The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (10 page)

Ten

“Michael…”

              For almost forty years, his name had just been his name. The two syllables people used when they wanted to catch his attention; something scribbled at the top of his paychecks.

              But when his old lady said it, when she was naked under him and he was touching her, his name on her lips was something to be savored.

              Holly shifted, like his hand between her legs wasn’t enough, lifting against him, the sheets rustling. Her nails dug into his shoulders. “Michael,” she said against the underside of his jaw, that breathy, turned-on, helpless voice he loved hearing when he was inside her.

              He grinned against her hair, the side of her face. “What?” he asked, fingers playing against her wet heat.

              It was still dark, and so it didn’t feel like morning yet. The birds were still asleep. The neighborhood was still hushed. No one awake but them, in this stolen moment before the day arrived and responsibility claimed their attention. A perfect, steaming moment to just be a man and a woman, instead of all the other things they were.

              “You
know
,” Holly groaned, and her hand slid between them, wrapped around his cock.

              That put an effective end to his teasing.

              He braced up on his arms above her, stared down into her flushed, heavy-lidded face – she was smiling, beautiful, hungry. God, he needed this. He –

              A scream shattered the moment, carrying all the way down the hall and slamming into him hard as a fist at the base of his skull.

              Holly closed her eyes, grimaced, turned her face into his wrist in a moment of pure sexual frustration. Then she composed herself and smiled up at him in quiet apology. “Hold that thought,” she said, smoothing a hand across his chest. “After she eats, we’ll pick things up again.”

              He nodded, knowing there was a fifty-fifty chance they wouldn’t be picking anything up except the baby.

              “Let me up,” Holly said, grinning, giving him a little shove.

              “I’ll get her.”

              “Oh, you don’t have to.”

              But he was already off his wife and dragging a pair of sweatpants on over his painful erection.

              “You sure?” Holly asked, pushing up on her elbows.

              “Yeah.”

              Holly probably thought that Lucy’s sudden, shocking screams irritated him, but that wasn’t the case. They freaked him the hell out. Whenever she started crying, especially if he wasn’t in the room with her, he was already reaching for a gun, a knife – last week, he’d had the heavy silver picture frame that held their wedding photo in his hand and ready to brain someone with it when he realized it was simply time for a diaper change. No one was breaking in the nursery window, coming after his baby. Just routine kid stuff.

              He’d thought, by six months, he would have stopped reacting with panic.

              Wrong.

              Every hair on his body had stood on end the first time she ever screamed, the day in the hospital when she came into the world. He’d been holding onto Holly’s hands as she’d pushed, and then there’d been all this screaming, this pitiful baby-crying noise, and his heart had slammed against his ribs.

              How did other fathers do this? How did they not camp outside their children’s doors with AK-47s round the clock?

              “Luce?” He flipped on the lights and the two lamps in the nursery came on, a muted glow that wouldn’t hurt her eyes. “What’s the matter…”

              His automatic scan of the room took in the pastel yellow walls, the white dresser and changing table, rocking chair, pile of stuffed animals, photos and prints Holly had so lovingly hung on the walls, and Lucy squalling in her crib, red-faced.

              He also saw, in the instant the lights came on, the pale oval of a face pressed to the window.

              Masculine features, too little light to make out. And then he was gone, disappearing into the bushes.

              “Fuck,” he breathed. A jolt like he was hooked to a car battery shot through him, tightening all his skin, punching him in the sternum.

              Michael bent over the crib and scooped his screaming daughter into his arms. Her face was wet with tears when he tucked it into his chest, but she calmed at the contact, settling into a dog-like whine that made him want to put baseball bats through people’s heads.

              “Shhh. I got you. It’s alright. Let’s go see Mama.”

              Holly was out of bed and cinching up her robe when he got to the master bedroom.

              “Here,” he rushed to deposit Lucy into her arms. “I gotta go.”

              Panic streaked through Holly’s eyes. “Where?”

              “Outside. There’s something out there.”

              Holly gasped.

              “Stay here.” He pulled his .45s from his nightstand drawer, laid one on the bed for her, and palmed the other one. “I’ll be back.”

              “Michael…” She looked like she wanted to tell him not to go, as she hugged Lucy and stared at him with huge green eyes. But she said, “Please be careful.”

              He left the house dark as he ghosted through it. Barefoot, he unlocked the front door and slipped out, the grass dew-drenched under his quick steps. His hand clenched around the gun until he felt the grip biting into his skin. The shadows down the driveway, heading into the backyard, were black and oily, statue-still in the muggy predawn air.

              Lucy’s bedroom was at the back of the house, shrubs and overgrown trees shading the window. Michael knew what he’d find when he got there, and wasn’t wrong: nothing. Whoever’d been spying was long gone, no trace.

              He didn’t relax until he was back inside and heard the tumblers of the front door lock fall into place. Even then,
relax
was a relative term.

              In the bedroom, Holly sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shush Lucy, the gun at her hip on top of the covers. “What was it?” she asked.

              He didn’t want to worry her.

              But he hated the idea of lying to her.

              “There was a man outside Lucy’s window.”

              “Oh my God.”

              Michael hated the fear that crossed her expression, the way it was so much more than a typical frightened reaction. He swore he could see the memories cycling through her head, feel the way old traumas grabbed at her lungs.

              He stepped up to the bed, sank down on his haunches before her, so his hands were on her knees. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ve got this. He’s not gonna get to you and Luce.”

              Her smile trembled. “I know, baby. That’s really sweet. But it’s not what I was thinking.”

              He lifted his brows.

              “I was thinking I’d hate to have to shoot somebody.”

Eleven

The sprawling stone house didn’t echo as much with the Knoxville chapter of the Lean Dogs MC filling it up. In their usual grungy t-shirts, cuts, wallet chains and flashing jewelry, they looked out of place amid the plush, earth-toned furniture in the main living room. Furniture that was, thanks to the newly arrived moving crew, disappearing one piece at a time. The crew sent them darted, curious glances, but wisely kept their gobs shut.

              Walsh stood with his back to the far wall, facing the opposite wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, his brothers limned in silver by morning light. He smiled inwardly to watch the very not-subtle way they couldn’t stop gawking at the house around them.

              “…so like I said,” Aidan was saying, leaning back in a leather arm chair and kicking his feet up onto the ottoman, “you need a couple roommates. You know, keep you from getting all lonesome in this…” His eyes tracked over the stone mantle again. “Giant motherfucking castle.”

              “Just a couple?” Carter asked, unable to mask the hopeful lift to his voice. “Or more than a couple?”

              “You can move in too, Jockstrap,” Aidan assured him. “But dude, Harry, no. You blow too much shit up in the microwave.”

              “Not on purpose,” the redhead protested.

              “And we get first dibs on rooms.” Aidan gestured between himself and Tango. “Seniority, and shit.”

              “Or,” Ghost said, the only one not agog at his surroundings, “none of you move in, and then it doesn’t look like this is a fucking MC headquarters, and we don’t draw the cops out here on a regular basis to check in on things.”

              Aidan deflated. “Yeah.”

              Boots in the hall announced the movers were coming back in, and they all shifted topics as a seamless group.

              “Is this place gonna turn a profit?” Rottie asked pleasantly.

              Walsh hesitated. The movers were on either end of the couch where Mercy was sprawled, and when they tried to lift it out from under him, the thing only shuddered.

              “Damn!” the big Cajun exclaimed in a show of mock outrage. “Warn a som’bitch ‘fore you start stealing his seat! Fuck!” His expression had all the Dogs stifling laughs – and the movers tripping over themselves and the couch as they tried to navigate it out while scared shitless.

              When they were gone, Mercy perched a hip on a sofa table and said, “You gotta keep ‘em on their toes. A little fear’s good for ya now and then.”

              Ghost snorted.

              Walsh listened until the footfalls had moved out the front door, then said, “Actually, it’s gonna turn a better profit than I thought. I went through Richards’ books last night.” Because he’d been too wired and restless, thinking about lonely girls with blonde hair to get any sleep, he’d sat up in the study with the ledgers most of the night. “The old man was taking most of what he earned off the boarders and giving it to his daughter. The youngest one, Amy. And to her son, Brett.”

              “To do what with?” Ratchet asked, frowning.

              “To have. Dunno. It’s listed as a charitable gift, which means he was getting a tax break on it. But he ought to be paying his barn staff a helluva lot more than he is. He could have afforded to make some barn improvements, get a second tractor, all kinds of shit. Instead, he was funneling all of it toward his family.”

              “His choice, I guess,” Mercy said, but was frowning also. “Kinda makes you wonder why his kids were so anxious to sell.”

              “If he sells, then all five kids get an equal cut of his inheritance when he dies,” Walsh said. “Which, well, yeah. The others didn’t want him throwing everything he made away on Amy and Brett who, far as I can tell, are both fuckups.”

              The movers returned, giving Mercy a wide berth this time. They each grabbed a lamp and scurried back out.

              “Either way, it’s not our problem,” Ghost said when the movers were gone. “We stopped the developers, and I trust you to make us some money off this place,” he told Walsh.

              As a general rule, Ghost didn’t trust anyone, so his sentiment was deeply appreciated. Walsh never took for granted that, of all his brothers, he was the one who’d never endured censure or suspicion from the boss man. Had Aidan or Mercy or anyone else broached the subject of buying Briar Hall? It never would have been taken seriously.

              “I’m off,” the president said, pushing away from the mantel. “The rest of you losers don’t forget you have to work today.”

              “I gotta head, too,” Mercy said, “Ava’s got a doctor’s appointment.”

              “How’s she feeling?” Ghost asked his son-in-law.

              “Good.”

              They fell into step alongside one another.

              “I’ll go out with you,” Michael said, following them. His expression had been darker than normal all morning. “I wanted to ask you something,” he said to both men, and he was included in their knot as they disappeared down the hall.

              Rottie, RJ, Ratchet, Dublin and Briscoe all had things to get back to at Dartmoor. Harry and Littlejohn were ordered to come along with them, still snapping to at commands even though they were patched.

              Aidan looked like he had nowhere else in the world to be, which meant Tango and Carter were sticking around too.

              “You know you’re not moving in, right?”

              Aidan made a face. “Aw, come on, Walsh. This house is big enough you can still be a hermit.”

              “Thought you were all about big life changes and taking shit seriously,” he countered.

              Aidan pulled his feet down and sat upright, some of the petulance dropping off his face. “I am. Which is why I think it’s time I looked into branching out a little. Yeah, I’ll still work at the bike shop, but maybe I ought to take on some new responsibilities.”

              “Like running a farm.”

              “I could help you.”

              “Do you know the first thing about running a business?”

              He gave Walsh a shit-eating grin. “Nothing like learning from the master, is there?”

              “He just wants to look at the girls ride horses in tight pants,” Tango said, and grinned when he got a murderous glare from his best friend.

              “Not true,” Aidan said. Then, “Okay, maybe a little true, but I’m serious about the business thing too. I can’t just be a mechanic forever.”

              “Dude, you told me there was nothing wrong with being a mechanic,” Carter said. “ ‘No shame,’ you said.”

              “There’s not.”

              “He’s moved beyond us,” Tango said, grinning. “He wants to be
somebody
.”

              “Bite me.”

              But it was the truth, and Walsh knew it. Aidan had his sights set on becoming president one of these days, and in his own overeager, misguided mind, he thought becoming more financially successful was a step in the right direction.

              Poor kid.

              “Well, I’ve got a whole office of shit to sort through, and I know Richards’ kids are gonna show up at some point today and gimme hell. So I gotta get to it.”

              “Is it okay if we look around a little?” Carter asked, genuinely curious.

              “This is the club’s farm, not mine. Do whatever you like. But” – he aimed a stern look at Aidan – “don’t go spooking my staff, alright? I need them.”

              Aidan sighed. “Yes, Master.”

~*~

“You didn’t get a good look at him?” Ghost asked.

              “Too dark and he moved too fast,” Michael said. “I know it was a man, and I know he was white, that’s about it.”

              It was a relief to be able to tell someone about this, and to be listened to in earnest by both parties. Holly had recovered better than he had that morning, feeding Lucy, showering, doing her makeup, fixing them both breakfast and packing their lunches like she did every other day, the only tell the mild haunted look in her eyes. But Michael’s hands still shook, and he’d sucked down four cigarettes to no avail.

              “Well that’s shitty news,” Mercy said. “Just what we need: peeping toms.” He searched for his own cigarette in his cut pocket, as they stood on the shaded farmhouse driveway. “Anybody been paying lots of attention to Holly at work? She got a customer who’s too friendly?”

              That had been Michael’s first impulse. “She woulda told me if she did. She doesn’t like getting hit on.”

              Ghost and Mercy shared a look.

              “Things’ve been real quiet, boss,” Mercy said. “I hate to say it   –”

              “Then don’t.”

              But they all knew: their fan had been shit-free for too long now. It was about time something sinister happened.

              Michael was glad for the warm solid weight of Mercy’s palm landing on his shoulder. “Call if you want help, bro. I could always use the target practice.”

~*~

“That’s really nice. Half-halt, bring him back, and then try another one down the long side,” Emmie called, then forced another slug of ice water down her throat.

              She’d awakened that morning dressed, sleeping on top of her covers, head pounding like someone had taken a hammer to it, and a telltale stale hangover taste in her mouth.

              It had all come rushing back to her, and she’d buried her face in her pillow and groaned.

              The champagne.

              Sitting on the porch of the big house.

              Telling Walsh she thought he was hot.

             
Telling Walsh she thought he was hot.

              Going to get his dog.

              And clearly, he’d carried her up, left her on her bed, and covered her up with a quilt, because no way had she been able to.

              She felt like shit. But she’d showered, dressed, and was managing to teach her eleven a.m. lesson to Tonya with the help of big sunglasses and lots of aspirin.

              “That’s great, Tonya,” she called, as horse and rider executed a lovely passage down the long side of the arena, Chaucer slow-stepping with high, snapping lifts of his knees and hocks. “Keep your hands relaxed, that’s right–”

              The rest of her instruction was cut off by the loud growling of motorcycles.

              Emmie twisted around and saw a whole fleet of black Harley-Davidsons coming down the driveway from the house, cruising past the barn with a sound like thunder and heading on toward the road. The men riding them were all sporting the black leather cuts she’d spotted so often around town, their emblem of a black running dog on a white field clear even from a distance.

              “What in the
hell
?” Tonya shouted, and Emmie whipped back around to see that Chaucer was spooking badly, shying hard to the left, tossing his head against the reins.

              Emmie jumped off the rail into the arena. “Whoa, whoa,” she called, approaching slowly as Tonya sawed on the reins and fought to get control.

              “Easy,” Tonya said, but it was a sharp command, and not a soothing reassurance.

              One of the bikers revved his engine, as they headed out of the turn, a sharp blast of sound.

              Chaucer lost it. Eyes rolling, mouth gaping as he jerked at the bit, he plunged his nose down and bucked. And no matter how talented a Quarter Horse bronc at a rodeo, a leggy, athletic warmblood could put any bucking horse to shame. Chaucer’s spine curled the wrong way and his hind end flew skyward as if spring-loaded, kicking madly with both back legs.

              Tonya was launched over his shoulder, managed to tuck, and landed hard on her side with a shocked grunt.

              Chaucer, further distraught to have unseated his mistress, set off across the arena at a hectic trot, snorting and blowing.

              Emmie rushed to her downed student, dropping to her knees. “Tonya, you okay? Can you move? What hurts?”

              Tonya rolled onto her back with a big, deep gasp. “Fuck,” she breathed, wincing. “Nothing, just…” Her pretty face with its smudge-proof makeup was dusted with arena sand. “Knocked…the wind…”

              “Out of you,” Emmie finished. “Hold on, let it pass. Don’t move. See?” She smiled weakly. “This is why you always gotta wear a helmet.”

              “Is she okay?” a male voice asked, and she snatched her head up, shooting an automatic glare toward whoever had spoken.

              Three men she’d never seen before in black Lean Dogs cuts stood on the other side of the fence, two blonde, one brunette, all wide-eyed and pale-faced.

              Emmie couldn’t keep the snarl out of her voice. “No thanks to you idiots.”