The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (37 page)

Baskerville Hall

Pub and Eatery

London, England

Fifteen Years Ago

Candles flickered in glass lamps on every table, electric light pooling on the ceiling from the rustic fixtures hanging from the low-beamed ceiling. It was a classic basement pub, a honeycomb of nooks and dining rooms, air shimmering with the greasy scents of fish and chips and hops. A quiet afternoon, only a few patrons tucked away with beer and heaping plates of food, the tellies rumbling to themselves in low voices.

              Walsh wiped a thumb down the condensation on his pint glass, revealing a stripe of golden beer through the haze of frost. “Every year it seems I meet a new brother,” he said to the foam on his beer, frowning to himself. Then he lifted his gaze to the man in the Lean Dogs cut across from him. “You’re the first that’s impressed me.”

              Phillip Calloway smiled, revealing crooked bicuspids. “Now there’s a compliment if I ever heard one.” He sipped his beer. “I wondered if your mum would ever send you my way.”

              “She didn’t. She told me about you. I’m the one who decided to come here.”

              “Just because you’re curious?”

              “Because…” He took a deep breath and when he let it out, he released a bit of the tension he’d been carrying between his shoulders for so long now. “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he admitted. His jockey dream had tanked with the death of that other rider; Rita had ripped his blood out of her body; he’d killed a woman in Afghanistan; and now here he was, jobless, broke, and living with his mother.

              “I have no money,” he told Phillip, bowing his head. “I can’t find a job.” He heaved another deep sigh. “I know I’m supposed to come to you and tell you I’ve got dreams of riding a bike in your army, that I want to join the Dogs more than I want anything in the world. But I figure I owe you the truth. And the truth is, I don’t have nothing much to offer, but I will work. I’ll work hard as I can, to be what you need me to be.”

              That said, he sagged back in the booth, depleted of all mental and physical energy. All he could do now was hope his newly discovered half-brother didn’t boot him out of the pub.

              Phillip studied him a long moment, gaze thoughtful. “I do like for a man to be excited about it,” he said, and Walsh felt his chances crumble to dust. “A young tosser comes in here, loaded with ink, with the rings in his nose and his hair all standing up. And he just bought a new Triumph, and he can’t wait to join the brotherhood. It’s all he thinks and talks about.

              “And you know what? Three weeks later, he’s puking at the sight of blood, and he’s running his mouth when he shouldn’t, and he can’t even gain his prospect patch.”

              He leaned forward, grinning. “Excitement means nothing, King, my boy. It’s a man who comes to the club out of desperation that finds his heart and soul there, on the road, with his brothers. You come to the MC a broken man, and it’ll make you whole again, mark my words.”

Thirty-Nine

Emmie slept and slept, and Walsh knew he ought to wake her, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Her face mottled with bruises, she lay curled tight beneath the covers, eyes darting beneath her lids as she dreamed, or battled nightmares.

              Walsh slipped from bed and went shirtless down to the first floor, made himself tea because he felt nostalgic, fed Dolly. The sun was just lifting over the horizon, lancing the trees with spears of golden light. He followed the porch around to the side of the house for once, where his view was not of the barn and arena – the business side of the place – but of an empty dew-drenched field.

              A pair of does stepped cautiously from the wood and began to crop at the grass, large ears swiveling. Bright red cardinals fluttered through the shafts of sunlight, wings translucent as the rays passed through the feathers.

              Never in his wildest dreams had he thought to end up here, not after the path he’d taken.

             
You come to the MC a broken man, and it’ll make you whole again.

              That Old World wisdom of Phillip’s, something deep and true that reached through the outlaw superficialities and struck wholly human nerves. The scary part of being broken, though, was that you never realized how badly until the pieces started fitting back together again, the new happiness so fragile it took your breath.

              Fragile as soft skin and little woman bones, breakable and vulnerable as the dying spark in a girl’s eyes.

              He didn’t hear Emmie approach, but felt her small hand on his shoulder, his automatic startle soothed by the scratch of her nails at the back of his neck.

              “We never sit on this side of the house,” she said as she settled in beside him on the bench, legs tucked up beneath her. He thought she looked beautiful in her pajamas, her hair loose. But she looked tired, too, still a little frightened around the edges. And her bruises made him murderous.

              “We ought to,” he answered, eyes trained to her. “It’s lovely.”

              “Hmm.” She braced an elbow on the back of the bench, cupped the side of her head in her hand, and winced when she pressed against a lump.

              “Are you hurting? Do you need some aspirin?”

              She motioned for him to stay put. “It’s not as bad if I don’t touch it.”

              “You probably should have stayed overnight in hospital.”

              “I didn’t want to.” Her gaze was fixed on the field, the birds, the does. “Oh, look at the deer.”

              “I want you to tell me if you feel nauseas,” he told her. “Or if your vision goes wonky.”

              She sighed.

“I’m serious.”

              “I’m fine.”

              “No, you bloody well aren’t,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended. He was angry all over again. “You go through what you went through, you aren’t
fine
.”

              She turned to face him finally, and the light in her eyes wasn’t anything he’d expected. Maybe it was the rising sun, but he didn’t think so; it was an inner shine, pouring out toward him.

              “Walsh, you came for me.”

              He stared at her, not understanding.

              “You
came
for me.”

              “Yeah, I did.”

              “Someone took me away, and you and your friends, your brothers, you found me – I don’t even know how – and you came in with guns – Mercy had a damn
sledgehammer
– and you
hurt
and you
killed
people, and you got me out of there. You got me back.” She took a deep breath and her lips quivered; her eyes filled with tears. “In my life, I can’t even get anyone to cover at work for me, and Walsh, you
saved my life
. You…” She shook her head and drew in another shuddering breath.

              “I’m the reason your life was in danger,” he said, throat aching because he knew it was true.

              “No,” she said firmly, through the tears. “No, you’re not. Those people – people I poured all my time and energy into – they put me in danger. My mentor and her son – I meant nothing to them, and they…” She sniffled hard, dabbed at her eyes. “They used me, and they didn’t care if I…”

              “Em–”

              “I don’t have a life, or options, or a husband, or children,” she said miserably, “because I don’t know how to have those things. Because no one’s ever loved me before. Ever. And maybe you don’t really love me, but that’s what it feels like–”

              He slid across the bench to get to her, took the side of her face in one hand and leaned in. She was crying too hard now for him to kiss her, crystal tears sliding down her cheeks. So he tangled his fingers in her hair and pressed his forehead to hers.

              “Em, love, I am completely, devastatingly in love with you. You have to know that by now.”

              She nodded, her forehead pushing against his. “I know you said you’d let-let-let me go…”

              “Not on your life, sweetheart.”

              It was like she’d been holding a tight check on her tears, and she let them loose, melting against him and dissolving into deep, racking sobs.

              He gathered her close and let her soak his skin, hand clasped gently to the back of her head. This was her catharsis, and she had to cry through it, cry all the poison out.

              The warmth of her body seeped into him, through the skin, warming him to the bone. It spread, filled him up, softened a thousand tensions.

              He closed his eyes and thanked God for his club. It had given him the means to support himself and his mother. Had brought him here to this moment, brought him this woman…and given him the tools to defend her.

~*~

“…it’s our belief at this time, based on forensic evidence, that a member of Davis Richards family injected him with the lethal dose of heroin. His daughter Amy, and his grandson Brett, are missing at this time, and we believe they are fleeing police custody.”

              On the small screen of the kitchen TV, Vince Fielding looked grave, drawn, and empty-eyed as he stood on the precinct steps, talking into a reporter’s microphone.

              Maggie turned away from the morning news and set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Ghost, frowning. “Baby, what did you do to Vince?”

              “Why do you think I did anything to him?”

              “Because you’re smiling right now. Smiling
evilly
.”

              “Is that even a word?” he asked, reaching for the pepper. “ ‘Evilly’?”

              “Don’t dodge the question.”

              He shrugged. “Nothing he didn’t deserve.”

              She studied him a moment, lips pursed. “We’re okay, aren’t we?” And he knew she was talking about their family, and the club.
Are we safe? Are we still on top?

              “Yeah, we’re okay, baby,” he said, meaning it down to his bones. “We’re fine.” Because for the time being, they were, thanks to Walsh’s insane farm scheme. He forked up a bite of eggs and saluted the air with it, grinning. “All hail the Skeleton King.”

Forty

Fall was coming. It was in the evening shadows, in the cool undercurrent of the breeze, in the tangy stink of the water. The river had a different smell for every season, distant in the winter and heady in summer. Autumn was nipping at summer’s tail, and Aidan felt the old excitement stirring in the pit of his belly. He loved the cooler weather, the cloudless skies, the crackle of party fires in fifty-five gallon drums. It was a subdued elation this year, one tempered by time, more thoughtful and less exuberant.

Yes, it was time to grow up. The correct way, not the way he’d tried. Because none of his leadership efforts had ever gotten him anywhere. It was time to accept that his role within the club was that of a follower.

He sat on the bench in front of the deserted shop, working on the last of a cigarette, letting the depression of realization wash over him.

When his phone rang, he almost didn’t answer it, but dug it out at the last minute, putting it to his ear without checking the caller ID. “Yeah?”

“Aidan?” Female voice. Hesitant. Maybe even reluctant. Definitely not Tonya.

“Yeah.”

“This is Sam. Sam Walton.”

“Oh.” A strange lightness blossomed in his chest, a release of the tension he’d held when he first answered. “Hi.”

“Yeah, hi. I called over at the auto garage and they said they were swamped, but that they thought you could help me. I was on my way home from school, and I’ve got a flat.”

He flicked the rest of his cigarette away. He felt that instant compulsion to start moving, the same as if Ava or Mags had called for help.  “Yeah. Where are you?”

“I managed to turn off at the Waffle House parking lot.”

“Gimme ten minutes.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” she said with a faint, humorless laugh.

“Hold tight. I’m on the way.”

The guys at the auto garage were busy, but the trucks weren’t, so he swiped the flatbed and headed to Waffle House.

He spotted Sam from a full block away. Her Caprice was backed in at the street side of the parking lot, and she sat on the curb, wind playing with the length of her golden hair while the late sun burnished it. The picture she made – in her prim black slacks and white shirt, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on her nose, with all that rich honey hair – softened him in unexpected ways. She looked like someone’s sister, daughter, friend. She wasn’t a vixen; she was human.

She stood when he double parked the truck in front of her car, dusted off the seat of her slacks in a normal, self-conscious, un-sexy maneuver. He wasn’t used to being around woman who did normal, self-conscious, un-sexy things, he realized. Any woman who wasn’t related to him was nothing but batted lashes, tossed hair, squeezed-up breasts and model poses.

Sam was neither his relative, nor one of his usual females.

And the thought of Tonya sitting on a curb made him want to laugh.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, but didn’t quite meet his stare, looking somewhere over his shoulder.

He didn’t understand her awkwardness, so he said, “Which tire is it?”

She showed him. “I could hear it, while I was driving.”

When he crouched down to look at it, she bent forward at the waist and looked along with him, like she was waiting for him to unveil something she’d missed in her earlier examination. Her hair swept forward and brushed against the side of his face.

“Oh, sorry.” She pulled it back, tossed it over her shoulder.

When he glanced up at her, several things hit him at once. One: he’d never seen her hair loose like this. Two: it smelled amazing. Three: when her glasses slid down her nose, like they had now, she had the biggest, brightest, most colorful blue-green eyes he’d ever seen. And four: bending forward like this, he could see down her shirt, the swells of her breasts held snug in the lace cups of her bra.

Like he was seeing her for the first time, or through a different set of eyes, it dawned on him: Samantha Walton had grown the hell up and she was beautiful.

“Aidan.”

“Uh – what?”

“I asked if you can tell what happened to it.”

“Oh…uh…” He was stammering like an idiot. At least until he refocused on the tire. “Yeah, you don’t have a flat, you’ve got dry rot, babe. The tread just fell off this thing. I’d bet the rest of your tires are in this shape.” He turned a frowning look up to her. “Hasn’t your dad or boyfriend noticed this?” He didn’t care if anyone thought it made him a chauvinist: keeping the cars in good running shape was a man’s job, and he felt suddenly pissed that the men in Sam’s life weren’t keeping up with what was already a pretty shitty ride.

She captured her lower lip between her teeth and again her eyes refused to meet his. “I’m not dating anyone seriously. And my dad’s been dead for a while.”

“Oh.”

She shrugged. “I should have been paying better attention. It’s my fault.”

“Nah. This is a dude area.” He gestured to the car.

She suppressed a laugh behind one ladylike hand. “Dude area? How progressive you are.”

“I ain’t progressive for shit. Pardon my French.” He tapped the rotted tire with his knuckles. “You oughta set up a regular oil change appointment with the shop. They’ll check your tires while you’re there.”

              “Yeah.” She nodded and sighed. “That’s a good idea.”

              “I’m serious now. You can’t get busy with work and just forget to keep up with your car. You don’t wanna be a pretty girl stranded on the side of the road. Some creep-ass outlaw biker’ll throw you on the back of his Harley and take you to Sturgis with him.” He waggled his brows at her and she burst out laughing, like she didn’t want to, but couldn’t help it.

              He grinned; he hadn’t gotten too many female laughs lately.

              She calmed with a groan. “Okay, so, how much is a new set of tires gonna set me back?”

              He winced on her behalf.

              “That bad, huh?”

              He sat back on his rear end, legs extended before him beneath the car. “They’re gonna cost you more than this sniper-mobile is worth.”

              Her distressed expression stirred something in his gut, regret blended with sympathy. He didn’t like giving her the bad news.

              “Why do you drive this thing anyway? You’d get way better gas mileage if you drove a chick car.”

              “Chick car?” Her brows lifted above the rims of her glasses, and her mouth puckered up in patented disapproval.

              It was hot.

              “You know, a Camry or an Accord or something. Women don’t care about the cars they drive.”

              “You’re seriously oh-for-two on the sexist comments thing,” she said, but it looked like she was trying not to grin.

              “I’m cute enough to get away with it,” he said, throwing her his best smile.

              She snorted. “Yeah, you are, that’s the worst part of it.” She sighed and sobered a bit. “I used to have a chick car, actually. I had a little Corolla.”

              He cocked his head, inviting her to explain.

              “My parents bought it for me before I turned sixteen. It was going to be a surprise. My dad took it to the shop to have it all freshened up for me. He was T-boned by a truck on the way home. And it killed him.”

              “Shit,” Aidan breathed. The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he watched her expression grow dark, the light in her pretty blue-green eyes dimming. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

              She offered him a thin non-smile. “It was a long time ago.” She heaved a deep breath. “Anyway, the Caprice was his car. I haven’t been able to part with it.”

              “Damn.”

              “Like I said.” She shrugged. “So, you can change this? And quote me some new tires?”

              “Tell you what: I’ll change this. And the new tires are on me.”

              She coughed in surprise. “What? Oh, no. I can’t let you do that. That’s too–”

              “Sam, let me.” He gave her the smile again, the softer, more sincere version. “It can be my good deed for the week.”

              “I…” Her eyes were bright with argument…and an unmistakable gratitude. “Are you sure? I would feel terrible about taking advantage–”

              “No arguing. I’m the tire fairy, and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

              She smiled, a tired, thankful smile. “Thank you.”

              “My pleasure.”

              She stared at him a moment, maybe a moment too long. Then shook herself. “I’m gonna run inside for a second. I’ll be right back.”

              “Take your time.”

              She was back about five minutes later, as he was pulling the ruined tire off, with a takeout container and two foam cups. “Sweet tea and a whole mess of bacon,” she explained, sitting down on the curb again.

              “Thanks.” He took the offered cup and watched her pop the lid on the takeout container. Inside was nothing but a pile of bacon. He chuckled. “You weren’t kidding.”

              She lifted a piece between two delicate fingers and blushed. “I had them drizzle it with maple syrup. Hope that’s okay.”

              “Never say no to syrup on bacon.” He let her hand him three pieces, so he wouldn’t get his greasy hands all over the rest of it, and crammed it into his mouth gracelessly, watching her nibble at her own.

              “Why are you single?” he blurted, before he could catch himself.

              She choked on her bacon.

              “Shit, I didn’t mean to kill you.”

              She coughed a few times and took a slug of tea. Her voice was hoarse. “Why would you ask
that
?”

              “I…dunno.” He felt his face heat and turned away from her, picking up the spare and fitting it into place. “Just curious, I guess.”

              “Curious why I’m single. Why wouldn’t I be?”

              “Because people aren’t single.”

              She huffed a laugh. “Lots of people are single, Aidan.”

              He reached for the lug nuts he’d set aside and sent her a pointed glance. “Good looking girls aren’t single. Why are
you
single?”

              She shrugged, and again avoided eye contact, cheeks flushing crimson. “I’m a geek. I dunno.”

              He grinned. “You’re bad at flirting, aren’t you?”

              “I’m not just bad at it, I don’t do it. Ever.”

              “Why the hell not? Ditch the glasses and smile a little bit, and you’d have dudes lined up down the block.”

              She sighed. “I don’t want dudes lined up down the block.”

              “Why the–”

              “ – hell don’t I want that?” she finished. She sighed. “Because I don’t like dating. I hate putting on a show and hoping someone will like me, and doing it again the next weekend and the next, with someone new. I don’t want ‘dudes.’ I want a man, who’s all my own. I want ‘the one.’” She gave him a halfhearted smile. “But you probably think that’s lame, don’t you, playboy?”

              That elusive “one,” the partner his father had been telling him about. The stand-beside-you woman who never faltered, and carried you when you weren’t strong enough to stand on your own conviction. He’d actually been searching for that this time, but he’d been so far off base. He’d thought the bad bitch would make a good queen. But bad bitches were just that – bad.

              “No, I don’t,” he said softly.

              Her brows lifted. “You don’t?”

              “Nah. It sounds pretty nice, actually.” He turned back to her tire, securing it into place.

              “The spare’s pretty rotted out too,” he told her when he was finished, and had strapped the ruined one to the back of the flatbed. “So you’ll need to come in as soon as you can to get the new set.”

              She nodded. “I’ll do that.”

              He was getting ready to climb into the truck when her hand on his arm pulled him up short. He glanced down at the sight of her white fingers on the messy scars of his forearms, the distorted lines of tattoos that would never make sense again.

              “Aidan,” she said quietly, and when he met her gaze, she was looking directly into his eyes this time, her pretty irises turquoise in the fading light. “You don’t have to settle for what’s readily available either, you know. You could have your ‘one,’ if you wanted to.”

              He rolled her words through his mind all the way back to the garage. He needed to talk to Mags, he decided. It had been too long since he’d sought her wisdom.

~*~

He got the chance two weeks later, when he walked into the hospital with a blue teddy bear tucked under one arm, ready to meet the newest Lécuyer.

              He’d missed all the rush beforehand, the delivery itself, the cleanup afterward. He didn’t want to see any of that, to be honest. He just liked showing up as Uncle Aidan. They had a private room, and Ava was dozing in the bed. Maggie had Remy on her lap and Mercy was holding the new little bundle, showing him proudly to the grandparents.