“We did. Before she passed away.”
“Oh shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t–”
“It’s fine,” she said. “You didn’t know.”
He felt like a heel. He’d never asked about her family, knew nothing outside the drama of her junkie brother. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She sliced open the cheese package with a knife and tugged it off with a loud crackle. “My parents were older,” she explained, tone conversational. She didn’t seem traumatized by it. “I mean, much older than most people’s parents. They thought Mom was infertile, so they finally gave up trying. My brother was conceived when they were forty. The doctor was completely surprised; Mom said it was a miracle. And then eight years later, she wound up pregnant with me.”
“Man.”
“I know, right?” She sent him a wry smile. “They were very kind, and very sweet together – high school sweethearts. But their friends’ children were all off to college when Jason and I were still on the playground, and I don’t think Mom and Dad knew quite what to do with us.”
Tango ran the numbers in his head. If they’d been alive, her parents would have been seventy by now, but seventy wasn’t that old in the grand scheme of medicine these days.
“What happened to them?” he asked, quietly.
“Mom had cancer,” she said, tone becoming distant, matter-of-fact. “And when she died, Dad spent the next two years drinking himself to death.”
“Shit.”
She sliced the cheese in thick, perfect squares, knife clacking when it hit the wooden cutting board. “Dad was selfish. He didn’t want to live without Mom, even though he had Jason and me. And turns out, Jason was that selfish too. The pain was more important than his family.”
She paused, knife hovering in the air, the sunlight glinting down the edge of the blade, now gummy with cheese in places. “You know,” she mused, “I’ve never thought of it like that. That they were selfish. I don’t even really think that.” She shook her head, and went back to slicing. “It’s just that sometimes I’m so angry they did that. Mom couldn’t help dying, but they could, and I just…” She paused again, and sent him a helpless look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about this sort of stuff. And I don’t mean that you–”
“No, I get it.” Strangely, he wasn’t having a reaction to her words. He’d thought this topic might tie a knot in his gut, leave him sweating and nervous. But two people in Whitney’s life had killed themselves. He found himself not wanting to be the third, suddenly.
She stared at him, with her huge pale eyes full of sweetness. “I didn’t do enough for them. I couldn’t save them, and I hate myself every day for that. So I’m sorry, but I’m not going to give up on you, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
He felt a stir of warmth in his chest, felt the sharp tug of a smile. “I can deal.”
~*~
“Kev still with his aunt?” Carter asked, and Aidan nearly jumped out of his skin.
He had a bike up on the rack, and turned away from it, toward Carter who stood eating a PowerBar with dirt-smeared hands. Was that suspicion in the guy’s eyes?
“Yeah,” Aidan said, careful to keep his voice flat, disinterested. Nothing going on; nothing to get excited about. “He is. Said he might be a little longer than he thought.”
“Hmm.” Carter shoved the rest of the bar in his mouth until his cheek bulged. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.” Aidan watched him retreat, feeling the faint vise of panic close around his throat.
He and Ghost and Mercy had concocted a story to tell their brothers. Tango’s aunt was ailing, and Tango had gone to Spring City to be with her, since she had no other relatives. The call had come in the middle of the night, and he’d had to leave in a hurry, with only time for a quick call to Aidan for explanation.
Everyone had shrugged and taken it in stride, but the lie made Aidan itchy. It was a lie he’d tell to the bitter end, but he wondered if some of the others suspected anything.
There was one bright spot, though, and that was Ghost’s stance in all of this. Sometimes Aidan didn’t give his old man credit for slowly pushing the clock ahead, and letting some of the more preposterous and prejudiced MC practices die quiet deaths. Their womenfolk, for instance, exercised more autonomy and influence than the women of Duane’s time. With Maggie, Ghost had set a precedent: he wanted a strong woman, and he worshipped her for that strength. Gone were the days of property patches and naked groupie Bitches on the backs of bikes. Gone too were the days of abject club poverty. Ghost had steadily built an empire, and sought to create a public image that was poised, dangerous, and powerful.
But some old traditions and superstitions persisted. Suicide was a sign of weakness in their brutal world. Brothers laid down their lives for fellow brothers, but they didn’t take their own lives. The punishment for such a sin was excommunication.
Aidan didn’t doubt that his fellow Dogs loved Tango. But they didn’t love him unconditionally, the way their own small family did. So it must be kept secret, what Tango had tried to do. And when he came back to work and to church, no one would ever know, save the three of them who’d long kept Tango’s other secrets.
Ghost protecting Kev? That earned big points in Aidan’s mind. It almost made him love the man.
His phone rang, startling him, and he went outside to answer it, thinking it might be Tango.
It was Ian instead.
“How is he?”
Aidan sighed and leaned back against the side of the shop. He was getting tired of this British asshole’s dictatorial phone calls. “He’s alright. Why don’t you call him yourself and ask?”
Ian made a delicate noise. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Not now, anyway. Soon.”
Another sigh. This time because he couldn’t really argue with that, and he couldn’t really fault the man for being concerned. “He’s not back to his old self,” he consented. “But he’s better.”
“Are you there with him now?”
“I’m at work.”
“And Kev is alone?” Ian demanded. “You know that he-”
“He’s not alone, okay? Do you think I’m that stupid?”
Deep sigh of relief. Then: “Would you like me to answer that question?”
“Look, I need to get back so I can clock out soon.”
“Yes, of course. But tell me, who’s with him?”
“A friend,” Aidan said, firmly. “He’s having lunch. It’s fine.”
Ian’s voice hardened. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
A warning signal pinged in the back of Aidan’s mind. He himself had no opinion of Whitney outside her ability to make Tango happy. But Ian was coming from a very different place on the friendship spectrum.
“She’s in the same boat as us,” Aidan said, firmly. “She wants Kev to get better.”
“What does some starry-eyed child know about ‘better’?” Bitterness now. Anger. Jealousy.
“Hey, listen to me. Leave her alone. Understand? Don’t bother that kid.”
“What would I possibly want with her?” Ian asked, and the call disconnected.
~*~
It was just a cheeseburger, but it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He hadn’t been hungry before, but the first bite changed his mind. The meat was juicy and well-seasoned, the cheese sharp, the bread soft. Like an animal, he choked down bite after bite, putting away two thirds of it before his shriveled stomach grew full and protested.
He laid the burger down and wiped his mouth, took a deep breath. “God. That’s fantastic.” His stomach cramped, and he willed it to still, to hold onto the food Whitney had prepared for him.
“Good.” Her cheeks pinked with pleasure.
They sat at the scrubbed plank table that had been here back when Mercy rented the place. The sunlight did radiant things to Whitney’s eyes, her delicate complexion; it chased rivers of auburn and gold through her dark hair.
She was only an arm’s length away,
but seemed a whole different species. Something vibrant, young, clean…alive. He was breathing, yes, and eating, sipping on a Coke, reaching for his cigarette in its saucer ashtray. But he wasn’t alive. Not like Whitney.
“How have things been with you?” he asked, soothing his belly with a long drag.
She nibbled a French fry. “I’m still living with my sister-in-law. Helping her out with the girls.” A shadow crossed her face. “She’s…she’s having trouble adjusting.”
“Drinking?” he asked. Maybe it was too blunt, but he didn’t have much grace left to offer, not even to someone as special as Whitney.
But if he was too blunt, she didn’t seem to mind. She nodded. “A lot, actually. I know I need to confront her about it, but she hates me so bad I don’t think she’ll listen.”
“If she hates you, she’s stupid. And a bitch.”
Her brows lifted. “She lost her husband.”
“And you lost your brother. But you aren’t lying in the gutter.”
“Not yet.”
“You would never. That’s not you.”
She set the fry down, spread her hands on the tabletop and studied them. It sounded like she chose her words carefully. “Some might say you’re being hypocritical.”
“And what do you say?”
Her head lifted, eyes shiny. “I say I don’t know why the people I care about keep giving up on themselves.”
“It’s not the same,” he said, tapping ash, frowning. “I don’t have kids.”
“You have people who love you. There’s no qualifying that.”
His chest tightened. He felt her sadness, a physical presence, and wanted to do something about it. “You have to confront her,” he said. “Get her in AA if you have to.”
Whitney nodded. Picked up her burger, took a small bite. “I know,” she said once she’d swallowed. “She couldn’t hate me any more than she does. And I can’t let her do this to Ashley and Charlotte.”
“How old are they?”
“Seven and five.” Her expression softened. “They’re actually pretty fun kids…”
She told him about Ashley’s wish to be a ballerina, and her little sister’s contrasting obsession with horses. She talked about taking them to the fair a couple of months back, about the way they’d wanted to ride the Ferris wheel eight times, and the way they’d begged for candy apples, then been unable to bite through the hardened sugar.
Tango smiled because she smiled, because seeing her happy warmed his insides. “You like kids, don’t you?”
“A little bit.” But her bright blush and modest smile said more than a little bit: she wanted kids of her own.
Why are you here with me? he wanted to ask her. You deserve the world, kiddo.
“I thought I wanted to be a teacher for a little while,” she said. “But I don’t think I want to be in charge of that many kids at a time.”
“Just a few.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be a wonderful mom,” he said, and her blush deepened.
“Why would you say that?” she asked, looking self-conscious.
“Because you remind me of all the wonderful moms I know.”
Her eyes widened, pleasure radiating from her in a visible aura. “Thank you.”
He took another drag off his cigarette.
“You’ve never talked about your family,” she said in a quiet voice.
“The club is my family.”
Her expression became sympathetic.
The sight of it put a lump in his throat, for some reason. “Don’t feel bad for me, Whit.” He had to clear his throat.
“Never,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes, I want to hug you.”
He allowed himself to fantasize about it: her small shape bundled against his chest, her sleek hair under his chin. The softness of her breasts. Beat of her heart, sound of her breathing.
“That’s probably not a good idea,” he said, and sucked down the last of the cig.
~*~
“Oh no,” she said when she checked the time and realized she had to leave.
“You have to get back?” Kev guessed, and his cautious smile dimmed down to nothing.
“I wish I didn’t have to.” And she meant it. Because though she’d come today with the intent to cheer Kev, she felt sure the opposite had happened. Coaxing smiles, even a chuckle or two, from him had warmed her in a way nothing had been able to lately. And now she felt sadness return, as well as the persistent worry that he shouldn’t be left on his own.
She stood and collected their plates.
“I can do that,” he said, pushing his chair back.
“I don’t mind.”
But he followed her to the counter, took the plates from her one at a time, and dumped the scraps into the garbage, stacked them in the sink.
Whitney found tin foil in a drawer – Maggie really had thought of everything – and wrapped up the leftovers, put them in the fridge while Kev washed the dishes and skillet.
“I forgot the wine,” she said, spying the bottle on the counter.
“I can open it now,” he offered.
She shook her head. “I better not, since I’m driving.”
They were done, suddenly, and all that was left to do was leave.
The prospect made her chest ache.
Kev came to stand in front of her, hands in his pockets, face a little bashful, blonde hair swinging forward to brush against his chin.
How beautiful he was. Pretty and perfect as a marble bust.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said. “And for the company.”
“Thanks for listening about Madelyn,” she returned. “It felt so good to talk about it, and get if off my chest.”
His brows lifted. “Is that a hint?”
“Not a very subtle one, huh?” She wanted to touch him. Instead, she hitched her purse strap up her shoulder. “I wish you would get some help. Then I wouldn’t worry myself sick.”
“Sick?”
“Just please say you’ll think about it.”
He glanced toward the door. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, the afternoon had become grayer, colder, the wind snatching at their hair as they descended the iron stairs. Whitney shivered as she fished out her keys, pulled her jacket together. It felt ominous, this change in the weather, portentous somehow.
She hit the remote and Kev opened her door. “Drive safe.” And then, more personal, making eye contact again, “Text me when you get back to work and let me know you’re there.” The wind caught his long hair and he smoothed it back, the domino tattoos standing out in dark relief against the white of his fingers.
How thin he was, how underfed and defeated.
How sweet he was, how gentlemanly and thoughtful.
Her throat tightened.
“Whitney?”
She flung her arms around his neck, a sudden, impulsive hug. He smelled of smoke, and clean laundry, and feminine shampoo. He felt frail in her arms, muscles like water, bones hard knobs and cylinders beneath his clothes.
She squeezed him hard. “Don’t give up,” she whispered. “Keep trying. Please. For me.”
Then she whirled away and into her car before he could see the tears standing in her eyes.
~*~
Tango watched her pull away, still feeling the energy of her body where it had pressed against his. Like his chest and arms were glowing, tingling, even. Like he’d hugged sunshine.
His steps grew heavier the higher he climbed up the iron staircase. The air seemed colder, stealing the warmth she’d given him. Likewise, the apartment had changed: full of shadows, the sunlight gone, the air chilly and thin.
His breath caught when he heard the knock on the door. Whitney was back. She’d forgotten something. She’d called out for the rest of the day. Something.
He spun, threw the locks, snatched the door open…
Not Whitney.
Ian.
The sight hit him with physical force. Not merely Ian�
��s presence, but the harsh set of his features, the flare of rage in his eyes.
“Ian.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, lover?”
Tango stepped back. “Yeah. Of course.”
Ian wore scarf and gloves – cream cashmere, red leather – and removed both as he crossed the threshold. “Charming.” He set the gloves on the table alongside Tango’s keys. Hung his scarf up on the peg beside Tango’s cut. “This is a new acquirement.”
Everything about the moment screamed wrong. Ian didn’t belong here; neither did his anger.
With the sense that he entered a dreamscape, Tango shut the door and followed the man deeper into the apartment.
“Mercy used to live here before,” he explained. “It was up for rent again.” In a rush: “How did you know I was here?”
Ian pivoted, long wool coat swirling around his legs, hair slapping across his shoulders. His look said, Don’t insult me. “Darling, I know everything about you.” A smile flickered, and then was gone. “Well, most things. Except what you find so fascinating about that virginal schoolgirl who just left here.”
So Ian knew Whitney had been here. Tango felt his hands curl to fists. A tremor of sudden violence rippled beneath his skin, fast as a shiver, sharp as a straight razor. Virginal schoolgirl. Said with dislike. Open hostility. The idea of either sentiment directed toward gentle, sweet, neck-hugging Whitney left him hot with emotion.
“Whitney’s a friend,” he said tightly. “I have lots of friends.”
“Not like her, though.” Ian moved toward him, steps deliberate, Ferragamo loafers clipping on the floorboards. “Not who you want to fuck.” The obscenity became a bomb on his tongue, viler than the word itself, hinting at an intent that was ugly.
Tango stood his ground. “I fuck women. You know it. You’ve seen it.” He flashed him a nasty, humorless smile. “Back in the day, you used to help me do it. But I haven’t done anything with Whitney.”
“Not yet.”
“Why do you care?”
Ian closed the final distance, so they stood face-to-face, Ian’s expensive scent filling his nose. “Because,” he said, voice low, fierce, bristling, “you’re not two steps out of the grave, and you pushed me away – over and over you’ve pushed me – and here was Whitney,” he spat her name, “making you lunch. Putting that dreamy look in your eyes.”
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 6
