Page 73 of Secondhand Smoke

“What the fuck is this?” Aidan crumpled it into a ball and tossed it onto the table.

“I wrote it,” Greg said, calmly. “And put a copy in the mailbox at Dartmoor. At this point, at least your stepmother’s seen it. Probably even your dad, ‘cause I know y’all’s old ladies tell you everything.”

Though there was nothing in his stomach, he thought he might puke. He cleared his throat. “So you’re blackmailing me. What the hell for? I don’t have shit you want.”

“Not blackmail,” Greg corrected. “Insurance. You can’t lead Ghost to me because I’m supposed to be dead. How could you tell dear old Dad that you didn’t follow orders?”

A chill slithered down the back of Aidan’s neck, like one of his more sinister tattoos had come to life.

“And if Ghost did find out – like if, say, I told him about it.” Greg smiled. “What would happen to the traitor who didn’t do what his president told him to do?”

Traitor. The ugliest, most feared word in all of MC culture. The things that happened to traitors were unspeakable. In the Lean Dogs MC, traitors were dealt with by guys like Mercy, Michael, Candyman, and the English specter, Fox. Aidan recalled the black tackle box that Mercy called his “toolkit” and his gorge rose, palms filming over with sweat.

His voice was even, though, when he spoke. “You don’t know shit about my dad or my club.” He pushed up from the table and stood beside it a moment, looking down at Greg. “You should have stayed away, Greg. You really should. This time, there won’t be anything pretend about you getting killed.”

He left the restaurant and didn’t glance back once, striding quickly until he’d reached his bike in the parking lot. His hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to buckle his helmet.

Traitor.

~*~

Tango tried not to laugh, but he was too surprised not to. The carefully-styled man on the bench tipped his head back, blue-green eyes narrowed under the brim of his baseball cap, his smile wry. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

Suppressing a chuckle, Tango dropped down onto the bench beside Ian, mimicking his posture with arms draped over the back. “Not a bad reaction,” he assured, “just a surprised one.”

Ian tilted his head in concession and his grin became more true. “I’m incognito,” he said, unnecessarily.

“I figured.” And if he was being honest with himself, Tangolikedit.

When Ian had asked to meet him at the park, he’d expected to find the man at his usual foppish best, Bruce lingering in the shadows, maybe another plainclothes guard or two. Instead, he’d made two circuits around the walking track, dodging mothers with strollers, mumbling apologies when he nearly tripped them. Finally, his eyes had wandered across the lanky figure kicked back at a bench, and a sharp tug in his gut had told him what the clothes did not. The eyes played tricks, but the subconscious always recognized a lover. Some low pulse, a homing sound that sang in the blood.

His subconscious had been right.

Ian wore bootcut jeans that made his legs look ten miles long, Vans, t-shirt, and one of those designer leather jackets that looked casual and biker-ish, but probably cost a small fortune. All of it fit him well and highlighted his lean build. He’d bundled up his long hair and stuffed it under an orange UT cap. Tango hadn’t seen him casual like this in years, and it did things to his insides, stirred up old memories.

“No detail?” Tango asked.

“I am completely solo and at your disposal.”

Tango sighed and let his head fall back against the bench. At this angle, he could see where Ian had gathered his hair at the back of his head and pinned it up, the tail disappearing up the back of the cap. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t go through with it. The sun was a warm contrast to the cool breeze, and he felt momentarily content.

Ian tilted his head back so they were eye-to-eye. “Have you thought any more about it?”

“About what?” But he knew.

“Leaving your club.”

Tango closed his eyes. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

“You’re afraid that you can’t,” Ian said in a gentle voice, “but you know deep down that you can.”

“They’re my family.”

“And what am I?”

Tango opened his eyes, struck by the hurt in the other man’s face. “It isn’t healthy for you either, you know, holding onto the past.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

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