Page 55 of Lone Star

“You shouldn’t torment him,” Michelle chided.

“He needs it.” Fox put a steadying hand on TJ’s hip, and held his whiskey out of reach. His gaze cut toward her without his head turning; she stiffened immediately. “And what do you need?”

“What?” she asked, inwardly cursing. She should have known it wouldn’t be as simple as pointing him at the problem and stepping back. Should have known he’d be able to read her like no one else could. Candy had learned so many of her tells and finer expressions; could sense most of her moods. But like knew like, and all of Devin Green’s brood would always understand one another better than anyone else could ever hope to. It was a curse more than it was a blessing, sometimes.

His face said,come on, shadow of a smirk threatening at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t–” she started, and heard the way her voice shivered.

He said, “Chelle.”

I need this psycho caught, she thought of saying.I need to not be run down on the street. I need my baby safe. I need to take a deep breath. All true; all most of the reason she’d called him.

But she didn’t say anything, a lump caught in her throat.

Fox’s expression softened. A fraction. “I think I know what’s really wrong.”

“You know who’s killing everyone in this town?” she said, more acidic than she’d meant.

He smiled. “No, not that. Not yet.” He bounced TJ and earned happy laughter. “I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to talk.”

I ought to tell him off, she thought, because she was just…angry. So angry. That formless sort of rage too elusive to pin down, too big to ignore.

She swallowed and said, “Yeah. Thanks.”

Twenty

There wasso muchfood. Axelle had thought she was starving, but a few bites into the thickest, heartiest stew she’d ever eaten, fullness had set in along with a crushing tiredness. She’d wound up pushing bits of vegetable around in the broth in an effort not to nod off at the table.

“Oh, honey,” Darla said when she collected her plate. “You hardly ate anything. No wonder you’re so skinny.”

Axelle’s grin was more of a grimace.

“Leave her alone,” Jenny said, intervening. “Come on and I’ll show you where you can stay.”

Another city, another MC clubhouse. She wondered when she’d stop feeling like she’d stepped through the Looking Glass; when it would stop feeling like a betrayal to the prejudices she’d held so long.

The Amarillo headquarters looked like a country-western version of the one in Knoxville: hardwood floors, plenty of seating, big TVs, and a bar in the common room – plus steer skulls and cowhide. (Secretly, she preferred the Old World aesthetic of Baskerville Hall, the way it had felt like a beautiful, creaky beehive rather than a sprawling ranch house.) Jenny led her down a hallway lined with doors, just like in Knoxville, and showed her into a dorm with a similar setup: double bed, dresser, en-suite bathroom. Wood floors, rather than the orange carpet Ghost for some reason hadn’t replaced, and a cowhide rug.

“There’s clean towels in the bathroom,” Jenny said, moving through the room to push the adjoining door open. “Extra blankets in the bottom drawer there, if you need them. We turn the heat down at night.”

Axelle didn’t realize she was standing there, staring stupidly into the middle distance, until Jenny turned around and said her name, a gentle prompt. She blinked, and focused on her hostess’s face. Jenny had a little groove of concern between her brows.

“Thank you,” Axelle said, and then failed to stifle a yawn.

Jenny lingered, though. Her frown deepened. “Are you okay? You seem nervous.”

“Nervous?” Axelle snorted. “Maybe ‘cause a serial killer’s on the loose? No, I’m just tired. Thanks,” she said again, more firmly.

Jenny waited a beat, then nodded, and finally moved to leave. “If you need anything, the prospect’s in the first dorm on the left. And you can always knock at the sanctuary – there’s a sign. I’m staying here until we get things sorted.”

Axelle didn’t take a deep breath until she was gone; then she shut the door and sank down on the end of the bed with a sigh.

The mattress, like those in Knoxville, was springy and firm.Not broken in, she’d thought with surprise, on her first night at Dartmoor. She’d expected squeaking; jabbing springs; lumps; maybe even a smell.

Bikers were a lot of things, it turned out, but she’d learned they weren’t heathens – much to her dismay.

She sighed again, and flopped backward across the coverlet, eyes already closing.

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