Sixteen
Five Years Ago
“Ava. Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Shit.” Mercy wiped at her tears with the pad of his thumb. “Why didn’t you – shit.”
“No. It’s fine.” Ava laid her hands along his face and tried to get hold of herself. “I’m fine.” She managed a watery smile. “Fine.”
But she could feel the warm blood on her thighs, and it still hurt so badly she could sob.
The first plunge had been hideously painful. It felt like he ripped her apart. Felt like he drove her all the way down through the mattress. He was too big for her – he didn’t fit. And of course she should have known that. He was a big man, in all aspects. And all that magic physical compatibility she’d imagined – it had been just that, imagination. Because he was too big for her.
But she’d wanted to be with him, had wanted to return the pleasure he’d given her. She’d wanted him inside her, even if it destroyed her, and so she’d sunk her teeth in his shoulder to keep from screaming, and she’d cried silently as he’d sought release in her body, murmuring in her ear how tight she was and how good she felt to him, praising and encouraging. And it hadn’t been terrible. No, it had been wonderful, in so many ways, because he was her first and he’d loved her, truly loved her, and he’d shuddered when he’d come, and he’d been so very deep inside her, even if the pain was blinding.
He’d pulled back, finally, and he’d seen her tears, the lines of pain on her face, and his concern and shame had been precious.
He flopped to his side and pulled her into him, bundling her close. His big hand at the back of her head held her against his shoulder.
“I shoulda thought of that,” he said. “I didn’t mean–”
“I know you didn’t,” she rushed to assure. “I’m fine. I wanted this.” But when she closed her eyes, the tears slid down her cheeks and she couldn’t keep them in check this time.
Mercy held her, silent and understanding, his hand sweeping up and down her back, soothing her as he traced aimless patterns across her bare skin. When her breathing had evened out, he eased away and rolled from the bed.
Exhausted and lightheaded, Ava lay on her side, watching him, as the sunlight haloed around his massive shoulders, his Roman-coin profile. Denied the chance before, Ava looked her fill, now in the quiet aftermath, fascinated by the unperfected musculature of his abs, his legs; the tan lines and innumerable little scars. If she’d seen his cock before, she would have been more properly afraid. It was smeared with blood, so were his thighs. Her blood.
She sighed against the comforter and let the fatigue take her, drifting in a pre-sleep fog.
Mercy returned a moment later, wearing his jeans, with a warm damp towel from the bathroom for her tender, bloodied sex. He cleaned her with a delicate touch, without a word, and retrieved her clothes from the floor, set them on the bed beside her.
“We’ll need to get your quilt in the wash ASAP,” he said as he picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head. “It’s white, so you can use bleach. Come on, I’ll help you.”
She dressed, feeling slightly dizzy, and more than a little puzzled by his growing sense of urgency. Mercy stripped off her stained comforter and walked it across the hall, stuffed it down into the washing machine.
“Where’s the detergent?”
“Here.” She shooed him away and added the Tide and a cap of bleach herself, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Mercy–”
“You should shower.” He was bouncy, anxious-like, looking everywhere but at her.
“Merc.”
“Wash your hair, too. Your mom’s smart. I wouldn’t put it past her to smell me on you.”
“Mercy.”
He finally looked at her, and she saw the naked regret in his face before he hid it behind his collected club mask. “What?” he asked. He had his jacket and cut in one hand, the other braced on the door to the laundry closet. “I should get going. You need help with anything? You’ve got this covered?” A gesture to the washing machine.
Ava felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She started to shake, and tried desperately to hide it. “Yeah.” She lifted her chin. “I do.”
Regret – he regretted sleeping with her. And now, all he could think about was getting caught.
She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying; didn’t want him to see her crumble. So she turned her head away as her eyes clouded with tears.
“Take a shower,” he reminded. “And some aspirin…if you’re hurting.” The air stirred as he leaned in close to her. The touch of his lips to her hair was devastating. “Come lock the door after I leave,” and then he was walking away from her, his heavy tread carrying him to the kitchen.
She listened to the door open and close. Listened to the birds twittering beyond her window in the trees. Listened to the wind sighing in the eaves and the traffic rumbling past on their sleepy street. She listened to Mercy’s Dyna start with a growl and back from the drive, and then she curled over the open washing machine, put her face in her hands and cried.
“Knock-knock,” Maggie called as she rapped against the open patio door and stepped out onto the flagstones.
Carina Stephens sat at a wrought iron table, in a cushioned chair, her head hanging limp from her neck, so low her nose was in danger of plunging into her artichoke dip, hand wrapped loosely around a stemless glass full to the brim with white wine. The bottle of imported Sauvignon Blanc stood at her elbow, uncorked. Her cream sheathe dress was what Bonita would have described as muy elegante.
At Maggie’s knock, Carina lifted her head with a startled jerk, blinking wildly as she swiveled around, searching for the intruder. Her sleek blonde bob had been mussed with her almost-dive into the dip and her beauty queen makeup would have sent Maggie’s mother into orgasmic fits of delight: pageant-grade cosmetics at their finest.
“Sorry,” Maggie said in her faux-sunny voice, striding out onto the patio. “The housekeeper said you were back here and that I should just come on back.”
The housekeeper, a poor beleaguered Latina woman with stress grooves around her mouth, had tried to bar Maggie from the front door with a broom. It was amazing what the words “Lean Dogs” could do for a gal in a pinch. Broom down, welcome mat rolled out.
The patio was a manmade feat of flagstone brilliance, with outdoor fireplace, waterfall-topped koi pond to one side, and a border of gardener-maintained flowers and crepe myrtles. From this vantage point, you could see the grand sweep of the back yard, the pool, the putting green. Wind played in several sets of big bell chimes and ruffled the edges of outdoor pillows on the furniture.
Carina squinted at Maggie a long moment, her painted mouth pulled back at the corners in a truly ugly grimace.
“Maggie,” she offered with a fake smile as she pulled out the chair beside Carina and sat. “Maggie Teague. From Dartmoor over on Industrial. Our kids go to school together.”
Carina, never a brainchild, fought the wine a moment, and then her eyes locked onto Maggie. “Dartmoor…You’re married to one of those bikers…” Her eyes flipped wide. “Your daughter…” And then the animal anger crashed through her.
She pushed her chair back. “Your daughter was there when my Mason was–”
“Your Mason,” Maggie said sweetly, “had a bit of a bad reaction, didn’t he?” As Carina tried to rise, Maggie reached over and patted the back of her manicured hand. “I don’t think you’re steady enough for that. Here.” She fished in her purse for a travel packet of Bayer. “Aspirin?”
Carina narrowed her mascara-heavy eyes.
“How’s Mason doing?” Maggie asked, the picture of concern. “I went by the hospital and they said they’d moved him to a private room, and that you’d come home to get some rest.”
Carina glanced at her wine, and then back. “I’m very tired.”
“I’m sure.” Maggie could imagine Ghost rolling his eyes at her cheerful tone. “God, I just hate it when one of my babies is in the hospital. It’s exhausting.”
Carina gave her head a little shake, and then scowled, like she was upset that she’d let the wine get the best of her. Maggie could see her refocusing, throwing her meager brain cells into this moment with wild abandon. “Your daughter–”
“She saw the whole thing! I was amazed when she told me. Can you imagine someone selling dangerous drugs like that here in Knoxville?”
When the other woman only stared, Maggie pressed on. “I was absolutely aghast” – ha, Ghost would have loved that – “when Ava told me about the whole thing. I even heard a child in the next county died from taking it.”
Carina’s hand flew to her throat, nearly spilling her wine. “Died?”
“And the police – what are they going to do?” Maggie made a frustrated gesture to the air. “They have no leads and no theories. Useless, like always.”
Carina, more than half-tanked, struggled visibly between her natural contempt for anyone of Maggie’s social standing, and her desperate need for a sympathetic ear. One of the household staff had been sitting vigil over little Mason at the hospital. “The Missus is at home,” the girl had said, her disgust thinly veiled. “Said the smell of the hospital was making her lightheaded.” Maggie had shared a knowing look with the poor maid. She knew Carina’s type: the country club mothers for whom a child was just another merit badge on the Girl Scout vest of life, who turned to the bottle the moment their “precious darlings” needed anything more than a patented proud smile. Carina wasn’t worried about Mason, Maggie knew – after all, the doctors had said he was out of the woods as far as the whole dying thing went – but was worried about her social standing now that her son had almost killed himself with a party drug.
It was the reputation that mattered. It was the reputation Maggie planned on exploiting.
“My car got broken into last month, and they never caught the bastard,” Carina said with a scowl. “Useless.” She nodded. “You’re right.”
Maggie kept her smile to herself. The alcohol was sliding things in her direction; on a sober day – which was rare – the queen of the Stephens household would have called her a whore and tossed her out on the street. Now she was getting agreement.
“Well, here’s why I came by,” Maggie said, leaning in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. She briefly lamented her refusal to join drama club in high school; she was damn good at this. “My husband, while not as powerful as yours, I know” – little nod from Carina – “he still has a certain standing in the community. His club has a bit of a reputation for controlling the unsavory elements around here.
“Just a few weeks ago,” she continued, “the club helped Harold Winn catch the peeping tom who was spying on his daughter. The sicko was in cuffs by the end of the night.”
Carina’s brows jumped.
“So I wanted to assure you that Kenny and his boys” – Kenny! she’d exclaimed when Ghost had finally told her his real name after three weeks of sleeping tangled on his old futon. Your name’s Kenny! – “they’re taking this business with your son very seriously. They’re turning over all the right rocks and asking all the hard questions. They will hand deliver this dealer to the precinct steps, I can promise you.”
Carina’s bloodshot eyes widened behind a glossy sheen of tears. “They can do that?”
Maggie offered her a reassuring smile. “They do that all the time. Trust me: all the club boys have families. They’re dying to get hold of this creep, and people will talk to them who won’t talk to the police. It’s amazing what you can do when you aren’t scaring the life outta people with a badge and a gun.”
Carina stared at her a long, unblinking moment, then dissolved into tears. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! My friend Melissa, she was so wrong about you.”
Maggie felt her smile turn brittle. “Most people are.”
She spent another fifteen minutes consoling the woman, then topped off her wine, patted her hand one last time, assured her the oh-so-righteous Lean Dogs MC was on the case, and took her leave with a stolen dollop of artichoke dip on a Tostito.
She waved to the staff on her way out of the mansion as she licked dip off her thumb and hit Ghost on her cell’s speed dial.
He answered as she walked to her car in the brick-paved driveway. “What kinda trouble are you out stirring up?”
“Aw, nice to hear your voice too, baby.” She slid behind the wheel and took note of all the security cameras aimed at her as she shut the door. “And for your information, I was saving your ass with the Knoxville DAR, that’s what.”
As she turned around alongside the fountain and its cherub statue, she filled him in on her conversation with Carina Stephens.
“By this time tomorrow, that bitch’s clique will think you’re Doc Holliday.”
He snorted.
“The rumor mill’s gonna churn,” she said, “I’m just feeding it what needs grinding.”
He must have been by himself, because a smile colored his voice as he said, “I married a smart kid, didn’t I?”
“You bet your ass.”
From the Stephens’ ultra-elite neighborhood of gates and brick pillars, she drove through the heart of the city and across to the other side, to their modest, sleepy little subdivision of one-story houses and flat, gentle yards. She hung up with Ghost after the little routine of what-do-you-need-at-the-store-tomorrow and what’s-for-dinner, parked alongside Ava’s truck, and entered through the kitchen door.
She saw the beer first. The three empty bottles, the three left in the cardboard case, all sitting on the kitchen table with Ava’s stacked schoolbooks.
“Have a little drink with lunch?” she called as she shelved her shoes.
There was no answer.
Ava lay on the sofa, asleep, propped on a pillow with her damp hair curling down her back. Without makeup, wearing one of Ghost’s t-shirts and sweatpants, she’d obviously showered not long before. The TV was on some MTV reality drivel.
As she progressed down the hall, Maggie heard the dryer tumbling something heavy. Across the hall, Ava’s bedroom door stood open, and Maggie shot a cursory glance – something askew. Something off.
The bed was missing its white comforter, stripped down to the pale yellow sheets and tattery old patchwork quilt.
Maggie poked her head into the laundry closet’s half-open doors. Caught a whiff of bleach.
Her stomach tightened as mother’s intuition began firing impossible theories through her mind.
No, she told herself. Don’t jump to crazy conclusions.
But her own life at Ava’s age had been too crazy to ever predict. She didn’t like the direction her thoughts went, but she liked the idea of giving voice to them even less.
Ava woke to the smell of baked chicken and mushroom wild rice pilaf. She drifted up from sleep and realized she was still on the couch, that she had a crick in her neck from sleeping funny, that her eyes were puffy and bruised from crying, and that her body ached and flamed in ways she’d never anticipated. Muscles unknown before today caught and yelped as she eased to a sitting position. And the throbbing between her legs had nothing to do with desire now.
“Shit,” she whispered between her teeth. “Oh, shit.”
“Ava, are you up?” Maggie called from the kitchen, and she wondered if maybe she’d misjudged her own whispering.
“Yeah,” she called back. “Coming.”
It was full dark now, the sky diamond-studded with stars through the windows. Someone – Dad, most like – had changed the channel to a documentary about the history of handguns, and then left the room. The kitchen was ablaze with light, and Ghost was already at his seat, Maggie bringing the last of the serving dishes to the table. Aidan, surprisingly, was in attendance, his nighttime riding goggles pushed up into his wild hair, the sleeves of his flannel shirt bunched up over his elbows.
“You’re here?” she asked as she took her place across from him.
“How ‘bout ‘ glad you’re here, Aidan,’ ‘so great to see you, bro,’ ‘ I miss you when I don’t get to see your beautiful face at the dinner table, best brother ever.’ ”
“How ‘bout you try being the best brother ever,” she returned, too tired to put any bite into her voice.
“How ‘bout you both eat and don’t act like little shits,” Ghost suggested as he accepted the green peas from Maggie and spooned up a portion.
Aidan made the stupidest face at her and she was forced to laugh.
“Mom, you should have gotten me up,” she said to Maggie as the rice was passed around. “I could have helped you with dinner.”
Maggie scooted her chair forward and gave her an elegant nose-wrinkling. “That’s okay, baby. You were tired.”
What was that? Flicker of question in the way Maggie blinked? Suspicion? Curiosity? Tired from what, Ava? Tired from what?
“Besides, you woulda burned the shit out of this.” Aidan forked two chicken thighs onto his plate.
“I can cook.”
“In your Fisher Price plastic kitchen.”
“Aidan,” Maggie said as Ghost began to reprimand both of them again. “Where’s Tango tonight? He knows he’s always welcome at the table.”
“Oh, he went to see his aunt…”
And on the story continued, the saga of Tango’s poor ailing aunt who’d been the only maternal figure in the guy’s life prior to joining the club. Now he had Mags and Ghost and the whole rest of the crew to love him, but his aunt had been his only salvation at one point, and he paid to keep her in the best nursing home he could afford, with a little financial help from his club brothers here and there.
Ava was sympathetic to the situation – she loved Tango like a brother (more than her actual brother, most of the time) – but her mind wandered. She’d half-expected a phone call from Mercy. Even a text. A simple: r u ok? But no, there’d been nothing. He’d fled the house before with shame and regret dogging his heels. He’d made it perfectly clear that she was too young, and he didn’t go for that sort of thing, and it would be a bad idea for them to cross those lines.
Well, okay, but now the lines were good and crossed. Was he going to pretend nothing had happened? Could he do that? Yeah, he could. He wasn’t like her. He wasn’t full to the brim with tears and longing and mashed feelings.
“You’re quiet,” Ghost said, and she jerked, realizing she must have zoned out for several minutes, because now Aidan was talking about an annoying customer who’d come into the shop that day.
Her face heated. “Just tired,” she muttered, dropping her head over her plate.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Maggie watching her, her expression thoughtful.
“Your mom’s smart,” Mercy had said.
Yes. Yes, she was.