Thirty-Seven
They were in someone’s house. Maggie, the woman had said her name was. A pretty blonde with an unmistakable aura of authority. She’d led them down a hall to a bathroom, and then a set of bedrooms. Whitney had been handed clothes that she’d since changed into: sweatpants, a sweatshirt, pale gray and feminine in cut.
She sat now on the edge of a bed, in a warm room full of gentle lamplight, alongside Kev, who lay back against the pillows, smelling of soap, glistening with healing ointments that had been smeared on his neck, his arms, his face. Maggie and her daughter, Ava, had been waiting with warm towels when a huge man named Mercy brought Kev from the shower, his big hands gentle and sweet as he’d laid him out on the bed. The women had dressed him, doctored him.
Maggie had finally looked at Whitney, afterward. “Oh, baby, you ought to sleep.”
Whitney had shaken her head. “No.”
“Coffee?” Ava had guessed.
“That’d be great.”
She curled her hand around the warm mug now, and stared down at Kev’s unconscious shape beneath the sheets.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to him. “I wish I could take what happened to you and put it on myself.”
His eyes flipped open, and his voice croaked from between split lips. “Don’t say that.”
It filled her with joy to see his eyes open. Such pretty eyes, baby blue and liquid with emotion, though his face was stiff with bruises and swelling.
“I do wish it,” she said. “I hate what happened to you.” Her eyes filled with tears at the memory.
“No,” he said. “Don’t cry.” His own eyes fluttered shut, his face going slack.
Whitney thought about going back into the main part of the house, with the murmuring crowd of people.
Instead, she lay down beside Kev, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
~*~
Aidan took a long swallow of whiskey-laced coffee and set it down with a deep sigh. “Shit,” he said, for the sake of his bruises, those of his brothers, and his own shaking fallout of adrenaline. He couldn’t remember being this exhausted in his life. Nothing had ever tasted as good as this spiked coffee. Nothing had ever been as beautiful as his family standing around him as he sat at Maggie’s kitchen table with his father.
“Kev’s asleep, I think,” Maggie said, sipping her own coffee.
Aidan felt his father’s gaze and glanced toward him.
“You’re an idiot,” Ghost said, then grinned. “But damn. I raise my glass.”
Aidan knew that there would be a real discussion later, but for now, he clinked his mug against Ghost’s.
The women were sitting at the table with him – his women. Sam, Mags, Ava. “You three,” he said, giving them a pretend stern look. “You rats.”
“Don’t wanna hear it,” Maggie said.
“Someone had to be the brains of the operation,” Ava added. “And we figured none of y’all were up for it.”
Where he stood leaning against the cabinets, Mercy chuckled, and Ava’s eyes darted to him a moment, her quick smile warm.
Aidan felt Sam giving him that same look: that I love you, you big idiot look. He gave her back his own version: I love you, baby. Don’t give up on me yet.
Maggie looked at Ghost. “We aren’t about to get raided, are we?”
He shook his head. “Underground chatter is quiet. Ellison took a major hit tonight. I mean, major.”
Aidan knew all too well: most of his men dead, all his files and intel confiscated, and, thanks to Vince Fielding’s new allegiances, the cops had put the word out on a breaking news update that Don Ellison was wanted by police for sabotaging his own people and torching his own house. There was no evidence to support any of that, and it would quickly fall apart at the hands of the media. But it bought them a little time. It sent Ellison running, for the time being.
“You boys look dead on your feet,” Maggie observed. “You ought to try and grab some sleep before the sun’s up.”
“Yeah,” Ghost said.
But none of them made a move to leave the kitchen. It was three a.m. and the room held that magic buzz of up-late and doing-important-things. One of those nights when all the mundane responsibilities were burned away by the hot stroke of a fortunate mission. When he was a kid, this feeling had accompanied Christmas Eve. Now it dogged a job well done.
“Kev,” Ava said, quietly. “This will have…been damaging for him.”
They all nodded.
With a sudden flush of helplessness, Aidan said, “I dunno what we can do for him. Bruises will heal, but…”
It didn’t need to be said. They all remembered the fallout from his first rescue, years before. He’d never shaken that trauma.
“Where’d Shaman go?” Mercy asked.
Aidan shook his head. “He took off when we got Kev in the truck. He just disappeared into the trees, same as when he showed up.” It had been creepy as hell, if he was honest.
“I still can’t believe you let that bastard help you,” Ghost muttered. “He was all dressed up like he was in goddamn Mission Impossible.”
“He wanted to come,” Aidan said with a shrug. “Which is more than I could say for some people.”
A sharp look from Ghost.
Fuck you, old man.
“Anyway,” Mercy said, loudly. “Where’d the girl come from?”
“Her name’s Whitney,” Sam said. “Her brother owed Ellison and she was being held as collateral. She’s rattled. And doesn’t want to get more than ten feet from Kev.” She shrugged with her brows, as if to say who could blame her.
“Trauma like that makes people close,” Ava said.
“I’ll take her home,” Ghost offered. “She doesn’t need to be involved in any of this.”
Sam nodded, getting to her feet. “I’ll go get her.”
Their moment of basking in the kitchen was dispersing; he could feel it.
Ghost’s phone rang, and he stepped out the back door to answer it.
“Come on, Mama,” Mercy said, pushing off the cabinets. “I wanna go to bed.”
Ava unfolded her long legs and stood. “Me too. It’d be nice to grab a little sleep before the boys are awake.” Before she left the room, though, she came to Aidan, kissed the top of his head. “You’re a good guy, Aidan,” she whispered. “A good friend, good son, good brother. Whatever Dad says, don’t forget that. We all love you.”
A lump formed in his throat, so he nodded as she stepped away, smiling warmly at him.
Mercy clapped him on the shoulder as he left the room. A silent communication that said so many things.
When he was alone with Maggie, she eyed him over her coffee mug and gave him one of her patented, all-knowing queenly smiles.
“What?” A loaded question with her, always.
Her smile widened. “Do you remember, when you were ten, and we had to make that pirate ship out of popsicle sticks for your history project?”
He nodded. “Black Beard, right?”
“Yep.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you had to do a presentation, and I made you that red coat and the little felt beard to wear?”
“Most embarrassing moment of my life.”
She laughed. “You were precious.”
And she’d been eighteen, and a fabulous mother, standing in the back of his classroom, Ava on her hip, whistling and cheering after he took his final bow.
“And afterward,” she said, voice softening, “you said, ‘I wish Dad could have come.’ Because you wanted him to see you doing so well.” Her eyes filled with moisture. “He was there tonight, baby. He saw you doing so well.”
“Mags–”
“I know I’m not your mama. But you’re my boy. So trust me when I tell you this. Your daddy’s a complete idiot, and nothing he ever says comes out right. But he’s so proud of you. I know he is. When you’re talking to him, later, remember that, and don’t get too caught up in his incredibly stupid word choice.”
He nodded. “One thing, though.”
She lifted her brows.
“Do me a favor and don’t ever say you’re not my mama again, okay?”
She started to speak, then nodded instead, lips pressed together as emotion overtook her.
The back door opened and Ghost returned, his gaze moving between them. “Everything alright?”
“Fine, baby.” Maggie stood and went to pour her coffee out in the sink. “I’m gonna go see if the girls need anything.” She kissed Ghost on her way through; kissed Aidan on the cheek too.
Then they were alone. Father and son. The sitdown Aidan had been dreading for months.
He waited for the old familiar writhing in his gut, the band of perspiration that always broke out beneath his collar.
But they didn’t come. Numb…or, maybe…calm, finally, he watched Ghost drag out a chair and sit down across from him.
So often lately he’d noticed his dad looking old and weary. But tonight there was a new vibrancy to the man, an echo of the tan boxing champ who’d once swept Maggie Lowe off her high-heeled feet. The fighting had invigorated him. For the first time in months, his face was free of strain, the sun and laugh lines softer than normal in his wind-roughened face.
They sat a moment, the silence gathering between them…but not in a sinister way. Aidan could sense no malice radiating off his father, and that was when he realized what was about to happen: not a lecture, but a conversation.
They hadn’t had one since their talk in the spare bedroom of Ava and Mercy’s house, right after his hideous bike crash.
Ghost said, “Right after Ava was born, we had this guy come in as a prospect, and he turned out to be a mole for a rival club. You remember?”
Vaguely. He’d been just a kid, and no one had explained things to him outright, but he remembered the tension around the dinner table, the way Maggie had peeked out the windows more than usual, her face tight with worry. He nodded.
“Duane was an impatient man, but a very patient president,” he said of his uncle. “So he thought it prudent to keep this mole on, let him think we didn’t know what he was up to, let him lead us back to his people when the time was right.”
“Sounds smart.”
“It was. And dangerous. I had two kids, and a wife fresh outta high school, and I didn’t have the stomach for waiting. So I killed the guy. Slit his throat and burned the body.” The matter of fact way he revealed this brought up the fine hairs on the back of Aidan’s neck. That’s what it was, to become a president of the Lean Dogs – you lost the part of yourself who found horror in the unspeakable.
“What did Duane say?” Aidan asked.
“He was furious. Called me names. Threatened to take my patches. He didn’t mean any of it, obviously.” He shrugged. “But he said I was a stupid kid, acting rashly out of fear. That fear would get me killed one of these days, he told me. It would get my brothers killed.”
Aidan stared at his father, finding it hard to see even a trace of fear in the man sitting across from him.
“I was afraid,” Ghost consented. “I still am. I’m scared shitless all the damn time. And you know what?” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Duane was wrong.”
Aidan felt his brows go up.
“A little fear’s healthy. The day we stop being afraid is probably the day we stop being human.”
“What are you afraid of?” Aidan asked.
“Failure.” The answer was immediate. “Failing in a way that gets everyone hurt. I’m afraid for Mags, and you, and your sister, and all our brothers.”
He reached for his coffee. “And when you figure out what you’re afraid of, you figure out what you have to do. The things you can live with, and the things you have to change. You were afraid for Tango,” he said. “And you couldn’t live with letting something happen to him. I couldn’t either.” His voice lowered, became rougher. “But you made the smart call, and I didn’t.”
Shock went through him like champagne, fizzy and golden. A pleasant shock; one that felt like a deep compliment – well, because it was.
“Dad.”
Ghost gave him a look that was laid-bare, stripped of all presidential or paternal authority. “You made the right call.” He grinned. “Coulda gotten us all killed, but it was what you had to do. What we all had to do. You don’t leave a brother behind.” He nodded, growing serious again. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”
~*~
A strip of light shone beneath the door of the bathroom and Aidan heard the rush of water running. Across the hall, Sam was just stepping out of Ava’s old room where they’d put Tango.
“He’s asleep,” she whispered. “And, um, so is Whitney.”
“She’s in the bed with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. What has she got, Stockholm Syndrome?”
“It’s only Stockholm Syndrome if you attach to your captor. Not your fellow captive.”
“Oh.”
“I feel bad, though,” Sam went on. “I want to call someone for her, but I don’t want to wake her up. Someone has to be worried about her.”
“One more night won’t make a difference,” Aidan said, and she nodded.
“Yeah. Guess not.” She scrubbed at her forehead with one hand and that was when he realized just how alert she’d been pretending to be.
“Baby, you need to get some sleep.”
She gave him an exhausted smile. “Yeah. Are we on the floor?”
“Fold-out couch, actually.”
“Ah. Fancy.”
Why was this awkward? It was, though.
“I already unfolded it and there’s sheets and blankets,” he said. “I’m gonna check on Kev and I’ll be out there in a minute.”
“Okay.” She shuffled down the hall, yawning, leaving him alone with the doorknob…and a suddenly-clammy hand. It wasn’t as if there were any surprises waiting for him on the other side of the door. And yet, something cold settled in his stomach, made him hesitant as he slowly opened the door and eased inside.
~*~
No fold-out sofa bed had ever looked so lovely. Aidan had indeed dressed it with sheets and blanket, though sloppily. Sam gave them a few quick tugs in an attempt to straighten them, gave up, and slid under the covers. She pulled in a deep breath, let it out on a sigh…and realized she was shaking all over.
She sat up. Lifted her hands to her face and saw the violent trembling in her fingers. It radiated up her arms, tightened her chest and rattled her insides.
“God,” she whispered.
“It’s the nerves.”
She jumped. Ghost stood at the foot of the makeshift bed, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. She hadn’t seen or heard him come into the room; how like his club name of him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your nerves,” he repeated. “It doesn’t matter that it’s over, now. They’re all shot to hell and they’re gonna make you shake for a little while.”
She nodded. “Well that’s…fun.”
“Here.” He held the glass toward her. “In my experience, time and a little of this is all that helps.”
She took the glass, nose wrinkling as she caught a whiff of its contents. “What is this?”
“Bourbon.”
She took a sip and managed not to choke, but he grinned when he saw her face.
“It gets easier the farther you go.”
“I’m sure.” She added, “Thanks.”
Ghost gave her a nod and turned for the hallway. He paused, though, and glanced back at her. “Hey, Sam.”
“Yes?” The glass clicked against her teeth as the shaking intensified.
“In case shit gets crazy, and I forget to say it. Welcome to the family.”
~*~
Tango looked like a corpse laid out in Ava’s old bed. Aidan resisted the urge to lean over him and check that he was breathing, but it was a strong impulse.
The guy’s bedmate didn’t look much better. Whitney lay on her side, not touching Tango, but very close, her face pale and her brow creased with a worry that had chased her into sleep. Aidan felt like he ought to wake her, ask her where her parents were and drive her home. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
Plus…
He spotted a face in the window.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, recognizing the narrow features the moment panic struck.
They’d left the lights on in the room – previous experience had taught them Tango wouldn’t want to wake up in the dark after his ordeal – and Ian Byron’s expression was a study in elegant concern on the other side of the glass.
Aidan crossed the room, yanked open the window, and whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with you, you goddamn creep-ass?”
Ian was still dressed up in his black catsuit, secret agent costume, whatever the fuck it was. He didn’t react to Aidan’s question, but glanced around him, into the room. “How is he?”
“Asleep.”
“Obviously. But how is he?”
Aidan sighed. “My best guess is pretty awful. But we’ll know more in the morning.”
Ian exhaled loudly and slumped sideways against the window frame.
“He’s where he belongs, Ian.”
The other man’s pale eyes lifted, luminous with anger. “You think I don’t know that. I…” As quick as it had come, his temper faded. “My God,” he murmured to the open air.
“Yeah,” Aidan said. “I know the feeling.”
It was the coldest part of the night, the hour when the frost lay thickest and the air seemed to become a solid crystalline sheet. A car started, somewhere down the street: someone headed in for an early shift, or trying to beat the sunrise after a late night.
“What will you do with the girl?” Ian asked.
“Find out where she belongs.”
The Englishman nodded. “I tried to call in my favor with your father, you know. The one he owes me.” His tone was eerily conversational. “I told him to release Kevin from the club.”
“Huh,” Aidan said, a cold knot forming in his belly.
Ian’s eyes flicked over. “I won’t insist on it. No. But I want your word that if he wants to leave, you’ll let him.”
“He won’t want to leave.”
“He might.”
Aidan gritted his teeth. It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea, Kev wanting out of the club. In his heart, he wasn’t much of an outlaw. He wasn’t the sort of guy who lived for the thrill of it. But he loved them all, Aidan was sure. Needed their fraternal support.
“You have my word,” he ground out. “There, you happy?”
“No.” Ian shoved away from the wall. “That’s the thing, darling. I’ll never be happy.” And he melted away into the darkness.
Aidan closed the window and slipped out of the room without making a sound. Sam was waiting for him, sitting up in their makeshift bed, sipping a glass of something that didn’t look her speed.
“Your dad said bourbon would help with the nervous shakes.” She extended a steady hand for him to inspect. “He wasn’t wrong.”
Aidan plucked the glass from her grasp, drained it in a fast gulp, and climbed in beside her. “You gonna turn into a hardcore liquor drinker now?” he teased, but his voice fell flat.
“I might.” Her voice was flat too.
They stared at one another a moment; he searched her face and felt her doing the same to him.
Then he put both arms around her and pulled her into his chest. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.”