Show the Fire (Signal Bend Series)

by Susan Fanetti

  First, though, he had to hunt her down and make her talk. Fuck, he hoped she hadn’t done something stupid like skip. They couldn’t help her if she’d disappeared.

  Dom came out and handed him a folded piece of legal paper. “You could have done that, dude. She’s listed. I didn’t think doctors listed their info, but she does. That’s the address. Weird address, too. The Google street view shows a business district. But that’s the address.

  Len drained his beer and slapped Dom on the back. “Thanks, brother. I’m out.”

  ~oOo~

  Len actually knew the area—a couple of blocks over and a couple of blocks down was Jewels, a strip club he liked. It was a pretty long ride to pay to look at pussy when he had a free smorgasbord in his own house, so he wasn’t what could be called a regular. But sometimes it was nice to watch women who could work a pole. That was some impressive shit. Usually he went alone. He’d brought the kids—Badge, Dom, and Omen—a couple of times, but they were rowdy and annoying, like ADD kids jacked up on sugar. So when he bothered, he came alone.

  He was surprised that Tasha lived anywhere near Jewels. It wasn’t exactly the swanky part of town. It wasn’t a residential part of town at all. Warehouses and storefronts, in buildings built probably a hundred years ago. But he triple-checked the address, and opened the wide, bright yellow door, on which a rusted steel sign bore the building numbers.

  The door led immediately to a staircase, so Len walked up. He came to a door marked “2.” Tasha was “4,” apparently, so he went up two more flights, to a heavy metal door, the kind that hung from a rod and slid from one side to the other. It was painted vivid blue, and Len smiled. Definitely Tasha’s place. She’d had a hard-on for the color blue since she was a kid. She always drove a bright blue car—these days, a Jeep Wrangler—and she usually wore blue. And not pastel, baby blue, but cobalt—strong and deep. Her eyes were amber and her hair was ginger, and somehow cobalt made the whole package sing.

  He stood outside that bright blue door and wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to pound on it like a brute, but it was too heavy to just knock. He didn’t see a bell or ringer or anything. Finally, he balled up his fist and beat the door.

  He waited several seconds, and then pounded again, feeling worried. Then the door slid open.

  “Jeez Louise, asshole. Like you can’t open a fucking door? Keep your shorts on…oh! You’re not Chad. Who are you?”

  Len stared down at the tiny brunette showing ink from her neck to her knees—and he knew this because she was topless and wearing nothing but a little pair of black panties.

  Even her tiny titties were inked. Len could count on one hand the number of men he knew who bore as much ink as he did. He’d never before met a woman who did.

  She also had several facial piercings—through her septum, her bridge, two in her right eyebrow, and a Monroe in her right cheek. Rings in both nipples. Her thick, long mass of dark hair covered her ears, so he didn’t know about that.

  She seemed either unaware of or unabashed by her near nakedness. With her hands on her slim little hips, she demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I…uh. Looking for Tasha?”

  “Okay…” Speaking to him as if she thought she were speaking to an idiot, she asked, slowly, “That’s why you’re here, I guess. But I asked who you are.”

  He was still floored. Seriously discombobulated. Like he didn’t spend half his days and most of his nights covered in naked women. “Len. I’m Len. Friend of Tasha’s.”

  “There. See? Not so hard when you try. TASHA!” She’d yelled the last without looking away from him. “Good ink. You got a guy? My guy just skipped town, the asshole. I finally figured out my calf pieces, too.”

  Having a conversation about ink with a naked stranger in Tasha’s doorway had not remotely been in his plans for the evening, but he went with it. “Tony. Dragonfire Ink in Millview.”

  She scoffed. “Dragonfire. Stupid name.”

  “Yeah, well. Tony’s good, though. Your guy was good, too. That’s quality work.”

  That made her smile brightly—she was pretty hot. “Thanks!” She held out her hand—her nails were painted black; he glanced down to see that went for her toes, too. “I’m Nadia.”

  He shook with her. “Len.”

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “You said that already.”

  He needed to get his head on straight. Just a naked chick.

  In Tasha’s apartment.

  As he thought that, Tasha walked up—wearing a cobalt-blue silk robe. Lots of tiles were resetting in Len’s head.

  “Len? What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, Doc. I interrupting?”

  Nadia answered that. “Yeah, but you can join in if you want.” With that, she spun in place and sauntered off, a tight, tiny ass bouncing to and fro. When she came up alongside Tasha, she rose up high on her tiptoes and planted a long, wet kiss on her, with lots of tongue. Pierced tongue.

  Tiles were resetting so fast, his head sounded like a bingo ball.

  “Geez, Tash. I’m sorry. I…uh…I.”

  He was still standing outside the door. Tasha held out her hand. “Well, come in. You okay? You hurting?”

  He stepped in and followed her from the industrial-looking space that apparently served as her front hall. “No—I mean, it’s mostly better. That’s not why I’m here. I’m worried about you. I called the hospital today.”

  She stopped abruptly and turned on him. “What?”

  “You weren’t returning any calls. I was worried. And I was right to be.”

  “Did you tell anybody?”

  “No. Not yet. I got to, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

  She stared at him. Somewhere in the room was the kind of clock that tick-tocked, and he heard several of those before she suddenly called out, “Nadia! Baby, give us an hour or so, would you?”

  From another room, they heard a loud, dramatic sigh. “Fine! I thought we could have some new fun. But fine!” Less than a minute later, Nadia came into the room, headed straight for the blue door, wearing unlaced Docs with bright orange laces; tight, crazily low-slung black jeans; and a white t-shirt she was still pulling over her head.

  “You owe me! I want candy!” With that, she went through the blue door—which had still been open—and pulled it shut with a crash.

  In the few seconds they’d waited for Nadia to dress and leave, Len had cast his eyes about the room he and Tasha were in. Nice. He wasn’t into home décor—at all—but this place was nice. All one room, except for a doorway in the middle of one wall, through which Nadia had come—so the bedroom, probably. But this room was living room, dining room, and kitchen. The windows were huge, like this had once been an old factory, with twenty-foot ceilings, and the windows went top to bottom. The ceilings were bare, showing all the beams and supports, and industrial-looking lights hung down on long rods.

  The kitchen cabinets were bright red—not blue, huh—and the countertops looked like concrete or something. The floors were wood, the planks a foot wide. The walls were brick. Her dining room table was bar height and stainless steel, surrounded by tall chairs in bright white plastic. The living room furniture was dark, almost black, and sleek, with red and blue accents.

  Damn. It was nice. Even his eye could see that it was nice.

  When Nadia made her dramatic exit, Tasha laughed. “She’s a drama queen. You’ll have to forgive her.”

  “She your girlfriend?”

  Tasha laughed and took Len by the hand, leading him to her long, low sofa. “Rocking your world, am I?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend. And to answer the question you don’t know how to ask, I’m not gay. Or straight. I’m…me. A woman of varied tastes.”

  Meeting Nadia had not turned Len on. He’d been too flabbergasted by the situation to have more than a clinical interest in what she was showing. But hearing Tasha say that she had varied tastes—t
hat was hot. Hot enough to be uncomfortable. The way she was sitting next to him, her milky-white thigh peeking out from under that blue robe, he had a sudden urge to trace his thumb over that sliver of pale skin. That was not the relationship they had. They were friends. She was probably the only woman he would think to call friend—no, not true. Lilli. Lilli was a friend, too. They were both women disinclined to gush or cling, who kept their distance, staked their own claims. In their own ways, they were both like dudes. Epically hot dudes.

  He refocused. “Tash. What’s going on, doll? Talk to me. What did I do to you?”

  “Don’t, Len. It wasn’t you. Or the Horde. You needed help, and I helped you. That’s what family does, right? I took the risks I needed to take to help you. It just finally caught up with me.”

  “Oh, Doc. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” He reached out and took her hand.

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Still working that out. I don’t know.”

  “I want to help. When the club knows, you know we will move earth to help you.”

  “I know. But I don’t think you have access to the kind of help I’ll need. Like I said, though, I’ll figure it out.” She sat up more and looked him straight in the eye. “Let me tell Isaac, though, okay? In my time? I can’t…I don’t want one of these visits from him.”

  “If you do it soon, Doc. I don’t mean to be a shithead, but we’re in deep. The club needs to know what we’ve lost here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No—fuck, no. You helped us, and we brought you low. I’m sorry. I know it was me, asking too much.” It suddenly really landed on him what she had lost. She was a doctor. She was born to be a doctor. She’d helped people—thousands of people. And she’d lost it because she’d helped them. Specifically, she’d lost it because she’d helped him. “God, Tasha. God. I can’t even picture you not being a doctor.”

  She made a strangled, sobbing sound and then gasped, throwing her hand over her mouth. Without thinking about it, he put his arm around her and pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He felt the pull when she gripped his kutte, and then she pressed her face into his t-shirt and wept. He held her as she did so, his lips on her head, her soft hair tickling his nose, smelling like some kind of tropical fruit—coconut and maybe pineapple.

  He was tired. Tired of women getting hurt, in one way or another, for the club’s bullshit. Sure, they’d taken their own lumps. Lots of those. But it seemed to him that the club was ankle deep in the debris of the lives of women they loved and who loved them. Old ladies. Daughters. Friends.

  She quieted but didn’t move. He kissed her head again. “I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry, Tash. Never wanted to hurt you.”

  She sat back and looked him in the eye. Her eyes were swollen and red, but she stared right at him. “Shut up. I made my choices. Don’t make me a victim here. I am club, Len. We do for our own. If you make me a victim, you put me outside. Then it’s all for nothing. I am club. I am club.”

  With a powerful, nearly explosive sense of déjà vu, and with no thought whatsoever, Len took Tasha’s chin in his hand and brought his mouth to hers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Len took her chin in his hand, Tasha knew he was going to kiss her, and she was overwhelmed by the déjà vu that swept over her. They were almost in exactly the same position they’d been in twenty years ago—her crying, him apologizing for something that was not his fault, her insisting on her place in the club. A different sofa, but otherwise very much the same.

  But they—they were very much different. Those twenty years had been full for both of them.

  When his lips touched hers, without feeling even a momentary conflict, she opened her mouth and took him in, lying back on the sofa, pulling him with her, her hands still knotted in his kutte. That was the same, too, his kutte—a couple of additional patches, and much more wear and tear, but the same.

  He came readily, one large, calloused hand going to her bare thigh, sliding up from her knee and then back down. Behind her closed lids, her eyes rolled up. She sucked his tongue deeper into his mouth, and he groaned. She felt the tremor of it fill her mouth.

  They kissed with real abandon. For long minutes, they made out on her sofa, Len lying between her legs, nothing between him and her nude body but the light silk of her half-open robe. And Tasha felt calm moving into her heart and head. Under the weight of his solid body and the certainty of his concern and care for her, the problem of her career seemed less significant. It receded into the background and let her have this respite.

  It wasn’t just the physical connection—she’d had that in the past weeks, with a few people. And that, too, had given her strength and solace. But Len knew. Len understood. He was taking on guilt she didn’t want him to carry, but he was club, and he understood. None of the friends who’d taken it on themselves to be her cheerleading squad since she’d tendered her resignation either knew or understood. They couldn’t, because she couldn’t tell them.

  His hand moved up her thigh again and, to dissuade him from moving away again from the part of her that most wanted him—suddenly wanted him very much—she let her leg fall outward, opening herself to him. At that, his hand froze mid-thigh, and he rose up, breaking their kiss, and looked down at her. His eyes were a warm brown. They were friendly, compassionate eyes, housed in a face and body that spoke of a real, expansive capacity for violence. That was the thing about the men of the Horde, at least those with whom she was most familiar. At first glance, they all looked like danger on wheels. But then, when you really looked, you saw warmth. Intelligence. Interest. Compassion.

  Unless you were someone for whom they were actually dangerous. Then, you were fucked. And not in the good way.

  “Tasha?”

  This violent man was asking if it was okay to fuck her, even though she’d dragged him on top of her and spread herself wide for him.

  Men like this were the family she’d grown up in. This was why she was loyal to them and always would be, even if she’d distanced herself from the club life. When they did something that seemed to others like a wrong thing, she trusted that it was a necessary thing. Because they did not seek to do harm unnecessarily.

  She pushed him off of her and got up from the sofa. When she turned to look down at him, she could see that he was trying to cool down, settle himself back into friend mode. They were still in friend mode, as far as she was concerned. She held out her hand.

  “Come to bed with me.”

  He took her hand but didn’t get up. “Isn’t your little naked friend coming back?”

  “She might. That a problem?”

  She saw the understanding roll through his eyes. Then he grinned. He had a fantastic smile—wide, bright, and beautiful. He looked like a straight-up good guy when he smiled like that. “Not for me. You know that.”

  “Good, then. Come on.” She pulled on his hand, and this time, he stood. She led him into her bedroom.

  Once there, she dropped his hand so that she could untie the sash of her robe. Behind her, Len blew out a low whistle.

  “That’s a helluva bed, Doc.”

  She agreed. A heavy oak canopy bed, king-size, with long velvet draperies in crème. When closed, they tucked sleeper or lovers away in a cozy nest, and the world dropped out of existence. Letting her robe fall to the floor, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Thanks.” Then she walked to the bed and climbed in.

  Still grinning that beautiful grin, Len stood where he was for another beat, and then he began to strip, starting with his boots and socks, and then his kutte and t-shirt. Though she had seen his skin to tend to it, she hadn’t really appreciated his bare chest in a very long time. First, she noticed his new scars: one about five inches long, down the center of his abdomen, starting at his ribs—the incision from which they’d removed his spleen—and the other, less straight or even, on his
left side, again just under his ribs. The entry wound. There would be another like it on his back—exit wound. He was healing well, had almost entirely healed, the scars reduced to dark pink lines and patches.

  He had significantly more body art than he’d had twenty years ago. He was full ink, from his jawline to the waistband of his jeans, from his shoulders to his fingers. Len literally wore the club on his sleeve. His club ink, the word HORDE, ran in wide, runic letters up the length of his right arm, from his wrist to his shoulder. The sleeve of his other arm was a conglomeration of assorted images, like most of the rest of his ink. There was no theme but coverage. And somehow that chaos all added up to Len.

  He dropped his jeans—he was commando—and she saw that the coverage continued to the tops of his feet. Only his cock—which was standing tall and proud—his head, the palms of his hands, and the soles of his feet were free of ink.

  She smiled. “Back, too?”

  “’Course!” He turned to show her—and there was still some room, but not much. The backs of his legs were fully covered, but his ass was bare, and his back was about seventy-five percent covered. His exit wound scar had gone through a bare patch.

  “Is it the pain you like?”

  “Nah. Most of these didn’t hurt at all.” He turned back to face her and put his hand over the scar of the entry wound. “This? That was pain. Not ashamed to admit that that fucker was bad.”

  “You’re doing okay now?” He walked to the bed, and she scooted over.

  “Yeah. Still feel a little slow, but I’m okay.” He sat down and kicked something under the sheet, making a metallic rattle. Tasha knew what it was and wondered what he’d think. He slid his hand under the sheet and pulled out the leather cuffs with the light chain. Dangling them by the chain over his index finger—on this hand, he had the letters RIDE tattooed between the second and third knuckles; the fingers of the other hand bore the letters LIVE—he raised his eyebrows at her.

  She played it cool. “Like Nadia said, you interrupted something.”