Page 225 of Fearless

Last night, he’d stayed at the clubhouse out of necessity. Greg, aside from being a little jumpy, seemed serious about becoming a hangaround, in hopes of prospecting the club. But if he grew suspicious, if he started to realize that Ghost’s seeming acceptance was just that – seeming – then he might bolt. He was a liability at this point, and Aidan had waited until he could press his ear to Greg’s dorm and hear him snoring on the other side before he locked the back door with the key and then sought refuge in a recliner in the common room, where someone sneaking across the creaky floor would be sure to wake him. He’d had too much to drink on purpose, getting up three times during the night to piss, checking that Greg was still asleep on every pass.

He was mindlessly watching an infomercial for high-powered blenders when first light crept across the floor, coming in from the windows. He heard the click of a door opening and closing down the hall, and tensed. He was jumpy as hell. He knew what his father expected of him, and he couldn’t seem to calm his ruffled nerves because of it.

It wasn’t Greg, though, who came into the common room, but Jasmine, one of the longtime, undisputed best of the Lean Bitches. She was barefoot and barelegged in nothing but a man’s plaid flannel shirt that came to mid-thigh. It was Tango’s shirt.

“You’re up early,” she said around a yawn, executing an elaborate stretch that lifted the tail of the shirt and revealed that she was totally naked beneath it. She came to sit on the arm of his chair, legs folded, a hand bracing on his shoulder to help her keep her balance. Her tawny hair was tangled and loose down her shoulders, her eyeliner smudged, her expression sleepy, but sultry all the same. Wasn’t it always? She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You need a little something to wear you out?”

Aidan smiled up at her, a real smile.

She had to be almost forty by now – those little lines on her face – but she was still addicted to tanning cream and dark eye shadow, still painted her finger-and toenails and wore too much hair spray. This morning, she smelled like cigarettes, sex, and Tango’s cologne. The shirt was haphazardly buttoned, and the tanned tops of her breasts were put on unself-conscious display.

She liked Tango, she’d told Aidan one night. “Such a sweet boy,” she’d said of him. The guy had finally worked up the nerve, a couple years ago, to tow her back to his dorm room during a party, and she’d been bow-legged and chain smoking the next morning, quiet and contented as a cat. There were times now when she was the one to seek Tango’s company; when she sent a younger groupie running for cover with threats of violence so she could cozy up to her favorite blonde punk rock biker.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t still down for whatever anyone else wanted to do.

But Aidan wasn’t interested in that this morning, not when she still smelled like his best friend. “Actually,” he said, “I think you could help me. Can I pick your brain for a minute?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re getting boring in your old age, honey, but yeah, sure. You got a smoke?”

He lit a Marlboro from his pack on his own lip, then passed it up to her.

She took a long drag, eyes closing a moment while she held the smoke in her lungs; then she exhaled and sighed. “I can’t think straight till I’ve had my first cig of the day.” She rearranged herself on the chair arm, legs crossed at a mocking imitation of chastity, and drew herself up tall, cigarette clenched in two fingers. “Alright. Shoot.”

“The night of James’s stepping-down party.”

She nodded.

“The girl who was with Andre when he got…you know. Do you know her?”

She thought about it a second, taking another drag, blonde brows drawing together. “Yeah,” she said, nodding finally. “Blonde? Miniskirt?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded again, more sure of herself. “That’s Rena.” She made a face.

Aidan chuckled. “Not friends?”

“Definitely not.”

“She one of your Bitches?”

“Ha. No. She’s a wannabe.” She leaned against the back of the chair, one hand finding her hip, all woman-in-charge sass. “She comes around for the parties, wants to shoot up and get roughed up. Total flake.”

Aidan considered. He’d thought the same thing; he hadn’t recognized her the night of the party, when she’d been blubbering on the sofa. “Do you know where I can find her?”

She snorted. “Why? I’ve seen her give head. Trust me, you’re not missing out on anything.”

He grinned. Someone should have snapped Jasmine up for his old lady a long time ago. “It’s not for that. I just wanna talk to her.”

She shrugged, like she couldn’t figure out why. “She lives in that skank-ass complex out toward Moshina Heights. Gimme your phone and I’ll type in the address.”

He handed it over.

Tango’s voice sounded from the mouth of the hallway, still hoarse from sleep. “Morning.”

Aidan touched Jasmine’s knee, knowing how this must look. She handed the phone back, the address typed into an unsent text message, and stood, turning a smile toward her bedmate of last night. “Morning, baby. You want some coffee?”

Tango was shirtless, his jeans hanging off his thin hips, waistband of his boxers poking out of the top. His normally artful hair was flat on top of his head and down the back, falling over the shaved sides of his head. His earrings gleamed in the new sunlight. “Yeah,” he said, voice guarded.

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