Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) (15 page)

              “Coming,” she called, and headed down the stairs.

              Surprisingly, the kitchen wasn’t too bad, just in need of a good scouring. The booths could stay, most of the tables, but they needed new chairs, new carpet, and there was the new décor to consider. Then Candy walked her back to the ring.

              It was a regulation ring, with mat and ropes, stools in opposite corners. It was a wide, cold, concrete-floored room, stacks of metal folding chairs off to one side, long tables that had probably once served as concessions. Plenty of room for her planned bull and the boxing matches.

              “You still like it?” he asked, hands going in his pockets.

              They were alone. It dawned on her, a sudden awareness. Just her, and him, and this big, cold, concrete room. And he was staring at her, reading her reactions, gaze missing nothing.

              “It needs a little spit and polish,” she said, smiling at him, “but it’s perfectly fine. I still like it.”

              He nodded and moved past her, beginning a slow lap around the ring.

              She fell in beside him. “How did it work before? The fighting?”

              “Chester had a house fighter. Alex. He was decent. Other guys, amateurs or guys hopeful to go and box big time, would come in and challenge him. Betting’s illegal in Texas, so Ches made his money on concessions and beer and shit during the matches. Even sold cigars,” he said with a little chuckle. “Real old fashioned. Betting happened under the table – they didn’t keep a tight lid on it. And I guess he finally got caught for it.”

              “How will you do it?”

              “The same way, I guess. Some things never change: people always love a good fight.”

              “Yes.”

              Their footfalls echoed through the expansive space, boot heels loud against the concrete.

              “Did you ever fight here?” she asked. She felt his gaze as they walked. Their arms brushed.

              “Nah.”

              “Why not?” He could have wiped the mat with anyone, she knew.

              “You said you remember me from London.”

              Quick flush of warmth, a hyper-awareness in her skin. “I do.”

              “
What
do you remember?”

              It was easier than she expected to tunnel back through her memories and pick out that night behind the pub, Candy young and gleaming and laughing as he gave Cagey a concussion. “You were…”
Beautiful
. “Very big.” She grinned when she heard his huff of laughter. “And full of muscles. And very pleased with yourself.”

              “I was?” He was grinning widely when she glanced at him, eyes bright, delighted.

              “Oh yes. Poor Cagey never had a chance, and you were just
thrilled
.”

              He chuckled. “Yeah. It was fun. God, I was…” His voice flooded with nostalgia. “I was about sixteen, I think, when I realized that I wasn’t just strong, but that I was
strong
, you know?” He wasn’t bragging; she could find no traces of smugness in his expression. “And I had a knack for fighting. I was
good
at it. I guess – it just felt good to be able to do something really well.”

              “I get that.”

              “Secretly a ninja, huh?”

              She smiled. “You know what I mean.”

              “Yeah.”

              He sobered. “I think,” he said, voice growing careful, “maybe I liked being good at it a little too much. I like the hitting,” he said like an admission. “Not the dodging, and weaving, and sparring of it, but the actual…
hurting
. There was a little part of me that loved it when a guy spit his teeth out on the concrete. Or, well…not
that
little of a part.” He flicked a glance her direction. “It wasn’t fighting anymore. It was just laying guys out on the ground. And that’s…that’s not something to be proud of.”

              Her chest squeezed for him. “The way I’ve heard it, you lay guys out in a way that really helps the club.”

              He nodded. “Sometimes. But I can’t spar anymore. I can’t fight my brothers for fun.” He shook his head, smile small and wry. “It’s
too much
fun. Shit.” He dragged a hand down his face. “That’s what a lady wants to hear,” he muttered. “‘I like punching people so much, and I have terrible self-control.’” He sent Michelle a look that melted her completely.

“You want to know what I think?”

              His brows lifted in an obvious
yes
.

              “There’s no exaggeration to the tales of your fists.” She raised her own in demonstration and earned a small grin. “I’ve never seen anyone hit a man like you do. I think most would use that to their advantage.”

              “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Maybe.”

              They were on the back side of the ring now, standing in a little puddle of shadow, and she came to a halt, squared off from him. “I think it’s quite brave, actually, restraining yourself like this. You could make a killing in that ring – monetarily speaking, of course.”

              “Of course,” he echoed, smirking.

              “You’ve got a lot of power, Candyman,” she said softly. “And you don’t abuse it. That’s…that’s exactly the sort of thing a lady wants to hear. Sometimes being honorable is the bravest thing a man can do.”

              She saw the sudden change in him, the way her words touched something masculine and animal inside him. His head lifted and his blue eyes took on a feral glint. When he spoke, his voice was full of dark, erotic promise. “See, this is the problem with you,” he said, his smile sharp. “You say you gotta be Miss Independent. And then you say something like that, and I think you’re trying to start something.”

              She breathed a laugh, and her pulse gave a hard knock in her chest. “I promise I never try to give that impression. It just seems to…happen…when I’m around you.”

              One long stride brought him into her personal space, right up close in front of her, so she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. She shivered, and he saw, his grin positively evil as his hands found her waist and squeezed.

              “You’re very hard on a girl’s self-control, you know,” she said, voice shaking.

              “Hmm. I know. Care to rethink that whole going to bed alone thing?”

              “I might take a little convin–”

              Her mouth stopped working when he cupped her face in one big hand. His skin was warm, rough from work and riding; he smelled faintly of motor oil, and clean sweat, and sunshine. Her neck went weak and she didn’t try to hide the way her eyelids grew heavy, the way her breath hitched.

              Fuck her self-control anyway.

              “I don’t mind doing a little convincing,” he said, and ducked his head to kiss her.

              The second his mouth touched hers, it seemed really, really stupid that she’d gone to bed alone last night. Because his mouth rendered her completely helpless.              

              She opened her lips and welcomed the bold hot stroke of his tongue. Stretched up on her toes so she could put her hands on his shoulders. A slanting, wet, instantly desperate kiss that wrecked her head on impact.

              And still it somehow wasn’t enough.

              Alone together in the shadows, he pushed her back against the plywood skirting of the ring and his hands slid down to grip her ass.
Yes!
she thought, a jubilant mental shout. He lifted her up like it was nothing, like she was weightless, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Felt the sharp points of his hips against the soft insides of her thighs and murmured wordless appreciation of the feeling against his lips.

              She felt him smile as he kissed her, and he pressed in even closer, pinning her, plunging deep into her mouth with his tongue…

              “Candy?” someone called, voice loud as a gunshot as it bounced off the walls and floor.

              He tore his mouth from hers. “Fuck.” He drew a desperate, ragged breath. Pressed his forehead to hers.

              Michelle’s vision was misty with want. Her pulse was a steady bass drum beat, in her flushed face, the pit of her stomach, between her legs, in the now-hard points of her nipples.

              Fuck was right. Oh fuck. She was ready for them to tear at one another’s clothes and have it out right here, on the cold hard floor if necessary.

              But someone was coming. Damn him, whoever he was. It heightened the moment, that thrill of discovery.

              Candy pulled back, stared at her face one long, painful moment. “Later,” he whispered, and that sounded like forever away.

              She nodded.

              He set her down, spun away and rearranged himself.

              Michelle raked shaking fingers through her hair, trying to catch her breath.

              “What?” Candy called back to the interloper.

              It was Blue, appearing around the corner, and though he had to be suspicious, his face showed no judgment nor trace of humor. “Ches is looking for you. He wants to talk about an offer.”

              “Alright, coming.”

              Blue nodded and turned back.

              Michelle thought it might be very beneficial to lie down and press her hot cheek to the concrete. Gather her melted composure.

              Candy sent her a look that asked if she was okay.

              She took one last huge breath, stuffed her libido back in its box, and nodded.

Thirteen

Michelle

Odell’s looked different from down on the billiards floor. She felt ant-sized, almost dizzy.

              Though maybe that had more to do with Candy’s kiss than her vantage point.

              Head-spinning notwithstanding, she felt somewhat peaceful. In the moment: not frantic, homesick, or worried. This place – this hokey, dilapidated place – would be the club’s soon, and so far, Candy was showing every sign of letting her have input. A great big project to sink her teeth into. A lovely idea.

              The boys were still kicking the tires, so to speak.

              Duke, the builder of the bunch, was peeling up carpet and searching for hardwood beneath. Colin had climbed up onto a billiards table and was examining the light fixture above it. The twins were behind the bar, rattling glasses and bottles and whatnot. Cowboy and Gringo were talking chairs.

              Michelle walked back into the midst of them at Candy’s side, and she felt the gazes snap their way, the way they lingered, the way they asked what was going on.

              She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Let them talk if they wanted. She couldn’t stop them and she didn’t much care anymore.

              “Where’s the bull going, boss?” Gringo called.

              Michelle caught the fast flicker of a frown cross Candy’s face. Oh, yes. He hadn’t liked her talking to Gringo before. Hmm. She hoped that wasn’t going to develop into any sort of problem.

              “Back in the back,” he answered. “By the ring.”

              “We gonna get a new fighter?” one of the twins asked.

              “I always loved the fighting,” Blue said, voice reminiscent. “Nothing like the sound of fists hitting faces on a Saturday afternoon.”

              “We’ll get you some fists,” Candy assured. “But first we gotta–”

              The door opened, and in beamed bright afternoon sunlight, a fat bar of it stabbing through the gloom of the restaurant. She squinted against it. Candy raised a hand to shade his eyes.

              Then came the silhouettes. Male. Shoulders squared off in a way that suggested suit jackets. Then the door shut again, and she saw them. Yes, suit jackets. Air of officiousness, threat. Four of them. Law enforcement.

              Her stomach clenched.

              Beside her, Candy drew himself upright; she swore she felt the energy move through him, the adrenaline surge bold as lightning in a man that size.

              The intruders moved forward to the top of the stairs. One stood ahead of the others, his gaze unmistakable as it arrowed down to Candy: They knew one another, and there was no love between them.

              Curses rippled through the Dogs.

              “Good afternoon,” Candy said, voice booming through the building. “I’m glad to see word travels fast, but I have to tell you boys that the club’s not re-opened yet. It’s gonna be a while.”

              “Cute,” the man in front said. He flashed a tight smile. “But I’m afraid your boys are gonna have to play house without you for a little bit.”

             
Who is he?
she wanted to ask.
Why is he here?
But she kept quiet, biting at her lip.

              Then the man’s eyes slid over and landed on her. A fast touch, and then back. “Bit young for you, huh?”

              Candy charged forward, shoulders jacked up, jaw set. “Look, don’t talk about the lady.”

              “Fine.” The man put on a bored expression. “I don’t care about her anyway. Derek Snow.” His tone became professional. “You’re wanted for questioning. You can come along quietly, or you can come in cuffs. Your choice.”

              Her heart pounded at the base of her throat. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

              “Fine,” Candy muttered. “Jinx.” His friend came to his side, and they conferred quietly.

              Then he glanced over at her, and her heart pounded for a different reason. He sent her a silent communication, a twitchy smile meant to be soothing. And then he headed up the stairs.

~*~

Candy

The Amarillo PD precinct had no power of fear over him. How many times had he passed through these doors? More than he could count.

              But it was a little different with a phalanx of ATF agents behind him.

              Riley took immense pleasure in escorting him to an interrogation room, shooting smug smiles at the uniformed officers in the bullpen as they passed.

              “I know the drill,” he said when Riley motioned him into the room.

              Riley snorted. “Yeah.”

              Everything was all set up. Folders on the table. Chairs set on either side. Water bottle.

              “Have a seat.”

              “I can give you ten minutes,” Candy said as he complied. “Then I gotta get back. Unlike you, I’ve got a business to run.”

              “You call that a business? How deep are you in the hole?”

              He looked so confident and self-satisfied, in what was obviously a new suit, his hair combed back with water, face dark with an obviously fake tan. He was so cocky, so confident in whatever dirt he’d managed to dig up, that Candy couldn’t pass on a personal low-blow.

              He grinned. “Not as deep as your brother. He’s got himself a six-foot hole.”

              Riley’s expression arrested. And then out came his old usual scowl, fringed with the panic of not-too-distant grief. He shifted in his chair, tugged at his tie. “One of these days,” he said, voice tight, “that big fucking mouth of yours is going to write a check your ass can’t cash.” He reached for the first folder and pulled it in front of him, flipped it open. “Let’s hope today’s that day.” He slid a photo across to Candy. “Do you recognize this man?”

              Shit. It was Armando.

              But Candy had his poker face on. “Nah. Never seen him.” He folded his arms and feigned bored, while inwardly, worry prickled beneath his skin. Stupid fucking Armando. He should never have sold those guns. Damn it. Just goddamn it.

              “Hmm,” Riley murmured, regaining some of his scattered composure. “Armando Sanchez. Buyer for the Chupacabra cartel. Mexican police picked him up crossing the border yesterday in possession of twenty Russian AK-47s. He’s saying he bought them off of you.”

              “Sure he is. He’d say anything to keep from going to Mexican jail,” Candy said with a sneer. “If that’s even where he goes. My guess, PD down there is in the cartel’s pocket. Or yours.”

              Riley’s brows flicked. “Deflecting?”

              “Did you find any prints on those guns?”

              Riley didn’t answer.

              “DNA evidence? Have us on video? No. You don’t. Because if you did, you would have led with that.” He rapped the table with his knuckles and started to stand. “This has been fun, really, but I gotta get back.”

              “Actually,” Riley said, and something about his voice froze Candy cold. “I have someone on the inside.”

              His heart stopped. “What?”

              “I have eyes on you.” Some of the confidence returned, blood rushing back into the man’s face. “And I’m putting a RICO case together bit by bit. In a few weeks, I’ll have grounds to disassemble your entire chapter.”

              His mind refused to consider the possibility. No. There wasn’t a rat in his clubhouse. Not possible. “If you really did have a mole,” he said, “telling me about it pretty much guarantees you’ll never hear or see from that guy again. So no, you don’t, or you wouldn’t be talking about it.”

              Riley looked amused. “Or maybe I’m planting that seed of doubt, and you can destroy your own club for me.”

              “Fuck you.”

              “I’m serious, Derek. You’re out of your league on this one. Now, you can come clean now, and spare your boys, or we can do this the hard way.” He grinned. “Personally, I’m hoping you take the hard way, because I can’t wait to see you all in orange.”

              “Like I said, fuck you.”

~*~

Michelle

She couldn’t stop looking toward the door. Candy wasn’t back yet, and her worry increased with every passing minute. The police were an unfortunate constant in the MC life – someone was always getting questioned for something. But Candy had that aura of indestructability; the kind of larger than life man who seemed untouchable. Not to mention this chapter seemed haphazardly taped together, and it might all fall to bits without him.

              Also…watching her lover walk out the door with federal agents was personally upsetting.

              She wanted to keep busy, so she went to the office and started making a list of all the things they’d need for Odell’s, everything from stemware to ceiling tiles. It wasn’t really working, but at least she wasn’t just sitting around doing nothing.

              She’d left the door open, and a quick knock startled her. She glanced up to find Candy’s seemingly preferred friend, Jinx, leaning against the doorjamb.

              A striking man, for sure. The beard, the bare arms covered in tattoos: vivid and eye-catching. Anyone asked to describe an outlaw would have described him. But Michelle didn’t find him appealing in any way; maybe because she’d never liked beards, or maybe because the beard obscured half of his face. In any case, she wasn’t sure she felt comfortable around him, and of all the men, he was the last she would have expected to see.

              “Hello,” she ventured, and suddenly felt like an intruder in the office. Funny, this was Candy’s space, his computer, his chair she was sitting in, but it was Jinx now giving her the sense that she was in the wrong place.

              “Hey.” He had a deep voice. Not rude, but not friendly either.

              He came to take the chair across from her. “Can I ask you something?” He braced his arms on the edge of the desk, his gaze direct, unnerving.

              Was he really more threatening than Candy, she wondered? Or was this a matter of perspective.

              “Of course.”

              “Do you know what you’re doing?”

              “Um…sorry?”

              “With numbers,” he clarified. “You’re not just making shit up?”

              “I’m not the sort of person who makes shit up.”

              “What about Odell’s?”

              “What about it?”

              “Is it just going to be a money pit?”

              “Why would I suggest it if I thought that?”

              “I dunno. You tell me.”

              She couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. Out of the blue like this; it felt like an attack.

              “I take it you don’t want me here.”

              He shrugged. “Didn’t say that. Just want to make sure you’re legit.”

              A dozen smart-mouthed answers came to mind, but in her experience, that didn’t ever get you very far with this crowd. And right now, Jinx didn’t seem the type to back down just because she showed her claws.

              So she said, “Candy trusts me. Is that not good enough for you?”

              “Candy likes you.”

              “And that’s a bad thing?”

              When he frowned, it tugged on his beard. “Candy believes in blood.”

              Under the desk, her hands curled to fists on her thighs.

              “He trusted Colin to look after Jenny because he’s Mercy’s brother. And he trusts you with the books because you’re Walsh and Fox’s niece.”

              “But you don’t believe in blood,” she guessed.

              “I believe in what I can see for myself, and what I can do with my own two hands. Blood isn’t more important than that.”

              “I disagree,” she said. “But what’s your point, exactly?”

              “Like I said before. I want to make sure you know what you’re doing.” He sat back and appraised her. “Candy likes you, and he trusts you because of who you’re related to, and he’s too attached to that dump Odell’s. If you have doubts, you need to share them with him. Because I don’t want you being cocky and getting my club in deep shit.”

              “I think,” she said, carefully, “that this is a conversation you should have had with him.”

              He grinned, finally, teeth flashing white in the midst of his beard. “Yeah, I thought about that. But he’d just defend you.”

              “I doubt that.”

              He snorted again and got to his feet. “Yeah. Sure.” He left before she could say anything else.