So she climbed out and walked up to the door. The back door – she remembered from the last time she was here. She knocked and waited, wondering if it was too late to retreat. But a curtain twitched at the window and then the door unlocked and opened, Ava appearing on the other side, little Cal lurking behind her, peeking around her leg.
“Whitney, hi.” Ava sounded surprised, but not unhappy to see her. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh, yes, fine,” Whitney rushed to assure her. Her hands knotted together in front of her, nervous energy. “I wanted to see if I could talk to you for a minute. If you’re not busy, I mean. I’m sorry, I should have called ahead–”
“It’s fine,” Ava said, smiling and stepping to the side, guiding Cal out of the way with a deft touch on his small shoulder. “Come on in.”
“Thanks. Sorry, again, I should have–”
“No more apologizing.”
“Okay.”
Unlike the last time she’d been here, the kitchen was full of cool daylight and not issuing forth any delicious food smells, but it was far from quiet. A small TV was on in the corner, playing a national news station; Remy sat at the table, legs hooked up beneath his bottom, coloring in big bold strokes on sheets of white craft paper.
Whitney wondered if any of the people in Knoxville who hated the Dogs had ever seen one of their children coloring at a kitchen table.
“Camille’s down for her afternoon nap,” Ava said, pointing to the baby monitor set up on the counter, “so we’ll have to be kind of quiet.” She picked up Cal – a serious armful of little blonde boy – and plopped him into the chair beside his brother. “You want something to drink?”
“Maybe just some water if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
Ava got them two glasses and then tilted her head toward the row of stools lined up beneath the breakfast bar.
They got settled – a good view of the boys without being close enough to distract them from their art – and Whitney took a bracing sip of water, wincing as the cold stung her sore throat.
“I’m guessing something’s wrong,” Ava said in a gentle voice. Not accusatory, just observant.
Whitney sighed and let her shoulders sag. She felt small and droopy, beneath the weight of what she now knew. “A little bit wrong,” she admitted. “And I feel really terrible about it, because things are finally starting to go right for Kev.”
“Oh,” Ava said, and the word had a wealth of understanding behind it. “I don’t know all the details, but I know that what happened to Kev is a lot to take in. For anyone, club-raised or not.”
The words were such a relief – the simple acceptance of what she’d said – that Whitney found herself blinking back tears. “Crap. I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes. “This is exactly why my boss sent me home.”
“Wait, what?”
Whitney gave her the brief rundown of her whole barf situation, and didn’t betray Kev’s trust, but said he’d shared a dark story of his past with her, that it was haunting her today.
“Okay,” Ava said, stopping her babbling with a nod. “I get it. Okay.” She took a deep breath and gave Whitney a kind smile.
It was an immeasurable comfort, just the sound of “okay.”
“I’m being stupid.”
“No,” Ava countered. “Definitely not. You can’t control how it feels to know something like that about someone.”
“But it isn’t like I’m disgusted by him,” Whitney rushed to say. “I don’t feel any differently about him. Well, maybe more sympathetic, if that’s possible.” She shrugged. “I’m glad he told me. I’m glad he trusts me like that, and I’m so, so glad he’s feeling better. I just…” She made a helpless motion with her hands, feeling like an idiot, and maybe a child, for not being able to articulate her feelings any better than this.
“It’s one hell of an awful story,” Ava supplied.
“Yeah.”
“Whitney.” Ava leaned in close, a comforting hand on Whitney’s forearm. “Most people would puke after hearing that. Hell, pretty much everyone would.”
Whitney offered a bare smile. “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”
Ava shook her head, smile rueful. “In my experience, it doesn’t feel better. It just quits stinging so bad all the time.”
~*~
“How you doing?” Aidan asked behind him, and Tango was proud of the way he didn’t jump in reaction. He heard the footsteps approaching, recognized Aidan’s voice, and his hands never slipped on the wrench he was using.
He set his tool aside and stood from his crouch, wiping his palms on his jeans as he turned to face his best friend. “Doing good.” The words came easily; they didn’t catch in his throat or taste like a lie.
“Yeah?” Aidan clasped his shoulder and gave him a hopeful, assessing look.
Tango smiled. “Yeah.”
Aidan gave him a little shove, smile widening. “Dude. That’s great.”
And for all the things he doubted in life, all the ways in which he mistrusted people, Tango knew for a fact that Aidan was glad for him. That he wanted him to be alive and well. Not because he wanted to use him, control him, or own him. But because he loved him like a brother.
A simple given; a fact he always understood. But on this bright morning, feeling clean and easy on the inside for the first time, it hit Tango all over again.
He flung his arms around Aidan’s neck and hugged him tight.
“Oh,” Aidan said, surprised. Then his arms circled Tango and he squeezed back, just as hard. “That’s great,” he repeated, voice low and soft, full of a dozen things he didn’t have to say.
“Boys,” Ghost called, breaking them apart. He stood just beyond the roll top door, in the bright winter sun, face a strange blend of dread and tenderness beneath his sunglasses. “I wanna talk to you both about something.”
~*~
“You have to decide if you can live with it.” Ava’s parting words as Whitney left the Lécuyer house after a mug of tea and a few nibbles on some homemade cookies.
Strange advice, in Whitney’s opinion. Kev was the one who hadn’t been able to live with what happened to him. Literally. And at this point, Whitney couldn’t imagine walking away from him. It was unthinkable. Maybe someone else would call that obsession, but it felt like love to her.
In any event, her stomach was better, and she knew they needed stuff for dinner. She decided to forgo Leroy’s in favor of the big grocery store, and headed that way to shoulder her way through the senior citizen discount crowd.
There was something peaceful about the retirees and mothers with small children ambling through the store in the middle of the day. No rush, no long lines. The music floating down from the speakers was louder than anyone’s conversation. Whitney fell into a pleasant headspace and pushed her cart down the aisles, picking up what she needed for salad, garlic bread, chicken, and a few staples.
She was picking out a few yogurt cups when she heard, “Aunt Whitney!”
It killed her a little bit that the sound of her niece’s voice sent fear trembling down her back. Not joy, not surprise, but flat-out terror. Because where there was Ashley, there was…
Except, no. Madelyn wasn’t there. A harried-looking woman accompanied Charlotte, Ashley, and three other children, two of which were currently arguing over which brand of chocolate milk they wanted.
Charlotte and Ashely rushed Whitney, and she pasted a confused smile to her face and opened her arms to catch them both together in a hug. “Hey, guys!” She sniffed the tops of their heads and smelled skin, and hair, and not a fresh wave of shampoo. They hadn’t bathed last night, then. “Where’s your mom?”
They wriggled backward out of her grip, swiping their messy hair behind their ears and chewing at their lips, unsure of their answer.
“Mommy doesn’t feel good,” Charlotte said. “Mrs. Patterson picked us up from school.”
Whitney tried to keep her anger and disappointment hidden.
Sure Madelyn felt bad; she was probably neck-deep in a fresh bottle and seeing double too badly to drive in and pick up the girls.
Mrs. Patterson joined them, her loaded cart sporting a bad wheel and squealing like mad. “Girls,” she said, voice tired and long-suffering. “It’s not polite to bother other people in the store.”
“But this is Aunt Whitney!” Ashley said.
Mrs. Patterson’s eyes widened.
“Hi, I’m Whitney.”
“Madelyn’s sister?” Mrs. Patterson asked, a strange, disgruntled look in her eyes.
“Sister-in-law. Um. The girls said she wasn’t feeling well?”
Mrs. Patterson rolled her eyes. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
Whitney sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Patterson snorted. “You probably should be.” She heaved herself against the heavy cart. “Come on, girls, time to go.”
~*~
Maggie had left to run errands during a late lunch, so the central office was empty and that was where Ghost led them. The president sat behind the desk, and Tango settled in beside Aidan in the visitor chairs. The back of his neck crawled with invisible insects, nerves creeping down his limbs. He’d been having such a positive, such a good day, and he had the feeling it was about to go to shit. That was the story of his life – good things went to shit. Probably he’d shoot up later, and Whitney would leave him, and…
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was sabotaging himself with thoughts like these; they avalanched one atop the next until he started looking desperately for a way out of his own life.
“Kev,” Aidan said, touch warm on Tango’s arm, even through his sleeve. “Hey, it’s alright. Whatever it is.”
Tango opened his eyes to see Aidan looking at his father questioningly.
“It’s alright, isn’t it?”
Ghost nodded. “Yeah. It will be.”
“Shit,” Tango whispered.
Ghost pulled something up on the computer and then angled the screen toward them so they could see it. A local news article. A fourteen-year-old boy who’d been…
The words blurred on the screen. Tango sat back in his chair, taste of metal on his tongue, breath lodging in his chest.
“Tango.” Aidan put an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay, it doesn’t say – we don’t know–”
But Ghost’s expression was knowing. “It’s her,” he said. “I just know it is.”
“But…” Aidan said.
Tango gulped in a breath. “No, it’s her. It has to be. Fuck.” He scrubbed his face with both hands. “We should have killed her a long time ago.” Though his stomach clenched at the idea; some latent sense of servitude, an aversion to murdering his captor and sole source of food for all those years. Damn, he was crazy.
“Tango,” Ghost said. “Kev.”
He lifted his head and faced his president, damp with fresh fear sweat beneath his clothes, heart trying to force its way through his ribs. “What?”
“I.” Ghost took a breath. He looked nervous; Tango wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the man look nervous. “I want to bring this up at church.”
He was going to pass out.
“Hey, hey, listen. The last time, when they took you back, I kept your secret. Merc, and Aidan, and I handled it on our own. And we got you back. But I think it’s time we totally dismantled that bitch, and to do that we need our whole club to help.”
Tango drew his feet up into his chair and buried his face in his knees. Aidan rubbed his back.
“We don’t have to tell everyone about you,” Ghost continued.
“But you want to, don’t you?” Tango whispered.
“They’re you’re brothers. They love you.” But the nerves lingered, trapped in the sun lines around Ghost’s eyes.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course. It’s your choice. Whatever you wanna do.”
~*~
Whatever he wanted to do. Well wasn’t that a foreign concept?
Tango spent the rest of the work day trying not to dissociate, fielding worried glances from Aidan, and wondering what might happen if he admitted to his club brothers that he used to be a sex slave.
Would they cut the dog tattoo from his shoulder? Or burn it off?
Would they look at him like some sort of creep? Like they thought he’d wanted them all this time?
What would he do without the club? Could he survive that? He had Whitney now, but…
What would he do without the brotherhood that had saved his life when he was fourteen?
He was grateful when quitting time arrived. He clocked out, assured Aidan he was okay, and headed home, to the little sanctuary he’d built with Whitney.
He found her in the middle of dinner prep, the kitchen redolent of garlic. He crossed the room to get to her right away, not pausing when she greeted him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and crushing her to his chest as she tried to turn chicken breasts in the skillet with tongs.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, hi.” She snuggled in closer, unable to hug him back with her arms trapped inside his. “You okay?”
“Well…”
A knock sounded at the door.
Tango stiffened. “Shit.” He let go of Whitney. “Stay here.”
He heard her turn the burner off and slide the skillet to a cold eye as he walked to the door.
“Whitney,” he warned.
She followed anyway, a few paces back, and he sighed, because he wasn’t willing to bodily restrain her. Not yet.
He probably should have expected it, but it was still an unhappy shock to see Ian standing on their front step, cold wind whipping his long coat around his legs.
Tango braced a hand on the half-open door, ready to close it. He felt that old familiar tug, deep in his gut, that Ian would always inspire in him. But stronger than that was the memory of how scared Whitney had been; the fresh wounds of Daniel.
“Why are you here?” He couldn’t believe how sturdy his voice was.
“Did you see it on the news?”
“See what?”
Ian rolled his eyes. “For God’s sakes, you know what. The boy. Did you see the boy?”
Tango jerked a nod. “Yeah, I saw.”
“She’s doing it again.” Fear shivered across Ian’s face, widened his eyes. “She’s still in business, and she’s bloody doing it again.”
“We don’t know that.”
Ian looked offended. “Are you mad? Or still just unbelievably stubborn because I spooked your little girlfriend?” His eyes darted up and over Tango’s shoulder, to where Whitney stood just behind him.
Tango started to close the door on him.
“Wait!” Ian slapped at the door, bracing it with a palm, tone going desperate. “I’m sorry, okay? I am. I need to talk to you about this.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to do something about the bitch!”
For the first time in all their long years of knowing one another, Tango didn’t feel compelled to admit anything to Ian. He could tell him about Ghost’s plans, about the terrifying idea of coming out to his club, about the Lean Dogs finally ousting Miss Carla. But too much darkness lay between them now; a canyon full of finally-realized lies, obsession, and self-harm. He would always love Ian, but he saw how toxic it was now; it was a faded kind of love, an old watermark that wouldn’t wash away.
And it paled next to what he felt for Whitney, the way her light and sweetness filled him up.
He ought to shut the door, turn the lock, and pretend this visit had never happened.
But Whitney said, “Why don’t you come in so you aren’t shouting out in public?”
“No,” Tango said, the same moment Ian said, “Thank you,” and shouldered his way inside.
Tango shot Whitney a betrayed look.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s something you want to talk about where the whole street can hear.” She folded her arms and stood back, expression saying handle it.<
br />
Well, shit.
Ian strode deeper into the apartment, expensive shoes clicking on the boards, coat flaring behind him dramatically like a cape. When he reached the kitchen, he whirled to face them, and Tango bit back a sudden laugh – the operatic gall of the man. From dancing boy to rakish, Hollywood-worthy villain. What a climb.
“Quite the domestic little scene the two of you have here.”
“Ian,” Tango growled a warning.
“We were just about to have dinner, if you’d like some,” Whitney offered.
Ian held up a declining hand. “Not that you aren’t a lovely chef, dear, but no, thank you.”
“I swear to God…” Tango started.
“Kev.” Whitney touched his arm. Her expression said she appreciated him defending her honor, but that she was okay.
He didn’t see how she could be, though, because he was so not okay, Ian smirking at them in their own kitchen.
Tango took a deep breath, lungs itching for a cigarette. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?” He motioned to the couch and went and flopped onto it, grateful for Whitney’s steadying presence as she folded herself against his side.
Ian made a theatrical show of falling into the chair and arranging his clothes and long limbs. He inclined his head toward Whitney. “Do you want her to hear this?”
“She already knows everything.”
Ian’s brows jumped, but he shrugged and said, “Very well.” He looked at Tango like he was waiting for him to start the show.
The absurdity of the situation struck him: sitting here with his former and current lovers, contemplating murder. The sad part was: in his whole fucked up life, this wasn’t all that strange.
“I saw the news,” Tango said. “And yeah, I think it’s Carla.”
“What did she do now?” Whitney asked.
“Kidnapped a boy,” Tango said, staring down at his hands, the dominos dark on his knuckles. “He’s fourteen.”
“God,” she breathed.
“The police can’t find any evidence. But…I just know. It was Carla.”
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 33
