“No. Hey.” She nudged him again, harder this time, until he tucked his hair back and made eye contact, his gaze tinged with doubt and self-loathing. “Today, when I was at work, I may have…um, Googled some stuff about outlaw clubs. Trust me: what you told your club today – that was very brave. Very, Kev, I’m serious.”
He snorted. “Clubs are changing, I guess.”
“Everything changes, eventually. And they love you. Because, guess what: loving someone is maybe the bravest thing there is. Because they might not love you back, and they might hurt you, and it might all go to shit. But you were brave enough to tell them, and they’re brave enough to love you. And every good thing that happens in the world is because of love. There’s no bravery without it.”
He cradled his mug in both hands, close to his chest. “It’s pretty brave to love someone who’s an addict.”
She watched him, his slender fingers almost as white as the porcelain of the mug.
“Every day – every single day – I want to shoot up. But I talk myself out of it, and I don’t. And isn’t it stupid that there are people dying in wars, and bombings, and rescuing people out of burning buildings, and the bravest thing I do all day is keep myself from falling off the wagon?”
“Everybody’s got their own war, Kev,” she said, quietly. “Don’t dismiss what you’ve accomplished, please.”
“I’m not,” he said. He glanced out the window, a small smile curving his mouth. “Trust me: I’m not.”
Twenty-Eight
Walsh just knew. It was a prickling up the back of his neck, a stirring against his skin, like a ghost passing through the room. He was sunk down in the center of the couch in the den, fire crackling on the hearth, Emmie mostly asleep and snuggled up beside him, about to miss her favorite number from White Christmas, when the doorbell rang. He wasn’t surprised, only disappointed.
Emmie jerked awake. “What?”
“I wonder who that could be,” Bea said from her armchair.
Shane had managed to wrangle a date, and wasn’t there to share a commiserating eye roll with Walsh.
“I’ll give you one guess,” he told his wife and mother, and got to his feet.
“Oh no,” Emmie said with a laugh. “That’s your Charlie face.”
“Charlie’s here?” Bea asked. “How delightful.”
“Not delightful, Mum. Not a bit.”
It was snowing, the night bright with it, the flakes sifting down in heavy clouds. A fresh stripe of black asphalt had been exposed on the driveway, visible in the moonlight, and Fox stood on the porch, boots crusted with rapidly-melting snow, pink at the tips of his ears from the cold.
“Evening, brother,” Fox greeted, and looked like he was biting back a smile.
“I’m glad you left out the ‘good.’”
Fox snorted.
“You know, out of town members usually just crash at the clubhouse.”
“Not the ones with rich brothers.”
“I’m not rich.”
Fox took a dramatic look around the wide front porch. “Coulda fooled me.” He hitched his rucksack up higher on his shoulder. “You’re not actually going to make me stand out in the snow, are you?”
“No,” Walsh said, stepping aside. “Wipe your feet.”
“Oh, I always do.”
“Did you come all the way from Amarillo?” Walsh asked, watching to make sure his brother took off his boots and wiped his damp jeans on the mat just inside the door.
“No. I was in Arkansas, helping out with something.”
The sort of something Walsh probably didn’t want to talk about.
Fox sniffed, testing the air with flared nostrils like an actual fox. “Do I smell Christmas biscuits?”
~*~
Albie decided the best time to have a word would be in the morning, right after the husband had left for work, when the wife was fresh and not expecting company.
It was an expensive area, even by Mayfair standards, with clean streets, iron fences, second-story balconies, and soothing winter gardens setting off the stone and brick facades of the lavish townhouses. Albie kept his gloved hands in the pockets of his best coat – a long wool number, only slightly frayed at the collar, a secret hole in the right front pocket where he’d once tucked a lit cigarette and it had burned the satin lining. He knew if anyone caught a look at his Docs and jeans and the bristly state of his face, they’d report him; he was out of place here, after all. So he walked with his head erect, unhurried, trying not to look squirrely.
The townhouse he was looking for was crisp white brick, marble front steps flanked by iron railings, its door blue. He caught flashes of curtains in upper windows, and a glimpse of a black grand piano through the naked first floor window to his right. He pushed the bell and raked a gloved hand through his hair, one last time, thinking for the tenth time he should have shaved. It wouldn’t do him any good to get booted out into the street before he’d had a chance to even ask about the mistress of the house.
The blue door opened, revealing a black-and-white tiled entryway, and an employee in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
“Yes?” he asked, expression cool.
“Hi, yes, my name is Albert, and I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Byron. I have some information concerning her son, Ian.”
The butler looked at him a long moment. And then, against all probability, said, “Won’t you come in?”
Twenty-Nine
The worst part about all of this was the waiting.
“So, hey.” RJ leaned in until his elbow bumped into Tango’s, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “So that guy. That English dude. Shaman. Did he used to be, like, a customer or something?”
Scratch that: this was the worst part.
“Goddamn it,” Mercy said, and by the way RJ jumped, Mercy kicked him beneath their favorite high-top table in Bell Bar. “What did I say about asking questions?”
“It’s just a question,” RJ protested, offended. “I’m just curious. I mean, it’s obvious the guy’s sweet on Ta–”
“He wasn’t a customer,” Tango rushed to say, now that Rottie, Dublin, and RJ were all eyeing him strangely. Shit, he hadn’t wanted to spread Ian’s business around, but he couldn’t have them thinking he was one of those sick clients who’d used him. Ian was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a rapist or a pedophile. “He – he worked there. With me.”
“Shit,” Dublin muttered, reaching for a smoke and then grimacing when he remembered he couldn’t light one inside the bar. “Was he kidnapped too?”
Tango stared down into his beer. “Yeah. Back in London.”
Dublin whistled and said, “Shit,” again, a shocked little breath.
“Well how’d he get to be all rich and shit?” RJ asked.
“Dude,” Mercy said. “I will fold you up and stuff you in this beer pitcher.”
“But I’m curious!”
Tango sighed. “Ia – Shaman is a lot more resourceful than me. And a lot more focused. When he got out, he decided he wanted to be powerful for a change. So that’s what he did.”
“And we’re not any of us gonna ask any more questions about it,” Mercy said.
Tango waved at him. “It’s okay, I get it. It’s a lot to think about.” When he risked a glance around the table, he saw that his brothers were just curious, and a little sad, and a little shocked. They were still processing. But they still didn’t look like they hated him.
Sometimes, miracles did happen.
Rottie cleared his throat. “Anybody want hot wings?”
It was Tuesday night, and Whitney was spending the evening at her sister-in-law’s house, getting in some quality time with the girls and helping Madelyn clean, trying to get back on some sort of solid footing. Tango was waiting for her call, so he could meet her over there and follow her home, and he didn’t miss the irony of drinking beer so his girlfriend could take care of an alcoholic. He’d been sitting twitchily in front of the clubhouse TV, glancing at his phone every ten seco
nds when Mercy walked through and suggested they head over to the bar. No doubt Mercy would have rather been at home with Ava and the kids, but Tango appreciated the distraction.
On the table, his phone buzzed. “No wings for me.” He chugged down the last half inch of his beer. “I gotta go; see you guys tomorrow.”
He left to a chorus of goodbyes and some concerned looks. They were going to all mother hen him now, he realized. He’d worried that they would reject him, and instead they were going to smother him with worry and love. A bright ball of a laugh swelled in his chest, and he was smiling to himself as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It wasn’t even six yet, though total darkness veiled the evening, and downtown was busy with shoppers and restaurant goers. Holiday lights kissed every metallic surface, glittering like earthbound stars. Even the sludgy remnants of snow in the gutters looked festive.
With a belly full of nothing stronger than beer, pleasantly warm but sober, Tango enjoyed the ride out to the Howard house. He pulled into the driveway, and was struck hard by the memory of the last time he was here.
It had been a year ago, and he’d lingered out at the curb, smoking, knowing he shouldn’t be here, not when the family was grieving. The yard had been tidy, then. Whitney had seen him, and walked out, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She’d touched him, and he’d wanted to lean into her until they fused into one being, and some of his terrible pain eased.
Now, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text, looking up at the warm glow in the window afterwards. I’m here.
His phone buzzed: Come on in.
He went to the side door, the one that led into the kitchen, because in his experience, no one used front doors. He had no idea what the room looked like normally, but it was sparkling now, smelling suspiciously of lemon cleaner and orange oil, cabinet faces gleaming, scrubbed tiles winking at him.
“Whit?” he called.
“In here!”
He followed her voice into the living room, and found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, mane of dark hair tied back in a ponytail, sorting through old magazines that she’d obviously dumped out of the rack a few feet away. She glanced up when he entered, flashed him a tired smile.
“Y’all should really have that door locked,” Tango admonished, because it frightened him to see her sitting there so small and vulnerable, anyone able to walk right in and get to her.
She rolled her eyes, and even if he was worried about her safety, he was glad to see that kind of relaxed, normal response. He kept expecting everyone in his life to suddenly realize how awful he was, but that just wasn’t happening.
“It was locked, but I unlocked it when you said you were on the way.”
“Still,” he insisted. “I could have knocked. It’s not safe.”
“This is a safe neighborhood,” another voice protested, and he looked up over the back of the couch to see what must have been the sister-in-law. She was pretty, or would be, once she got her act together. Once the dark circles under her eyes and the hassled set to her face eased. She held an armload of laundry and glared at Tango, nothing about her expression suggesting friendliness or softness. No wonder Whitney had moved out.
“Uh…” Whitney scrambled to her feet. “Madelyn, this is Kev. Kev, this is my sister-in-law, Madelyn.”
“Hi,” Tango said, and got an unhappy snort in return. He waited for the “biker trash” insult her look suggested, but she just turned away and marched off with her dirty clothes.
“Sorry,” Whitney said with a sigh as she walked to greet him. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a fast kiss. “She still hates my guts right now. It’s not about you, personally.”
“Oh, I think it has a little something to do with me personally.” He plucked at the front of his cut, his other arm around her waist.
“Well…”
“Hey, we’re all used to this. We’re more infamous than famous.”
“I don’t like that, though.” She frowned and it was adorable. “People shouldn’t judge you just because you ride motorcycles and look all…leathery.” She patted his leather-covered chest.
No, they judged them for the whole drug-dealing, illegal activity thing.
“Yeah, well, not everybody’s as open-minded as you, baby.”
“Guess you’re right.” She pulled back with one last pat and went back to her pile of sorted magazines. “I’m sorry, I’ll be just another minute. I was all done when I texted you, but then I found this rack hiding under a pile of jackets.” She shook her head. “It’s one of those jobs that seems to get worse the longer you work at it.”
“Take your time,” he assured. “I got nowhere else to be.”
And he didn’t. They were all still waiting on Fox to track down the new Nest, which made him twitchy as all hell, but for once in his life, he didn’t have a groupie, or a needle, or a razor blade, or even a guilty night of staring at the wall waiting for him at home. Home was where he lived with Whitney, now, and he was content to wait for her.
Tango wandered over to a floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelf against the far wall, drawn by the promise of dozens of framed photos on the shelves. Most were of Madelyn and her husband, Whitney’s brother. He’d been handsome: tall, and trim, and clean cut. No visible tattoos, no collection of earrings – or tattered scars along the edge of his ear where they’d been ripped out. He had Whitney’s smile; or she had his. He didn’t look like a heroin addict, not like Tango did. But poison didn’t care what you looked like.
How terrible that the two of them had been brought together by something like that.
But what would he do without her?
“Alright,” Whitney said, appearing at his elbow. “Let me just say bye and we can go.” But she hooked her arm through his and made no move to go do so, her head resting against his shoulder. Tango wondered if she was staring at the pictures, too, and knew she was when she said, “It doesn’t seem possible, does it?”
He didn’t ask for clarification; just said, “No.”
~*~
The change had been happening slowly – not really a change, but an awakening. A stirring of positive emotions and healthy ideas. Kev had made careful progress, a day at a time, and telling his club about his past seemed to have been some final hurdle. Whitney didn’t kid herself, she knew there were more hurdles in the future, but she could see a peacefulness in him now that hadn’t been there before, a softening of the tension around his eyes and mouth.
But he couldn’t rest until the sex club that had warped him was out of business for good. The unproductive energy in him had transferred to her, and she knew they were both a little twitchy when they got home. Her fingers, as in all times of stress, itched for a brush.
“Hey,” she said. “Since it’s not that late…”
He glanced up at her from his place by the coat rack, in the process of hanging up his cut. Sent her an amused and curious half-smile. “Yeah?”
Why was she nervous, suddenly? “I was wondering if you’d sit for me.”
“Sit…?”
“So I can paint you. Or, sketch, actually. I would need to sketch you first.” She realized she was wringing her hands and forced them down at her sides. “It’s kinda silly, I know, but–”
“I’ll do it.” His smile softened into something warm and wide. “But you can ask one of the other guys if you want. If you’re looking for that whole bulging muscles, picture of masculinity thing.”
“You know I’m not.”
He ducked his head, pushing back a lock of hair that slipped across his face. “Okay. Um. Well, where do you want me?”
Now that the awkwardness of asking was out of the way, her right brain was taking over, throwing itself into the task. “One of the kitchen chairs would be nice, I think. And if you could take your shirt off, too. Jeans can stay, that’s fine. I want to get all your ink, though.” She rushed to get her pencil and sketchpad as he complied.
She took a momen
t to arrange him, one elbow resting on the edge of the table, his hair loose around his face, head turned toward the window so she had a view of his fine-edged profile. She dragged another chair a few feet back and settled into it, pencil poised above the paper, and took a long look at him.
The thing about it was: Kev knew he was beautiful. Not handsome, not rugged, not cute, but objectively goddamn beautiful. He could have modeled. He could have gone to Hollywood. He could have broken every female heart in a hundred-mile radius.
But he hated his beauty. Had tried to hide it beneath long hair, and tattoos, and piercings. Only that hadn’t worked, the modifications becoming beautiful by default, because they were a part of him.
The lamplight dipped into the grooves between thin muscles, curved along the planes of bone, visible just beneath his skin, slid down the delicate lines of his hands, the dominoes on his fingers. Achingly beautiful.
Whitney’s pencil scratched across the paper, sketching out the first faint lines of his profile. There was always something shocking about the first marks on the fresh paper, the foundation of an image captured in graphite.
“Sorry in advance when I don’t do you justice,” she said, the art haze stealing over her. When she worked, self-consciousness slipped away and the muscles in her hands loosened, the picture coming straight from her eyes, as if her fingers had nothing to do with it.
Kev snorted.
“I’m not kidding,” she said with a quiet laugh. “You’re too perfect. I only stand to mess you up with paint.”
“Whitney,” he said, so seriously she snatched her head up from the paper and really looked at his face, the expression he’d turned toward her. “Don’t say stuff like that. Please.”
“That you’re perfect? Sorry, I can’t promise I won’t say that.”
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 36
