Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2)

Tastes Like Candy
Lean Dogs Legacy Book II

Lauren Gilley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Names and characters are the property of the author and may not be duplicated.

TASTES LIKE CANDY

ISBN -13:
978-1533196316

Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Gilley

Cover photograph Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Gilley

HP Press®
Atlanta, GA

All rights reserved.

The Lean Dogs MC

The Dartmoor Series
Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke
Loverboy
(coming soon)

The Lean Dogs Legacy Series
Snow In Texas
Tastes Like Candy
Prodigal Son
(coming soon)

TASTES
LIKE
CANDY

Prologue

Funny thing about legends. Generally, they’re more powerful than facts. Facts are specific, reliable, unquestionable. All the best decisions are fact-based. Facts save lives. They topple empires. They run the world, one precise tidbit at a time.

              But there’s no romance in a fact. No quiet hum of nostalgia. Legends live in hearts, and not in heads. And when the sky goes dark, and the mind stops working, it’s the legend that comes roaring up, white-fanged and open-jawed, to meet the imagination.

              Men win wars.

              Legends inspire them to do so.

              And some legends…some are still living…

~*~

She was seven the first time she met him. Though maybe “met” wasn’t right, because he’d taken no notice of her, circling his opponent in a boxing ring made of men, the fierce light of steel drum fires flickering across his skin. She was sitting on a table made of old oak barrels with a smooth vinyl top, legs drawn up and hugged to her chest against the cold.

              Beside her, with the great wisdom of a nine-year-old, her Uncle Tommy leaned over and said, “That’s Candyman. He can take out anybody with one punch.” He demonstrated, swinging his small fist through the air so hard he almost fell off the table.

              Michelle giggled. “Just like you, huh?”

              He elbowed her. “Watch and see.”

              Candyman. What a name that was. And looking at him, she could find no resemblances to caramels, or chocolates, or sweets of any kind. He was tall, fair-haired, blue eyed, and roped with heavy muscle. He grinned at his opponent and it was a wicked gesture, bearing the promise of bad things, like when one of the customers in the pub smiled just before he broke a bottle over someone’s head. He was young, too; twenty-six, she’d heard someone say. But so much could happen in twenty-six years in the MC world – in the nineteen years that separated this American fighter from her.

              “Watch,” Tommy repeated, leaning forward, hands knotted together in excitement. “Watch when he–”

              Candyman took a massive step toward the man he was fighting – Cagey, one of the recently patched youngsters – and caught him in the chin with a quick left jab. It was startling.

              “Oooohhh!” A collective exclamation from the audience.

              “This is it, boys!” Will shouted. “Here we go. Now it’s happening.”

              Cagey’s head snapped back and he stumbled a step, face screwed up with pain. Candyman had large fists; doubtless they hurt. Cagey recovered, though, young and elastic, and began circling again, looking for an open spot in the American’s defenses.

              He wasn’t going to find one.

              Candyman feinted, then backtracked, pulled Cagey’s attention, and landed another jab.

              Another shout from the crowd, edging toward a roar.

              “Do it,” Tommy chanted. “Do it, do it, let’s see it!” Blue eyes bright with excitement, the fire dancing in them.

              Something strange happened, before the hit came. It brought to mind a trip to the beach in Brighton, when Daddy had taken her and Auntie Raven, the white cliffs rising high behind them as they chased pebbles out with the tide. The way the water rushed out. That sense of a breath being taken, held, before the waves slipped over the invisible hand of Mother Nature and came rippling back, cold as ice across their bare toes. That moment. The pause. The edge. She felt it now. Held her breath. Felt a tingling in the pit of her stomach and in the ends of her fingers and toes.

              Just a moment.

              The edge.

              And then Candyman threw a right hook that caught Cagey square in the mouth, and landed him like a sack of flour onto the hard cobbles of the alley.

              A delighted, bloodthirsty cheer from the crowd.

              “Oh!” Tommy shouted. He nudged her hard. “Did you see? Did you see?”

              She had a brief glimpse, before his brothers closed in around him, of Candyman grinning broadly, face glowing with perspiration, blue eyes alight with the thrill of victory. Then he was swallowed up by cuts and upraised bottles.

              “Did you see?” Tommy asked again.

              “I saw.”

~*~

Legends. Sometimes, even if you were raised among then, spoon-fed them – the black dogs and hellhounds of English crossroads, and the men who tattooed the beasts into their skin – sometimes you still didn’t expect to become one yourself.

              That isn’t the sort of thing you
plan for
…

One

London, Present Day

Michelle

“Chelle. Chelley, can you hear me?” A touch against her throat, fingers searching for her pulse. “Michelle.”

              She knew that voice.

              Wait…what was happening…

              The familiar dry-leaf crackle sound of fire brought her back to full awareness. Panic slammed into her, a weight against her chest, her eyes opened, and smoke filled her lungs.

              Oh God…

              Tommy knelt over her; his face was a mask of soot, and set within it, the familiar blue eyes the two of them shared. Panicked; he looked panicked. She’d always been able to read him like a book, the two of them close as siblings. The uncle who was only two years her senior, thanks to the insane reproductive efforts of her grandfather.

              Smoke swirled behind his head, obscuring the street, the facades of the townhouses.

              His voice sounded very far away when he said, “Chelle, can you get up? We’ve gotta move.”

              She nodded, sucked in a deep breath, and launched into a violent coughing fit. She did manage to sit up, though, and then Tommy’s strong arm slid around her and he helped her to her feet.

              Chaos. The tidy street with its iron fences and brick-faced townhouses, sedate moments before, now boiled with confusion and too many bodies. It had been a flower vendor show, pop-up tents and stalls lining both sides of the street in front of the gentile pubs, shops, and homes. Smoke rolled in thick, choking clouds. Ruined flowers lay like confetti, colorful carnage against the pavement. People were screaming. She glimpsed bodies through the haze, some standing, some not.

              “Where’d they go?” she asked, leaning against him, scrabbling to follow as he towed them away.

              He scanned the street, what they could see of it, face still frantic. “I don’t know.”

              They were talking about the men dressed in black.

              Like them.

             
Nothing
like them.

              They had to get away. The mission had gone sideways. They had to move, couldn’t be found, couldn’t risk the club.

              Tommy moved faster and she tried to stem her coughing, tried to keep up.

              “Do you have it still?” he asked, twisting to look down at her as they moved. “Do you–”

              Michelle saw the man a fraction of a second before he moved, rearing suddenly out of the gloom and smoke, swathed head to toe in black, face covered save for his dark eyes. Her gaze collided with his, the sheer unexpectedness of it riveting her. She saw the glitter of violence radiating off him like an aura.

              “Tommy!” she screamed.

              But the knife was already in motion, glimmering in the dimness, flashing through the air and sinking between Tommy’s ribs.

              “
Tommy
!”

~*~

It had begun like any other task, a photograph slid across her father’s ancient cherry wood desk. It was raining, fat drops sliding down the window, casting shadows across the rug in the upstairs room above Baskerville Hall.

              “Thumb drive. Whose this time?”

              Phillip Calloway, president of the London chapter of the Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club cut an impressive figure on the other side of the desk, backlit by silvery afternoon light. Save Tommy, he was the tallest of Devin Green’s brood of misbegotten nine children, and he was also the oldest. Which meant he’d spent most of his life looking out for his siblings. Michelle had always known this, accepted it, and never once felt slighted by the man’s assumption that she had been born grownup, and could handle just about anything he slung her way. It was a compliment, to be honest. Her mother’s passing had hit him hard. Someone had needed to step up and be the woman of the house. The woman of the club. She’d never viewed it as a choice, but a natural progression. No trips to the circus, face sticky with sweets, tugging on Daddy’s hand and begging for one last souvenir? No problem. She’d never needed that.

              “Robert McAndrew,” he answered. “Retired from the force for two years. Former Inspector.”

              “Really?” She felt her brows go up.

              He smiled. “Your old dad’s got some friends in high places, love. Don’t look so doubtful.”

              “I’m not.” She smiled back. “Okay, so. Particulars?”

              “He and his missus live one floor up from an antique shop. They’re out of town until next Tuesday…”

              She jotted mental notes, committing the address to memory, Tommy nodding along beside her as he did the same. They wouldn’t write it down; they never did. Too much risk involved.

              “Thank you, darling,” Phillip said, a glimmer of deep affection and gratitude shining in his eyes.

              “Ah, s’no trouble, sweetheart,” Tommy said.

              Phillip chucked a pen at him. “Not you, you idjit.”

              Grinning, Tommy said, “Are we dismissed, Papa?”

              “Yeah, Get the hell out of my sight.”

              Tommy slung an arm across her shoulders. “Come on, niece. I’ll buy you a drink downstairs.”

              She snorted and gave her dad a parting wave as they left the office. “The day you pay for drinks downstairs is the day someone patches me in.”

              “Don’t be sour,” he said, giving her a squeeze. “You’ve got the better end of the bargain.”

              “I don’t have to prove I’ve got balls?”

              “You don’t have to get yelled at by your old man every time you fuck something up.”

              “But see, I don’t fuck things up.”

              “Right.” His smile was wry.

              Booted footfalls muffled by the runner, they made their way down the hall, past the open doors of sitting rooms and more offices. This was the business heart of the club. There was a separate clubhouse, but it was used less and less, the Dogs slowly shifting any and all club activity to the suites above the pub. The third floor was being converted to bedrooms, and Phillip had commissioned a new kitchen.

              A change Michelle was glad for. The clubhouse was a sad, corrugated steel affair slapped together in the eighties, with cheap furnishings and a certain sex and spilled-liquor smell that couldn’t be scrubbed from the boards. Baskerville Hall – both the basement pub and everything above it – was an old and storied place. Supremely English, so it always tickled her little patriotic heart. Each doorframe, every faded bit of curtain, held secrets. Every dark nook in the pub was stacked with confidential whispers.

              Home and heaven, all rolled into one.

              Downstairs, a few members sat at the bar, and hailed Tommy with semi-drunk calls. But mostly it was just patrons tonight, faces butter-colored in the glow of table candles. The low, beamed ceiling and the high backs of the booths caught sound, and muffled it, pressed it deep into the wood, kept safe from prying ears. The crowded pub was just a murmur of sound, punctuated by the clink of glasses hitting the bar and the low rumble of the rugby games on the tellies.

              Tommy grabbed them beers, declined the offer to join his club brothers, and followed her back to one of the deepest, darkest, most well-hidden booths. The candle in its glass globe was brighter than the lamp overhead. A portrait of Phillip, Ghost Teague, and Skip Weston adorned the wall, a shot taken at Sturgis eons ago when they’d all been young men.

              Tommy opened his cut and got comfortable. Drained half his beer in three long gulps before he said, “You alright?” and belched quietly against his fist.

              Well she hadn’t been expecting
that
. “Yeah. Why?”

              He sent her a level look, eyes unnerving in the way of all his siblings. “People are talking, Chelle. You know it.”

              A cold, uneasy feeling washed through her. “Really?” But she knew; she’d caught snatches of conversation in the hallways, here in the pub.

              He tipped his head.
Nice try
.

              Michelle sighed and took a sip of beer to stall. It was ice cold, light, with a citrus aftertaste. But it brought her no comfort. “What are they saying about me?”

              Some of the genetic coolness faded, and he glanced away from her, grimacing.

              “That bad, is it? Lovely.”

              “No, it’s not bad.” His expression softened as he looked at her. “They’re just wondering.”

              “About Dad? Or about me?”

              She officially hated the way he looked at her, the way he seemed sympathetic, when there should have been no reason for that. “Don’t make me say it,” he pleaded.

              “What? That asking your daughter to do club recon for you ‘just isn’t done’?”

              “It’s not recon.”

              “And I wasn’t asked,” she reminded. “I volunteered, same as you. I’m good at this.” Her voice quivered with emotion, and she worked to clamp down on it. “It’s the way I know how to feel useful.”

              “Michelle.” He made to reach toward her, then thought better of it and wrapped both hands around his glass. “You’re useful just being you, love. This isn’t your club and you don’t need to serve it like this.”

              “You always say I’m a better partner than anyone could have asked for, man or woman. Change your mind?” she asked with a pained smile.

              “No.” Emphatic shake of his dark head. “But it’s dangerous what we’re doing. If something happened to you…” Another head shake.

              “Is this just now occurring to you?” she asked, quietly, “or is everyone’s gossip getting the best of you?”

              He frowned. “They make good points.”

              Points like, as a woman, she had no business handling anything even vaguely club-related. Because motorcycle clubs were built on strong foundations of tradition, legend, nostalgia, and masculinity. Women were the support system, the backbone, the hostesses, the menders of torn pockets, and the comforting arms that went around strong male shoulders in the dark of night. Old ladies were trusted and tasked from time-to-time, but never as often nor as wholeheartedly as Michelle. Her father had raised Tommy alongside her, and treated them like two sons instead of one daughter and a half-brother. He had never been one to shut her out because of her gender. Once upon a time, the club had been okay with that.

              But the club was changing. As Phillip’s most trusted generals and lieutenants aged, fell sick, grew too arthritic to ride, or were thrown into prison, new recruits were pouring into the chapter. New recruits who weren’t her family and didn’t see why she had any reason to fight in their wars.

              It was heart wrenching, suddenly, to realize that Tommy had started listening to the stupid wankers.

              “If you don’t want to work with me anymore, just say so.”

              He heaved an exasperated breath. “Aren’t you tired of it? Isn’t there some…some…nice young man you’d like to concentrate on?”

              “Tom, you’re twenty-eight. You’re not allowed to say ‘nice young man.’”

              “Well isn’t there?”

              She sighed again. “Good night.” And slid out of the booth, leaving her barely touched drink behind.

              He didn’t follow her, thankfully, and she grabbed her umbrella from the rack by the door and let herself out into the rain-washed night.

              Cars rumbled past on the street, splashing in the puddles, headlights yellow smears that forced her eyes away. It wasn’t smart to keep your head down, but she did, rain pattering against the umbrella, muffling the usual city sounds.

              She ought to hail a cab, she thought. But she pressed on, head down, leading with the umbrella. A few fellow pedestrians yelped when she almost skewered them with the tips of the ribs.

              The bell above Maude’s jangled a cheerful greeting when she pushed through the door. The blinds were down at half-mast in the front bay windows of the shop, and inside it was toasty and leather-scented, the light a low, glowing amber that glided along the smooth seats of the chairs on display. Forest green, brick red, burnt sienna, and a deep ochre – leathers of every color. And then the velvet Victorian pieces with the sculpted backs and legs. Desks crammed cheek-by-jowl at odd angles, but somehow pleasing to the eye. The walls were covered in shelves, and on them vases of every size, color, and shape imaginable. Lamps and shades of all varieties. A delightful little furniture shop, that was Maude’s. And behind the counter in back, the proprietor, her Uncle Albie.

              He was tinkering with something on the blotter when she came in, and glanced up briefly as she walked up to the counter.