The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (31 page)

Thirty-Three

“Tomorrow?” Emmie followed Walsh into the bedroom, trying not to let the sinking sensation in her stomach bleed into her voice. “For how long?”

              He started undoing the buttons on his denim shirt – she’d thought at first it was the same shirt, then realized he had four
identical
shirts while she was doing the laundry – and shrugged. “Couple days there, couple days back, maybe three days layover. Long as it takes to…” His face twitched. “Conduct business.”

              The business part wasn’t what bothered her. This was a purely emotional reaction on her part, and she wasn’t going to do a good job hiding it. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

              He shrugged out of the shirt and tossed it on the hamper, started in on his belt. “Just found out this afternoon when I saw Ghost. Texas needs to step up the timeline, and since I can’t very well tell them no after this” – gesture to the room around them, the house, the farm – “I’ve got to head out in the morning.”

              All the way to Texas. She thought she must feel exactly like an anxious wife. “You’re not traveling alone, are you?”

              He gave her a little smirk as he ditched his jeans. “Worried about me?”

              “Um, yeah! You don’t need to be riding halfway across the country by yourself. What if something happens to your bike? What if you get attacked?”

              “Attacked?”

              “Well I don’t know how many enemies you have. It could be like a bad eighties movie out there.”

              He laughed.

              “Walsh–”

              He stepped up and took her gently by the arms. “Love, I’m not going alone,” he said, sobering. “There’s a whole group of us going, with a truck, in case something happens to a bike. I’ll be fine. The trick will be you not getting into some kind of massive trouble while I’m gone.”

              “I am
not
a troublemaker.”

              “Beg to differ.” He kissed her and stepped back. “I’ve got to shower ‘fore we go.”

              “Go where?”

              “Oh.” He paused on his way to the bathroom. “Club party tonight. A send-off before we go tomorrow.”

              “Club party.” Her chest tightened. “And what does that entail, exactly?”

              He grinned. “Guess you’ll find out.”

~*~

Aidan caught his reflection in the frosted elevator doors, and noted his vicious expression. He looked like his father: brows drawn low, jaw set, eyes bright and dark like an animal’s. A hungry predator, one that was tired of being treated like a Golden retriever.

              He hated Tonya’s building, he decided, as the elevator arrived and dropped him into a terrazzo hallway identical to the one on the first floor. Everything spoke of restraint, from the clean lines of the wall sconces to the exact angles of the apartment numbers, to the walls the color of eggshells. Someone else might have called it masculine. Tasteful. Expensive. He called it pretentious and douchey. He’d grown up in rooms crowded with furniture, full of warmth, laugher, and color. What must Tonya think of his skin, if she lived someplace like this? All his ink, his roses, the scars on his forearms where the tats had been power-sanded off by the asphalt.

              He rapped loudly on her door when he reached it, drawing a disapproving glare from a passing resident. He stared the guy down until he looked away.

              The door opened and out rolled a cloud of subtle, high dollar perfume. Tonya braced a hand in the open doorframe and angled her body in a way that showed off her lithe figure, tonight wrapped in second-skin green silk.

              “Hi,” she greeted in a low purr.

              The picture she made did everything for him physically: the fuck-me shoes, the glittering jewelry, the glossy coiffed hair, the perfect makeup.

              But Aidan had a coldness in his gut. He’d thought this was a strong woman, self-possessed, driven, who knew what she wanted. He’d thought she might be a little like Mags, that quasi-sister stepmother female figure who reigned supreme among his ideal thoughts of women.

              He’d thought wrong, though. This was an expensive bitch who liked to fuck bad boys.

              “Hey,” he returned, voice bored, face locked down as before.

              Her head tilted, seductive smile freezing a second. “Hi,” she repeated. She leaned in close, her hand came down off the doorframe, and she reached for him –

              Her nostrils flared. “You didn’t shower.” Her eyes flooded with accusation, distaste, disapproval.

              He grinned, and he knew it was nasty. “Nah. I’m all dead grass, motor oil, and sweat right now, baby doll. Come here and take a good whiff.”

              Her eyes narrowed. “I told you–”

              “And I’m telling you that you gotta get your fancy ass in gear if you’re going out with me tonight. Otherwise, see ya around.”

              She glared at him, eyes shooting sparks, and her lips worked like she was forming insults to throw at him. But ultimately, she slammed her apartment door behind her and set off toward the elevator at his side.

              “You stink,” she said, and her voice was full of leashed excitement.

              So she was one of those, the big bad bitch who secretly wanted to be dominated. Ugh.

              “You like it, don’t you?” he accused. He faced her as they stepped onto the elevator, and the energy shimmering off of her danced across his skin like electric currents. “You wanna act like a guy’s supposed to dress nice and act right and take you to expensive dinners and shit. But really…” The doors slid shut on them and he leaned into her face, saw the spark of arousal in her eyes, watched her dampen her lips. Her breasts heaved as she sucked in a breath. “Really,” he said softly, “you just wanna be put up against a wall and have your brains fucked out. You’re nothing but a bitch in heat.”

              Her hand hovered over the emergency stop button. “I ought to hit you for that,” she said through her teeth, but her expression gave her away; she was thrilled.

              “But you won’t,” he said smugly. “’Cause tonight, I’m gonna give you the real biker experience, and you can’t fucking wait for it. Your panties are already damp, aren’t they?”

              She licked her lips again. “I’m not wearing any.”

~*~

Walsh had never brought a woman to the clubhouse before. It didn’t matter that he was almost forty, that the woman in question was his old lady, and that no one was going to razz him about it – he was nervous as a kid on the way to prom.

              “So this is the clubhouse,” he said, though that had to be self-explanatory.

              It was a small party, but some of the New York guys were still in town, so the lights were strung up beneath the pavilion and the music was thumping.

              Beside him, Emmie had an arm looped through his, but didn’t seem frightened. Just curious. A little tired maybe, after a long day’s work.

              “You’ve met all the local guys,” he told her. “But there’s some from out of town.”

              “Okay.”

              “And there’s probably some stuff going on in there. Smoking. Lots of drinking. There might be a stripper. And the club girls will be there, for sure.”

              Emmie turned a laughing look up to him. “Are you worried I’m going to freak out?”

              He shrugged. “No.”

              She laughed. “I’ve made it this far. Do you think a little smoke and tit show is going to send me running?”

              “You never know.” Because much less offensive things had sent others running.

              She leaned in closer, propped her chin on his shoulder. “Well, it’s not.”

              He’d have to trust her on that, because there was no going back.

~*~

“You’re stuck in your head again tonight.” Jasmine was sitting so close, his arm wedged against her breasts, that he felt the slick slide of her freshly glossed lips against his ear.

              “Just tired.” He took a long swig of his beer and wished it was something harder.

              Or maybe red wine.

              Fuck him.

              “You’re tired a lot lately.” True concern in her voice, in her touch, as she reached to push a stray piece of his hair back. “Something on your mind? Someone?”

              They were sitting on a couch against the wall, as the party rocked around them. Blaring music, clink of pool balls, barks of laughter. No one was paying them any attention.

              He turned his head and saw the concern in her face.

              She’d spent hours on her hair and makeup: the big barrel curls, the exact black eyeliner and shadow, the glistening sheen of her lips.

              “I don’t tell you how beautiful you are enough,” Tango said quietly. “You are, you know? Absolutely gorgeous.”

              She smiled and batted her lashes. “Well thanks for noticing, baby.” Then grew serious again. “But I’m worried about you. I don’t see you much anymore.”

              Regret speared through him. “I’m sorry.”

              She pressed in closer, so their lips were almost touching. “Do you still like girls?” she whispered.

              “I always liked girls. Always will.” And that was the truth. He’d wanted women from the beginning, to know the secrets hidden beneath their clothes and taste their impossibly soft skin, but life had dealt him a different hand, and he’d spent those developmental teenage years having his sexuality explored for him, by force most times. He’d been conditioned, until pain and pleasure became the same thing, and attraction something that was only about his cock and the tangling of bodies, and nothing emotional.

              There had been times, though, even during the dark days, when a man would bring his girlfriend into the club with him. Times when both of them had wanted to use him.

              And then there had been Jazz, and the club girls, and he’d been awkward and fumbling at first, because he hadn’t known what to do with his muddled proclivities.

              Jasmine’s hand landed in his lap; she cupped his cock through his jeans. “I miss you when you’re not around, you know.”

              “I know.”

              She grinned. “And you never did ask Aidan, did you? You promised me.” She pretended to pout, and smiled again. “Cheer me up, and maybe it’ll cheer you up, too.”

              Tango glanced across the room to where Aidan stood with his furious-faced, model-looking rich girl. “I think he’s got his hands full tonight.”

              Jazz snorted. “She’s pretty, I’ll give her that. But you can smell the crazy bitch on her from all the way over here.”

              He laughed and it felt good; God knew when the last time had been.

              Jasmine’s hand tightened on him. “That’s what I like to hear.” She reached for the button of his jeans.

              He moved to stop her, and she swatted his hand away. “Jazz, not in front of everyone…”

              “Relax, baby,” she said as she reached inside his jeans. “No one’s watching.”

              But they were there, though. In the same room, just feet away, as her fingers curled around his cock and gave it a firm tug.

              The laughter died away in his chest, the smile sliding off his face. He pressed his boot heels into the floor and lifted his hips because his body wanted her touch, any touch, all touches.

              But he was still nothing but an exhibition, a cock that needed stroking, and not much of a man at all.

              It was killing him. Slowly, since the beginning, an acid eating away at every foundation.

              It was only a matter of time before there was nothing left.

~*~

“I’ve never seen Walsh with a chick!” the brunette with the huge breasts and the excessive eye makeup said, leaning in closer. Chanel, she’d said her name was, like the perfume.

              Emmie hadn’t quite known what Walsh meant by “club girls,” but when this woman had plunked down beside her, she’d learned. These were groupies, who performed menial tasks because they were hooked on bikers.

              “He doesn’t ever give us the time of day,” Chanel went on, waving her hand like she couldn’t believe Walsh would have done such a thing. She grinned at Emmie. “But he’s married! Oh my God. I totally don’t believe it.”

              “Yeah…um…we’re married. So yeah.” She sipped her wine to fill her vocabulary void. She wouldn’t say that she was spooked, and she for sure could handle the atmosphere, but she would admit to being a touch overwhelmed. The music was louder than she’d thought, the jostling bikers rowdier, and there was in fact a stripper, though she appeared to be one of the regular groupies, because RJ reached up, grabbed one of her nipple tassels and pulled her down into his lap, at which point she squealed in delight and shoved her tongue in his mouth.