Thirteen
Five Years Ago
Mason’s better idea involved the fifty yard line of the high school stadium, a full bottle of Smirnoff, and a Ziploc bag of nubby joints. Ava balked at the tunnel that led out onto the field, hating every single part of this. But Mason smirked at her and said, “Maybe you people aren’t that outlaw after all.” Wanting to punch him in the throat, wanting to punch Mercy in the throat for giving her the need to fling herself away from all that was comfortable and into the arms of this strange “normal,” she followed the others out onto the turf.
It was a Thursday night, which meant no games, which meant the stadium was bathed in darkness. The girls had pocket-sized flashlights that they clicked on and set up in a small circle. The light ringed them in angled cones across the grass, its dull green the only color in their underwater world of blue and gray and glowing white lines that marked off the yardage, even in the dark like this. Ava didn’t like the way she couldn’t see much of anything; she didn’t like the idea of Jerry the live-in janitor finding them out here.
But she was the one who’d continued to tag along. If the night went badly for her, it would be her own fault.
She sat cross-legged between Carter and Beau. Beau smelled like he’d borrowed his grandfather’s aftershave. Mason lit the first joint and passed it to Ainsley. He took the first swig off the Smirnoff. Ava didn’t want to touch the places the others’ mouths had touched.
Megan screwed up her face and said, “So, are you two, like, going out or something?”
“No,” Ava said quickly.
Carter glanced at her, hurt flickering across his features.
“I mean…” There was no way to soften it. “No, we’re not. We’re just friends.”
“Um, not to be rude,” Ainsley said, and Ava bit down hard on a laugh. “But, like, why are you even here?”
“Because Carter invited me.” She kept her personal reasons to herself.
Ainsley rolled her eyes and shot Carter a murderous glare. It was no small secret Ainsley had wanted to get her claws into the quarterback for a while now. She slept with Mason in the clumsy way of entitled teens who thought maturity was bound up in sexuality somehow, but Carter was the prize she was truly after.
Then, because Ainsley couldn’t hold onto any thought for long – not even hatred – she glanced over at Megan and said, “Oh my God, did you see what Rebecca was wearing?”
Ava accepted the joint as it reached her and passed it along to Carter. She had no idea what these morons had rolled and she wasn’t going to find out.
Mason noticed; his laughter cut through the dark and he didn’t attempt to squelch it. He was Mason Stephens’ son, damn it, and he could bray like a donkey while trespassing if he wanted to.
“Seriously, Teague – you dress like that, you’re a fucking biker chick, and you’re gonna puss out over a little dope?”
“Stop talking to her like that–” Carter began, as the two girls snickered into their hands.
Ava held up a hand to stop him. “I’m the sister of the biggest asshole I’ve ever met,” she said to him in a stage aside, “I can handle this little shitstain.”
“Oh!” Beau said like he thought a real fight might break out, and he was excited about it. “Dude!”
Mason inhaled, ready to return fire, but Ava beat him to it.
“Yes, Mason, I called you a shitstain. Because that’s the nicest thing I can think to call you. And yes, before you say it, I know exactly who you are. You’re the pain in the ass son of a pain in the ass man, and you’re the sadist who’s tried at every turn to crush me under your penny loafer just because it’s fun to verbally assault a girl. Well, this just in to the news desk, dumbass, you don’t scare me. You cannot peer pressure me. You are nothing to me, and I hope you crash your car into a telephone pole the second you leave here.”
And with that she stood, kicking herself for having allowed the night to go this far.
“You can’t talk to him like that!” Ainsley said.
“Um, pretty sure I just did. And I, like, totally can do it to you too.”
Ainsley gasped, at least smart enough to know she was being mocked. “Mason! Mason.”
Mason, as per maddening usual, was unaffected. “Let her go,” he said as Ava turned to leave.
“Ava,” Carter said as he scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”
“She can explain to the cops,” Mason continued, “how her daddy Dog sold me these.”
When she turned – and oh, how she hated to give him that much satisfaction – she saw that he’d picked up one of the flashlights and was shining it on an upheld baggie, not the one with the joints, but a different one, one full of what looked like SweeTarts.
“Sorry.” She folded her arms and tried to look confident. “Dad doesn’t sell candy. But I can get you a deal on an oil change if you want.”
“Oh, I bet you could.” He grinned as he set the flashlight on the ground and the baggie opened with a crackle of the seal. “But right now, it’s all about this. And the beauty of this, Teague, is that when I get home, and my pupils are big as baseballs, my dad’s gonna take me to the ER and have a tox screen run on my blood. And when he asks me where I got this, I’m gonna tell him the truth. I bought it from your old man.
“And then,” he went on, gleefully, “the police will come batter your door down in the middle of the night, and they’ll dig through all your closets; go through the drawers and throw your mom’s thongs all over the floor. They’ll find your illegal guns and drugs and they’ll arrest your parents.”
Ava swallowed and felt her throat get stuck together. “You didn’t get that from Dad,” she insisted.
Mason’s teeth flashed in the night as he grinned. “You wanna see my receipt?” He fished into the baggie and came out with two of the tablets; their bright colors seemed fluorescent.
“The Lean Dogs,” Ava said, forcing her voice to be loud, strong, clear. “Don’t sell drugs. End of story, Mason. Just shut up about it.” But inside, she could already envision the house raid, the police in riot gear, her mother fuming at them as she was manhandled out to the curb.
Mason chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that.” And he deposited both tablets on his tongue and closed his mouth over them.
“Jesus Christ, Mason,” Carter groaned. “What are you doing, man?”
“Is it any good?” Beau asked. “Can you feel it yet? I want one.”
“Do you even know what you just put into your mouth?” Ava asked, fear crawling down the back of her neck. “It could be lye, for all you know.”
“What?” Megan asked. “Did your dad sell him lye?”
“No,” Ava said through her teeth. “My dad didn’t sell him–”
Mason went stiff. Ava saw the way his arms snapped to his sides, the way his spine went rigid and his muscles clamped together. Like a marionette, he drew up totally straight, totally still.
“Mason,” she said. “Shit–”
And then he fell to the ground, in the grips of a full-on seizure.
“Mason!” Ainsley screamed.
“Get him on his side,” Ava said as she tried to move toward him. “On his side, hurry!”
Beau reached him first and complied, rolling his friend over. Mason’s arms flailed and his legs kicked and he made a freakish grunting sound.
“He’s got foam coming out of his mouth!” Beau shouted. “Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit!”
“Here.” Ava moved in to help…
And was tackled backward. Her head thumped the turf and the air was forced from her lungs as she made impact.
It was Ainsley, her perfect nails going for Ava’s face. “What did you do to him, you bitch?”
Okay, that was it. That was fucking it.
Ainsley may have been a cheerleader, may have been athletic, may have been half-drunk and fueled by rage. But her anger had nothing on that which lived in Ava’s DNA. And she hadn’t been raised by an army boxer-turned-outlaw-biker and a teenage mother with a mean right hook. Ainsley wasn’t in love with a man who tortured for a living.
Ava brought her knee up in one swift move and caught Ainsley just beneath the ribs, knocking the breath out of her. She heaved at both the other girl’s shoulders and sent her sprawling backward. By the time Ainsley got her legs under her – she was swearing and screaming and sobbing, as Carter and Beau yelled at Mason, asking if he could hear them – Ava was on her feet and ready.
“You bitch!” Ainsley screeched. “What did you do?!”
Ava ducked Ainsley’s clumsy slap and popped back up, fists raised. It wasn’t a left jab, but her mama’s hook she threw at the blonde’s face full-force. Ainsley’s nose crunched. Blood spewed on impact. Ainsley screamed again and dropped to the ground, clutching her face.
“I didn’t do anything to him,” Ava spat, rolling her shoulder; she’d almost thrown it out of the socket with that punch. “He did it do his fucking self.”
She glanced over at Megan, who seemed to have no idea if she should be crying, helping her friend, or running for her life. “Call nine-one-one,” Ava said. “If you’re even capable.”
Someone, probably Jerry the live-in janitor, cut on the stadium lights with a deafening whump – hummmmm. And the night was flooded with white light. Ava closed her eyes against the assault, and the tears she refused to shed.
“So help me God, if I don’t get to see my daughter…”
The interview room door closed, sealing off Maggie’s squad room tirade.
“We’ll let her know you’re okay in a minute,” Officer Fielding said as he returned to the table and took his seat opposite Ava. “For right now, let’s just you and me talk.”
They were in the cushy interview room, the one that made you feel a little less criminal. But Ava could see the judgment lurking behind the cop’s façade. He was a longtime acquaintance, never a friend. He’d gone to school with Maggie, had even, if the rumored whispers were true, carried a bit of a torch for her. He was a pleasant-looking man, fit and unremarkable; his brown eyes carried a professional amount of sympathy at all times. His uniform was always spotless, his belt and tie straight. Ava would never forgive him for the time he’d come to visit them in the hospital when Aidan broke his arm falling off his dirt bike at fourteen and Fielding asked Aidan if it had truly been an accident, or if Ghost was to blame for the injury. He thought they were scum, the lot of them, and no amount of understanding nods and soothing platitudes could win Ava over.
“Officer Fielding, I’m seventeen,” she said, folding her arms. “You can’t talk to me without a parent present.”
He twitched a humorless smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know that. Then again, you weren’t brought up by your average soccer mom, were you?”
“No, sir.”
He sighed. “Look, Ava, you aren’t under arrest. This is off the record. I just want to hear your version of things. I’ve got all those other parents breathing down the department’s neck, and I need to be able to advise your school on your punishment.”
“Punishment?” She felt her spine draw up tight. Fear flooded through her veins. She was applying for a scholarship. There was a good chance, given her grades, she could earn an almost full ride to UT. Any sort of school disciplinary action would sully her record.
“You broke Ainsley’s Millcott’s nose,” he said. “Yeah, there’s gonna be consequences for that.”
Ava bit down hard on what she wanted to say. She was learning, the older she grew, that she’d inherited a mean cocktail of both her parents’ tempers. Calmly, she said, “Not to sound like a five-year-old, but Ainsley started it. I’ve got the grass stains on the back of my jacket to prove it.” She lifted her hoodie off the back of the chair to demonstrate the streaks of green the turf had left.
Fielding’s face colored and he glanced away from her. He was good at being a cop, and bad at being a human, awkward and uncomfortable with women, always. “Ainsley claims you got those stains doing something very different.”
Anger boiled in her gut. “I’m sure she did, but you can call my doctor in right now and we’ll do a pelvic exam to prove that’s not true.”
Fielding turned vermillion.
“Ainsley took a swing at me, Officer Fielding. It’s what she does. She’s a bitch. And she bats her lashes at the boys to get away with it. She hit first, but she’s not very good at it, and I ducked. I hit back – to defend myself. I’ve got a right to do that.”
A fraction of his composure returned as he straightened the cuffs of his uniform shirt. “That’s not true, actually. Your school has a zero tolerance policy against violence, Ava. And in this case, the violence occurred on school property. Anyone participating in a fight earns ten days out of school suspension, no exceptions.”
“Ten!–” She ground her teeth together and fought the onslaught of furious panic.
Then a horrific thought struck her. “Ainsley – she’s getting the ten days, too?”
Fielding glanced down at his hands. He’d brought a pad and pen into the room, but so far hadn’t written a thing. True to his word, if nothing else: this was off the record.
“She’s not, is she?”
“Ainsley has a broken nose and two black eyes. She sprained her ankle during her fall,” Fielding said, voice heavy with apology. “You don’t have a mark on you, and Megan Anderson swears you were the only aggressor.”
She clenched her hands until her nails cut crescents into her palms. “What about the zero tolerance policy?”
“I didn’t make it and I don’t enforce it. You’ll have to take it up with the school.” He shrugged, helplessly.
Ava sat back in her chair, all the fight knocked out of her. Her future, her college career, her dreams of writing – all smashed and bloody, like Ainsley’s nose, just because she’d been stupid and heartsick and had wanted to try and be normal for just one night.
She stared at the far wall and let her eyes lose focus. “What happened to Mason?” He’d still been flopping like a landed fish when they’d loaded him in the ambulance.
Fielding said, in a low, sympathetic voice, “I know you weren’t involved with that. Mason’s been caught with drugs more than once.”
“Yeah, but what happened to him?”
He sighed. “He had a grand mal seizure, but I guess you saw that. He should be okay, but the docs have him under close observation.”
“Dad didn’t sell him that stuff,” she said, unable to put any of her worry into her voice. She’d reached the overload point for the night.
“Just let me worry about that.”
She nodded, studying the way her blurred vision turned the aerial photo of Neyland Stadium on the far wall into a happy blob of orange and green. “Do I need to give you an official statement?”
“Yes.”
“Go get my mom, please. I won’t say anything without her.”
He rose to fetch Maggie, and as the door opened, Maggie’s tirade of, “…have all your badges!” ended as she caught sight of Fielding. “About time!”
Ava sat, wooden, as her mother entered the room and draped an arm across her shoulders, hugged her tight and whispered in her ear that everything would be fine, and that she hoped she hit that bitch Ainsley with all she had. Don’t worry, Fielding assured, Ainsley had a badly broken nose. Maggie thought that was fantastic as she settled into the offered chair and informed the officer that her daughter was in no way a criminal.
Ava recited the night’s events, her voice flat and lifeless. She didn’t name-call. She didn’t rat Carter out. Only the facts, straight and to-the-point.
After, she ignored Fielding’s condolences and trooped from the room without acknowledging him. Maggie followed in more boisterous fashion, telling Fielding they would be fighting the school’s decision, that she expected the PD to reinforce Ava’s story that she hadn’t been the one to start the fight. She roped an arm around Ava’s waist and steered her from the squad room to the lobby, where Ghost waited, hands on his hips, looking pissed-off in his usual, composed fashion.
Ava ducked her head, not wanting to meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he said, lifting her chin with a knuckle. His tan, lined face was fiercely attentive. “Did you hit the bitch hard?”
Ava took a shaky breath. “I broke her nose.”
“Did she hurt you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
A scant, fast smile graced his mouth. “Good girl.” He kissed her forehead. “Go wait out front and your mom and I’ll be out in a sec.”
Maggie kissed the side of her head. “Love you, sweetie.”
She was glad to get away from them, and step outside in the cool, covering dark of night. She folded her arms against the chill and moved to stand at the top of the precinct steps, staring across the lamppost-studded street toward the benighted city.
She should have known she wasn’t alone. But in her current rattled state, it took a full four seconds before she detected the presence of a tall shadow propped against one of the pillars of the low stone wall, watching her.
She knew it was Mercy before he said, “TKO in round one. I’m impressed.” And stepped into the light.
He’d put a black hooded sweatshirt on over his sleeveless tee, under his cut, and it made him look taller, bigger, darker and more sinister. Ava’s heart fluttered, shaking off its funk and making itself known. I want him, her heart said. I want whatever he’s willing to give. Pathetic. But the truth was, after the night she’d had, there was no one she would rather see. She craved the comfort of his big arm and the familiar smell of his sweatshirt, like when she’d been a little girl and cuddled up beside him.
“I got ten days OSS,” she said, glumly, “don’t be impressed with that.” She sat down on the top step and hugged herself, the breeze playing with her hair.
Mercy moved to sit beside her, his knees jacked up by his long legs, his shadow enveloping her. He sat too close – closer than a single man should have sat beside a single girl and still tried to pretend things were just friendly. He’d been that close to her for years, but suddenly, it wasn’t appropriate anymore, not when she wanted him even closer.
He didn’t seem to notice. “What’s OSS?”
“Out of school suspension.”
“Huh. Shame I dropped out in the eighth grade. I mighta enjoyed that.” He bumped her shoulder with his elbow, grinning.
Ava didn’t smile back. “I have to ask you something. But I don’t know if you’ll tell me the truth.”
He hid it well, but by the lights of the precinct shining through the glass front doors, she watched something akin to panic flare in his eyes. She knew, with a grab in her stomach, what he thought she was about to ask. And it saddened her to see his anxiety. He knew how she felt, and he was dreading the day she told him. He wouldn’t distance himself, wouldn’t leave her alone and set up any kind of boundary – no, how could he torture her that way? But he was afraid of her love; afraid of the day she turned it loose and let it slide off her tongue.
“Mason had some kind of colored tablet,” she pressed on, forcing herself not to think about the way he was manipulating her. “It looked like candy, and it sent him into a full-blown seizure. He said he bought it from Dad. From the club.” She swallowed her devastation as his panic was replaced with visible relief and a new interest. “Did he?”
He shook his head. “The Dogs don’t sell drugs,” he repeated the old mantra, the assertion she’d thrown at Mason earlier.
“I know, I know,” she said, waving away the old tired words. “But I’m asking you, Merc. Did the club sell that crap to him?” She glanced up at him with her head tilted back, feeling vulnerable and small. You, Merc, because you’re you and I’m me, and what’s happening to us?
He grew serious, studying her face a moment; she felt the touch of his eyes against her brow, her eyes, her nose…her mouth. If she just stretched upward…but no. She couldn’t. He’d never allow it.
“No,” he said. “We didn’t sell him that shit.”
“But you know something about it,” she pressed. “You’re not a good liar.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed…and then he glanced away and he smiled a false smile. “Ah, fillette, you know I can’t talk to you about that shit.”
She put her hand over the back of his, where it rested along the inside of his thigh. “The Stephens are a powerful, dangerous family in this town. They could make big trouble for the club.”
“How ‘bout you let us worry about that, alright?” His gaze moved down, to her hand. On his thigh.
Oh, shit, what was she doing?
Before she could pull away, he turned his hand over, capturing her slender fingers within his, trapping them gently in his closing palm. He had so many calluses, all the pads and planes rough from years of hard work and riding.
She was tucked against him and his body shielded her from view, from the light, from anything that would interfere. His large thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist, over her pounding pulse. Staring at their hands, he said in the softest, gentlest voice, “No, chéri. No, no, no. You’re just a little thing.”
Her eyes were full of tears before she could find any meaning in his words. “Why is that a bad thing?” she whispered.
“It isn’t.” He lifted her hand, placed it back in her own lap, and released her. “It’s a very bad thing.”
She wanted to stand, to walk away, put her back to him, but instead she sat, her head bowed against his arm, as the awful evening crashed over her and she mourned the loss of him as the man in her life. Things couldn’t continue. He could never again be “her Mercy,” because her feelings for him could never go back to the innocent adoration of childhood.
The door squealed open behind them and Ava rushed to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. She straightened away from him, only then realizing how close they were. She half-turned to glance over her shoulder and saw her parents exiting the precinct.
Maggie’s expression was a blend of tender, maternal things.
Ghost’s was suspicious.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” Ava got to her feet and dusted off the seat of her jeans, refusing to look at Mercy. “I was telling Mercy about the drugs, about what Mason–”
Ghost halted her with a raised palm. “We’ll worry about that,” he said, dismissing her. He cast a fast glance around them. “Somewhere that isn’t the police station.”
He looked to Merc. “Follow them home?” he asked. “I have a feeling I can look forward to a visit from our wannabe governor tonight at the clubhouse. I need to get some things in order first.”
Mercy climbed to his feet. “Sure thing, boss.” He gave Maggie a smile that suggested he hadn’t just broken Ava’s heart to bits and motioned toward the shallow precinct stairs. “Ladies first?”
Maggie pressed a fast kiss to Ghost’s mouth, then said, “Come on, baby,” and herded Ava down toward the car.
“Text me,” Ghost called.
“Always,” Maggie said.
Ava tried not to notice the way Mercy’s shadow mated with hers as he followed them.
“Something to eat, Mercy?” Maggie asked as she hung her jacket on the peg.
Ava dropped down into a chair at the table and risked a glance at him, the way he occupied too much of their kitchen. He looked like he belonged there – because he did. Even if now, in this moment with her eyes on him, she saw the barest scraps of self-consciousness in him. Her earlier assessment had been right: he didn’t know what to do with her feelings. He wouldn’t stop baiting them and he wouldn’t discuss them.
Bastard.
“Nah,” he said. “I should get going. You girls will be okay?”
“Of course.” Maggie waved him away as she opened the fridge and came out with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. “Thanks for the escort.” She gave him an affectionate tap on the arm.
“Yeah.” He lingered, just a moment, longer than he should have. Ava glanced away from him, but she felt his gaze. “Call if you need anything before Ghost gets home.”
“Will do.”
When he was gone, Maggie flipped the deadbolt, and then some of her carefree veneer sloughed away, leaving her tired and a little caved in at the shoulders. “Oh, baby,” she murmured as she returned to the counter and uncorked the wine, pulled down two glasses. She filled two regular dinner glasses halfway, then returned the wine to the fridge and returned with a can of Sprite that she halved between the two glasses. She brought the fizzing spritzers to the table and sat across from Ava. “I’m so sorry.”
Ava shrugged and watched the bubbles rise in her drink, wondering how many other mothers were pouring their daughters wine at the age of seventeen. She’d had her first sanctioned drink last year. “If you’re old enough to be in this family, then you’re old enough for a little nip here and there,” Maggie had said.
“We’ll get it sorted,” Maggie continued.
Ava shook her head. “Not this time, Mom. The club doesn’t have any sway with the school.”
Maggie made a face and sipped her spritzer. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”
“Mom…” Ava trailed off into a sigh. She was too tired to argue. Too tired to care. Her suspension would begin tomorrow, marking the day her college dreams would end. Her throat ached thanks to her tears from before. She wanted to take a bath…maybe drown in it…and go to bed.
She left her drink untouched and was getting to her feet when Maggie glanced up at her with sudden, intense seriousness. There was a graveness to the fine lines around her eyes, something sad and almost like regret.
“What?” Ava asked.
Maggie wrapped her hands around the cool glass in front of her and tipped her head, her body language an apology before she spoke. “You and Mercy sitting on the steps…”
Ava gripped the back of her chair hard. She felt her jaw clench and tried to keep her breathing regular. Just the suggestion that her mother knew sent her into immediate fight-or-flight mode, and since she was a Teague, fight was winning out. “Mom–”
“I understand,” Maggie said. “Trust me, baby, I understand more than anyone else in the world.” Her little smile said, Pregnant at your age, remember? “There’s pain there, Ava. It would be so messy and it would hurt you so bad.”
Ava swallowed and stared down at her white knuckles. “You think I don’t know that?”
Maggie’s voice was all sympathy. “That’s why you went with Carter tonight, wasn’t it?”
“And look how well that turned out.”
Maggie exhaled in a tired-sounding rush. “Yeah. Sit down and drink your wine.”
Mercy saw the car turn in at the main clubhouse gate via the closed circuit monitor behind the bar. The black and white security camera feed showed a low-slung Mercedes glide up to the clubhouse and park alongside the tidy row of bikes.
“Company,” he announced, turning to face his VP.
They were a skeleton crew tonight, because this was family business, and not club business. James was there, and Aidan, and Mercy, because Ghost had enfolded him into his family after all these years of loyal, personal service.
Aidan lounged in a recliner with a magazine, and eased to his feet, a subtle tension stealing over him. He was a little more graceful these days, a little less overexcited, though he was still kind of a lovable douchebag.
James was at the bar, nondescript and relaxed, always the soft-spoken patriarch.
Ghost had the air of an emperor about him in the center of the common room, hands on his hips, as the front door squealed open and their guest of the evening entered without knocking.
As the rap of expensive dress shoes came down the corridor, Ghost called out: “That’s a good way to get shot, Mason, walking in unannounced.”
The footsteps paused a second, then came on, Mason Stephens Sr. making his finely-groomed, perfectly posh entrance. Mercy spotted the cufflinks, the Rolex, the breeding in the lines of his face. This was old school, Old South money. His was a family that could trace its roots back to landing at Plymouth Rock.
Stephens cast a glance around the room, searching all of them out, counting how many he stood up against. Mercy saw his nerves. The hunter in him detected the other man’s cold, ruthless interior – and the hidden deposits of fear. Stephens was full to the gills with fear, just like every man. In one glance, Mercy knew where to find that fear, and how to exploit, should it come to that.
“Not that I care,” Ghost said, “but how’s your boy?”
Stephens charged two steps forward, and his face flushed with anger. “He’s almost dead! I swear to God, Teague–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ghost said, hands raised. “You swear to whoever the hell you want to, but your kid, he didn’t get that shit from us.”
Stephens fumed silently a moment, veins popping along his temples and forehead. Then he gathered himself visibly, tugging on his fancy cuffs, forcing a professional calm across his surface. “No, and how convenient for you,” he said, tone brisk and furious. “But don’t feed me that shit you told the police before.” Some of his shaken confidence returned; he pulled on his superiority, like a mantle.
“Dartmoor,” he sneered. “Your legitimate business.” He spat the word. “Did you tell the police the names of the side companies Dartmoor funnels money into? Did you explain to them that your very legitimate money funds the man who sold that shit to my son?”
Mercy swallowed the bitter taste of that truth. That was what Ava didn’t know, what he’d never tell her. The Dogs used their real businesses as a way to fund riskier, more profitable illegitimate businesses. To the outside world, the Dogs had gone legit, but they’d never been more outlaw.
“ ‘Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghost said.
Stephens’ anger boiled over again. “Bullshit!” He stepped in closer to Ghost, close enough that Aidan edged in alongside them.
“James,” Ghost said mildly over his shoulder, “do we sell designer drugs to stupid punks who OD on them?”
“That’d be a no, brother,” James said with a helpful smile. “We’re just a bunch of entrepreneurs and Harley aficionados, Mr. Stephens,” he told Mason. “I guess people’ve seen too many movies; they think we’re some kinda devils or something,” he said with an easy laugh. “Imagine that, Merc,” he added.
“I just can’t,” Mercy said, shrugging. “How could anybody get such a wrong idea about us?”
Stephens’ eyes darted between the four of them, his jaw clenching tight. “This is how you do it, isn’t it? Plausible deniability. I ought to bring my financial advisor by; you could teach him a thing or two about immaculate bookkeeping.”
“Great. Have your people call my people,” Ghost said, “and we’ll set up a consultation. ‘Cause this meeting’s over, Mason.”
Stephens flashed a bitter smile. “What happened to Mason” – he leveled a finger on Ghost – “that’s on your head. You will pay for that.”
“Terrifying,” Ghost deadpanned.
“I’m shaking, Dad,” Aidan said. “Feel my hand. Shaking like a motherfucker.”
“Merc,” Ghost said. “You wanna walk Mr. Stephens out to his car?”
“Sure.” Mercy slid off his stool, stretched up to his full height, and saw Stephens pale.
Then the man backed toward the door. “Don’t get comfortable,” he said. “Your reign of terror in this town is over, Teague.”
“Awesome.” Ghost waved as Stephens finally turned and headed back the way he’d come. “And don’t forget LD Automotive for all your rich-boy car repair needs.
“Christ,” he muttered, turning to watch Stephens walk toward his car on the monitor. “Never a dull moment.”
“Nope,” James said.
Then Ghost turned to Mercy. “We’ve got to find out what that shit is, and get it off the streets before Stephens sics the mayor on our finances. Pay Fisher a visit first thing in the morning, yeah?”
Mercy nodded. “Yeah.”