Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  Tango looked at his two friends, at the concern etched into their features, and he loved them so much.

  But it was time to take his life in-hand now. So he said, “I’m sorry, guys, but I have to.”

  Aidan muttered something under his breath, but came to stand beside them, frame shaking with a little involuntary shiver from the cold.

  The others were running late, or in RJ’s case, not yet awake inside. Chanel brought them coffee; Tango figured that meant she’d spent the night. Then everyone started to trickle in: Rottie, Walsh, Michael, Carter, Dublin, Littlejohn. Everyone. A few cast curious glances toward the three of them standing together, but no one said anything besides “good morning” and “see you inside.”

  Ghost arrived last, which Tango had always thought he did on purpose, letting them all see that he was the boss, that he could make them wait if he chose.

  He stepped up and put a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “So what’s it gonna be?”

  “I wanna tell them.”

  Ghost nodded, expression serious, proud…fearful at the edges.

  “And I have an idea about finding Carla.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ghost’s brows jumped and he flashed a small smile. “Well let’s hear it.”

  He told the three of them, and they all nodded.

  “I like it,” Ghost said. “Should have thought of it myself. Alright.” Another shoulder squeeze. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Aidan pulled him aside before they stepped into the chapel, hands on Tango’s arms. “Whatever happens,” he said, “you know I’ve got your back. Whatever you need, however we have to handle this, I’m there.”

  Tango flicked a smile. “I know.”

  Aidan hugged him hard, slapped his back, and they went into the sacred room.

  ~*~

  Tango stared at his tattooed hands a long moment after Ghost opened up the floor to him. He held a cigarette between two fingers, its smoke curling lazily upward, the sharp smell grounding. He thought about where his hands had been that morning, the ways Whitney had allowed him to touch her, even though he was dirty and tainted. Because she loved him, no matter where any part of his body had been.

  He took a deep breath, forced his head up, and started talking.

  “There’s something I need to tell all of you, because I need the club’s help dealing with someone who’s very, very evil.

  “When I was seven, my dad stole me away from my mom and sold me to Carla Burgess…”

  He told them an abridged, but informative version, focusing on the other boys, the way they were drugged, kept under lock and key, starved and beaten, forced to service clients and dance for them. He told them about escaping at fourteen and meeting Aidan outside the school; about Maggie taking him home and bathing him, and giving him a soft bed where he shivered through his heroin withdrawal. He told them about being abducted in Walgreens, about the way he hated that he hadn’t been strong enough to fight off the three thugs who’d knocked him out, bound his wrists, and then hauled him away to yet another basement.

  He told them about trying to end his life. Twice.

  He didn’t tell them about Ian, because it was none of their business, and he couldn’t just out the man like that. This was about his shame, his history, his club.

  Tango tried to make eye contact, but found he couldn’t, gaze skipping across blurred faces, too afraid of what he’d find in their gazes if he really looked. His cigarette burned down to the nub, burned his fingers, until he was forced to set it in the heavy crystal tray in the center of the table. At one point, Aidan’s arm slid across his shoulders, solid and supportive, telling the whole table of men that Aidan stood beside him; a risky move for Aidan, but one that made Tango want to lean sideways into his best friend and absorb all the love and warmth offered.

  His throat grew dry as paper, but he was too queasy to reach for his coffee. His heart lodged itself at the base of his throat and he forced himself to keep breathing as black spots crowded his vision.

  Finally: “She’s still around, and she’s taking boys again. She…we have to stop her. That’s why I told you all of that.” He gulped. “It’s just…it’s really important that she doesn’t keep doing this.”

  And then he was done, all the poison spilled out onto the table, billowing through the room like cigarette smoke.

  Oh God, he actually told them. Oh shit. Oh fuck.

  He braced himself inwardly for the flaying, and leaned a little into Aidan’s solid shoulder.

  Mercy wore an expression that suggested anyone who said something he didn’t like was going to be put through the wall head-first.

  Ghost managed to be impassive, but something feral and protective lurked in his eyes as they shifted across the table.

  Surprisingly, Michael was the first to speak. “So let’s kill the bitch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What do you need from us?” Walsh asked, face dark and harsh like Tango had only ever seen it when Emmie was in danger.

  “We got your back, bro,” RJ said, “always.”

  And…and they did. They were all looking at him, all with blends of horror and fierce determination on their faces. Not one of them looked like they hated him, or that he made them sick.

  He darted a glance to Ghost, and the president looked proud.

  “See?” Aidan whispered. “It’s okay. They love you, brother.”

  Tango burst into tears and dropped his face into his hands.

  ~*~

  The welcome burn of whiskey slid down his throat and filled his cold belly. He was shaky and chilled and emotionally empty after his purge and collapse, but in this moment, with his brothers’ support, it was such a good feeling.

  Aidan sat beside him at the clubhouse bar, their shoulders pressed together. Mercy was on his other side, warm, massive, and protective.

  Ghost and Walsh were behind the bar, pouring drinks, much to everyone’s amusement.

  “Do you want me to make the phone call?” Ghost asked his VP as he sipped Scotch.

  Walsh scowled. “No. I’ll do it.”

  Mercy chuckled into his Johnnie Walker.

  “Hey,” Walsh said, “you’ve got an asshole half-brother. You should sympathize with me.”

  “Oh, I do,” Mercy assured, “but I happen to like your half-brother.”

  Ghost laughed, and it sounded lighter and freer than Tango had heard from him in a while.

  His own laughter tickled his ribs, stray little fingers of happiness he’d never expected.

  “What can we do in the meantime?” Hound asked. “I mean, while we wait for Prince Charming to get here.”

  Walsh rolled his eyes.

  Ghost said, “Nothing,” with a wince. “We don’t want to tip her or her people off, so we have to lay real low.”

  There were several groans.

  “Wait,” Aidan said. “Maybe that’s not true.” He grinned. “Don’t we have eyes on the inside with the PD?”

  “Yeah,” Ghost said, going curious.

  “We could go ahead and cover our asses.”

  Tango loved the way Ghost pointed at his son and said, “Now there’s an idea.”

  ~*~

  “Kev, that’s so wonderful,” Whitney said into the phone, and blinked back hot, happy tears.

  “You were right,” he said, sounding a little emotional himself. “They didn’t…” He sighed. “Thank you for encouraging me, you know?”

  She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve and said, “You’re welcome.” She hadn’t really doubted the love of Kev’s club brothers – in her heart of hearts she’d known they would accept him – but a small seed of worry dissipated in her belly to hear him say his confession had gone so well. The thing she was learning about bikers: they had a surprising capacity for love. The people in town who saw them as out and out villains could all pound sand as far as she was concerned; the Lean Dogs had saved her Kev not onc
e, but three times. Whatever else they did, she loved them for doing that.

  “Mercy said Ava’s inviting us to dinner tonight,” Kev said. “If you wanna go.”

  “I do, but I’ve got to make a quick stop first. Call you when I’m done?”

  “Yeah, be careful.”

  “I will.”

  They said their goodbyes and hung up, and Whitney took a moment to stare up at the house, hands splayed across the steering wheel, gathering herself for the confrontation to come.

  The strange but lovely Southwestern stucco house her brother had bought for his family was an eyesore. The architecture was punctuated by unmown grass, trees that needed trimming, and a dusty, leaf-strewn porch dotted with pots of dead flowers. The poor place told a story of neglect, one the home’s owner was willingly allowing to play out.

  Whitney took a deep breath and popped her door, stepped out into the sharp bite of the December afternoon. As she pulled her coat tighter around her, she tried not to think of previous Christmases in which Jason had strung white and multicolored lights in the trees, the tacky illuminated reindeer, the three-foot Santa he’d always perched on the roof. Back then, there had been wreaths on the doors and windows, a swag on the mailbox, and the house had smelled like fresh cookies and hot cider.

  Today, when Whitney used her key and let herself into the kitchen, all she smelled was the ghost of something unappetizing that had been heated in the microwave, and moldy bread. The same wreck as before greeted her when she stepped into the living room, both girls in front of the TV when they should have been doing their homework.

  They jumped up with shouts of “Aunt Whitney!” and rushed to hug her.

  Whitney hugged them in close and asked where their mother was.

  “In her room,” Ashley said, eyes flicking to the carpet, like she thought she was being a tattle-tale. “She doesn’t feel good.”

  Whiney patted her small back. “Okay, well I’m going to go see her. You girls keep watching TV, okay? Turn the volume up a little more – yeah, that’s perfect. Good girls.”

  Her heart thumped a painful beat against her ribs as she slipped down the hall and turned the knob of Madelyn’s door without knocking. The ripe smells of sweat and bourbon threatened to choke her when she opened the door, but she held her breath and slipped inside, closing the door behind her so the girls wouldn’t hear so much.

  Madelyn was a lifeless shape on the bed, snoring, arm flung over her eyes, bottle within reach on the nightstand.

  Whitney thought of Kev, of how brave he’d been today, of what he’d been able to tell his club. She flipped on the overhead light and kicked Madelyn hard in the foot. “Wake up.”

  Madelyn came to with a loud snort, flailing, eyes shut against the light. “Wha…shit.” She rolled over and pressed her face into the bedclothes.

  “Nuh-uh.” Whitney grabbed her clammy foot in both hands and heaved all her meager weight into a tug, managing to drag her sister-in-law down toward the foot of the bed. “Nap time is over.”

  Madelyn twisted around, flopping gracelessly onto her back again, squinting up at Whitney with a hand shading her eyes. “What the hell?” Her voice was a thick croak. “Thought I kicked you out.”

  “Yeah, well, that was a really stupid thing for you to do. You won’t let me help, but you let some neighbor pick up the girls from work when you’re too face-down drunk to get behind the wheel?” She spoke firmly, but not loudly, her voice a measured insistence, like what she imagined a doctor or teacher would have used on the girls.

  Madelyn heaved upright, swaying, clutching at the covers for balance. She scowled at Whitney, the effect ruined by the way she flinched away from the light. “You little bitch, it’s none of your–”

  “Business? Oh, it absolutely is. Because, see, when Mrs. Patterson gets tired of playing chauffer, she’s going to tell someone at the school about you, and then you’re going to have a visit from Child Protective Services. And I’m guessing they’ll have to force the door open and come in and find you just like I did. And then you know what happens? They take the girls away and put them in foster care. And my poor nieces, who lost their junkie dad, and who still have a mother, will be orphans, at the mercy of the system, and I won’t ever see them again. You won’t ever see them again. So it’s very much my business that you stop drinking yourself to death and take care of your children.”

  Madelyn stared at her, and Whitney didn’t know if the shaking was anger, DTs, or some combination of the two.

  “Here’s the thing, Madelyn. I watched my brother destroy his own life. I spent a week in a basement, being held as collateral, watching my boyfriend get beat to hell, because Jason couldn’t stop using. I will not watch you throw your life down the toilet too. I won’t let this whole family implode. I will literally drag your ass out of this house and take you to the hospital, see if I won’t.”

  It was a confidence and a quiet rage she’d never shown to anyone before, tempered by all the shit that had happened in the last year. She was full of poison, and it was time to lance the wound.

  “I’d like to see you try,” Madelyn said, but it was a weak protest, her chin quivering.

  “Okay, I can try. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll call my friend Mercy and he’ll be happy to throw you over his shoulder and drag you out for me.”

  Madelyn’s bloodshot eyes widened. “What?”

  Whitney knew she shouldn’t – she knew Madelyn’s transformation should have come about because it was the right thing, because she wanted to get better for her kids, and Whitney certainly had no right to start throwing trump cards without anyone’s permission. But throw she did.

  “Madelyn.” She stepped in close to the bed, aiming a finger at the woman’s chest. “Don’t push me. You’re not just dealing with little old me anymore. I’ve got Lean Dogs connections now. You either get sober, or the MC is going to help you get sober. Understand?”

  Fear and awe clashing on her face, Madelyn slowly nodded. “Shit,” she muttered. “It really is always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

  ~*~

  Maggie and Ghost and Aidan and Sam were also at the Lécuyers’ for dinner that night. After Kev had retired to the living room with the rest of the guys, Whitney wrung her hands and said, “Um, I know I don’t really have any business doing this, but I wanted to ask you all something.”

  The three old ladies looked at her, curious but friendly.

  “Ask away,” Ava said.

  Whitney took a deep breath. “My sister-in-law is…well, she’s an alcoholic.”

  “Your brother’s widow?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah. She just hasn’t been able to cope, and she turned to the bottle. I went to confront her earlier today. For the second time. The first time she kicked me out of the house and it was a whole big mess.” She shook her head, willing the bad memory away with a wave. “But I went back. And I told her how it was going to be, and that she was going to get sober so her girls don’t get taken away. I got her to promise me that she’ll go to AA meetings, and I’ve already made some phone calls and talked to some counselors, and I poured out all the booze in the house – even the airline bottles of vodka I found behind the toilet tank.” She breathed a dry, humorless chuckle. “I guess I just…wanted some advice.”

  They studied her a moment, hands frozen in the act of preparing dinner, and Whitney really, really wished she hadn’t threatened Madelyn with the club earlier. What had she been thinking? They might have been Kev’s family, but they weren’t hers, she had no right to…

  “Oh honey,” Maggie said, and dropped her knife, moved through the kitchen until she could draw Whitney into a one-armed, sideways hug. “We’ll do you one better. We’ll make sure she doesn’t fall off the wagon, okay? No one’s putting your nieces in the system, I promise.”

  Whitney bit her lip hard, eyes stinging. “You guys don’t have to do that.”

  “Sure we do. Family takes care of family.” She snorted. “Whether they want to be take
n care of or not.”

  Over at the stove, Ava sent her a covert wink.

  Family. She was family.

  She just barely managed not to cry into the mashed potatoes.

  ~*~

  The Lécuyers didn’t have a dining room – something Mercy swore he was going to add on when he finally started expanding the place, which left Ava rolling her eyes – so the kitchen table and a folding table were wedged together in the living room and both heaped with food until the legs threatened to give out. The discussion was all about the approach of Christmas, and everyone’s plans.

  Maggie informed Whitney that the old ladies always decorated the clubhouse tree, and she was invited to come help. Sam was excited because it was going to be Lainie’s first Christmas. The boys were planning a charity run to the children’s wing at the hospital, delivering money and presents for the kids.

  It was all just so normal and good.

  On the way home, Kev’s headlamp reflected in her rearview mirror, it started to snow, soft wet flakes that clung to her windshield wipers, and made her glad for the short trip.

  Inside, Whitney made hot chocolate and they both perched on the window ledge in the living room, mugs warming their hands, watching snow spiral beneath streetlamps and collect like royal icing along the sidewalks.

  “They kept saying it was gonna snow before Christmas, and it finally did,” Tango observed. The ends of his hair were damp with snow, and curled slightly, framing his narrow, pretty face in a way that would have been feminine if not for the sharp cut of his narrow jaw and the masculine ridge of his nose. Whitney was convinced his eyes had come off a Disney character, beautiful and big and blue, silvered by the reflection of snow beyond the window.

  “I’m glad they were right.”

  “Hmm.”

  Whitney nudged his knee with her own. “Hey, I’m really proud of you. It was really brave what you did today.”

  His smile was quick, rueful. “That’s what Ghost said.”

  “Then I’m glad he and I agree on that.”

  Kev shook his head, hair sliding down to cover his eyes. “All I did was talk. I was so scared I thought I’d puke, and all it was was a story. I didn’t fight anyone, or do anything.” Another small headshake. “And for a fuckup like me, I guess that’s brave.”