Nine
“What are you gonna do about–” Tango glanced over his shoulder to ensure that Mercy and Carter were occupied all the way on the other side of the garage. He turned back and dropped his voice a notch. “Greg?” he whispered.
They worked on either side of a particularly banged-up Night Train, and Aidan frowned at the greasy guts of the machine. “Well, since going back in time and pulling the damn trigger isn’t an option,” he whispered back, “I’ve got no fucking clue.”
“If Ghost finds out…” Tango started.
“What? You gonna tattle on me?”
His best friend gave him a level look. “Never.” Another covert check. “I’m just thinking it would be a good idea to deal with the guy before all of this blows up.”
“Yeah, and how do you suggest I do that?”
Tango sighed, which meant he had no answers on that front.
“Hey, Kev?” a female voice called from beyond the doors, and the sound of it moved through Aidan like electricity.
Tango was the one closest to the door, the one in sight, and therefore the one she’d called to. He stood, and shaded his eyes against the sun with one hand. “Hey, Sam,” he called back, and all the while, Aidan’s pulse was skyrocketing.
He straightened, and over Tango’s shoulder could see Sam peering into the garage bay, arms folded across her middle in uncertainty. She wore jeans and a cream sweater, her hair down, wavy and snarled from the breeze.
Beautiful.
“Is Aidan working today?” she asked.
Before Tango could answer, Aidan ditched his tools and stepped up to the door, hastily wiping his hands on the front of his embroidered garage shirt. “I am,” he said, and noticed the way Sam pulled back, lips tightening, like she’d been hoping maybe he wasn’t around.
But that didn’t make sense, because she was asking after him.
Unless she was only asking so she could avoid him.
When in the hell had he ever analyzed anything social to this degree? The woman was going to kill him with all this self-doubt.
She fixed him with a look hard to describe. “Do you have a second?”
“For you, I’ve got all the seconds,” he said, giving her his widest, most charming grin.
She didn’t smile back, merely turned and walked back through the parking lot, wanting them to have some privacy.
Tango gave him a sympathetic shrug as he started to follow.
Mercy called to him: “Don’t think I don’t see you striking out over there, man candy.”
“Bite my ass,” he called back, and went after Sam, heart thumping hard against his ribs.
He hadn’t ever noticed her walk before, when they tracked side-by-side up and down the hall at the school. But now, behind her, he took note of the efficient strides, the way she didn’t waste effort with popping her hips and swaying her torso. She walked like she was going someplace, like a woman who had more important things to worry about than sex appeal. She didn’t flirt, she’d told him not that long ago, and no, she didn’t. It wasn’t part of her DNA, he supposed.
Part of him wanted to catch up to her, put a hand under her elbow, link them physically. But he kept pace behind her, realizing where she was headed: the elevated garden in the no-man’s land of the parking lot. The oasis of small gnarled fruit trees and babbling manmade waterfall. The nursery crew had put in the yellow autumn flowers – pansies? – already and the apple trees were going red and gold in the tops, the apples shiny and tight-skinned.
Sam reached the low stone wall that ringed the garden’s foundation and sat on it, legs crossed, arms still folded. Nothing about her posture invited Aidan to join her so he stayed on his feet, pulling up in front of her, trying to look casual. Like all his skin wasn’t prickling with nerves.
“I came to get my oil changed,” she said.
“Good, you need to keep up with that.”
“And I thought while I waited…I would…” She took a deep breath and looked at him, the brightness of the sun making her eyes hard to see clearly. “Okay, let’s just get it over with. I know we’ll still see each other, me spending time with Ava and all, and I don’t want things to be strained. So let’s just agree to put what happened–”
“What happened?”
She appeared startled by the question. Her cheeks pinked. “Well, when you lost your head and said something to me you didn’t mean–”
“I meant it.”
“Aidan, you kissed me.”
“I meant that too. Do I need to do it again to prove it?”
“No.” She held up a hand as if to ward him off. “You don’t.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” he said, grinning, loving the way it made her blush even more. “I could tell you liked it.”
With visible effort, she drew herself up and said, “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“Why? Too real for you? You only like sex when it’s in books?”
She bolted up to her feet, arms slamming down to her sides, hands balled into fists. In a tight voice, she said, “I’m trying really hard to be patient with you.”
“So don’t be. Doesn’t it ever get old being so damn perfect all the time?”
He expected a sharp retort, but instead she stared at him, gaze softening, filling with sadness. She sat back down, hard, like her legs were tired, and that was when Aidan joined her, sitting down close beside her on the cold stone of the wall.
“It gets old,” she said in a low voice. “Not being perfect, because I’m not perfect.” She rubbed at her forehead with two delicate fingertips, brows crimping together. “But looking out for Mom, and Erin, and work, and school, and…all of it. I don’t mind it, not at all. But sometimes I wish…” She trailed off, biting at her lip.
A strange impulse hit him. He wanted to touch her; and not in a sexual way – well, he did, but that wasn’t the urge that overcame him now. Now, he didn’t fight the desire to lay a hand on the back of her head, cupping gently, delighted by the silken texture of her pale hair.
She glanced at him, startled.
“Sometimes you wish you got to do something fun? Just for you?” he guessed.
Her smile was faint. “You’re a fantasy, you know that?”
He lifted his brows in questioning surprise.
“Just because you’re a quiet, mousy kid who studies all the time, it doesn’t mean you aren’t still terribly feminine. It doesn’t mean you don’t have a violent crush on a bad boy who refuses to cover his tattoos up at school.” She smiled again, pretty and wistful. “You were my schoolgirl fantasy, and I can’t even say why. I’m not sure that ever went away, even though I know better.”
He wasn’t sure what to do with the bombardment of sentiments her words brought on. Mixed shock, gladness, and then the gut-punch of her “knowing better.”
“Ouch,” he said.
“I haven’t been fair,” she continued, “letting you come see me every afternoon. You make me feel sixteen, and all fluttery” – she gestured to her chest – “and in that sense, I’ve been using you. Just like I think you’ve been using me,” she added, tone gentle. “We’re not being honest with each other.”
He sat, staring at her a moment, smelling the coconut of her shampoo as the breeze blew the blonde lengths toward his face.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“We’re using–” she started.
“No, I heard. I just wanna know why you actually believe all that bullshit you just said.”
It was her turn to stare.
“Sam,” he said, a tightness in his chest, in his words. He’d been able to talk every girl he’d ever casually wanted into his bed. And here was this one, who he was suddenly so hungry for, and she wanted him, too, but goddamn her self-control, she was pushing him back. “If you want me, and I want you, I don’t understand what the problem is.”
She studied him. “I used to think being wanted was enough. But now I’m not so sure.”
She started to rise, and he latched onto her wrist, keeping her at his side. “You won’t even try?” he asked.
The wind pulsed around them, stirring her hair, and he knew by the light in her eyes that she didn’t misunderstand, and that she was considering. She cracked the seal on her imagination and let herself wonder: taking her glasses off, his fingers knotting in her hair, his mouth bruising hers, the salt taste of damp skin.
“Some days,” she whispered, vibrating with restrained energy, “when it feels like the shit won’t stop coming, the only thing I want in the world is for us to try.”
He didn’t resist when she shook off his grip and stood.
She walked away without looking back.
~*~
A little bit dumbfounded, Aidan was still sitting on the wall ten minutes later, plucking absently at his hair, when his dad came striding through in his typical broom handle-up-the-ass military strut.
He stopped, pivoted on one heel, and gave Aidan The Stare. Similar to Maggie’s Look, but less subtle. “You’re just sitting there?”
Aidan lurched to his feet, surprised to feel the shakiness in his knees. “Headed back.”
Another dose of Stare. “Chapel in ten,” Ghost said finally, and headed that way without waiting.
Just as well. He had no intention of walking alongside the man.
Aidan met his brothers coming out of the bike shop, Carter putting up the lunch sign and locking the door.
“Brother,” Mercy said, laying a heavy arm across his shoulders and feigning confidentiality, though his voice was loud. “What in the name of all that’s unholy are you doing with that poor Sam Walton girl?”
Carter said something under his breath that sounded like “choking her.”
“Nothing,” Aidan said.
“Nothing yet,” Mercy corrected. “But you’re trying to do something. Oui?”
“I don’t speak French, asshole.”
“Ah, but you speak Woman. And methinks you’re speaking the hell out of it to that girl.”
“ ‘Methinks’? Now what the hell language are you using? – You know what, whatever. I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Sam went to school with us,” Tango said helpfully.
Still holding Aidan in what was fast becoming a headlock, Mercy spoke over top of him. “Oh yeah, that’s what Ava said.” To Aidan: “Trying to rekindle something? Did you bang her in high school?”
“What? No.” He tried to shrug the massive arm off his shoulders, but it held fast.
“Sam was sort of a bookworm, sit-in-the-front-row kind of girl,” Tango said.
“So she was too good for our boy here, is what you’re saying.”
“Yep,” Tango said with a grin.
They had reached the central office in their trek to the clubhouse, and Aidan ducked out of Mercy’s grasp with a decisive shove. “Fuck y’all. I’ll catch up in a sec.” Ignoring Merc’s hearty suggestions that he was a spoilsport, among other things, he left them behind and went into the office.
Maggie darted him a glance as he entered, then refocused on the computer. “Hi, baby,” she said, half-distracted.
Baby. She’d called him that from the beginning, when he’d been nothing to her but the snot-nosed kid of the man she was dating. He could remember her so vividly then, blonde hair flying in the window, with her red lipstick and Ghost’s jacket draped across her shoulders. She’d looked like a harpy at first sight. But her smile had been warm, and she’d pulled him into a hug, and called him baby. She’d never treated him as anything less than her own.
And he’d insulted her.
“Mags.”
Something in his voice snared her full attention, and she pulled back from the keyboard, eyes coming to his face. “What’s the matter?”
More of her warmth and concern, which he didn’t deserve.
“The other morning,” he said, and found that it was hard to hold her gaze, wanting to squirm with shame. “At the house, the things I said…”
Her lips pursed in understanding, and she nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No. Don’t gimme an out.” He thought she almost smiled. “It was wrong what I said about you. It was shitty. Mags, whatever I think about Dad, it’s got nothing to do with what I think about you.”
“I know that, sweetie.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and hoped she understood how much so.
She nodded, expression telling him he was forgiven.
~*~
The long, ornately carved dining table in the chapel was at full capacity, Walsh’s English-import half-brother Shane taking Troy’s usual seat. The guy was quiet, like Walsh, but not unpleasant. He didn’t feel like one of his brothers yet, but Aidan thought he’d slid nicely into place without putting ripples across the surface of their gatherings. A guy who knew his role.
Ghost probably loved him, then.
The moment the squeaking of chairs had quieted, Ghost began.
“Gannon & Gannon are building in Knoxville.”
A wave of energy through the room, quick curses and amazed glances. An air of disappointment, as if most of the shock was an act, because none were surprised that an enemy had returned.
“G&G means Ellison, which you all know,” Ghost continued, looking old, worn, and beleaguered. He wasn’t old, Aidan reminded himself. The man gave the impression of being in his prime most of the time – and he was, really – but he was fifty-two and right now, he looked haggard. Worn hard by the biker life. “Which confirms the theory that Ellison killed our dealers. He wants to take over our business, and he isn’t going to do it through negotiation. My guess – the dealers were just the start. If he encounters any resistance from this point on, he’s going to hit us and hit us hard. Shaman was right: we’re involved in a war, gentlemen. Whether we like it or not.”
“If he could find the names and addresses of our dealers,” Walsh said, “then he can find our addresses. Our families.” He stressed the last with raised brows and a deeply disturbed rendition of his normal expression, smoke curling ominously from the end of his cigarette. “Look at what happened to Em. He’s not above using our soft spots against us.”
“Yeah, but our soft spots aren’t as soft as he thinks,” Mercy said with a grim smile. “Our girls are smart. And they know their way around a gun.”
“Yeah,” Ghost said, voice tight, “but what’s Ava gonna do when she’s home alone with the boys and five of Ellison’s thugs show up? Can she hold that many off?”
Mercy scowled at the man a long, tense moment.
“I know you don’t want to think about it,” Ghost said, “but we have to. I don’t want another long, drawn-out war like we had with the Carpathians.” He twitched a humorless grin. “I don’t have another giant Cajun to call in to watch my family.”
“So what?” Rottie asked. “If we hit hard enough to knock them back, we’ll all end up in cuffs.”
Or dead was the implied addition.
Aidan’s stomach cramped. Greg, he needed to tell them about Greg. That guy was involved in all of this somehow. Did he seem the type to have killed Mitch and Marcello with a machete? No. Not at all. But he’d been selling Fisher’s drugs. He’d…
He closed his eyes tight against an oncoming headache. His body felt raw and full of needles. He had to figure out what was going on with Greg. Alone. Or with Tango’s help, at least, before he brought it up with Dad. Greg wouldn’t do much damage by himself, and all their dealers were dead, so what was the harm at this point?
He flicked a glance across the table and saw that his best friend was watching him, a frown marring his unnaturally pretty face. Not accusatory, but wondering, waiting for him to fess up.
Not yet, he thought, and looked away.
“I’m working on something,” Ghost said, “and I’m bringing in reinforcements. But long story short, everyone affiliated with us needs to be very careful.”
~*~
Her ears were ringing. As Sam paced slowly down the aisles of Leroy’s Gas ‘n’ Grocery, Aidan’s face danced against the backs of her eyes: his serious, almost haunted expression; the warm chocolate color of his eyes. Try, he’d said. He wanted to try. Try what, exactly? Shed their clothes in great desperate yanks and fall into bed, see if they fit together physically? Or was he talking evening strolls, dinner dates, and hand-holding?
She scoffed inwardly at the idea. Aidan had no idea how to go about a real relationship.
Didn’t mean he was averse to trying, though.
She paused in front of the olive oil display and massaged her temples. She had to clear her mind. Obsessing had never done her any good, and she couldn’t afford to go there now. Besides, she was picking up a few things for dinner. Assuming Erin would actually come out of her room and eat with them…
“Sam?” A voice said beside her, and she jumped, startled.
A man stood at her elbow, slight and unremarkable, with nondescript brown hair and a face that looked younger than it probably was.
As the shock faded, something tickled at the back of her mind. A brush of recognition.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “I just wanted to say hi. I’m Greg. Greg Harris, from high school. I sat behind you in chem.”
It clicked into place. “Greg! Yeah, hi. We made cheese together that time,” she said with a laugh.
“In the beakers.” He shuddered. “It didn’t taste right.”
“Well, Miss Prussell probably cleaned the sulfuric acid out of them first.”
They chuckled over the memory, and then the normal silence of two long-separated acquaintances lapped around them.
Greg spoke first. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be off living in Paris or something, writing books for the snobs over there.” He grinned, but it was a question, asking what had happened to her.
She winced. “I’m a professor, actually. The farthest I ever made it away from home was Nashville, and that was just for my graduation trip.” She shrugged. “And I kinda hated it because I’m not into country music.”
His smile turned almost sympathetic.
“What about you?” she asked. “What’ve you been up to?”
He made a vague gesture. “You know. Little of everything. I’ve actually got a new job,” he said, brightening, “working here in town, so that’s cool.”
“Yeah. What do you do?”
“Sales. I’m a salesman.”
“That’s great,” she said, meaning it. She knew firsthand how crushing it was to get out of school and realize all those bright shiny dreams your elders had alluded to were just that: dreams.
He nodded. “Hey, do you ever still talk to Aidan Teague?”
It shouldn’t have, but the question touched her pulse, sent it kicking. She shrugged. “I didn’t ever talk to him back in school. But I do now sometimes, yeah. Are you trying to get in touch with him?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, I was just curious.” He grinned. “It was great seeing you, Sam, but I gotta run.”
“Oh, okay. Take care.”
“See ya.”
She watched him walk away, feeling a rush of empathy. They were alike, the two of them – two lonely kids who’d wanted nothing more than to be in Aidan Teague’s shadow, all grown up and not quite able to let go.