Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) (6 page)

              It was a narrow, long sort of room; it had been a pantry at some point in the past. The desk ran the depth of it, his computer set up on one side, an area for visitors to sit on the other – the visitors almost always being Jinx, Fox, or his sister. It was a drab space, without a picture or personal effect. Hair loose on her shoulders, Michelle Calloway was like a little sunbeam in his leather captain’s chair.

              He paused at the threshold and allowed himself a moment of inspection. Small, slender hands clicking across the computer keys. Dainty wrists. Her hair was the color of wheat at harvest, like Walsh’s, thick, and shiny down to the middle of her back. He remembered that Phillip’s wife had been pretty, very feminine and fine-featured, and so was Michelle. Little slip of a nose, sweet mouth. She was pale from the London sun, and completely unassuming in a ratty sweater, jeans, and a scuffed pair of Fryes that had seen better days. She studied the computer screen with quiet absorption, eerie blue eyes switching back and forth with the analytical precision that was her family’s trademark.

              She wasn’t flamboyant, or seductive, or overtly sexual. Nothing like all his waitresses. She was very pretty, and very young. And so obviously not some pampered brat who spent all her time shopping or texting her friends. Capability radiated off her in waves. This was a girl who’d grown up working, and expected to keep doing so.

              She noticed him and glanced over, eyes lasering right through him. “Hello.”

              He was used to Fox’s accent. It was different hearing it from a woman. It tightened his stomach in a pleasant way.

              He sat down across from her in Jenny’s usual chair, displaced in his own domain. “Making yourself at home?”

              She met his gaze without flinching, her tone calm and polite. “Jenny showed me in; said this is where you do the bookkeeping.”

              “She showed you the computer password too, I see.” If she could be polite, so could he.

              She nodded, unashamed. “I asked for it.”

              “’Cause that wasn’t pushy or anything.”

              “I was told you needed an accountant,” she said with maddening composure. “This being a temporary situation, I thought it best to get started.”

              “You didn’t think you ought to talk to me first?”

              She blinked, surprised. She wasn’t used to consulting; in her world, she saw where she was needed and inserted herself.

              He gave her a rather nasty grin and didn’t feel as sorry about it as he should have. “It’s my club, you know.”

              She swallowed and regathered her composure. “I know that. I like to be helpful, though. Sitting idle isn’t enjoyable.”

              “Phillip lets you run all over, doesn’t he?”

              Her brows lifted. “I’m sorry?”

              “Nevermind. That was rude.” He cleared his throat. “So you found my files and shit?”

              “No, actually.” Her gaze flicked to the computer. Without malice: “I can’t make heads or tails of your naming system.”

              Well, at least she hadn’t been snooping…yet.

              He heaved himself up from the chair and moved to stand behind her. It was a tight fit in the narrow room, and he braced a hand on the chair back, leaning over her shoulder to see the computer.

              She smelled nice, like soap and something flowery.

              Not that he noticed that or anything.

              “Where are you?”

              “Your documents folder.”

              She was, hovering the cursor over his coded files.

              “ ‘Biscuits and Gravy’ is the legit stuff,” he told her. “And ‘Remember the Alamo’ is the…club stuff.” He had no idea how much Phillip had…

              “The gun running,” she said, matter-of-factly.

              …okay, so the old man told her everything. “Yeah.” He sighed and she tipped her head back to look at him.

              It startled him. She was very close, suddenly, her gaze direct and older than it should have been. He wanted to draw back, but decided that would look bad.

              “You’re not comfortable with me looking at it,” she guessed.

              “I’m not sure you’re old enough to,” he said, bluntly.

              A grin tugged at her mouth. “I’m twenty-six.”

              “Yeah? Cause you don’t look any bigger than the last time I saw you.”

              Surprise. “You remember that?” A note of something indiscernible in her voice.

              “You and little Tom were passed out.” He felt his own smile threaten. “Yeah, I remember.”

              She straightened, looked away from him and back at the computer. “Well, I can assure you, I’ve seen and done enough to get put away for life. So if you can’t trust
me
, then you can trust my self-preservation. I don’t want to go to jail – least of all over a snarky Texan’s bad accounting. So.”

              Candy laughed. “Shit. Alright, ya criminal. Take a look at it. I’m gonna go grab lunch.”

              “Didn’t we just have breakfast?”

              “That was two hours ago. You gotta keep the engine running, sweetheart.”

              She made an amused sound and a face that reminded him a little of his mother, that patronizing disbelief. Then she grew serious. “I’m sorry I intruded on your room last night. I didn’t mean to.”

              With a nod of acknowledgement, he left her to the numbers, prickling with silent inner doubt, and wondering what the hell Phillip Calloway had been thinking raising his daughter this way.

Five

Michelle

She’d told Candy the truth: she did like to be helpful. Idleness made her jumpy. So when he left her alone, she settled down with his spreadsheets. And two things became immediately apparent:

              One, he knew how to keep tidy books. Not a surprise given the state of his room, bathroom, and the clubhouse in general. She was fairly certain she could perform surgery in this office.

              And two: funds were
tight
.

              She’d hoped maybe that there was a clerical error, poor math, or misplaced line items. But no, the bookkeeping was impeccable, there was simply more money going out than coming in.

              One culprit was the massive loan made to the Tennessee Dogs a little over a year ago. That would have been the buying of Walsh and Emmie’s farm. Then there had been several small catastrophes: water heaters going out, repair visits from plumbers, electricians; a new roof had been put on the clubhouse back in the fall.

              She finally pushed the chair back, cracked her back, and realized it was four in the afternoon. Damn. She’d been poring over the spreadsheets for hours. Her stomach growled to reinforce the point.

              The door opened without warning, and Candyman filled up the threshold with his considerable shoulders. His shirt was short-sleeved, and when he folded his arms across his chest, his biceps swelled, hard bulges of muscle.

              Not that she cared.

              “So what’s the verdict?” he asked, expression friendly, save his eyes; those were assessing.

              Michelle settled deep in the chair and said, “Well, you’re flat broke, I’m afraid.”

              He nodded and stepped into the room. The door closed, and the space seemed to shrink. “Yeah, I knew that.” He took the chair he’d had before.

              “You’ve got a lovely set of books, though.”

              He grinned. A sudden, sharp grin that flipped her stomach over. “Well that’s always good to hear.”

              Much to her horror, her stomach didn’t stop at flipping; it remained jumpy. So she put on her most businesslike tone and said, “The trick, then, is to get more money coming in.”

              “Right. You wouldn’t happen to be anything like your Uncle Walsh, would you?”

              “I can’t hold a candle to him.” She was honest. “But I might be better than nothing.”

              He made a consenting face. “Yeah.”

              “Would you like me to draw up a list of proposals?”

              “Can’t hurt, right?”

              “I think you need to diversify. I can make some suggestions. I helped Dad map out the plan for Baskerville Hall. And Walsh–”

              “Put Dartmoor together. I’m well aware of what your family can do.” Another smile, this one friendlier, but still bearing a predatory gleam. He was measuring and evaluating her every second they were together; that was his right, as the VP, and effective president for this chapter. But it reminded her of the looks she’d been getting before she left home: the newer members who didn’t trust her presence.

              The fluttering of attraction in her stomach soured. Before she could check the impulse, she said, “You didn’t really request that I come out here, did you?” It felt bold and uncalled-for, but she wasn’t herself anymore. Not since Tommy. Too tired, stressed, and full of doubt to hold onto any grace.

              He studied her a beat, gaze steady. “I asked Walsh if he or Albie could consult with me. Told them I needed some financial advice. Then the thing in London happened, and Albie called and asked if you could come instead of him. Said you needed to get out of the city, and that you were damn good at this. Two birds with one stone, he said. And so I said yes.”

              “But you had doubts.”

              “I still do. I don’t know you, which means I automatically don’t trust you. It’s nothing personal, sweetheart,” he assured. “That’s just how I’m wired. But I trust your uncles completely. So if they say you’re the girl for the job, then I know you are.”

              It was hope-dashing and comforting all at once. “Well…”

              “I don’t have a problem with women. I’ve got nothing to prove,” he said, and though it should have come across as cocky, was somehow just authentic.

              No, she decided, big, and handsome, and in charge of his club – he wasn’t trying to prove a damn thing to anyone. A real leader, like Dad. Content to allow her to be a cog in the machine. She breathed a deep, relieved sigh.

              “Thank you.”

              His golden brows lifted. “I didn’t do anything.”

              “You didn’t call me a stupid bitch and tell me to go cook somebody something. So you did a lot.”

              This time, his smile was just a smile, blue eyes scrunching, lines pressing deep in their corners. She’d always found something so appealing and honest about the way the wind and sun weathered bikers’ faces. Real men, unfiltered and imperfect, stunning to behold.

              “Can you have something drawn up for me by lunch tomorrow?”

              “Before then, I’m sure.”

              “Good.” He clapped his hands together with a certain finality and stood. “I’ll see you then.”

              “Candy,” she said, when he was at the door. It felt strange and thrilling to have his name in her mouth like that. An unexpected drop of sweet on her tongue. She had to swallow, as he twisted to look back at her. “Thank you, too, for letting me come. I don’t know where else I would have gone. I don’t even know where Tommy is now.”

              His expression softened. “He’s safe though, yeah?”

              She nodded.             

              “So are you. It’ll be alright.”

~*~

She worked until the numbers blurred in front of her eyes, and then she realized it was dinnertime. Just as well. The less time she had left in the day, the less time she could waste dwelling on home and things she couldn’t change. Bolstered by her talk with Candy earlier, she followed the scent of roasting meat to the common room.

              Darla was just stepping out of the kitchen and intercepted her, a plate in her hands. “Ah, here, you have this one. I’ll get another for Pup.”

              “Darla, really, you don’t have to, and I’d be happy to help.”

              “I wouldn’t hear of it. Go eat. Good Lord, you’ve been shut up in that office all day. Did you even get lunch?”

              “No, ma’am.”

              “Then you sure aren’t helping with dinner! Shoo.”

              Plate of steaming pot roast in-hand, she went in to find a seat. The men sat in twos and threes at the tables, half-watching TV, chatting. If she was at home, she would have found one of her uncles and plunked down beside him, unselfconscious and eager for conversation. But she felt uneasy with strangers, and so sat down at the bar, alone.

              But she wasn’t alone long.

              One of the members whose name she couldn’t remember climbed onto the stool beside her. Turned to her, his appraisal bold – not the way Candy’s had been, not authoritative and intense, but speculative and flirtatious. Handsome in an obvious way. Dark hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a dangerous smile. Early thirties, cocksure and invincible.

              She wanted to dislike him on impulse, but made a conscious effort to reserve judgement.

              “Hi,” he greeted. A nice voice; one made for telephone conversations and radio stations.

              “Hello.”

              His grin widened. “Do you remember my name?”

              She speared a hunk of potato with her fork. “Will you be flattered if I do?”

              He laughed. “Maybe.”

              “Sorry, I don’t.” Which was the truth, but she softened it with a grin.

              He laughed again. “Fox wasn’t right about you, was he?”

              “What did he say?” she asked, just as the uncle in question joined them.

              “Oh, nothing.” Fox shrugged. “The usual – ‘she’s a bit of a shrew, she doesn’t like the lads.’ That sort of thing.”

              She had to laugh, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

              “Only looking out for your reputation, love.” He snagged the hunk of buttered bread off her plate and devoured it in three too-big bites. “Wouldn’t want the likes of this one sniffing after you.”

              “How sweet.”

              “It’s Gringo, by the way,” the stranger said, grinning and glancing between them.

              “That sounds like a story,” Michelle said.

              “I can tell you over dinner,” he suggested.

              Fox snorted rudely.

              Michelle gestured to her plate with her fork.

              “A drink, then,” he amended. “Some of us are heading over to the Armadillo.”

              A mental image of an armadillo popped into her head: the armored, snuffling, aardvark-looking creatures she’d only ever seen online and in animal books as a child. No place named after one of those could possibly be dignified or pretentious.

              “A drink,” she said, and wanted to salivate at the idea of one. In the whole mad rush to get to Tennessee and then Texas, she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. A craving kicked hard in her stomach. “We’re sitting at a bar now, though.”

              “Yeah.” He gave her another lethal grin. “But the scenery’s better there.”

              She couldn’t remember the last time someone had flirted with her. It just didn’t happen at home, where everyone lived in fear of her father or was related to her. When had it been? Maybe Paul, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh beneath one of the pub tables, whiskey breath against her neck, when no one was looking.

              She missed it terribly, suddenly, feeling female. That romantic human connection; being touched, kissed, wanted. With Paul, she’d realized that she craved the physical side of their relationship. She could be worn out and sated, and all he had to do was pass a fingertip up her back and she was rolling toward him in the dark, inviting his mouth down to hers. Something had been missing with the two of them. Oh how she’d cried when he ended things, but while they were together, she’d had the sense of reaching, trying to grab hold of something that wasn’t there.

              She didn’t for a second think Gringo had what she was after. But he was good-looking, and cheeky, and maybe most of all, he was interested.

              A little ashamed of herself, she said, “What’s the scenery like?”

              His grin widened, and she saw a flash of ruthlessness in his eyes. “Oh, you’ll love it.”

              Fox’s elbow dug into her back. “You can tell him to fuck off, pet. Everyone does.”

              She ignored her uncle. “Who’s going?”

              “Me, and Cowboy, and maybe Pup. Fox, too, if he wants to come.”

              She debated a long moment. She really had no desire to do anything with this man. But she liked the idea of comradery. Being included. Being treated like a desirable woman for a change.

              So she said, “Let me get my bag.”

~*~

Candy

Candy would have paid good money to watch his sister kill her asshole ex-husband. He would have paid even more to kill Jud Riley himself, and spare Jenny the trauma of living with what she’d done.

              Either way, he was glad the bastard was dead. But there was a reason he’d been left alive all this time, and that reason was his ATF agent brother, Elijah Riley. Local charges – traffic violations, drug busts, assault charges – were no great danger to a club. Individual members fucked up sometimes, and did time. Or they took a fall for their brothers and were revered for the time spent behind bars. But federal charges…that was a whole other world. Clubs all over the continent had been giving the feds the slip since the sixties. But Candy wondered if it wasn’t inevitable, eventually, that the FBI or ATF managed to make something stick.

              He desperately hoped that sticking had nothing to do with his chapter, his family, and the brother of the man they’d finally killed. So he had to ditch their guns. All of them. Discreetly.

              And if anyone could be described as discreet, it was the man sitting across from him, Armando Sanchez.

              “It’s hot tonight,” he said, conversationally. “Do you think it will storm later?”

              He wrote something on a cocktail napkin with a pen and slid it across the table to Candy. How many?

              “Always a chance,” Candy said. He accepted the pen and wrote back. 25. Russian.

              “You never know,” Armando agreed. The napkin again. 25K.