Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  She smiled. “I’d say sometimes you need help from the person you love. It’s always easier fighting demons together.” And he knew, the way she looked at him, that she was talking about him, them.

  He smiled back. A little. “Whitney went to have lunch with him today. Aidan left them together, and that was when the three of us had lunch. We don’t disagree with you. If Whitney can help, then we ought to let her. He won’t ever forget what happened to him, but we’ve got to get him to a place where he can live with it, and can maybe be happy moving forward.”

  “Agreed.”

  He sighed. “But Aidan called, right before I clocked out for the night. When he got back to the apartment, Whitney was gone, and Ian was there.”

  “Oh.”

  “That guy…”

  “You can’t say he doesn’t love Kev, though.”

  “He loves who he used to be. Or he loves the idea of keeping him as a pet.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

  “None of it is simple. Not any of it.” But even so, there had been a sort of breakthrough. “Kev told Aidan, though, that he needed help. He actually said ‘therapy.’”

  “Really?” Her brows shot up. “He’s open to it?”

  He nodded. “And that’s where it gets tricky. Any doctor would gladly listen to him. Hell, they’d probably want to make a case study of him.”

  “A doctor could listen,” she agreed. “But even if you get past the idea of an outlaw with a very illegal track record talking to someone outside the club–”

  He snorted.

  “–Kev…Kev’s not looking for just ears, I don’t think. He’s drowning, Felix,” she said, quietly. “And he needs someone to pull him back to the surface.”

  Not just someone who could offer professional advice, but someone who’d walked this outlaw path; who’d made dark decisions; who knew well the taste of self-loathing.

  “Whitney can be his soft place,” Mercy said. “And your folks can be his folks, and Aidan can be his best friend and his brother. I’m nominating myself to keep his secrets.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, glittering in the lamplight. He imagined her silent Oh, Mercy.

  “Who better to help someone sort through his dirt than a guy who’s already as filthy as they come?”

  She leaned sideways into him, and he put his arm around her, her and the baby, his precious girls.

  ~*~

  It was the very last thing she should do, but after an hour of driving around the city, no doubt smearing her mascara every time she wiped her eyes, she had no idea what to do. She seriously considered parking in front of a gas station, flopping her seat back, and sleeping in her car. All her clothes were in the back seat; she could use them as pillows and blankets. But one look at the sketchy-looking guy propped against the side of the Citgo station had her rethinking the idea.

  So at nine p.m., she parked in the alley behind the bakery and trudged up the iron stairs to Kev’s door. She sniffed hard, tried to mop her face with her sleeve, and knocked.

  It was Aidan who answered the door, and her first thought was that she was so glad he was still here, and hadn’t left Kev alone. The relief brought fresh tears to her eyes, and, ashamedly, she felt her face crumpling.

  “Whitney?” He sounded surprised. “What’s wrong? What are you…Here, come in.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, dabbing furiously at her eyes with her fingertips. “I hate to do this. I mean, I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

  Kev was on the couch and shot to his feet. “Whitney?” Narrow face creased with worry, he came to her, and to her surprise, pulled her into his arms.

  Which only made the crying worse.

  But how wonderful it felt to press her face against his shirt and feel his arms around her. It wasn’t just about being held; there was something magic in being held by him. With his bony ribs digging into her breasts and his backbone jagged beneath her hand. More comforting than any touch of recent memory.

  ~*~

  It took her an embarrassing amount of time to pull herself together, but finally managed. Kev sat her down on the couch beside him, and Aidan opened the wine she’d bought that afternoon and brought her a glass. Kev’s arm behind her, across the back of the couch, was a comfort. As was the kind way he asked, “What happened?”

  Aidan was sitting on the arm of the recliner, arms folded, watching her with a sharp cynicism that somehow seemed brotherly and protective.

  She took a bracing sip of wine and told them about the fight she’d had with Madelyn. Madelyn had refused to calm, and by the end, had been sobbing and screaming incoherently. The girls had walked in, and they’d burst into tears. Finally, with nothing left to do, Whitney had made to leave. Madelyn had threatened to “throw” her “shit out in the yard.” So she’d packed her things, paints included, and now here she was.

  “I know I should have gone to a hotel,” she said. “In fact, I should go to one now. I don’t know what I’m thinking bothering you…”

  “No, don’t waste your money on a hotel, you were right to come here,” Kev said.

  “I just needed to get myself together,” she said, “but I’ll go to a hotel. I’ll–”

  “No,” he said, more firmly, and his arm dropped off the sofa and settled, tentatively, almost as if he were afraid to touch her too boldly, across her shoulders. “You can stay here. I want you to,” he added. “Just stay here tonight.”

  Overcome with both gratitude and guilt, she nodded, and pressed the back of her hand to her trembling mouth.

  His arm was light as a matchstick around her, careful and precise in its placement. Respectful. Platonic.

  So why did it send shivers down her back?

  ~*~

  When Whitney had stopped crying and excused herself to the bathroom to, quote, “clean up,” Aidan slid off the arm of the chair and dropped onto the couch beside Tango, gaze direct, and uncharacteristically knowing. He hadn’t been kidding about Sam adding some much-needed culture to his life. Marriage, or fatherhood, or both had sharpened him. In a polite voice, he said, “Um, excuse me, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “What?”

  “Okay, you might be all sad, and hate yourself, or whatever, but you’re not brain-damaged, that I know about. So what are you doing inviting that girl to spend the night?” It was said so sweetly, almost supportively, so against the words themselves, that Tango almost smiled. Aidan, his very best friend, loved people aggressively.

  “Am I supposed to kick her out?” he countered.

  “You probably should, yeah.”

  The idea was appalling. “This isn’t some random woman, Aidan. This is Whitney.”

  “Who means a lot to you, right?”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “Right. Which is why you can’t see that she’s, like, stupid in love with you.”

  A sensation like cold fingers clamped against the back of his neck. A quick shock. And then a bolt of warmth, shafting right through the center of him. “What? No, she’s just…”

  “Making you lunch, sitting with you, running to you when she gets into trouble. Bro, she sits up at night and takes your sad phone calls. That is not friendly. That isn’t sweet. It’s love. People do a lot of things for a lot of reasons, but love’s the thing that makes them available.”

  “I…” He couldn’t take his next breath, much less form a cohesive sentence.

  “Maybe it’s friend love,” Aidan went on. “Maybe that’s all it is, and she doesn’t want to have your long-haired babies. But I don’t think so.”

  For some reason, it had never entered his thoughts. He’d only been grateful for her presence, and leaned on her, and been afraid of tainting her in any way.

  “She can’t be with me,” Tango said, suddenly, finding his voice. “That would…no, that would ruin her.”

  But what a sweet fantasy it was. A soap bubble of fragile possibilities, a shiny, warm glimpse of waking up beside her. Those long-haired
babies Aidan mentioned.

  He clamped a lid on it fast, before it could rip him in half.

  Aidan sighed and flopped back against the couch. “Of course you’d say that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Aren’t you trying to warn me off of her?”

  “No, you dork. I’m pointing out what you’re being too thick to see, so you can freaking do something about it.”

  Tango blinked. “Um…”

  “She’s sweet, and she’s cute, and she worships you.” His brows lifted, and the implied line was, And she hasn’t ever stripped and hooked before. “I think, if you want to, you should go for it.”

  “Why are you even saying this?”

  “Because trust me when I tell you this: the very best thing in the world is having sex with someone who knows every bad thing about you, and loves you anyway.”

  ~*~

  Tonight, when Tango told Aidan that he ought to go home and be with his girls, he agreed. “If you’re alright…?” Pointed look to Whitney, who was reheating leftover burgers for their dinner, her narrow back to them.

  Tango sighed and nodded. Sighed, because now, with Aidan’s prediction of long-haired baby-having love, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself with her.

  Because the beast hadn’t been satisfied with the fast, heartbreaking tumble he’d taken with Ian earlier.

  Listen to him, thinking about sex with someone else while his sheets smelled like man in the next room.

  God, he was awful.

  Aidan knocked him on the shoulder. “Call if you need something, okay?”

  “Okay.” But he wouldn’t, because Aidan deserved to hold his daughter, unwind over dinner and beer, and then hold his wife.

  The sound of the door closing was like a casket lid; self-restraint was going to be the death of him.

  He took a deep breath, braced himself, and walked into the kitchen.

  “Aidan couldn’t stay?” Whitney asked as she laid patties out on a plate.

  “Nah. He needs to spend some time with the fam.”

  “I’m sure Sam and Lainie miss him,” she said, and sent him a quick smile that made his pulse jump. “He’s been a good friend to stay here with you.”

  How…lovely she was. That was the word. Lovely. Because she was a pretty girl in an objective sense, with all that dark hair, and those big pale eyes, and her tiny snip of a nose. The distinct shape of her upper lip. But there was an energy in her, a soft, delicate femininity that was built of kindness and steel clothed in softness that called to something deep and shriveled inside of him. Maybe everyone wouldn’t think her lovely, but he did. And he wanted to bury his face in her hair and feel the strands get caught in his lashes. Wanted to slide his hands down inside her tight jeans and find the warm smooth curve of her ass.

  Standing beside her at the kitchen counter as she pulled the cling film off leftovers, he could close his eyes and imagine laying her down on his bed, breaking her in slowly: lingering kisses, petting, grinding against her, letting her feel the way he wanted her.

  Disgusting. Why did he always have to go there?

  He realized she was saying something, and shook off the fog. “What?”

  Her expression was patient. “Do you want it like you had it his afternoon?”

  This afternoon? Ian’s teeth sunk in his shoulder, sunlight slanting between them, playing against sweat-slick skin.

  “Uh…”

  “Your burger. Lettuce, ketchup, mustard, and red onion?”

  “Yes,” he said with a little gasp, ashamed once again of his thought process. “The burger. Right. Yeah. That’d be good.”

  ~*~

  “I can sleep on the couch,” she offered, and that made him feel like a douche.

  “No, I will. You can have the bed.” The bed which he’d fucked someone in not hours ago. “Just let me change the sheets for you,” he added, hoping he didn’t sound desperate. “I think Mags left some clean ones…”

  But Whitney shook her head. “No, really. I won’t be able to sleep and I brought my painting stuff. I’ll probably spend most the night at the table, so please, I refuse to kick you out of your bed.”

  “Or,” he said, starting to feel frustrated, “we could just stand here and be super polite to each other for another half hour.”

  A beat passed.

  Then they both laughed. The tension eased, and he could breathe again.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” she said – which, ha! – “and it’s so sweet that you want to give me your bed. But honestly, I’m not just being polite. I don’t sleep much anymore, and no doubt I’ll want to paint. So if you’ve got an extra pillow, I’ll crash out here.” She gave him a gentle smile. “And hey, if you wake up tonight, you won’t have to call me.”

  He smiled back. “There’s that.”

  ~*~

  Sex dreams were the worst. They always started one place, and ended up another. When he was with Jasmine, his stirring usually roused her from sleep, and then she would wake him, nails trailing down his stomach, and she would take him in her mouth and finish what some errant scrap of memory had started. Before things went dark, there was Jazz, and her magic tongue…which was a sort of darkness all its own.

  But he hadn’t been with Jazz since Don Ellison’s basement. And the dreams were more distinct, and more disturbing than ever.

  Tonight it was The Nest. That pink-on-black, black-lighted room in the back where he and Ian worked together. Everything smelled like chemical flowers. His heart pounded, and his fingers itched, and the carpet was plush against his knees as he worked on their client.

  So many clients. He’d lost count. He was better at this than he was at tying his own shoes. He had, in Ian’s words, a beautiful mouth that knew everything there was to know about cocks.

  What an accomplishment.

  He glanced up through his lashes, and a jolt of acknowledgment moved through him. The man above him was Daniel. Oh, sweet Daniel. When was the last time he’d thought of him?

  Ian was behind him, watching Tango over Daniel’s shoulder, those kohl-ringed eyes bright and liquid with excitement. “He’s very good at this,” he whispered in Daniel’s ear. And Daniel moaned, and his neck went limp, and he let Ian support his weight.

  And then everything blurred. And then it was a woman, Daniel’s bored blonde housewife who’d put on thigh-highs and a garter belt and come to the club looking for something young and thin and thrilling. She had fallen back across the mattress like a sacrificial offering. Ian’s smile, sharp as a wolf’s, hair falling over his shoulders. “Shall we?”

  And then it blurred again. And it was Carla. And he screamed.

  He woke with an awful start, same as always, yanked out of the dream and tossed back into his bed. He was on his side, curled up in the fetal position, sporting a raging hard-on.

  This was the danger of Whitney. This. Waking scared, shaking, alone, turned on, and wanting her comfort. The perfect cocktail: he wanted to be with her, and he wanted to fuck something, so he in turn wanted to fuck her.

  Dangerous.

  There was a strip of light beneath his closed bedroom door. She was in fact awake.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, and climbed from bed to search for clothes.

  ~*~

  The sound of the bedroom door opening should have startled her, but she’d been waiting for it for almost an hour now. She paused mid-stroke and glanced over. Kev was in a baggy white t-shirt two sizes too big for him and thick gray sweatpants with cuffs at the ankles. His hair was all over the place, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Nightmare?”

  He rubbed at his eyes, his hair, the back of his neck. He looked strung-out. “Yeah.” He headed for the kitchen and she turned back to her work.

  It was flowers again, white roses this time. The color was a challenge, because she was painting highlights and shadows, rather than filling in with white. On her palette, she had blends of blue, and green, and gray, and hints of yellow. It was a compl
ex piece, and it had been soothing the past two hours, her easel set up in front of Kev’s sofa, listening to the occasional car pass on the street below.

  Kev returned and sat down beside her, glass of wine in each hand. “Here.” He passed one to her. “Best sleep aide in the world.”

  “Thanks.” She set her brush down and took the glass in both hands, took a small sip. She wasn’t really much of a drinker, and swore she felt the effects after just one swallow. When she lifted her head, Kev was staring at her canvas, and his expression was awed.

  “You’re very good.”

  That made her blush. Or maybe that was just the wine.

  “I mean, you could be in galleries.”

  “Oh, no, it’s just a hobby.”

  He grinned. “So’s everything until it starts to pay the bills.”

  She took another sip of wine.

  He continued to stare at the half-finished painting.

  “Are you interested in art?”

  “For me? Nah.” A notch formed between his brows. “But I know someone who is…Was. I dunno if…” His gaze dropped to the glass in his hands.

  “Are you going to tell me what the nightmare was about this time?”

  She assumed that, like always, he would decline. He made that face she always had to imagine him making over the phone: mouth tucking up in one corner, brows lowering, a sad, concentrated sort of face. But then he took a deep breath and said, “I always dream about the same thing lately.” His eyes flicked to her, and then darted away again. “The place where I used to work.”

  A chill moved through her. “The Cuckoo’s Nest?” In the time since she’d first heard it, she’d come to think of that as a sinister name.

  “Yeah.”

  “What sort of place was it, Kev?” she asked, softly.

  “A terrible one.”

  “Why did you work there?”

  “I didn’t. Not willingly. I was a slave.” His voice grew reedy and distant with memory. “And then, after so long, it started to feel almost normal.”

  “God,” she whispered. “What…” She had to dampen her lips. “What did you do?” But a part of her already knew. Her stomach clenched, and she felt sweat bead up on the back of her neck, under her hair. In this day and age, “slave” could mean a lot of things. But somehow…somehow…she knew.