“I don’t usually get the chance to spook you,” she observed, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Is there room for two?”
He smacked his thigh in invitation and she perched carefully in his lap, long legs hooked over the arm of the chair, snuggling in with her face tucked beneath his chin. The presence of her warmth and the familiar scent of her shampoo was instantly comforting.
He sighed.
“Oh, it’s snowing.”
“Of course it is. How else could the universe try to fuck up today?”
She stiffened a little against his chest. “Will you have to delay it?”
Aidan knew that Mercy was all about full-disclosure with Ava, but he didn’t love that idea, not when it came to Sam. Ava didn’t really count, what with being born into the club and having a body count of her own.
Sam though, while strong enough to take on the darkness, and had proved it last winter when she’d helped them free Tango from Ellison, shouldn’t have to. That was Aidan’s take on it, anyway. He wanted to spare her when he could. Let her live in a kinder, gentler world.
“Aidan.” She prodded him back to their conversation with a delicious drag of her nails down the back of his neck. He wanted to purr and arch his back like a cat, lean into the touch. “What are you overthinking right now?” she asked, with no small amount of affection.
“Maybe I’m thinking just the right amount.”
She chuckled. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“You calling me stupid?” he teased, and realized what she was doing. She was helping him relax. She was always at least five steps ahead of him.
“Would I marry a stupid man?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How good he was in the sack.”
She laughed quietly, not wanting to wake Lainie, and kissed his cheek.
A gust of wind drove snowflakes against the window, their icy centers rattling against the glass.
“We can talk about it, if you want,” Sam offered. “If that would help.”
“Nah, I…yeah. No.”
“Informative.”
He made an unhappy sound in the back of his throat.
“How about this,” she said. “How about I tell you that whatever you’re doing for Tango, I know it’s the right thing, because you always do the right thing when it comes to him. You’re a good friend. You always are.”
Aidan wrapped both arms around her, buried his nose in her hair, and listened to the snow pelt the window.
~*~
By seven a.m. Tango was standing at the kitchen sink, watching the snow fall, working on his fourth cigarette of the morning. He hadn’t slept at all, and around five had left the bed, not wanting to wake Whitney with all his tossing and fretting. The snow seemed fitting, poetic maybe, and he was looking forward to the way the damp cold would bite through his clothes and get to his skin later, when he left.
A quick burn against his fingers told him the cig had burned down, and he flicked it into the sink, dug a fresh one from the pack on the counter. He felt like one more would make him throw up, but he lit it anyway.
“Ke – Tango?” Whitney asked behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her standing in the threshold, in her white sleep shirt and a pair of his thick boot socks, arms folded against the chill in the air. “Chainsmoking?” she asked as she shuffled up to stand beside him.
“It was that or…” He gestured to the air, full of smoke from his first exhale.
“Oh. Yeah.” She shivered.
She stared out the window and he took the opportunity to study her, the delicate profile limned in silver snow light. She was so young. Too young. She should have been on the other side of the city, waking up beside her equally young, normal, well-employed, not-traumatized boyfriend. He hated himself for needing her, but he needed all the same. And she’d chosen him; he had to respect that this was her choice, he guessed, no matter how fruitless.
“I’ve always loved snow,” she murmured. “It’s like Mother Nature’s giving you an excuse to rest a minute, and enjoy the quiet.”
“Whit,” he said, throat tight, and she glanced up at him. “Will you stay with Mags and Ava tonight? Please? So I know you’re safe.”
“Yeah, I can do that.” And young, it turned out, wasn’t without bravery, because she looked at him like he was steel-reinforced, like he could do this tonight.
Maybe he could.
~*~
At seven, Ian arranged his shirt collar over his jacket collar and examined his reflection with critical satisfaction. His shirt was ice blue, the jacket and slacks pale gray. His hair hung in a perfect, pressed sheet behind his shoulders. His shave was close and impeccable.
He couldn’t breathe.
He stalked out of his bathroom and across to the closet, shrugging out of his jacket as he did so. He dropped it on the floor and tore at the shirt buttons. He was down to black boxer-briefs when Alec propped a shoulder in the closet doorway and said, “Um, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Ian found a black turtleneck sweater folded on the shelf and yanked it on over his head.
“Having a panic attack.”
He spared Alec a glance as he searched for his black skinnies on the rack. His lover was appealingly rumpled from sleep, and looked very interested in going back to bed – with Ian.
“I’m not panicked.”
“Coulda fooled me.” Alec sighed. “Ian, come on, what is this? Those slacks are Armani and you just stepped all over them.”
Ian stepped into black socks and refused to be drawn into another bullshit relationship conversation. “Cancel all my appointments when you get to the office. Take messages. I’ll be out today.”
“What? Why? Ian.” He grabbed Ian’s sleeve as he tried to brush past him, just a light grip on the fabric between two fingers. A request, and not a demand.
Ian was pretty helpless when it came to beautiful boys requesting things. He sighed, and turned to face Alec. “I have something that I need to take care of. Something important. I don’t know how long it will take, or when I’ll be back. Don’t plan on having dinner. Maybe you should stay at your place. If you want to,” he added hastily when Alec’s expression crumpled.
“Is that what you want me to do?”
Shit. He really couldn’t do this.
“Stay if you’d like. Doesn’t matter to me.” Ian leaned in to press a fast, fierce kiss to his lips. “But I have to go. Don’t forget to cancel the appointments!” he called over his shoulder as he left the bedroom.
“Fine,” Alec muttered, sighing.
Sometime soon, possibly even in the wee hours of tomorrow morning, Ian was going to have to figure out what the hell he was doing with this kid. But it would have to wait, because tonight…tonight there was a witch to burn.
~*~
God knew how the long, snowy day passed. The clubhouse could have burned down around him for all that Tango was able to pay attention to anything. Aidan tried to play cards with him, but it turned into game after game of solitaire when Tango kept zoning out.
Finally, finally, Ghost stood up on a chair, clapped his leather-gloved hands together, and said, “Alright, boys.” He surveyed them all as conversation died back and heads swiveled toward the president. “So here’s the plan…”
Tango tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat.
And that was before the door swung open, bringing a sharp gust of cold air and snow, and Ian entered, hair tied up and stuffed beneath a baseball cap, two bright spots of color burning on his high cheekbones, jaw set.
Ghost turned and spared the man a tight nod. Ian nodded back.
“I want to set up a loose perimeter,” Ghost continued, “and then those of us on point can close in…”
Thirty-Two
The warehouse sat in the back corner of a cracked asphalt lot, its aesthetic not helped by a layer of snow, the surrounding patch of woods sinister and black. A starle
ss, humid, frigid night.
The sole was starting to peel away on Tango’s left boot, and he felt the cold, wet bite of snow nipping at his sock. It barely registered; it was taking too much effort to stay upright and breathing.
At his left elbow, Ian muttered, “Three cars left. Stragglers. The employees will be parked in the back, by the door.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Aidan muttered on Tango’s other side. “Listen here, princess, don’t go being a hero, okay? You stick to the plan. If you can’t do that, then go back and wait in the van.”
Ian said something under his breath; Tango caught “wanker.”
The plan was simple enough: Fox would go in first. They were to give him ten minutes on the nose, then move in.
It had been two minutes.
The walkie talkie in Aidan’s hand crackled. “You in position?” Ghost’s voice floated through.
“Yeah,” Aidan radioed back.
“Good. Stand by.”
“What if she isn’t here?” Tango asked, metallic tang of panic on his tongue.
“She’s always there,” Ian said, talking through clenched teeth. “She doesn’t miss a night.”
“Yeah, but what if…”
It had been three minutes.
“She’s gonna be there, man,” Aidan said. “And if for some reason she’s not, then we’ll find her. Wherever she is.”
A strong gust of wind swirled snow around their ankles. The air smelled of frost, and garbage, rotting slowly beneath the cold.
Tango swallowed hard, contemplated puking, and reached beneath his jacket, curling his hand around the butt of his Glock for the hundredth time, just to reassure himself.
Reassure himself of what? That he was such a pussy he needed a gun to fight off a woman?
It had been four minutes.
“Just stop,” Aidan said under his breath. “I can hear you going nuts. Whatever you’re thinking, just put a lid on it and deal with it later. If you can’t focus on this, then you need to wait out here.” It was said with total gentleness, kindness, and concern, but it stung all the same, because it was true. He wasn’t just dead weight, but an actual liability to his brothers. He could get one of them hurt; killed. And then what would he say to their wives? That he was sorry? Sorry he was such a stupid fuckup who not only caused all this, but couldn’t even keep his head in the game when it came time to right the wrongs?
“Jesus,” he whispered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut, willing his heartbeat to slow, his breath to steady.
It had been five minutes.
“Kev,” Ian said. “Darling, maybe you should–”
“I’m not Kev, and I’m not your darling,” he snapped.
“Dude,” Aidan said.
“I’m not!” he insisted in an angry hiss. “I’m just Tango, and I’m not gonna fuck this up! Both of you, can it.”
“Fine,” Ian said in that flat, dry voice that said he knew Tango was lying. “Whatever you say, Rumba.”
“Tango.”
“Oh, right. Yes. Flamenco.”
“Shut the fuck up, you asshole.”
“Both of you need to shut up,” Aidan said, “but I gotta say it’s nice to finally hear you think he’s an asshole.”
“I’m deeply offended,” Ian said with a sniff.
It had been five minutes.
“Darling,” Tango mocked. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
Ian sighed, long-suffering. “He seems to think that’s what he is, in any event.”
Aidan snorted.
“Not screwed up enough for you?” Tango asked.
“Too strong willed. He wants to have conversations. And go on dates. And do couple things. My God. He chastises me.”
Aidan snorted again, and it turned into a dry cough that he muffled into his sleeve.
“You always needed a good chastising,” Tango said. “On account of you being an asshole.”
“Shit.” Aidan leaned over and knocked his shoulder into Tango’s.
“What about that bloody girl of yours? All sunshine and rainbows?”
“No, but it’s really kinda cute when she’s getting on my case.”
It had been six minutes.
“Ian,” Tango said, swallowing. “I…I do hope you’re happy. You know that, right?” He glanced over at his ex, his beautiful profile stamped against the snowy forest floor, all his bright hair hidden under a hat. “I want you to be with someone who…who loves you.”
Ian’s blue-green eyes flicked over, his smile sad and tentative. “I want that for you, too.”
It didn’t bear repeating that they were toxic together. Too much poisonous history for there to ever be happiness between them. But there would always be love. They would always mean so much to each other.
“Is this turning into the sort of conversation I don’t want to hear?” Aidan asked.
“No,” Tango and Ian said at once, smiles widening.
It had been seven minutes.
“You know,” Ian said, tipping his head back, blinking at the black sky laced with pine boughs. “The most fun I’ve had in my life has involved you Lean Dogs boys.” It was an oddly tender and touching admission, said only because it was just the three of them, with no other witnesses.
“Wow,” Aidan said. “That’s…really sad. You not being a Lean Dog and all.”
Ian turned a toothy smile on Aidan. “Wanker.” And this time it was meant to be heard.
They all chuckled.
It had been eight minutes.
“Seriously, though,” Aidan said. “Being in there, it isn’t gonna…I dunno…trigger something for you guys, is it?”
Tango gave it serious consideration, and knew Ian did the same. It was a real concern. “We know what to expect,” he said after a moment. “And I’ve seen worse than what’s going to be in there.” He’d been subjected to worse.
“No,” Ian said firmly. “I’m fine.”
They took a few paces forward, together as a unit, to the edge of the tree line. They couldn’t see the others, and that was the point, all of them well hidden.
A fat customer, waddling and out of breath, folded himself down into one of the three cars, started it after a few tries and drove off the property.
“Get ready,” Aidan said. “We gotta move fast when it’s time.”
It had been nine minutes…
~*~
For some reason, Whitney found the lack of charade comforting. When she’d shown up on the Walshes’ considerable doorstep, she’d expected to be shown a guest bedroom or foldout couch and told that everyone was going to try and get some sleep. Instead, Maggie had answered the door in yoga gear and said, “Come on in. We’re drinking wine and playing cards.”
They sat around the massive dining room table, sipping white – save Emmie, who nursed ginger ale – and wagering little piles of Cheetos and Reese’s cups against one another at Texas Hold ‘Em. They kept their voices down for the sake of the kids tucked into bed upstairs, but there were no pretenses of sleep here, and for that, Whitney was grateful. These old ladies were old hat at this, but clearly, resting was off the table when they were worried about their menfolk.
“It feels very World War II, war wives or something,” Emmie had confided when Whitney arrived. “But oh well. It is what it is. And I for one don’t want to be raiding warehouses.”
Whitney wondered how much of the story Emmie knew, but decided not to press.
“Another bottle, ladies?” Maggie asked, rising with an empty bottle of Chardonnay in her hand.
“None for me. Breastfeeding,” Ava said.
“Yeah, I’ll have another round,” Mina said.
Considering her nerves were substantial as wet paper at the moment, Whitney said, “Me too. I’ll come help.” And stood up. She had a shit hand anyway, and folded before she left the table.
The farmhouse kitchen was cavernous, tricked out in industrial grade stainless everything. A cold room, if left to its own devices, but Emmie
had added warm touches: framed photos along one wall, live green plants in colorful ceramic pots on the countertops, a bright red coffee maker, standing mixer, and toaster. A cork board where memos were pinned and mail was sorted.
Maggie opened the wine fridge – because this place actually had one of those – and pulled a fresh bottle, while Whitney took a chance to stand at the sink, dabbing cool water against the back of her neck with a paper towel and watching the play of moonlight and shadow across the snow of the back yard as the wind rustled through the trees.
“How’s your sister-in-law doing?” Maggie asked as she pulled the corkscrew from its drawer.
“Better.” Whitney sighed at the thought. “And by better I mean angry. Angry at me, angry at Jason – that one’s understandable. Angry at sobriety. Angry at the world, really.” Madelyn had had one relapse so far, getting piss drunk on vodka one afternoon. Whitney had locked herself in the freshly-scrubbed bathroom and wrestled with her tears for ten long minutes, reading articles on her phone about how common it was to have setbacks, about the way to handle them.
“There’s not a straight line from addiction to recovery. But I guess you know that in more ways than one.”
Whitney turned and put her back to the sink, found Maggie watching her, hand poised with the corkscrew over the bottle, gaze unreadable. “Yeah. Guess I do.”
“How’s he been?” Maggie asked. “Any relapses?”
“No, actually. He says…he says he wants it. That he thinks about it all the time. But he hasn’t done anything about it yet.” She forced a tight, frightened smile. “I should be worried, right?”
“Maybe. I dunno, actually. He’s gotten clean twice and stayed clean both times, which isn’t easy to do. Most people can’t do that. Maybe it’s because he never took it willingly – the control’s worth more than the high to him. Or maybe he’s just a lot stronger than everybody else.”
“Both, I think.”
“Hmm.” Maggie spun the curved screw down into the cork, eyes leaving Whitney’s. “I’ll say this, though. Whatever happens tonight, it’s gonna mess him up.”
“I already kind of figured that,” Whitney said.
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 38
