Page 130 of Secondhand Smoke

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, forced her voice steady. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.”

“I can,” she insisted. “Come here.”

He stared at her.

“Please.” She slipped her narrow forearm through the bars and held out her hand. “Come here.”

He shuffled over on his knees and then let the bars take his weight. When she reached for his hand with hers, he let her take it, let her squeeze it. He had long-fingered, elegant hands, pale except for the intricate dominoes tattooed on the backs of his fingers.

“I can do this,” she said quietly. “And it’s not much, but it’s something.” At least, she hoped it was. Most likely, outlaw bikers didn’t give a damn about having their hands held.

But Kev didn’t move away, and he rested his head against the bars, close enough for her to smell his fear-sweat, and the fruity gel he’d used to style his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, because she didn’t know what else to do.

He squeezed her fingers. “Thank you.”

Twenty-Eight

Aidan dreamed of money. Floating down out of the heavens, fluttering like fall leaves into his open palms. Half a mil, just what he needed. He counted it, stacked it, bundled it with rubber bands. And then there was Sam, sinking to her knees in front of him, passing her hands up his thighs.“Aidan, I forgive you. Come back to me.”

He woke with the phantom feel of her lips against him, and rolled over to find himself hard, sweating, and utterly desperate, stomach knotted from the stress. All of it was a jumble inside him: desire, grief, worry, fury.

He thought of Tango and that was like dumping cold water into his lap. He hadn’t been at the clubhouse yesterday during the phone call, but Walsh had debriefed him, careful not to say anything inflammatory. It didn’t matter, though. Aidan knew what happened to hostages. He was all too familiar with his brother-in-law’s skillset to be naïve on that front.

He found Carter in the kitchen chugging down a Red Bull. “I’m heading in early,” Aidan said.

“I’ll come with you.”

They were equally subdued. Their brother was being held captive by the enemy; that was a uniting force.

They didn’t even pretend to clock in at the shop when they got to Dartmoor, but went straight to the clubhouse. The common room looked like a busy office: Ratchet chain-smoking and tapping away at his laptop, Walsh on the phone, Ghost on the phone, Candy on the phone.

“Yeah,” Ghost said into his cell and snapped it shut. Then he looked at Aidan. “We’re gathering the money.”

“We gonna have enough?”

“If I have to sell Mags’ car, we’ll make it work.”

“What can I do?”

Ghost shrugged and shook his head.

“He’s my best friend,” Aidan said quietly.

His father gave him a level look. “Yeah, I know that. But I don’t know what to tell you except that we’re working on it.”

And apparently, he wasn’t wanted or needed. He was just the party-hearty fuckup after all, wasn’t he?

His hands shook as he lit up a cigarette on his way back to the shop. Fuck this. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it –

Maggie stepped into his path and he pulled up short and almost swallowed the cig, fumbling to gather himself at the last second.

She put a steadying hand on his arm. She had this way of looking maternal and concerned…and ready to beat so much ass at the same time. He’d always admired that about her, and she looked that way now. “Any news?” she asked.

He shook his head.

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