he went to his kitchen and the wine rack above the fridge where he kept the reds.

  Cabernet Sauvignon. Lovely vintage. He uncorked it and drank straight from the bottle, head tipped all the way back, throat opening as the wine slid straight down to his stomach. He was gasping when he lowered the bottle, breathing raggedly through his mouth.

  “What did they do to you?” he whispered. “Kev, what did they do?”

  Could it have been any worse than what had been done to both of them, when they were teenagers?

  He whirled and chucked the bottle across the room. It exploded against the far wall with a spray of red and a tinkling of glass. The drops ran down the wall, viscous as blood.

  ~*~

  The wine was gone. Tango lay on his back on one of the picnic tables in front of the clubhouse. He’d had to drag it out from beneath the pavilion, his too-thin body protesting the entire time, so that he could lie flat on his back and stare up at the cold pinpricks of the stars overhead. They were spinning, twirling around and around overhead, dancing.

  In his right hand, he held his phone. In his left the scrap of paper Whitney had left behind at Maggie’s house with her cellphone number on it. He kept thinking about the wounded sheen of her eyes, like he’d betrayed her with his cruel words. He’d betrayed Ian too, in a way, hadn’t he? But Ian was used to the viciousness of life. Whitney was not – innocent, sweet Whitney. Untouched by her ordeal in Don Ellison’s basement prison.

  He had to close one eye to read the number, and then his fingers fumbled with dialing. But finally, he had the phone pressed to his ear and it was ringing, ringing, ringing…

  “Hello?” She had a pretty voice. He’d thought that earlier, when she called his name, but it was even pretty over the phone, which wasn’t always the case.

  “Whitney? It’s Kev.”

  She took a breath. “Hi.” And just that one word conveyed her disappointment in him.

  The spinning stars were making him sick, so he closed his eyes. Then he was shut off from the world, alone with Whitney’s voice, just as he had been back in the cell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an asshole to you, and I shouldn’t have been.”

  He heard her sigh, and it struck him as a maternal sound, like when Maggie was put out with Aidan, but unable to withhold tenderness. “It wasn’t true, you know, what you said.”

  “I know.”

  “Addiction has nothing to do with being a bad person or a good person.”

  He swallowed hard, felt bile stirring in his belly and searching for his throat. “I know.”

  “You sound drunk.”

  “I’m very drunk.”

  “Kev.” Reprimanding.

  “I’m sorry about your brother, too,” he continued. “I don’t know that I ever said that, but I am. It’s awful what happened.”

  “Poor Jason. He struggled for a long time. He didn’t deserve this.” She paused, then: “You don’t deserve what’s happened to you either, Kev. You’re a good man.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” His turn to sigh. “If only you knew. I’m not worth shit.”

  “Don’t say that.” A note of ferocity. “You…what you did for me…”

  She fell silent, and the moment spun into a lovely quiet, punctuated by her soft reproach.

  “Where are you?” she finally asked.

  “The clubhouse.”

  A beat. “Can I come see you?”

  He considered it for a second. Thought of her climbing up to sit on the table, taking his head in her lap; imagined he felt her small fingers sifting through his hair.

  But he said, “No, you should be with your family.” And more importantly, he didn’t need to bother her anymore.


  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m…” Unsure, terrified, in desperate need to feel human arms around him. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” How depressed she sounded. “Well don’t drink anymore. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She wasn’t ready to hang up, he could tell, but she said, “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  He disconnected the call, took firm hold of his dizziness, rolled off the table and went inside in search of whiskey.

  Forty-One

  Sam didn’t care about the ring. Not in a technical sense. Carats, cut, clarity, retail value – none of that meant a thing to her. The ring on her left hand was the most precious and beautiful thing she’d seen because Aidan had given it to her, and with it, his promise of forever. And with that, the slippery thread she’d been grabbing for, not even sure what it was. The night he proposed, she curled up beside him and slept deeply, so deeply, filled to the tips of her fingers and toes with a peace she thought must radiate through her skin.

  She had a feeling the women around her now didn’t care about the ring either, but they all asked to see it and oohed and ahhed appropriately.

  “So when’s the big day?” Mina asked as she untangled knotted strings of Christmas lights.

  The Lean Dogs women were gathered in the clubhouse common room, ranged around the massive tree Mercy had toted in from Home Depot a few hours ago. The men had wisely decided to leave them to the decorating and had been put in charge of watching the kids.

  “Oh, um…” Sam plucked another ornament – a tear-drop-shaped crystal piece that glittered when she spun it on its hanger – and frowned. “We haven’t really talked about it much. We were thinking, once we get the license, of heading up to the–”

  “Please don’t say courthouse,” Maggie interrupted. She stood by the tree, untangled lights in-hand, carefully stringing them onto the branches. “Has one woman in this room had a wedding that wasn’t at that damn courthouse?”

  “No,” Mina said.

  “That’s where we got hitched,” Nell said.

  “And us,” Ava chimed in.

  Emmie nodded. “Us too.”

  “And me,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Seventeen and pregnant.”

  “We got married in a church,” Holly said, shyly.

  “Oh, that’s right. I was a witness.” Ava raised her hand. “It was really pretty.”

  Holly smiled, pleased, a little embarrassed. That was her way, Sam had learned. “It wasn’t much. But it was…it was sweet.”

  Sam caught Maggie’s wry expression, an echo of what they were all thinking but would never say: Only Holly could think there was anything sweet about Michael McCall.

  “Except for Holly,” Maggie said, “we all got married in that Knoxville courthouse. So.” Her eyes came to Sam, bright with something like mischief. “I say it’s time we had a real biker wedding. Really do it up right.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Sam said, “I don’t want to make a fuss, or put anyone out.”

  But every old lady in the room was now looking at her, alert with interest.

  “What makes a wedding a ‘real biker wedding’?” Emmie asked.

  “It’s a regular wedding,” Maggie said, “plus cuts and a whole lotta engine revving.”

  “Do y’all remember Boone and Rita’s wedding in Little Rock?” Nell asked.

  “I was, what, six?” Ava asked.

  Maggie nodded. “Yep. God, that was a party. The next day, the prospects had to scrape half the New York chapter up off the pavement with shovels.”

  Maggie and Nell shared a laugh, remembering.

  Ava said, “Her dress was huge.” She mimed a veil and train. “I mean, I swear Hostess made it.”

  “That was two chapters coming together,” Maggie explained, for those of them who hadn’t been there. “Rita’s old man used to be the Arkansas sergeant, and after he died, she got hooked up with Boone, who transferred down from New York. It was the biggest damn wedding I’ve ever seen.”

  “Um,” Sam said, swallowing, “no offense, but I don’t like the sound of a ‘big damn wedding.’”

  “It won’t be like that,” Maggie said, waving off her concern. “Just us local folks.”

  Emmie jerked upright, eyes springing wide, unspooled ribbon in her hands. “We can have it at the farm. There’s plenty of room. No rental fee.” She grinned. “We’d waive it for you guys.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You already have bridesmaids,” Mina said with a sweet smile and a game show arm flourish, indicating herself and the others.

  Ava said, “I think it would be a good mood-boost for everybody. I’ll be the first one to dismiss weddings. But I got married in a hectic rush, as we were fleeing town.” She smiled. “It’d be kind of nice to take our time and celebrate you guys.”

  “Say ‘yes,’” Maggie urged. “You know you want to.”

  What else could she say? “Okay. Yes.”

  January

  Forty-Two

  “Mr. Teague, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Ms. Beardsley asked. Anyone who had Ms. Beardsley for Bio and knew her hatred for interruptions could have seen her face growing purple now and wisely ducked beneath his desk, silent as a church mouse.

  Anyone but Aidan Teague.

  From her vantage point against the classroom’s far wall, Sam watched him sigh and roll his eyes at Amy Sharp who sat behind him. “For real?” he asked. “Mr. Teague is my old man.”

  Amy giggled and tried to suppress it with her hand, eyes delighted and nervous.

  Aidan turned back around in his chair and then slid down into it, lazy and insolent. “S’up?”

  The other kids joined in Amy’s giggles. One of the boys said, “Dude!”

  Ms. Beardsley pressed her lips into disappearance and raised herself up to her full five foot height, giant bosom heaving. Sam had never met anyone outside of old book heroines who had a “bosom,” but Ms. Beardsley was the real-life exception.

  “What did you just say?” she snapped.

  “I said,” Aidan answered, sighing again, “S’up?”

  “Mr. Teague–”

  “Aw, save it.”

  Here it comes, Sam thought. He’s done it yet again.

  “Detention!”

  ~*~

  Sam opened her eyes and blinked as white January sun streamed into the window and into her face. Of all the memories she had of her fiancé, that was the one her mind had chosen to conjure just now, as she sat in front of a mirror and let Mina expertly apply her makeup. She smiled as she recalled Ms. Beardsley’s fury, and Aidan’s nonchalant shrugging-off of the punishment. She’d loved him with a schoolgirl stupidity then, knowing what a fool he was, not even sure she could change him, just wanting the chance to get close.

  Now, she knew the man who dwelled beneath the brat. The man who’d come to the surface. She never could have imagined this day…Well, that wasn’t true. She just hadn’t thought she could actually live it.

  It was her wedding day.

  “What?” Mina asked, smiling back, as she withdrew the brush she’d been using.

  “Just remembering something,” Sam said. She took in a deep, trembling breath as she slid back into the present. “How are we doing on time?”

  “Right on time,” Mina assured. “Now close your eyes so I can do the shadow.”

  ~*~

  “Those go over there,” Emmie directed, using her walkie-talkie to signal the hangaround who was lugging a big stainless steel tub of white roses into the arena. Walsh smiled as he watched her being the competent, in-control queen of her equine domain, her long down instructing jacket worn over her bridesmaid dress, her hair already done up in fancy pins and bobbies he knew he’d spend whole minutes disentangling from her blonde curls later.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the hangaround – Walsh thought his name was Jim – said and hurried to follow orders. Walsh approved; the smart hangarounds realized that the
women were just as important when it came to sucking up and jumping to.

  Emmie spoke into her walkie-talkie: “Are the drinks here yet?”

  Walsh walked up behind her, steps silent over the sand, and framed her narrow waist with his hands. Through the thick layer of her jacket, he felt her relax immediately into his grip. She knew it was him, even through a padding of goose down.

  She twisted her head around to look at him. “What do you think?” She gestured to the arena.

  The sand footing had been scraped free of hoofprints and smoothed flat with a tractor attachment. A white carpet had been rolled down to serve as aisle, flanked by white wooden chairs, all of it leading up to the plywood dais he and Shane had made. The structure had been covered over with more of the white carpeting, and a small arbor situated as backdrop, decorated with white roses and thick fir branch swags.

  “Lovely.”

  She pursed her lips, a wry smile. “You’re just saying that, aren’t you?”

  “No. It is lovely.” He shrugged. “If you care about that sort of thing.”

  She laughed.

  A thought occurred to him, an unpleasant one. “You don’t wish you’d had something like this, do you?” he asked, studying her face for hidden longings. There wasn’t much he could do to rectify what had already happened. And she seemed too practical to insist on a ceremony just for the pomp and finery. But he had to ask; he was her husband, after all, and he couldn’t take her happiness for granted.

  Emotion moved in her eyes, but not sadness or regret. “No,” she said, “I don’t wish I’d had a big wedding.”

  “Maybe one you actually liked, though?”

  She smiled, softly. “It started out rough. But by the wedding night, I think it was going pretty well.”

  “Yeah.” He returned her smile.

  “Besides.” She made a face and tugged at the strapless bodice of her red dress. “I might get fancied up for someone else, but I never would have done it for myself.”