The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (33 page)

              It was midnight, and they sat side-by-side on a bench out in front of the clubhouse, the damp night air clearing the secondhand smoke from their nostrils. Their elbows rubbed together, and it was a casual, familiar, comforting touch. It felt like the beginning of coexistence, something more lasting than just sex or protection.

              She took a deep breath that sounded tired, but wasn’t a sigh. “So that’s a club party.”

              “Yep.”

              “Holly and Ava were home with their kids?”

              “Yeah. Ava usually comes when she can.”

              “But she’s very pregnant.”

              “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not always like this. Some parties are wilder. Some are more like family dinners. Just depends.”

              “Hmm.” She nodded, and it sent her shimmering blonde curls falling forward along her face. She pushed them back and gave him a searching look. “Walsh, why do I get the impression you’re still nervous?”

              “Ah…” He exhaled loudly. “Shit.” He faced her, feeling stupid, feeling exposed, unsure how else to do it. This normal, decent, dedicated girl was prying up the veneer of club, getting to the Kingston beneath, and that was terrifying, and he was ill-equipped to handle it. So he had to be honest, for lack of any other plan. “I’m waiting on you to disappear on me,” he said, grimly. “I’m waiting on you to decide it’s too much, load up your horse, and get as far away from all of this as you can.”

              She smiled faintly, and her shoulders slumped. “Glad to hear you’re so confident in my loyalty.”

              “I’ve never seen loyalty anywhere outside the club.”

              She studied him a moment, absorbing the statement. “That might be true, but I wish it wasn’t. Because loyalty exists in other places. It has to…I want it to.” Her voice faded and she glanced away, across the dark parking lot. “Walsh, I’ve spent my whole life working toward something that was never really there. I didn’t ever have a goal, really. I was just loyal. Sometimes I wish that was a habit I could shake.” Her eyes came back to him. “But I can’t. I’m hardwired. And my life may have taken a turn, but I haven’t. I’m your wife. I’m an MC old lady now. And I never thought I’d be one of those, but I’m not one to back down from a challenge,” she said, firmly. “So I’m telling you right now that I’m not going anywhere. I’m not your Rita. And I’m not my mother. I’m here, Walsh. And I’m staying.”

              When he put his arm around her, she came up into his lap; she opened her mouth against his when he kissed her.

             
His
. Like a benediction inside his head:
his, his, his
.

Thirty-Four

The woman patting him down was stunning: African-American with caramel hair and a body of feminine curves not disguised by her jeans and casual t-shirt.

              “Careful there, Foxy Brown,” he told her as her hands slid to his front pockets. “You might find something there you can’t handle.” He laughed.

              She glanced up at him through her lashes as she felt down both his legs, face expressionless. “Call me that again, and I’ll handle it right off your pasty-ass self with a dull knife and feed it to you.”

              Harlan forced the smile off his face. “Noted.”

              She stood, which put her a good inch taller than him. She was a large woman, and her gleaming arms were padded with muscle. She wasn’t an attack dog, or a bodyguard, or one of the hired guns, was just an assistant of some sort, but was threatening, and whatever else she did for her boss, she took care of herself too.

              “Come with me,” she said, and led him forward down the hall, between a matched pair of thugs with biceps the size of Christmas hams.

              Don had beefed up security since their last encounter. Beefed up his entire enterprise, by the looks of it. From a tumbled-down house to this place: an abandoned, renovated strip mall, four storefronts converted into one giant office, all but a few of the streetside windows bricked up for safety’s sake.

              Foxy led him down a tight hallway that switched back again and again, forks splitting it here and there. Another security measure. They arrived at door with a key card which she swiped them through, and into a spacious room tricked out with plush chairs, couches, tables arranged with magazines, potted plants. A wall-mounted TV was playing CNN without the sound.

              “Wait here,” she told him, and used her card to go through a second door, leaving him alone.

              Sort of alone. Four cameras, one in each corner of the ceiling, watched him.

              Okay, so Don was doing
well
.

              The second door opened and Foxy stuck her head through. “You can come in,” she said, with obvious contempt. She pushed the door wide and motioned him through it – damn, she smelled nice. Like vanilla and flowers.

              But then all thoughts of her vanished, as he got a look at the room, and the man behind the desk.

              They were in Nashville, and somehow, the office reflected that. Bright red plush carpet, black and white Victorian wallpaper. Sleek chrome and glass furnishings, and on the walls, lit up with playbill bulbs, were country music concert posters. It was like the lobby of a theater. Flashy, tacky, but somehow fitting, given the city. And Don Ellison – a complete contradiction.

              Tall, built like a bull, square-jawed, he looked like a lineman, or an escaped convict who’d enjoyed his yard time, rough, grizzled, and out of place in his sport coat and open-throated oxford.

              “Grey.” The man’s voice was a whole truckload of gravel dumping out into the room. “I heard you got canned.”

              Harlan ground his molars. “Word travels fast, then.”

              “I have eyes and ears.”

              Which was exactly why he was here. You went up against the Lean Dogs, and by proxy, Shaman, then you needed to bring the big guns to the table.

              “So do I,” Harlan said. “And I hear you’d like to move into east Tennessee.”

              Don shrugged. “Who doesn’t want to expand?”

              “I hear you’re thinking of taking on the Dogs. Maybe even your old boss.”

              For about five years, Don had worked as one of Shaman’s most successful dealers, before he’d decided to break out on his own. According to the rumors in the Bureau, the split had been a nasty one, and now there was no love lost between the two men. No one truly understood how many pies Shaman had his fingers in, or what his ultimate endgame was. But Don was a straightforward guy. He wanted to make money, and he wanted to expand.

              “I hear you took out one of Ghost Teague’s dealers, and the dumbass doesn’t even know it was you.”

              Don’s face creased heavily as he frowned. “You’ve been talking to that Richards kid. That little shit.”

              “I have.” Harlan stepped closer to the desk, growing more excited as he drew on his research. “He’s got a bad case of talking too much, and he told me some things. He said you’ve got ties to the Gannon & Gannon development firm. That you were going to use that condo village to get a toehold in Knoxville, fly in under the radar.”

              The lack of reaction meant Harlan was right, and he grinned triumphantly. “Are you gonna take out Teague’s dealers one at a time? Is
that
how you think you’ll get him to sit up and take notice of you?”

              No comment.

              Harlan braced both hands on the desk. “Let me help you, just one old friend looking after another. You want into Knoxville, you want that land, and I can help you get it.”

              The dealer popped one eyebrow. “What’s in it for you?”

              “I get to watch Ghost Teague’s world fall apart.”

Thirty-Five

He woke her at two, hands skimming over her skin in the dark, turning her toward him. “Say goodbye to be properly.” A smoky whisper against her throat.

              It was a slow, lingering joining, in their married bed.
Lovemaking
, she thought fleetingly, before the pleasure crashed over her. Is that what this was?

              He left before dawn and she kissed him on the front porch, clasping onto his shirt as he drew away, not releasing him until the last moment. He called her
love
again and her chest squeezed.

              How could she miss him before he was even gone?

              By noon, the daily grind had distracted her, so she wasn’t a total sappy mess of emotion. Becca was sick, and the extra work kept her running.

              At least until lunch, when Walsh called her from a gas station on the Alabama/Mississippi border.

“How’d you sleep after I left?” Walsh’s accent was magnified through the phone, for some reason. Deeper and rougher; it made her toes twitch inside her boots.

“Like a baby.” She held the phone between her cheek and shoulder while she oiled a bridle. “You know, for a no-account outlaw, you have the softest mattress.”

“Hmph.”

She laughed. “Well not no-account really. I can account for you.”

“When you’re not sleeping like a baby.”

She grinned to herself. “Are you worried I don’t miss you enough?”

“No.”

“Are you lying right now?”

“Maybe a little.”

It warmed her, inside and out, to hear his voice, to know that he disliked their separation. So many little things other women took for granted, that she’d never had, that Kingston Walsh was giving her.

“I miss you plenty,” she said, putting him out of his misery. “How’s the trip going?”

“We’re making good time. Aidan caught the biggest bug right in the mouth,” he said, a laugh teasing at his voice. “It was brilliant.”

“Poor Aidan,” she said, chuckling. Tonya had already been by that morning, unusually subdued, and Emmie had gotten the impression things between the princess and the biker hadn’t ended well last night.

“How’s it going there?” he asked. She could hear voices in the background, a bike engine starting, and figured he couldn’t talk much longer.

“Fine. Same old same old. Becca’s sick, and Fred went to get lunch, so I’m cleaning tack.”

There was a pause. “You’re there alone?”

“Yes, and I’m fine, Walsh.”

An engine revved on his end of the line.

“Do I need to let you go?”

“Uh, yeah, actually. But I’ll call again next time we stop. You
be careful
. I’m serious. I don’t like you there all alone.”

“I know, I know.” She heard the low drone of a car engine outside. “Look, I’ve gotta go, too, that’s my next lesson pulling up.”

They traded goodbyes – there was a distinct sense of something missing when neither of them said “I love you” – and she slipped the phone into her pocket, put the bridle away, stood.

“Hello,” she called as she stepped out into the aisle. “How are you–”

Amy Richards stood in the middle of the barn, mouth set in a firm line beneath her giant sunglasses.

“Amy. Hi.” There was a knot in her throat, suddenly, and she swallowed it down. “It’s…nice to see you.”

“Hello, Emmie.” Amy adjusted her sunglasses, probably because they were about to slide off and take her nose with them.

“Um…” Old habits, it turned out, were indeed hard to fight. The part of her that was Emmie Walsh, who lived here, and presided over the place, and who hated what this family had done to her wanted to throw this bitch off the property, call the cops if necessary. But the part of her that had followed Amy like a devoted lap dog cringed at the idea of being rude to her mentor of almost twenty years.

“You’ve made yourself right at home here, haven’t you?” Amy asked coolly. “Living in the house, fucking that biker, running my barn like it’s yours.”

A bright spark of anger flared to life inside her, and Emmie grabbed onto it. She was no one’s lackey anymore, and she was done acting like one. “It is mine. You were all ready to throw it away, have the whole thing bulldozed, and then you want to act like I’ve taken something from you? I know all about your fiancé’s connection to the developers.”

Amy stiffened.

“I never did anything but work for you. I took care of your horses, cleaned your tack, groomed for you at shows, handled all your emotional meltdowns, and I did it all with a smile on my face. You know what, Amy? I’m not smiling anymore. What you did to me was awful, and I’m not going to say ‘yes, ma’am’ and take it anymore.

“And we both know what happened to Davis,” she said, taking an aggressive step forward, ramping up. “I loved your dad like a grandfather, and you accuse me of pumping him full of heroin? Killing him? There’s only one druggie around here, and it’s your worthless son.”

“Shut up,” Amy hissed through her teeth. “Shut up, bitch.”

              “Or what? You’ll fire me?” Emmie laughed. “No, I’ve bottled this up for too long. You’re selfish, and petty, and you’re a user. And Brett is nothing but a complete waste of oxygen. He’s offensively useless as a human being.” She laughed again, a high giggle. “God that feels good to say. Do you know that? I’ve been the dog you kicked for so long, but you can’t kick me anymore, Amy.”

              Amy trembled with rage. “You’ll wish you hadn’t said any of that,” she bit out.

              Emmie rolled her eyes –

              And something struck her in the back of the head. The pain flared white and brilliant.

              And then black, and she was falling, falling, falling…

~*~

By the second gas stop of the day, Walsh was reminded that age and distance rides didn’t go so well together. Reminded also that the MC life aged you rapidly, made you sore and stiff in ways that desk jobs never did.

              He’d never trade it, though. His face had that good, sandblasted feel after too many hours of being pummeled by wind; his body quivered with subtle vibrations, even though he was off the bike, and he could taste the grit in his teeth. That’s what freedom tasted like: dirt and asphalt.

              “Oh my God,” Carter said, resting his forearms on the seat of his bike and leaning forward to stretch out his back.

              “You’re ten-years-old,” RJ told him. “Don’t be a puss.”

              “It’s those handlebars,” Aidan said. “What were you thinking with the apehangers? Your arms’ll fall right off going distance with that shit.”

              “I know that now,” Carter groaned.

              Tango patted him on top of the head as he walked past, and earned chuckles for it. “I need something to drink. Anybody else want anything?”

              “I’ll go in with you,” Aidan said. “I gotta take a leak.”

              “Be in in a minute,” Walsh said, digging his phone out of his pocket.

              He had seven missed calls, all from the same number. Fred.

              “
S
eñor
,” the man gasped when he answered the return call. “I tried to reach you.”

              “What’s wrong, Fred?” An awful prickling tingled across his skin. She’d been alone, she said. All alone…

              “Emmie. She’s gone. Her truck is here, but she is not. She’s gone, and I tried to call her, and she won’t answer. I went into the house, and she’s not there. She’s gone, and she left the beeswax out, and her drink is warm where she left it in the tack room, and there’s blood…” He was babbling, but it made all too much sense to Walsh.

              “Wait. Slow down. There’s blood? Where is there blood?”

              “On the floor. Not much blood, but it’s blood, and she’s gone!”

              Walsh’s gut doubled up on itself. His breath jammed up in his throat. He tried to sound calm though. “Okay, Fred, listen to me. I want you to think, really think. Is there anywhere she might have gone on foot? Did that bloody horse jump the fence again and she went after him?”

              “No, Tally is here–”

             
Beep.

              “Hold on, Fred, that’s my call waiting. It’s probably her.”

              He swapped the line over. “Em?”

              A masculine voice he didn’t recognize flooded his ear. “Kingston Walsh.”

              “Yeah, that’s me,” he snapped. “What–”

              “I have something that belongs to you. Something I’m guessing you want back.” Low, rough voice, very deep. “If you want to see your wife again, you need to follow my instructions.”

              Time stretched. The moment expanded, until it filled every corner of his mind, halted his breathing, drained all the blood from his head. He saw the boys coming out of the convenience store with bags full of sodas and chips, heard the flow of traffic on the street behind him.

              He must have been making some kind of face, because Aidan frowned and said, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

              There was no label for the terror and fury that welled inside him. He didn’t recognize his own voice when he said, “Who the bloody fucking hell is this?”

              “You’ll find out. Wait for my text, and we’ll make arrangements.”

              The line went dead.

              “What?” Aidan repeated.

              Walsh swallowed. God, he couldn’t breathe. “We have to go back.”

              Tango and Carter crowded in around him.

              “Walsh, dude…” Aidan said, reaching toward him.

              “Someone took Emmie.” His voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. “We have to go back.”