Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  Mercy shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

  Seventeen

  The watchman in the lobby of Ian’s building ducked his head and said, “Mr. Estes,” in greeting, which was testament to all the nights Tango had spent here. His face was familiar, his presence expected.

  His hand shook as he reached to press the UP button at the elevator.

  What an idiot he’d been. How could he not have expected this? Beneath his veneer of British calm, Ian had never been able to control his sizable temper. Tango had always worn his trauma on his sleeve, a shivering, cutting mess. But Ian buried it deep, let it eat at him slowly, until he couldn’t contain it and it all came boiling to the surface.

  Right now, it didn’t matter that they were years out of The Nest, and that they weren’t promised to one another; all Ian could see was Tango finding someone new. Could see that he was being replaced, and of course, of course he would take that out on Whitney.

  The elevator glided up to Ian’s floor, silent and steady, and Tango tried – unsuccessfully – to get his anger under control. If anything, the shaking was worse when he stepped out of the car, and his breath came in sharp draws through flared nostrils.

  Fuck it, he thought, and pounded on Ian’s door with the side of his fist.

  “Ian, I know you’re here, your car was in the garage,” he called through the sleek gray panel. “Open up.” He was in the middle of pounding again when the door was snatched open, so quickly it lifted Ian’s hair in the breeze it created.

  Ian’s narrow face was tight and flushed with anger, eyes over-large in his face. “Come in here and stop making a scene,” he hissed, stepping aside and waving Tango in.

  The second the door was shut, Tango rounded on him. “I’m making a scene? You wanna rethink that?”

  Ian turned the latch and sent him a questioning look. “Whatever are you talking about, darling?”

  “Don’t ‘darling’ me,” Tango snapped. He had too much nervous energy coursing through him; he stalked deeper into the apartment, and heard Ian’s expensive shoes follow him. “And don’t play innocent,” Tango said as he reached the kitchen. “You–”

  There was a man sitting at the kitchen island, glass of red wine in one hand, eyes wide and nervous behind the lenses of his glasses.

  Tango stumbled to a halt. “Who are you?” he blurted, too wound up for politeness.

  “Uh…” the guy said, face flushing. He was young, just pretty enough, with a little cupid’s bow in the center of his upper lip. He looked guilty, and nervous, and Tango knew immediately why he was here.

  He turned and glanced at Ian over his shoulder, noticed his appearance for the first time: suit jacket removed, shirt open an extra button at the throat, cuffs rolled and sleeves pushed up. His mouth was damp, and pink, the same as the boy’s.

  Tango took a deep breath and his voice came out a snarl. “Who is this?”

  Ian’s brows lifted, a look of mock disbelief crossing his face. “I have to say, this is really unbecoming of you, all this anger–”

  “I asked you a goddamn question.”

  Ian sighed, expression that of the abused parent of a tantrum-throwing child. “Alec works for me. He’s my assistant.”

  “Your boy toy you mean, right?” Tango seethed. He took a step toward Ian, leaning up into his face. “If you have him, why the hell were you bothering Whitney? Just for fun?”

  “Who’s Whitney? Honestly, Kevin, I have no idea–”

  “Stop it!” Tango shouted, startling himself, startling Ian, if his face was anything to go by. “Stop playing stupid. You’re a lot of things, Shaman, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

  Ian grimaced at the sound of his alias. “We’re not together anymore, darling,” he said, voice tight. “So you don’t get to come into my home and scream at me.”

  “Right. We’re not together. Which means you had no fucking right to go scaring Whitney like you did.”

  Ian made a disgusted face and moved away, walking around the island to get to the bottle of wine airing on the counter. “It always comes back to that little cunt, doesn’t it?” He plucked up the bottle and spun to put his back to the sink, facing Tango. “Honestly, what’s so special about her?”

  Alec looked like he was trying to disappear down inside his shirt collar.

  “Say something like that about her again,” Tango said, “and I’ll break that bottle over your head.”

  “Violent, violent,” Ian chided. “Is this her influence? This new bloodthirsty you?”

  Tango gritted his teeth and swallowed down his retort. No, this wasn’t him. He wasn’t the kind who flew off the handle and started bashing heads – mainly because he wasn’t capable of that sort of thing. But also because that just wasn’t him.

  “You followed her to work,” he said instead. “You are stalking her. And you ambushed her, tried to buy her off to get her away from me, for God’s sakes.”

  “She’s just a girl,” Ian said, and didn’t bother to deny the allegations. “What could you possibly want with her?”

  “I love her!”

  Silence.

  No one moved, no one breathed.

  Slowly, Ian raised the wine bottle to his lips and took three long swallows, mouth red afterward, before his tongue flickered out to chase the droplets. The bottle landed on the counter with a loud gong sound, and Ian stalked toward him, gaze predatory. He got close enough for Tango to see the vein jumping in his throat, to smell the wine on his breath.

  “You love the idea of her,” he said in a razor-sharp whisper. “But she doesn’t love the real you, the you that you are with me.”

  His hands came up to curl loosely around Tango’s neck, hot and smooth. He didn’t have to work anymore; didn’t have calluses from the pole like he had when they were kids.

  “You are lying to yourself, Kev,” he murmured, tone softening. “And if it takes frightening a girl to show you that, then so be it.”

  His eyes glittered with moisture, soft and beautiful now. “Why are you doing this to us?” he whispered. “Kev, you could be free. We could be together, finally. We could be happy.” His thumbs stroked up the back of Tango’s neck, and Tango’s pulse leapt in response. “I know you love me. I know you do.”

  Tango went back to the club in his mind, back to their shadowy dressing room, makeup palettes strewn across the tables, boas and scraps of satin and lace hooked on the corners of the lighted vanity mirrors. Ian’s hands on his neck, face-to-face, Ian’s beautiful eyes ringed with black liner, his lips trembling. I know you love me. I know you do.

  Yes, he’d said then. I do, I do.

  Now he brought his hands up and curled them gently around Ian’s wrists. It would be easy as breathing to fall into him, press their foreheads together and cave. He would never have to explain himself with Ian, never have to hold back, or worry that what he wanted was too dark, too much, too wrong. Those phrases didn’t exist in Ian’s vocabulary.

  Ian had all the power in the world to make him feel good – for a little while, at least, while they were both straining toward pleasure. But there always came the hollow comedown afterward, their joy tainted by old horrors no amount of love could erase. It was a reminder, every time, of Miss Carla, of The Nest, a reminder that they’d been turned into the men they were now, conditioned and carved and beaten into shape.

  And when he looked at Whitney he ached, and it was the sweetest, most alarming sensation, and there were no ghosts behind her eyes, only love.

  Tango wet his lips. “I have always loved you,” he whispered back, fiercely. “But we make each other miserable, Ian. And you can’t ask me to give up the club. They’re my family. If you can’t understand that…”

  Ian looked wounded, turning his face away, fingers stilling against Tango’s skin. “Family.”

  Tango leaned in a little closer, smoothing his fingertips down Ian’s wrists to his forearms. “Ian, call your parents. Talk to them–”

  Ian gave him a rough shove an
d stepped back, dragging his hands through his long, shiny hair. “Tell them what?” he snapped. “That their son isn’t dead after all, they’ll just wish he was when they find out what he’s been doing?”

  “They won’t care, they’ll just be so glad you’re alive–”

  “Shut up,” Ian growled. “Shut your bloody mouth, you traitor.”

  Somehow, they’d reversed roles, and now it was Tango reaching out for Ian, something placating on the tip of his tongue.

  “No.” Ian sliced an arm through the air, blocking Tango’s gesture. “You don’t get to say those things to me and then comfort me.”

  “Isn’t that what you always do to me?” Tango shot back, but his voice was kind.

  The scrape of chair legs on the tile reminded Tango that they weren’t alone, and he glanced over toward the island where Alec was getting uncertainly to his feet.

  “Um…” he said, blushing. “I think maybe I should go.”

  “Stay,” Ian ordered.

  Tango shot the man an apologetic look. “You should stay,” he said. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

  To Ian, he said, “I’m serious about Whitney. You won’t like what happens next time.”

  He paused when he reached the door, and glanced back. Ian stood with a hand over his eyes, head bent. Alec stood at his elbow, looking on helplessly.

  ~*~

  Whitney hadn’t known what to expect from an MC clubhouse, but she hadn’t envisioned the tidy, clean-smelling bar/living room atmosphere she found herself in now. She sat on a leather sofa that had a view of the large flat-screen TV and the Lean Dogs memorabilia decorating the walls on either side of it. There was a massive white flag with the running black dog emblem in its center. Pennants for various chapters. Framed photos. The Stars and Stripes, Stars and Bars, and the Union Jack, hung one atop the next. She was itching to get up, walk around, and inspect the photos up close, but she didn’t want to overstep her welcome; instead sipped the tea a girl named Chanel had brought her.

  The tea was warm, and too sweet, and slowly her nerves had settled, the shakes easing so she could hold the mug in one hand without slopping tea over the sides.

  She heard a squeak of hinges and a tumble of voices as people entered through the front door. When she turned, she saw Mercy, Aidan, and, thankfully, Kev. She half-expected him to be bruised and roughed up, but he looked the same as when he left her, a few loose strands of hair falling free of his bun and framing his face.

  She set the mug on a coaster and surged to her feet. “You’re okay?” she asked as she walked toward him.

  He looked tired, a little tight around the eyes, and he sighed, shoulders slumping. But he said, “I’m fine,” and let her hug him.

  This was becoming so frequent, so normal, so right, putting her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his shoulder. And it wasn’t even about practicality anymore. She’d been worried, frightened even, but this right now, this was just because she wanted to. Because feeling his body pressed against hers was becoming necessary. How selfish, she knew, because he didn’t want their relationship to become more complicated. But she couldn’t help it at this point; she needed it. Him.

  She pulled back reluctantly, but knew she had to. She couldn’t just cling to him in front of his friends like some sort of sad lovestruck child.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up into his perfect, beautiful face. “I didn’t mean to make things weird with you and…him.”

  He smirked. “Things have always been weird, and trust me it’s not your fault.”

  “The guy’s got problems,” Aidan said. “And he’s a total drama queen about it. It’s not your fault,” he seconded, clapping Whitney on the shoulder as he headed for the bar.

  She looked at Kev again and he gave her a lopsided smile. “You hungry?”

  Her stomach was awfully empty, though she’d been too nervous to feel hunger pangs. “Maybe.”

  “The girls are on their way,” Mercy said, his face lit up with happiness. “Why don’t you hang around, Whit? You don’t look like you eat much.”

  She smiled back at him, grateful for the invite. But she looked to Kev yet again; she wasn’t going to insert herself into his club family if he didn’t want her there. If he…

  But he grinned. “Yeah. Stay.”

  “Okay.”

  ~*~

  “What can I do? Put me to work.” Whitney rolled up the sleeves of her sweater in anticipation.

  The clubhouse kitchen was surprisingly large and modern, with the air of a restaurant kitchen: stainless everywhere, huge pantry, glass-front industrial fridge. The kind of kitchen that saw a lot of cooks and fed a lot of hungry men.

  Maggie Teague stood at the stove, managing the burners, and the sizzling pans on top of them. “You can come stir this,” she said, and it was somewhere between a gentle request and a command.

  Whitney hustled to comply, taking the queen’s place at the stove.

  Ava, mixing together salad dressing at the counter, leaned over and whispered. “Sorry. She’s a little overbearing in these situations.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Whitney said. “You know where you stand with your mom. She’s the boss, and doesn’t make a fuss about it. I can deal with that.”

  Ava laughed under her breath. “And you were worried about fitting in.”

  The old ladies had arrived, kids in tow, about twenty minutes before. The guys were out having beers around the TV, babysitting, and Whitney had been swept in here with the women. She felt like one of them, and it was exhilarating, the thrill of being included. Of being around competent, contented women who weren’t giving her passive-aggressive dark looks and wishing her dead.

  Her heart squeezed for Madelyn, like always. And, like always, she had no idea how to go about making things right.

  She picked up the wooden spoon on the edge of the skillet before her and gave the sautéing onions and peppers a stir, oil hissing.

  “Here, honey,” Maggie said at her shoulder, and a brimming glass of white wine was held beneath her nose.

  Whitney took it with surprise. “Thank you.”

  Maggie winked at her. “Liquid courage.”

  “Mom, that makes us sound terrifying,” Ava said.

  “Well you are, a little bit,” Sam said from the island, where she was breading chicken tenders.

  Maggie laughed as she went to gather up the plate of chicken, all ready to slide into the Dutch oven of hot vegetable oil. “Way to give a woman a complex.”

  “I think you enjoy it, though,” Sam said, blushing.

  “Just a little bit.”

  A pretty brunette came bustling in, shopping bag held triumphantly in one hand. “Rice,” she announced.

  “There’s a pot ready for it, Holly, thanks,” Maggie said.

  Holly came to the stove, orange Uncle Ben’s box in hand, and smiled at Whitney in a warm, sweet way that made it impossible not to reciprocate. “Hi, I’m Holly. I’m Michael’s wife. You’re Whitney, right?”

  “Yes, hi, nice to meet you.” Whitney didn’t know anything about Michael, only that he was the scariest looking guy she’d ever seen…and she’d spent time locked in a basement dungeon.

  Holly beamed at her. “Tango is the sweetest. I’m so glad he found somebody.” Her vivid green eyes widened and her smile slipped. “Oops, that was, well…sorry. I just meant…I’m glad you’re here, is all.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m always awkward.”

  “Me too,” Whitney said. “I just don’t think anyone’s realized it yet.”

  Holly chuckled and tore the top off the box of rice. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “Deal.”

  ~*~

  They had homemade sesame chicken over rice and veggies at the cobbled-together dining table composed of several round tables pushed together. The food was good, the wine was strong, and the company was lively – well, except for Michael, who maintained his scary status, but who would lean sideways to whisper thi
ngs to Holly from time to time – and little by little, Whitney felt her anxiety melt completely away, until she was loose-limbed, relaxed, and sleepy.

  Afterward, she helped with the dishes, and then went to find Tango.

  He was in a black leather chair, beer in one hand, and he scooted over against one arm and patted the scant space beside him, shooting her a hopeful look.

  How could she refuse?

  She snuggled down into the little hollow beside him, and had to hook her knees across his thighs, settling into the crook of his arm. It was blissful.

  For about ten seconds.

  A young blonde man, handsome in an athletic sort of way, sat nearest them, and an overtly sexy, albeit older blonde woman sat tucked under his arm, fingers playing idly with the zipper of his cut. Both of them were staring at Whitney.

  She squirmed a little deeper into her chair nook and said, “Um, hi. I’m Whitney.”

  The man gave her a little two-finger salute. “Carter.”

  The woman smiled at her, almost predatory beneath her playfulness. “Hi, Whitney, I’m Jasmine. Baby boy,” she said to Tango, “did you finally go and get yourself a sweet little girlfriend?”

  “Jazz,” Carter said, shooting her a dark look.

  “What?” She scowled and elbowed him in the ribs. Then turned back to Whitney, smiling again, her teeth bright like she’d had them whitened at the dentist. “I always knew Tango needed a nice, good girl in his life. Didn’t figure he’d have to find you in a basement, though,” she added, lifting her brows, smile slipping. “Jesus, you doing alright now? You over all that?”

  “Jazz,” Tango said, and Whitney felt tension steal through him, turn his lean frame to stone. “Leave it alone. We’re just friends.”

  Whitney had been ready to say something, but the words died on her tongue. Just friends. He’d more or less said so already, but to hear it, so plain like this…

  She surged up from the chair.

  “Whit.” Tango made a reach for her. “I–”

  “I’ll be back,” she said, but she didn’t want to be. She wanted to get far away from him so he couldn’t see the mortified color in her cheeks, or the tears that had leapt to her eyes.