Thirty-Five
“What’d you tell King?” Fox asked as he rummaged through the duffel bags set up on the tailgate.
It was the next morning, and the tall tangled grasses of the cattle property were hoary with frost, their breath misting in the early light. If Walsh was still at home he would doubtless hear the gunshots and come to inquire. Aidan had anticipated that and already made a phone call.
“I told him I wanted to try out that ammo Candy brought with him. Said I’d be up here a while.”
“Good.” The Englishman nodded and started pulling out hardware. “Alright, my lovelies. Are we ready to learn?”
“They’re not your lovelies,” Carter said. It was a whole new Carter, this new one who Jazz was leaning against. Older, harder, more ferociously determined. Aidan had to approve.
Fox’s brows went up. “Whatever, mate.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sam said, and Aidan glanced sideways at his old lady. She was dressed for work because she was headed there afterward: dark skinny jeans, tall boots, a warm sweater under her wool coat. She’d worn her contacts, so there wouldn’t be any glare on her lenses, she’d said.
As he studied her profile, wanting to kiss her, she turned her head and met his gaze. Her smile flickered with nerves. “Don’t be too disappointed if I suck at this.”
“I won’t be disappointed. And you won’t suck.”
She turned to Fox as he approached her, squared up her shoulders, and proceeded to rise to the occasion…just as Aidan knew she would.
The paper targets were set up behind the barn, only a dozen or so paces away because, as Fox reasoned, the girls wouldn’t be shooting from a great distance. The Englishman was a patient, focused teacher, and he drilled them with a .38, a nine mil, and the little single-shot gut guns they were given to wear in their boots.
Jazz shrieked the first time the .38 kicked in her hands.
Sam jumped a little, but pressed her lips together in fierce concentration and fired again and again until she could hit within inches of the bulls eye every time.
When they were smooth and relaxed, Fox pulled out his own .40 and .45. “In case you end up with one of their guns,” he explained. “I want you to be able to grab anything up off the floor and use it.”
Aidan hadn’t even thought of that. A chill rippled down his back at the thought.
The frost was beginning to melt, the sunlight sharp and bright as it slanted in their faces when Fox announced the lesson over. “Twice more before we go in,” he decreed, and headed back to the clubhouse in the truck.
They’d left the two bikes on the far side of the barn, parked in the gravel, and Aidan hung back, let Carter and Jazz get a head start.
“You’re okay with the guns?” he asked Sam as they walked, slowly, kicking at stray pebbles. The grass swished wetly around their legs.
Sam slid her cold hand into his, lacing their fingers. “Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of all the scary moments in my life, firing a gun doesn’t make the list.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure.”
“It’s not too late to say no.”
She sighed. “Yes it is. Do you think I could live with myself if I walked away now?”
He wanted to argue with her, but didn’t. It was no use; they’d only keep going in circles around one another.
Tense with frustration, he towed her around the barn just as Carter was firing his bike up. The guy waved, and then he and Jazz were gone, the tailpipes echoing long after they’d disappeared from sight.
Aidan didn’t realize he was staring into space, every muscle locked, until Sam spoke to him.
“You have to climb out of that place in your head,” she said quietly. “The one where you’re knotted up with guilt.”
Her eyes shone with such a clear blue-green light when he looked down at her. Her expression reflected none of his turmoil and doubt. She’d made peace with what was going to happen.
“It won’t help us now,” she continued. “You’ll only be distracted, and if we’re going to pull this rescue mission off, we have to be one-hundred-percent committed.”
He had no idea how he’d managed to suck her into his life, but he was damn sure he didn’t deserve her. “You never shoulda given me a chance,” he told her.
Her brows lifted. “And you never should have doubted my capacity to love you completely.”
Okay. Damn.
“We’ve both made mistakes,” she said. “But we’re going to have to put them completely behind us and just look forward.”
How serious and honest she looked. The sight of her stirred up a slow warmth behind his breastbone. “Sounds logical,” he said, wanting to smile.
Sam did smile. “Oh no. Nothing about us is logical.”
~*~
Twice more they took the girls to the property to shoot, and by the end of all three sessions, Sam and Jazz were admirable shots. They decided to move the day before Thanksgiving. That day dawned overcast, silver light heavy at the windows.
In the warm shelter of Sam’s bed, Aidan turned his face into his old lady’s throat and whispered, “Are you ready?”
He thought she shivered and doubted it was from the cold. “Yes. I’m ready.”
~*~
In Ghost’s life history, there existed a handful of moments in which the heaviness of failure had overcome him, and he’d felt himself begin to crumble beneath its weight. One had occurred when his first marriage ended. Another when he’d recognized the mistake of separating Ava and Mercy. And now there was this one. They weren’t going to get the money together. He’d realized it that afternoon, sitting across the table from a bloodshot Walsh. There would be no easy way of getting Tango back, and they were going to have to launch a full-scale attack against the enemy. It would be bloody and inexact. They would lose brothers.
Failure. And failure was inexcusable in a president.
The sun was sinking as he walked into the back door at home. He was grateful for the warm light of the kitchen and all its normal homey smells of food and flowers. He didn’t tell Mags often enough, but he would be forever thankful for the way she’d brought a sense of home into his life. He’d never had that before her; she worked hard at it, and most days he walked right through her magic without acknowledgement.
That was shitty of him. Funny how failure had a way of sharpening his priorities.
“Babe?” he called, toing off his boots in the rack, shrugging off jacket and cut. “Something smells good. What is that?”
Her voice sounded behind him, low, throaty, and not what he’d been expecting. “Pot roast, if you’re hungry. But maybe you’d like a little appetizer?”
A prickling up the back of his neck as he turned, the good kind. A fast pulse of anticipation deep in his belly.
And then he caught sight of her.
Holy shit.
She transported him back through time, all the way to the day they’d met, that cool fall afternoon outside the liquor store. The Maggie standing before him now, one hand braced in the kitchen doorjamb, was the Maggie of his violent mid-twenties’ obsession. She wore a denim miniskirt that hugged her hips and flashed every inch of her long pale legs. Black boots. White tank top that left nothing to the imagination. She’d teased her thick blonde hair. And her lips – bright flawless red.
His mouth went dry, and every drop of blood in his head fled to places south.
“Mags.” He advanced on her slowly, taking in the low-lidded eyes that had first snagged his attention all those years ago. All she was missing was the cigarette. “You feeling nostalgic?”
“Hmm.” Her smile was mysterious, knowing, full of feminine power. “A little bit.”
“Any particular reason why?” When he put his hand on her waist, he felt the surge of electricity in his blood that had accompanied all those first forbidden touches between them. He always claimed to have been shocked and appalled when he’d learned that she was only sixteen. He had no attraction to underage girls; he’d been disturbed when she’d told him.
That, of course, wasn’t true. Their age gap was as exciting to him now as it had always been.
So he was a bastard. What else was new?
Her hair rustled as she tipped her head back to look at him. “You’ve been really stressed, and I thought you might like a little walk down memory lane.”
When he kissed her, she leaned into him, pressed her breasts against his chest, clutched at his biceps and let her neck soften. He loved that reaction. Maggie could be as hard-nosed and tough as she wanted during the day, but when he kissed her, she melted.
Every stroke of her lips against his stripped a year away. He felt younger, stronger, lighter by the second as her hands kneaded across his chest and her mouth opened for his tongue.
They needed more moments like these, he decided. Moments in which they weren’t just parents, grandparents, the voices of reason – but moments for the two of them. Husband and wife time.
Ghost pinned her back against the doorframe and bunched up her skirt. She was naked underneath. Damn. He was just discovering that this was exciting for her too when she pulled back.
“Ghost.” Her tone froze him cold. Her eyes, when they lifted to his, were cool and serious…if not a little heavy-lidded still, because, as he could feel against his hand, she was deeply invested in the sex that was about to happen.
She sighed. “Okay, I can’t do this.”
He slid his fingers through the slippery wetness between her legs. “Pretty sure you’re all ready for it, sweetheart.”
A quick smile. “Oh trust me. I need it, baby. Bad.” She lifted her hands to frame his face, her touch familiar, grounding, sweet. But possessed of the command of any general. “I’m supposed to be keeping you distracted.”
A warning signal pinged in the back of his mind.
“But that goes against every maternal instinct I’ve got,” she continued, growing more urgent. “Your son needs you tonight. All of your boys need you.”
~*~
Ava glanced up from her laptop as Mercy came into the living room.
Cal was asleep on the couch cushion beside her.
Remy was chewing on the ear of his favorite stuffed dog, fighting sleepiness. His little dark head swiveled toward the door when Mercy entered, arms pumping up and down like useless wings in excitement.
Mercy’s smile melted Ava’s insides to sugar-sticky goo. It was a smile without a trace of cockiness, mockery, or restraint. A true, face-splitting smile. A man with such demons…and such joy.
“Big Man!” he greeted Remy, and scooped the boy up in one effortless movement, hoisting him up against his chest. “You taking good care of Mama? Keeping her safe?”
Remy babbled happily in response.
“God, he’s your mini-me,” Ava reflected, smiling. “If I hadn’t pushed him out, I wouldn’t be convinced I had anything to do with it.”
“Trust me, fillette, I sure as hell remember making him.” That was when his smile turned flirtatious and he juggled Remy to the side so he could lean down and kiss her.
It was a lingering, explicit kiss, the kind that promised all sorts of delights once the babies were asleep. Ava didn’t want it to end. She wanted to grab onto his shirt and pull him in close to her, prolong the breaking of news and the always-terrifying moment of watching her man walk out the back door on a violent mission.
But Aidan needed him tonight, and that was the curse of the club. Entrusting her man to his brothers, always praying they would return him to her.
“How’s my little blonde one?” Mercy asked when he finally pulled back, eyes going to Cal.
“Worn out from being fussy all day.” Ava tried to offer him another smile, but knew it wobbled.
He noticed at once. “What, baby?”
She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Aidan’s going after Tango tonight.” Quickly, she relayed what Sam had told her of the operation. Aidan had asked her and Maggie to keep their men busy, but he’d kept all the particulars from them. On purpose. Sam had made a hurried call earlier, delivering the location of the house they were storming. Someone needed to know where they were, she’d reasoned.
His brows lifted. “Are you shitting me?”
“I wish I was.”
Still holding Remy, he paced across the room, breathing through flared nostrils. “Your uncle’s an idiot,” he told the baby.
He spun back to face Ava. “Really? Really? Why the hell didn’t he tell me?” He seemed genuinely wounded, emotion tweaking his face.
A lump formed in her throat. What was she going to do with her stupid brave husband and her stupid brave brother? “He didn’t want to drag anyone else into it,” she said. “He said because you, and Michael, and so many others have kids…”
Mercy growled under his breath, the sound more animal than human. “He has a kid now too, damn it.”
Just a picture in his wallet, but yes, a little girl, growing and developing, waiting to be passed into her daddy’s arms.
“He made me promise to keep it to myself,” she said, “but Merc, I can’t…”
“No, you shoulda told me.”
Because he was going to do something about it. He was a one-man cavalry, the beast; even if the others didn’t join him, he was going to that house, ready to aid his brother.
“Here.” She opened her arms and he came to her, bent down and let her hug him around the neck. Remy cooed in her ear; she smelled baby and man and she closed her eyes against the pressure of tears. “Please be careful,” she whispered. “I need you to come home to me.”
They were startled – but not surprised – by the sound of the back door opening. The cold evening wind whistled through the opening, funneling straight into the living room. The draft preceded a stone-faced Ghost, all zipped up in a black hoodie, posture eloquent of the flak vest he wore beneath.
He looked at Ava, and then Mercy. “She told you?”
“Yeah.”
His dark eyes came back to Ava, and though the words were accusing, there was nothing but pride in his voice. “You and your mother…”
“Annoying?” she suggested.
He shook his head. Back to Mercy his attention went. “Suit up, son. We’ve got a rescue mission to rescue.”
~*~
“You’re being quiet,” Michael observed over lemon pepper chicken and green beans. Across the kitchen table, Holly was pushing her food around with her fork, locked in her thoughts.
“So are you,” she said, staring at her plate.
“I’m always quiet.” While Holly always filled the conversational void.
She set down her fork and lifted her head, big green eyes troubled. “I’m sorry. I’m just…distracted, I guess.”
Michael wanted to kick himself. He should never have told her about Tango’s abduction. “Honey, I already told you. Nobody’s coming after you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Her lips pressed together. “Do you think I only worry about myself? You don’t think I might be worried about what they’re doing to Tango?”
Well shit. He hadn’t thought of that.
“I’m not that selfish,” she said quietly.
“I know you’re not, baby.”
She sighed and stood up, carried her plate to the sink.
“Hol.”
She turned around and put her back to the counter, massaged her temples. “I’m not angry with you.” She wasn’t usually, but she was in a bit of a temper tonight. “Sometimes I just hate it, you know? The club,” she added, quietly. “I don’t, not really. But sometimes…”
Sometimes she wished it didn’t have a hold on him, and that they could be safe, just the two of them, without any outside threats. He knew this because sometimes he thought the same thing.
She shook her head. “That’s stupid. Because without a club, there wouldn’t be you, and without you…” She took a deep, shaky breath. “There wouldn’t be Lucy…or me.”
“Hol–” He was out of his chair and headed toward her when someone knocked loudly on the door that led out onto the deck.
Ghost and Mercy.
“Get armed,” Ghost said. “I’ll explain on the way.”
~*~
Emmie found her husband in the office off the library, frowning at his computer screen.
“I thought you were done for the day.”
“Tell me, love,” he said distractedly as she came to perch on the edge of the desk, “is your job ever ‘done’?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” A barn manager never truly clocked out. It wasn’t the sort of job that lent itself to firm hours. There was always something else to be done, always an extra mile she could go toward making her barn as successful as possible. “Anything I can do to help?” she offered.
He looked every one of his almost forty years and then some tonight, brow crimped, mouth bracketed by deep lines. “No.” But then he swiveled his chair toward her. “Actually, yeah. You’re pissed at me, I can tell. So you can tell me what’s up with that. That’ll help.”
It was said mildly, but was still the most openly hostile he’d been toward her.
Emmie recoiled. “What? I’m not pissed at you.”
He gave her a flat look.
“Trust me. You don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“How about I decide that for myself?”
She sighed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” When he continued to stare at her, she said, “You don’t want to have kids, do you?”
He hesitated a beat too long. “I never said that.”
“But that’s the way you feel.”
“Did I tell you I wouldn’t have kids with you?”
This was even worse than she’d thought. “Walsh.”
They stared at one another.
“I don’t have anything against kids,” he said at last. “But I don’t have a burning need to become a father, no.”
She didn’t want it to, but disappointment fell hard in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t say why exactly she wanted children; perhaps it was an overflow of joy that she was no longer alone. Perhaps it was simply biological.
“Do you–” she started…
And the doorbell rang.
~*~
Colin lay back on the limp pillow of his dorm room bed and stared up at the ceiling. Same crappy bed, same small room, same gut full of beer he’d had every night here in Knoxville, but all of it rendered irrelevant by the warm female voice coming through the cellphone pressed to his ear.
“Are you behaving?” Jenny asked.
He grunted. “I always behave. Usually. Sometimes.”
Sha laughed. “Let me rephrase that. How are things going with your brother?”
He frowned and reached to touch the spot on his jaw that was only just now starting to feel normal again. “They’re going.”
She paused. “Going bad?”
“Dunno. Whatever. I don’t want to talk about him.” He sighed and forced thoughts of Mercy away on the exhale. “How are you feeling?”
She took a breath that sounded a little shivery with nerves. He couldn’t blame her; his own nerves crawled under his skin like an army of ants. “I’m starting to be a little green, so I guess that part of it’s starting.”
“Hmm. I’m sorry. Want me to bring you some ginger ale?”
“All the way from Tennessee, yeah, that’d be good.”
A flat joke, and they both fell silent afterward. Finally, Jen said, “We’re gonna have to tell Candy soon. I won’t be able to hide it much longer.”
No, there wasn’t much hope hiding a baby.
Colin wished he hadn’t had so much to drink; his stomach cramped and he rolled to his side, phone cradled between his head and the pillow. “It’s gonna be okay,” he told her, because telling her anything else wasn’t an option. Even though he was petrified. Even though he’d never wanted kids.
The good part, though, if there was a good part to any of this, was that she hadn’t wanted children either. So it was terrifying for both of them.
A knock sounded hard against his door a fraction of a second before it opened. Mercy filled up most of the doorframe, wide shoulders blocking the light from the hall. His face was serious, at first. But as he stepped into the room, he spotted the phone in Colin’s hand and grinned.
“Aw, is that your girlfriend?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Colin said, sitting upright.
“What?” Jenny asked.
Shit. “Not you, baby.”
“It is,” Mercy said, delighted. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Jenny!”
“Oh,” Jen said, chuckling. “Brotherly bonding? Hey, Felix.”
“She says ‘hey,’” Colin grudgingly passed along. “What do you want?”
Mercy’s expression changed. “Say goodnight, Casanova. We’ve got business.”