The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (26 page)

              “Yeah. Okay.”

~*~

Aidan walked into the cramped central office expecting to find Mags, and instead encountered a very different blonde. Samantha sat behind the desk, Remy in her lap, turning the pages of a picture book as she read aloud to him.

              “ ‘And then the rabbit said–’ ” Her head lifted as his shadow blotted out the light from the door. Her expression cycled through a series of emotions he didn’t understand, and then settled into a flat neutral. “Oh hi.”

              “Hey. Mags isn’t here?”

              “Ava had a doctor’s appointment and she was feeling a little under the weather, so Maggie went with her. I offered to keep Remy.”

              “Oh. Cool.” He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe and started to back out of the office.

              Sam’s voice stopped him. She was a professor, and she had one of those pleasant voices a person could listen to all day, always pitched at just the right volume to carry, but never to startle. “Did you need something?”

              When he turned back around, she was shifting Remy to a better seat in her lap. “Not that I know where anything is, but I could look.”

              He hesitated. He’d been coming to ask about an advance on his next check, because last night’s date had seriously depleted his cash. “Nah,” he said finally, “nothing you can help with. Paycheck shit.”

              “Ah.” She nodded. “Right. Can’t help you there.”

              He started to turn away, but didn’t, struck suddenly by how very sad she looked. He’d noticed Sam before in the last year or so that she’d been friends with Ava, because anything blonde and female deserved a good look. But her attitude was all wrong, sort of shy and awkward and too quiet. He looked at everyone, but it was the woman with a hair flip and a sly smile that really grabbed his attention. Chicks like that knew what he had to offer and wanted a slice. Chicks like Samantha were a minefield he had no idea how to navigate.

              “Hey, are you alright?” he asked, and felt kind of stupid for it.

              Her face smoothed over with surprise. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

              “You just…I dunno. You looked upset, or something.”

              She gave him a wistful smile. “I’m not upset.”

              See, that right there. He had no idea what the point of that was, when their faces said one thing and their lips another.

              He decided to make light of it. “It’s cool if you are. Writers are supposed to be all moody, right?”

              She exhaled sharply through her nose, smile turning wry. “Right.”

              It was time to walk away now. “Okay. Well. I’ll see ya.”

              “See ya.”

              But she called him back again. “Hey, Aidan?”

              “Hmm?”

              “Have you been on that date yet? The one you needed advice about?” A tense notch formed between her brows, mouth tucking down in the corners. Was it unhappiness? Disapproval? Or just a general sourness?

              “I have, yeah. Went last night, actually.” He couldn’t stop the smile at the memory.

              Sam’s brows twitched above the rims of her glasses. “Lucky girl.” More of that wistful look that wasn’t really a smile. “What’s her name?”

              Not a question he’d expected, but not a strange one, considering.

              “Tonya. Tonya Sinclair. Her dad owns the bank or something.”

              Sam’s expression went totally blank.

              “She’s a nice girl. Not one of those…” Hmm, no delicate way to say it. “Tell my sister I’m not just doing what I always do.” He grinned, imagining the face Ava would make. “I’ve got a real girl this time. She ought to be proud.”

              “Yeah. I’m sure she will be.”

~*~

Tonya Sinclair. Aidan was finally dating someone age appropriate, and it was
Tonya Sinclair
.

              When he was gone, Sam closed her eyes and let her chin rest against the downy soft top of Remy’s head. The baby was a warm, squirmy burden in her arms, grounding her to this chair and this moment. But with her eyes shut, it was so easy to lose her mind to the past.

              Tonya’s parents had made a go at exposing her to “the regular kids,” or some such, when she was young. Tonya hadn’t been in her class, but Sam had encountered her at the elementary school playground. The wealthy, beautiful, haughty girl all the other girls had wanted to be friends with. And by “friends,” they’d meant “toadies,” offering to carry her lunchbox, braid her hair, giving her barrettes and curiously shaped pebbles and assorted trinkets they thought would win her favor. She’d held court at the top of the slide, already perfecting that lifted-nose posture that signified her unquestionable superiority.

              Nothing had changed in the intervening years. Tonya had been pulled out of the public school system and sent to a private academy, breezing through town in her silver drop-top Mercedes the day she turned sixteen, berating poor coffee shop girls and grocery baggers for the hell of it.

              Sam opened her eyes and took a big breath, because it was too painful to think about the girl who got everything taking something that she herself had always wanted.

              “This has to stop,” she murmured, and Remy babbled in response.

              “Yeah, I know, buddy,” she said. “Your uncle’s a damn stupid dream for a girl to have, isn’t he?”

              So she was done with him, she decided then and there in Maggie Teague’s chair. It was time she moved on.

              For good.

Twenty-Eight

One week, two trips to Macy’s, and four delivery trucks later, the Walshes had some furniture, a stocked fridge, and something like a daily routine.

              Emmie approached her unexpected marriage as if she were getting to know a new horse that was in for training. Observing, taking note, reacting here and pushing there, working with and around him so that there was a flow to their interactions. She didn’t want to fight, fuss, or struggle, and instead absorbed every little detail about him, so that she could know him, and live with him. And maybe…             

              Too early for that yet.

              He’d been a bachelor so long that he wasn’t hesitant in the kitchen. If he was up first, he put the coffee on. He was fine with scraping together eggs, or something frozen, or sandwiches. But he was happy to stand back and let her have a go at roasted chicken and spaghetti with real meatballs.

              He spent a lot of time on his computer and phone, and she had learned that unlike his brothers, who were mechanics and laborers by day trade, he worked solely for the club, moving money around, consulting, acquiring, and selling. She learned that his shoulders got tense, and that he groaned in delight when she worked the knots out of them with her fingers.

              And the sex. God, the sex was incredible. In bed, in the shower, in the tub, on the new Oriental look-a-like rug.

              It was Sunday and she was done at the barn for the day, all her lessons taught and her Apollo spoiled with a good curry and a mash. Fred had offered to do the evening feeding – his in-laws were driving him up the wall and he was glad for the chance to stay at work – and so she was relieved of the business end of Briar Hall until the next morning.

              In days past, that would have been less of a gift and more of a burden. Time off had always been spent watching old test videos to see where she could improve her score, or cleaning her loft, or going generally stir-crazy because she was nothing without her work.

              But today she was in the cozy suede chair at the living room’s picture window with a cup of tea and a romance novel. Wondering when Walsh would get home. Wondering what they’d have for dinner. Idly enjoying the words on the page and the hopping of birds in the grass outside.

              It was like she was a married person or something.

              The sound of the doorbell startled her. Badly. The thing was loud, and she guessed that was because Davis had been old and hard of hearing, but
damn
.

              There was a woman waiting on the front step, a napping baby in a car seat/carrier clutched in one hand, a sack full of groceries in the other. She was brunette, vaguely familiar, and had the biggest, greenest eyes Emmie had ever seen.

              She was someone from the photograph, Emmie realized. This was –

              “Hi!” she greeted. “I’m Holly. And this is Lucy.” She hefted the carrier. “And I’m hoping Michael remembered to give you my gift, or you’re going to think I’m a crazy person.”

              “Holly, right. Michael’s wife.” Emmie smiled, but the bag of groceries had her worried. “It’s nice to meet you.”

              They stared at one another a moment.

              “I brought stuff to make dessert,” Holly said, and the grocery bag rustled. “Brownie trifle. It’s a little rich, but Michael likes it…” She trailed off as Emmie continued to stare at her. “Walsh told you we were coming, didn’t he?”

              “We?”

              A flash of brilliant blonde hair out on the sidewalk caught her eye. A woman she didn’t know walked alongside Ava, both of them loaded down with more bags, and baby Remy.

              Behind them were two more women.

              “Um…” Emmie said.

              The blonde reached the top of the porch steps and flashed Emmie a cool smile. “Hi, darlin’. Which way’s the kitchen?”

              Realizing it was let them in or get run over, Emmie stepped aside. “Straight back through the living room,” she said numbly.

              The woman waved a hand in acknowledgement and breezed right on in, smelling faintly of gardenias, managing to look imperial in a gauzy top, jeans, and ballet flats.

              “Maggie,” Holly explained as she slipped past. “Ghost’s wife.”

              Which made her the
president’s
wife.

              “Got it,” Emmie whispered back.

              “You don’t mind if we barge right in, do you?” Ava asked, rolling her eyes as she went past.

              “Um…no…”

              “Mina,” the next one said with a smile.

              “And Nell. Can’t miss me ‘cause I’m the old bat,” the one with the sun-lined face and the smoker’s voice said with a rough laugh.

              “Don’t say that about yourself,” Mina said.

              “Well, if the flu shits, ya know.”

              Emmie checked that there was no one else coming up the walk, then shut the door and hastily followed them into the kitchen. They seemed to be making themselves right at home.

              Maggie unloaded a heavy grill pan from her canvas tote and then began pulling out packages of steaks. The way she took the prime position in front of the six-burner stove, the way everyone seemed to be a satellite around her, her authority was a silent, unquestioned thing. “You’ve got the tongs?” she asked Mina.

              “Right here.”

              “I’ll get started on the potatoes,” Nell said, pulling Yukon golds from her bag.

              “You know, I could make more than just salad,” Ava said. “I can cook now. Sort of.”             

              “But you make such pretty salad,” Maggie told her.

              “After I get this put together” – Holly was slicing up a pan of brownies – “I can help anyone else.”

              The baby she’d brought in fussed in her carrier, like that wasn’t part of her plan. Lucy – the baby’s name was Lucy, Holly had said.

              Emmie stepped up to the vast island and cleared her throat. All eyes turned toward her, and she wanted to squirm beneath them. Down in the barn, she was all boss, mistress of her domain. Here in the house, not so much.

              “Not that it isn’t lovely to meet you all,” she began.

              Maggie smirked. “But what the hell are we doing in your kitchen?”

              “I would have left out the ‘hell.’”

              The smirk turned into a true smile. “We’re having a club dinner. Welcome aboard, sweetheart, this is your crash course.”

~*~

Walsh remembered to warn Emmie about dinner about a half hour too late. And then he didn’t call because he was afraid he’d get his ass chewed. Part of him loved the idea of his woman waiting at home pissed off. And part of him worried that she didn’t care enough about him to even bother with reaming him out.

              So he was a jumble of uncharacteristic emotions when he pulled up to the big stone Briar Hall house with his brothers.

              Mercy was beside him as they took off their helmets. “You think she’s handling it alright?” he asked with a half-grin and a lifted eyebrow.

              “I expect so,” Walsh said vaguely. “Got a level head.”

              “You didn’t tell her ahead of time though, did you?”

              When he didn’t answer, Mercy laughed. “So wise, and yet so dumb.”

              “Piss off,” Walsh said in a mild voice. “I’ll worry about mine and you worry about yours.”

              “Yeah, but mine grew up in the life,” Mercy reminded, becoming serious. “Yours is gonna take more convincing.”

              Walsh frowned to himself and swung off his bike. So far, he’d felt he’d done a pretty good job with the convincing. The furniture shopping, the spectacular sex. But nothing had been happening. It had just been them, the house, getting to know one another.

              And tonight was all about the club flexing its social muscles.
Look here, little girl, you’re a part of something bigger than yourself. You gotta learn to fit in.

              And she hadn’t asked for any of it.

              Everyone dropped back as they approached the door, even Ghost.

              “Master first,” the president said, and all the guys chuckled.

              Walsh rolled his eyes. “Master of what exactly? Getting bitched at?”

              The front door opened as he was reaching for the knob, and Emmie looked like she always did…except for the eyes. Those were too big, and full of that dissociated look soldiers got during wartimes.

              “Hi, love,” he said carefully, hyper aware of his club brothers crowding on the porch behind him, watching their interaction.

              Emmie’s gaze skipped across all of them before coming back to his face. “Hi.” Her tone was guarded. “We’re hosting the big dinner thing, huh?”

              He winced in apology. “Yeah.”

              She stepped back and opened the door wide. “Okay, boys, beer’s being iced down on the back porch. Dinner will be ready in just a bit.”

              Walsh lingered, watching all the Dogs greet her with nods, hellos, and a couple handshakes. When they’d moved deeper into the house like a herd of wildebeest, he reached for her, laid a hand on her waist.

              She jumped a little. Her expression was still detached and frazzled when she turned to him. “You didn’t tell me in advance.”

              “I’m sorry.”

              She exhaled deeply. “Nothing to do about it now, I don’t guess.”

              He flashed her a wide, cheesy grin. “Make it up to you later?”

              She snorted. “With interest.”

~*~

There were half a dozen collapsible tables in the back of Ava’s truck, and they set them up end-to-end to form a crude dining table that was shamed by the room around it. But since a dining table hadn’t been at the top of their shopping list, it made do. Dinner was a hit: the food was good, the alcohol flowed freely, and there was too much talking over one another for Emmie to have to worry about socializing.

              She studied instead, learning their faces, their speech patterns. Mercy was the big loud storyteller, and the way he outwardly adored Ava was staggering. When Ghost spoke, everyone listened. RJ was a douche, and everyone thought so. Tango and Carter were gorgeous blonde sweethearts; Aidan the overconfident ladykiller. Michael was aggressively quiet, if such a thing were possible, but his face softened when he spoke to his wife or looked at his daughter.

              Walsh had called them a family, all of them together, and as she watched them laugh, talk with food in their mouths, pass around the green beans and potatoes, she could think of no better way to describe them. A big, boisterous family, with obvious love for one another.

              She’d never been a part of anything like it.

              After dinner, the men migrated to the back porch with fresh beers, and Emmie wound up in the kitchen with the women. Ava was told to go sit down and get off her pregnant feet. Holly excused herself to nurse Lucy, and Nell and Mina set about disassembling the tables in the dining room and recruiting some of the younger members to carry them out to the truck.

              With a crawling sensation of dread, Emmie found herself rinsing dishes and passing them to Maggie to be loaded into the dishwasher. They were alone.

              The biker first lady took a breath that sounded like the start of something. Emmie lifted her emotional walls and braced herself.

              “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

              Growing up on a farm, she’d had no experience with being anything besides brutally honest. “It is,” she admitted. “Y’all make for a big group.”

              Maggie snorted. “Be glad nobody spilled anything tonight.”

              “I will.”

              There was a pause filled by the rushing of water on plates.

              “I wasn’t talking about dinner, though,” Maggie said. “That’s the easy part.”

              Emmie sighed. “I figured.”

              “Has Walsh filled you in yet?”

              “I got the ‘club comes first’ speech, if that’s what you mean.”

              “Good.”

              “You’re okay with it then? Knowing your husband’s a part of something so…archaic?”

              “Honey.” Maggie snorted. “It’s not archaic. It’s tradition. Kids nowadays can think what they want, but there’s something to be said for tradition.”

              The part of her that watched the evening news wanted to argue. The part of her that employed classic German training techniques in the arena agreed wholeheartedly.