Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  He’d failed, then.

  Three

  It was morning. The light at the window hinted at rain later, watery and weak as it fell across the floor. An arrangement of white lilies with a cheerful Mylar balloon attached had arrived in the arms of an orderly moments before, the note from Ava. No one else knew about what Kev had done, Aidan had explained to her out in the hall. None of the club could know. This was a family-only situation. Aidan, Sam, Ava, Mercy, perhaps Aidan and Ava’s parents – they were the only ones who’d been told. She must keep it completely to herself, Whitney had been made to understand, with lots of direct eye contact.

  Bless his heart, Aidan hadn’t been intimidating…but he’d been earnest, and she understood, now that he’d enlightened her. Suicide wasn’t allowed in an outlaw biker club. There would be no choice but to excommunicate Kev if all his brothers found out what he’d done.

  What he’d done. That made it sound like some sort of crime.

  Well, it was a crime against himself, she figured.

  The bed was propped up and he was awake. His eyes had fluttered open about fifteen minutes ago, and so far, he’d said nothing, just stared at the ceiling, swallowing in a way that looked painful, Adam’s apple jumping in his skinny throat.

  Whitney couldn’t believe how thin he was. Nothing but bones and a shocking headful of greasy long hair. His tattoos stood out stark and black against skin gone white and papery with malnutrition.

  She’d thought she could be patient, and wait quietly until he was able to make eye contact. But she wasn’t.

  “Kevin,” she said, and her voice cracked.

  His gaze came to her then, distant and haunted, his eyes a shocking pale blue in the morning sunlight.

  There were dozens of things she wanted to ask, but all she could say was, “Why?”

  He stared at her, unblinking, until she thought he didn’t mean to answer. Then he said, “Because I can’t do this anymore.”

  The lump in her throat thickened. She fought back the hot press of tears. “Do what?”

  “Live with it.”

  Live with what? she wanted to know. But fear strobed through her, bright and blinding. Maybe she didn’t want to know. But she suspected she already did, a little.

  “This is about what happened to you in that basement,” she guessed. “What those monsters did to you.”

  “They weren’t the first monsters. It goes way back before that basement.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Then you can tell the psychiatrist when she comes.” He looked startled. “They aren’t going to turn you loose until you’ve been evaluated.”

  She saw emotion in him for the first time, faint stirrings of unease. “No. I won’t do that.”

  “You have to, or they’ll commit you to the psych ward.”

  “No.”

  “You tried to kill yourself, Kev.” Her voice shook. She had to stop and swallow back the tears. “That isn’t okay.”

  Silence, again.

  “Do you care that your friends are upset? That they would have grieved for you?”

  “Are you upset?”

  “I’m furious.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You didn’t just ask me that, did you?”

  He stared at her.

  She was furious with him. Intensely so, suddenly. She stood. “I’m going to go tell your doctor that you’re ready for your psych eval.”

  She was at the door when he said, “Whitney.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder, and felt so sorry for him, so afraid that he was beyond salvage, that she almost rushed back to his bedside.

  But she refrained.

  “You don’t need to stay,” he told her.

  She took a deep breath. “No offense, but shut the hell up with that ‘don’t stay’ business. Talk to the psychiatrist, and I’ll see you after lunch.” She shut the door soundly on her way out.

  ~*~

  “Your messages, sir.”

  “Thank you, Alec.”

  Alec, a sharp and sensitive employee, picked up Ian’s empty teacup and bowed his way out of the office with a professional quickness. Ian knew that fresh tea would be brought within a reasonable period, after he’d been allowed to sort through the messages in private for a few minutes. A good one, Alec; he deserved a Christmas bonus this year.

  He didn’t have a direct phone line in his office. He could dial out if he wanted to, but all the answering was done by his staff out at the reception area. Messages were taken down on notecards and brought to him on a tray, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. He craved the orderliness of it; the old fashioned tradition of it.

  He was glancing over the first in the stack, anticipating his next cup of tea, when the door to the outer sitting room opened, earlier than expected, and he heard raised voices.

  “Mr. Shaman will not–Sir! Excuse you!” Alec exclaimed, and then came the heavy tread of biker boots across the rug.

  “Mr. Shaman!” Alec called, scurrying after. “I tried to–”

  “It’s fine, Alec,” Ian called back. He laid aside the messages and was ready when Aidan Teague burst into the office.

  “That little bastard,” Aidan said, jabbing a finger toward poor ruffled Alec.

  “Don’t insult my staff,” Ian said, calmly. Then, to Alec: “It’s alright. You’ve done a fine job. Go back outside, and I’ll handle Mr. Teague.”

  Aidan made a growling sound at mention of his name.

  “Come off it, everyone knows who you are,” Ian said. “Alec, please.”

  Flustered, red-faced, Alec straightened his glasses, said, “Yes, sir,” and bowed out of the room.

  Aidan tugged his cut straight and gave him a sharp look. “Just announcing my name, huh? These people around here know who you really are?”

  Ian smirked. “To what do I owe the pleasure today, Aidan?”

  The man’s face – it was such a nice face, very masculine, dark slanted eyebrows, stubble – blanked over. He took a deep breath. “Kev tried to kill himself last night.”

  The words hit him as a physical blow, right up beneath his ribs; punched the air from his lungs and threatened to take his vision. “No.” He tried to swallow and couldn’t. “No, I don’t believe that.”

  Aidan sighed and dropped down into the chair across from him. “Yeah, well…he did.”

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t…

  “He’s okay,” Aidan said, gaze becoming worried. “Don’t pass out or anything. I ain’t giving you CPR.”

  “I…” Ian gripped the edge of the desk, hard, until it hurt. Concentrated on his thin white knuckles. He could see the blood pulse through them, beneath his pale English skin, with each beat of his heart.

  Blood. It always ended in blood, didn’t it?

  “How?” he asked, and didn’t recognize his own rough voice.

  “In the bathtub,” Aidan said, quietly.

  The dream. The dream of home, of his Mayfair house, of his own scrawny reflection, of his sketches, and then of the blood. His wrist throbbed now, the old scar gone livid and insistent beneath the skin. The blood wanting out.

  “Jesus.”

  “The doctors say he’ll be fine. Physically. We found him in time. But–”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At the hospital. Waiting on his psych evaluation.”

  “He’ll lie to them. Tell them it was all a mistake and that he doesn’t want to hurt himself anymore. He’ll say whatever it takes to be let out.”

  “You think?”

  “I know so.”

  Aidan frowned. “I don’t believe that.”

  “You should. It’s exactly what I would do. He wants to get out…so he can try again.” And next time, he added silently, Kevin would succeed. You didn’t botch suicide more than once.

  Aidan studied him, eyes looking raw, jaw clenched. “You did it too, didn’t you?”

>   “A long time ago,” he said, softly. “When you’re fourteen, and a fat, smelly American day-trader pins your face to the floor and takes your virginity, you lose all love for living.”

  Aidan said nothing.

  “I want to see him.”

  “I figured you would. That’s why I came.”

  ~*~

  The psychiatrist was straight from Central Casting. Pear-shaped, buttoned up in a dark green wool winter suit, gold loops in her ears and a multicolored scarf draped around her shoulders. Her makeup was tasteful, hair conservative. Her sensible flats made low clipping sounds across the tile as she came to take the chair beside his bed. Everything about her was by-design; she was meant to make you feel safe and sheltered. Styled to be someone you’d spill secrets to.

  “Hello, Kevin.” Soothing voice. Kind expression. “I’m Dr. Beverly. But I’d like you to call me Dana.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’d like to talk about what happened last night.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  She cocked her head. “I think it would be helpful. I’d like to help you, Kevin, that’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re here because the hospital won’t release me until I talk to you.” At another time, he would have been appalled by the cold, blunt force of his voice. But that time had slipped down the bathtub drain with all the bloody water.

  She took a breath and her shoulders settled. “Well, that’s true. You can’t leave the hospital until I think you’re ready for release.”

  He glanced down at his lap, plucking at the covers around his waist, pleating the stiff sheet into little folds. He didn’t want to look at her. He felt almost guilty that he was unreceptive to her efforts, and he didn’t want to be so openly defiant. None of this was supposed to be happening. He wasn’t supposed to be alive at this point.

  “Was this your first attempt?” she asked.

  “No.” He turned his arm toward her, so she could see the silvery razor scars up the insides of his arms.

  “You’re a cutter.”

  “I was.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Some.”

  “When did you try to kill yourself for the first time?”

  “When I was sixteen.”

  “Why?”

  “I was afraid my best friend would hate me because I was a stripper and a prostitute.”

  Professional though she was, Dr. Beverly hadn’t been expecting that kind of admission. She blinked, then covered her surprise. “That must have been traumatic for you.”

  Tango folded the sheet again, and again, smile tidy folds. He hadn’t meant to handle it this way. He’d meant to be sorrowful, full of remorse, a changed man who no longer wished to take his life. He’d known this meeting would come. But in the moment, he was too consumed by the need for the razor to play the game. The irony wasn’t lost on him: he was too desperate to say what he needed to say in order to do what he needed to do.

  “Kevin.”

  He hated the way she said his name. That practiced note of concern.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the first time? When you were sixteen. Maybe then we can understand what happened last night.”

  A hard, hot kernel of anger formed in his chest, gaining layers and momentum as he met her gaze once more. “We can understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think” – his hands started shaking and he clenched the sheet – “that I don’t understand what happened? Do you think it’s some sort of mystery to me? Huh?” His voice rose, shrill and furious, shaking with fright. “Do you think I want to kill myself because I don’t understand something? You stupid bitch!”

  He didn’t know when he reached for it, but suddenly the pitcher of water on the nightstand was in his hand and he was throwing it at Dr. Beverly. It hit her in the shoulder, and the top popped off; water plumed upward into the air. Dr. Beverly shouted in alarm and shoved her chair back, leaping out of it.

  He was still screaming, his voice seeming to come from a great distance. Was this an out-of-body experience? “You’re the one who doesn’t get it! Don’t you dare fucking talk to me, you’ve never had shit happen to you! What the fuck could you ever tell me?!”

  This was it. He’d finally snapped.

  The door swung open and in came the people of his life: Mercy, Aidan, Whitney. He didn’t want to see them; couldn’t bear the thought of making eye contact.

  But then…

  There was Ian, dressed for the December cold in his long black coat and cream cashmere scarf, long hair windblown. He pushed past the others, face grave and ashen.

  “Kev. Darling.”

  He buried his face in his hands, felt the erratic pulse in his fingers, fought the heaving tide of grief inside him, the way it wanted out, a howling beast of an emotion that wouldn’t quiet.

  Ian’s arms went around his shoulders. His coat brushed Tango’s face, fine and masculine-smelling.

  “Stop,” Ian said in a quiet, firm voice. “Stop, this isn’t the way. You know it isn’t.”

  But that was just it: he didn’t know anything.

  ~*~

  As Aidan shooed her back out into the hall, Whitney’s mind went blank save for one image: the tall, narrow man with the long auburn hair cuddling Kev against his chest like a child, whispering against his matted hair. She recognized the man – he’d been there the night she and Kev were rescued. And even if she was only twenty-one and innocent, she recognized the energy between the two of them: that was no brotherly, friendly embrace. It was like a parent with a child. It was like lovers.

  “You brought him into it?” Mercy asked when the room door was shut.

  “I had to,” Aidan said, throwing up his arms, expression defeated. “I’m so out of my depth with this. I’ve got no idea how to get through to him. If nothing else, Ian’s been there too. Maybe he can…” He trailed off, shaking his head, scrubbing the back of his neck.

  Dr. Beverly brushed water droplets from her jacket, flustered and unsure. “I’m recommending he be committed,” she told them, tidying her hair. “He’s in no shape to be released.”

  “Yeah, recommend,” Mercy said, rounding on her with a black look. “See how that turns out for you.”

  Her eyes flew wide.

  “Merc, don’t threaten the shrink.”

  “The shrink needs to mind her own damn business.”

  Dr. Beverly drew herself upright.

  “Bye,” Mercy told her, and what could she do in the face of such a terrifying specimen? She walked away.

  Mercy turned back to face them. “Have you ever seen him get physically violent with someone like that?”

  “No.” Aidan sighed. “Shit. No, never.”

  “He doesn’t need to be more upset,” Mercy reasoned. “If he doesn’t want to talk to her, then he doesn’t have to.”

  Whitney wanted to feel sorry for the doctor, but she couldn’t, too preoccupied with what she’d seen. “Who is that in there with him?” Both men glanced toward her. “He was there when you broke us out of that house. Who is he?”

  Aidan’s lips compressed. “He’s an old friend of Kev’s.”

  “Is…is Kev gay?”

  “He goes both ways.” Defensive edge in Aidan’s voice, daring her to say something against it. “Is that a problem?”

  “No.” And it wasn’t. It wasn’t something she’d ever considered, but she felt no revulsion.

  But she did feel…something. A tug of emotion in her belly. Loss? Perhaps loss. Because she hadn’t spent the night in this hospital just because it was the right thing to do.

  “Damn. Baby,” Mercy said on a sudden breath, voice changing. He was staring down the hall, and coming toward them were Ava and her mother, Maggie.

  Maggie pushed a double stroller with Mercy and Ava’s two boys loaded into it. Ava was wearing a dress and leggings, tall boots, a long black wool coat, the dark ensemble ruined by her very pregnant belly.

  “You didn’t have to co
me,” Mercy said, moving toward her.

  Her expression pained, she laid a hand on the side of her stomach. “Oh, but I did. It’s time. She’s coming.”

  Four

  “I’ve got the boys,” Maggie told him, patting his shoulder. “Go with your girls.”

  And Mercy went, because there was no separating him from his old lady in this kind of situation, and because he trusted no one more than Maggie when it came to his children.

  It was a familiar scene at this point: a pink-toned labor and delivery room, the bed with the surgical lamps glaring overhead, a brisk staff of nurses, led by Ava’s obstetrician, Dr. Leeds. Mercy was bundled into the drape and cap, wanting the nurse who helped him to hurry, damn it.

  This was the third time for Ava, and everything was progressing quickly. Too quickly – his common sense couldn’t catch up to his panic.

  Ava’s hand fluttered up into the air and he captured it in his own, fingers closing carefully around hers.

  “Alright, Dad,” Dr. Leeds said, smile kind. “Do you want to help her push?”

  “Yeah.”

  As he had twice before, he hooked her behind the knee with one arm; a nurse stepped up on the other side to do the same.

  He met Ava’s glazed eyes once, before it started. Her grin was more of a grimace.

  “Love you, fillette,” he said, and ducked to kiss her forehead.

  “Ready?” Dr. Leeds asked.

  Ava pushed.

  ~*~

  Ghost found his son in a small family waiting area down the hall from Tango’s room. Sam sat beside him, fatigue and worry marring her pretty features. Lainie was in her carrier at their feet.

  Sam spotted him first. “Mr. Teague.” She smoothed her hair, hitched her glasses up her nose. She looked exactly like someone who’d spent most of the night in the hospital.

  “What did I tell you about that ‘Mr. Teague’ business?” He motioned for her to stay seated and patted the top of her blonde head in greeting.

  Aidan stood, face haggard, eyelids drooping.

  Ghost pulled him into a fast, masculine embrace on impulse. “How is he?”