Twenty-Two
Five Years Ago
It was the pain that brought her back from the dark. The relentless, drumroll pain inside her skull, and outside of it, the awful heaviness of her head that was a different kind of pain. And the pain in her scalp, because there was a hand wrapped up tight in her hair, and dragging her.
Her limbs came back to her, the connections muddled with static, her nerve responses slow. She was on her back, and her arms and legs hung like dead things, and someone had her by the hair and she was being pulled across a dusty rough floor.
The smells of mold and damp filled her lungs as she drew in her next breath. Other little swirls amid the eddies: grass gone to seed, beer, urine, decay, dirt, aged paint, sweat, human nerves.
Her eyes opened one at a time, and through the blur of pain, she saw dim cones of light – flashlights set up on their ends – struggling to reach the highest, darkest corners of the ceiling. She saw faces: blonde hair, flash of white bandage. Ainsley. A boy, dark, messy hair, a nose that was hard to miss. Beau.
The hand in her hair curled and gave a punishing tug. And that was when she realized who had hold of her. Who had clubbed her on the back of the head outside Carter’s house.
Mason.
Adrenaline flooded her system, her frayed circuits struggling to respond. She kicked and reached for Mason’s hand at her head; she heard a high, feminine gasp from Ainsley. They hadn’t expected her to wake up.
She touched the back of Mason’s hand and dug her nails into him, clawing, rewarded with the hot wet streaks of blood down his knuckles.
“Bitch!” He flung her down and the back of her head cracked against the floorboards. Her vision exploded with white, the pain in her already-bruised head so vicious she thought she’d lose consciousness again. She felt the floor tilt, felt herself sliding, and knew she was motionless.
Mason’s face appeared above her as he leaned over her, his sneer truly hideous. “I don’t think you get it,” he said. “I’m the one in control here.”
Power. It always came down to power for people like Mason.
Ava struggled to find her voice inside her dry throat, working her papery tongue against her lips. “Y-you…you idiot.” She gulped in a deep breath, willing her body to come back online and cooperate. “Do you think you can do anything to me and get away with it? You think the Dogs won’t come for you?”
“Mason,” Ainsley said, “I don’t like this anymore. Just stop.”
Mason laughed, the sound high and erratic. He ignored Ainsley. “Come after me for what?” he asked, his face twisted in manic delight. “For just taking a little bit of what you give all those biker boys for free?”
The first hard shudder of fear went through her. Mason hated her; she’d embarrassed him, had trash-talked him, had been witness to his near-death experience. He was going to shame her in return. And there was only one way a boy his age knew how to do that.
“No.” In a desperate surge, she rolled to her side, clawing at the floor.
Mason stepped back, still laughing, watching her struggle.
The room spun in crazy circles around her, but she was still able to pick out details: the curving double staircase behind Ainsley, the high ceilings, baseboards tall as three-tiered cakes, the gallery just visible in the upper shadows. They were in the massive front entrance hall of Hamilton House.
Where no one could hear her, see her, save her.
“Mason, no,” she said, panting as she managed to get up on her hands and knees. “You don’t want to do this. Think about what it’ll do to your permanent record.” Because appealing to his human side wouldn’t work, she reached for the only thing that would: reputation. “Think about your dad’s campaigns, about your mom and all the rich women in this city. You don’t want to throw your whole family down the toilet like that.”
He crouched down in front of her, and tilted his head sideways so she could see his face, the blurry double-image of it. He looked like a deranged gremlin, all perched up on the balls of his feet. “You think? ‘Cause, see, here’s what I think, Teague. I think anything that happens to you, in your whole life, gets chalked up to white trash getting what it deserves. You can’t touch me.”
Ava rocked back, so she was kneeling, hands gripping at the tops of her boots. She felt the familiar shape of her bone-handled knife in the right one, in its hidden sheathe. The room heaved, like a ship at sea. She couldn’t tell if she swayed, or just her vision. Maybe both. Mason kept blurring in and out of focus. Her head throbbed, thump-thump with every scattered heartbeat.
“No?” she asked. Her hand slid into the top of her boot.
Mason watched her slack expression, grinning to himself. “Um, hello. Do you even know who I am? How have you not learned that in all these years? Not just a slut, a stupid slut. You’re some nobody bitch born on the side of the road somewhere, and I’m Mason Matthew Stephens the Second–”
Hard, Mercy always said. If you’re gonna stab someone, do it hard and fast. Make it count. Fuck ‘em up.
In one rapid viper strike, Ava pulled the knife from her boot and plunged it into the side of Mason’s thigh, the thickest, meatiest, bloodiest place she could reach at this angle. Hard. Punch. Slink! The knife was sharp and it went straight through his jeans, down into the flesh. There was a hard, jarring stop that made her think she hit his femur, and she ripped it back out, blood arcing through the air, red and glimmering.
Mason howled.
Ainsley and Beau screamed.
Ava staggered to her feet, flailing for nonexistent handholds, reeling and in pain. Her grip was tight around the knife, her hand oily with blood. Mason was on the ground, but he wouldn’t stay there long.
Had to get away…had to get away…
She tripped over her own feet, and fell hard against the bannister, clutching at the heavy round post at the foot of the stairs to keep from going down. She had to keep her feet, had to keep moving. If she went back down to the floor again, she might never get up…
“Bitch! You fucking bitch!” Mason roared, right next to her. He was up again, and the furious adrenaline was pumping through him, overriding the pain.
Ava brought the knife up, but it was slick with his blood, and he slapped it out of her hand.
“You little cunt!” He was stronger than she’d always thought, and when she reached to claw at his face, the punch he threw sent her stumbling back onto the stairs.
She felt her cheek, her shoulder, her knee impact with sharp pops. The skin split on her face. She was exhausted, the concussion taking all the fight out of her.
I hate, I hate you, I hate you! she screamed inside her head. But she said, “Please don’t,” as she scrabbled for purchase. “Please. I’m pregnant.”
There was a moment of utter stillness after she said it, and she believed, for one stupid, free-floating second, that Mason might stop. She levered up on her arms, tried to get her feet to work…
Mason’s kick took all the breath from her. Her heart slammed to a stop. He was wearing boots, and the heel caught her in the belly, in the lowest, tenderest spot, with all of his weight behind it.
Her eyes slammed shut. The pain was immediate, crushing, like a bomb going off inside her. And then there was the other pain, the rhythmic clenching, like menstrual cramps.
Ava let her head fall back against the spindles of the bannister; she was done. She couldn’t fight him anymore.
Her eyes slitted open and she saw Mason standing above her…
And someone standing behind him. Someone much taller than him. Someone dark and furious and so painfully familiar.
She was hallucinating.
“Mercy,” she whispered.
Mason’s eyes widened.
With an assured knowledge of strength that was his trademark, Mercy reached around and took Mason by the throat. Ava saw, in her haze, the tendons leap in Mercy’s fingers as his grip tightened, and then Mason was hauled backward like a child’s toy, and flung against the bannister of the second staircase. Two balustrades cracked with puffs of dust. Something crunched in Mason and he slumped forward onto the floor. His hands were slick with his own blood. He moaned.
“Baby.” Mercy’s voice was hitched, breathless, as he leaned over and gathered her up with his hand beneath her arms, lifting her to her feet, urging her to lean against him. His face was the enraged mask of the day he’d killed the two Carpathians in her room. She felt the fury leaping under his skin as she rested her head against his chest. “Where does it hurt? – What did he?...”
Mason tried to push up on his hands and Mercy snarled, a vicious, animal growl coming out through his teeth. He hooked an arm around Ava’s waist and pulled her along with him, as he went to Mason. Ava knotted her hands in Mercy’s flannel shirt, swaying; the pain in her stomach was getting worse, an awful knotting deep in her womb, but she felt detached from it somehow, floating high above the scene playing out here in Hamilton House. Mercy was here now; she was safe; all she had to do was stay awake.
A sharp kick cracked Mason’s head back. He yelped; his face was wet with tears. He lurched and writhed, so he was sitting up against the balustrades, bloody hands braced on the floor, legs splayed at awkward angles out in front of him. His jeans were black with blood. Ava wondered, dimly, if she’d hit the artery and if he might bleed out right here in front of them.
Mercy dropped down to a crouch, slowly, so he didn’t dislodge her. Ava moved behind him, looped her arms around his neck and let his solid shape hold all her weight, her boots set back on the floor behind her. He reached up to close his hand over her wrist, briefly, a silent encouragement: stay with me, I’m here, you’re okay, baby. Then he reached for the wicked length of serrated knife down his boot.
Mason’s eyes latched onto the blade, and dilated with horror. He breathed in shallow huffs, his skin slick and sallow. The blood loss was getting to him. All the adrenaline had drained away in one terrified rush. He wasn’t a fighter now, just a scared kid.
“It’s Mason, right?” Mercy drawled, turning the knife so the unnatural flashlight glow glinted down the length of it. When Mason didn’t say anything, Mercy said, “I asked a question, dumbass.”
“Y-y-yes. I’m Mason.”
“Right. So.” Mercy’s voice became almost soothing, low and emotionless. He’d gone to that dark place in his head. He wasn’t him anymore; he was the club extractor. “Looks like something happened to your leg, Mason.” He used the tip of the knife to tap at the hole in Mason’s jeans. Mason cringed and tried to scoot back. “No, no, you’re going to want to keep very still.” Little tap-tap with the knife. “Your leg?”
Mason’s eyes flickered up to Ava, then back.
“Ah…” A note of satisfaction. “Feisty little thing, isn’t she? I taught her how to use a knife myself.”
Mason’s lips worked, but no sound came out.
“What’s that?” Mercy trailed the knife tip down the outer seam of Mason’s jeans, down past his knee. “She never mentioned me?” His shrug pushed against Ava’s arms. “Guess that’s not the sort of thing a girl goes around school talking about: being friends with me. Not anything to brag about.” When Mason kept silent, Mercy said, “See, her brother, her old man, they’re leadership types. Guys in the front of things, yeah? And me? Me, I’m not that important. I’m the middle-of-the-night guy. I’m the guy” – tight bands of steel threading through his voice – “they sic on guys like you.”
“No!” Mason squeaked. “No, I didn’t–”
“Didn’t what, Mason?” Mercy shouted. “Beat my girl to within an inch of her life?” He dug the knife down into Mason’s shin, the thin patch of skin just over the bone.
Mason howled, and Mercy pulled back, voice softening again.
“It was just a misunderstanding, right?
Fast, jerky nod from Mason.
“I figured. So’s this.” The knife flashed down in a lightning strike, burying itself in Mason’s other thigh.
His scream was terrible, veins popping in his neck and eyes rolling back, lips skinning off his teeth in anguish.
Mercy, totally composed, wiped the blood off on Mason’s shirt, sliding the flat of the knife on his sleeve once, twice. His head cocked a fraction, as Mason’s screaming dissolved into gurgling. His hair brushed Ava’s face as he turned to her, just a little, and said in a sweet, crooning voice, “What do you think, sweetheart?” He gestured to Mason’s body with the knife. “Where next? Belly? Balls? You tell me.”
For a moment, Ava let the thought stir her. She hurt everywhere, so very much, and her vision was spotty. She allowed herself a moment of debate. Yes, she had this power. She had this ungodly strong creature at her disposal, at her beck and call, her own heaping helping of nightmare revenge to dish out on whoever she wanted to point him at.
In that moment, she knew: he would do anything for her. Anything. No request was too gruesome, no deed too despicable for him. He’d flay Mason alive, if she wanted him to, and then go for Beau and Ainsley.
The power, all that power in him she felt whenever he was inside her, above her, sheltering her – that was hers.
Dizziness tackled her, had her leaning against him harder.
Mason sobbed. “Please, please, please…”
Ava felt a surge of warmth between her legs, a wetness as her stomach cramps threatened to blind her. She was bleeding. Oh, God, the baby…Mercy…
“Ava!” Her dad’s voice, a harsh bark from behind her.
“Baby.” Maggie’s sharp gasp.
“Merc,” Dad said, sounding his most authoritative. “Leave the boy alone.”
Mercy didn’t twitch. It didn’t matter that Ghost was his vice president. Right now, he was all Ava’s. If she said go, he’d gut Mason like a deer, no matter what his VP said.
Pattering of feet: Ainsley and Beau making a run for it.
Tussle of voices: reinforcements, more than just her parents. At least one snatch of English accent that she picked out as Walsh. The others were a blur.
“Mercy.”
Still nothing, just Mercy’s big body poised and waiting, under her arms. She felt the steady thump of his pulse through his back. This was what he did. This was his wheelhouse. All he needed was her say-so.
“Ava,” Ghost said, voice taking on a new tension, a foreign strain she’d never heard before. Slow, biting off each word: “Call him off.”
She was fading. She could feel consciousness slipping away from her, as the blood kept pouring from between her legs.
She stroked trembling fingers through Mercy’s hair. She loved his hair, black and slick and too-long. “Felix,” she said, voice a breathless tremor. “That’s enough.”
And then she collapsed.
Carter heard the sirens, faint and faraway, growing closer. He was too far back from the crumbling front door of Hamilton House to see anything clearly; all he knew was that Ainsley and Beau were fading into the weeds out back, nothing but flashes of sneaker soles as they sprinted away into the night. And he knew that something terrible had happened – was happening – to Ava. And that Mason was crying noisily, and that Mercy was being called off like a dog.
“Felix.” Ava’s voice was floaty with strain. “That’s enough.”
There were wide splashes of shadow on the floor that Carter knew to be blood. He had no idea what had happened to Mason, but he didn’t care. The bastard deserved it.
And then a thought struck him, as the siren screams intensified. He turned to the nearest Dog, Aidan’s friend with all the earrings, and grabbed at his sleeve. “You guys have to get out of here. The cops…”
Tango’s eyes widened; they were an eerie color in the dark. “Yeah. Right.” He glanced toward the door. Mercy was upright, on his feet, cradling Ava in his arms. She was unconscious, and the anguish in the huge man’s face was something Carter wasn’t going to forget for a long time. “But Ava…”
Maggie snapped around, wiping tears, her face set and grim. “He’s right,” she said, to the gathered Dogs. “You boys have to go. “I’ll stay here with Ava, wait for the paramedics.” Her complexion was bright white, red lips vivid as they pressed together into a trembling line. “Carter will stay with me, right?”
“Yeah.” He nodded automatically. He had no idea what they’d tell the EMTs, but that wasn’t the point.
Maggie’s husband, Ava’s father, stood rooted. “No.”
“Yes!” Maggie slapped at his chest. “Go. Walk out, be quiet, we’ll ride with her to the hospital. I can lie to the cops; I’m a pro with that.”
“I know.” Ghost sighed, his breath laced with anger and tension and worry.
“She’s bleeding,” Mercy said. “Jesus Christ…”
Maggie went toward him, laid a gentle hand on his large forearm. “Give her to me, sweetie. Come on, it’s fine.”
Mercy lowered her to the floor like it was the last thing in the world he wanted. Maggie knelt, made a pillow of her knees for Ava’s head, and stroked her daughter’s hair, hands shaking.
“Fine.” Ghost snapped his fingers. “Bring him.”
Aidan and Tango rushed forward, and to Carter’s shock, gathered Mason up roughly between them, dragging him toward the door.
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” Aidan told him, twisting his arm. “Or I’ll kick you out of the back on the way.”
Suddenly the van made sense to Carter, why Aidan and Tango hadn’t come on their bikes.
“What-what are you going to do to him?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ghost said, spinning to face him. “You” – finger aimed at his chest – “one wrong move, and I’ll kill you myself, understand?”
Carter managed a nod.
“Come in here,” Maggie called to him, “and we’ll get our stories right.”
He went, dimly aware of the others melting off into the night, slipping back toward the side street where the van and bikes were parked.
Mercy lingered, hands knotted together on top of his head, a giant lost child on the verge of falling to pieces. Only more terrifying than that.
“Merc,” Maggie said. “Go. I’ve got her.”
He was cursing to himself as he complied.
Carter knelt down beside Maggie, shaking all over. Ava was deathly pale, her eyes dark-ringed and sunken. Her jeans were dark, but the bloodstains were darker, just visible down the insides of her thighs in the glow of the flashlights.
“Listen to me,” Maggie said, urgently, as the sirens approached. “When I called her phone before, and you answered it? It wasn’t you; Ava still had it. She answered, she was afraid, she said, ‘Hamilton House,’ and I heard her scream.”
Carter nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Twenty-Three
Five Years Ago
“He passed out on the way over,” Aidan said as he walked around from the driver side of the van to the back, where Rottie stood agape at the open rear doors. Mason Stephens Jr. lay unconscious on the floor of the cargo area, the same tangled heap Aidan and Tango had dumped in back at Hamilton House. “He lost a shit-ton of blood.” The stains were spreading across the rubberized van floor. “Hopefully, the little shit’ll die on your way.”
Rottie quirked his brows and got his face under control. “Right. Which hospital?”
“St. Mary’s in Powell. That should be far enough.”
“For him to kick it?”
“For it not to blow back on us,” Aidan said, reaching in his cut pocket for his nighttime goggles. “I gotta go, man.”
“Yeah.” Rottie slapped him on the back. “Tango and me’ve got this. Tell Ava we all love her.”
“Yeah.”
Carter was a little champ. He backed up Maggie’s story to the paramedics: Carter found her truck, realized she’d been snatched, the phone call had revealed Hamilton House to Maggie. By the time they’d found her, the assailant was fleeing through the tangled grass behind the old mansion. Carter was pretty sure it was a teenage guy, some constantly-in-trouble creep. Maggie could have kissed him.
“How’d you know it would be Hamilton House?” she whispered as they followed the gurney into the hospital.
He shook his head, grimly. “Something Mason said this morning.” Guilt streaked across his face. “I looked at her phone; someone swapped my number with Mason’s. She thought the text was from me. My name showed up–”
“Hey.” Maggie put her arm around his waist as they walked and squeezed. “It’s not your fault, honey. You did great.”
It had all been a blur after that, Ava rushed off to X-rays, to CT scans, to specialists. Maggie knew what the blood on Ava’s legs meant; she knew and she was ripped raw about it.
Finally, Ava was put in a room, and Ghost and Aidan joined her. The whole night had an underwater, dream sequence feeling, like none of this could possibly be happening.
Through the glass wall of the room, Maggie watched the nurse check the IV one last time, ensure the blanket was tucked snuggly over Ava’s arms. She was fantastic, that nurse – Maggie had known that with one glance. Tall, African-American, with a tidy afro and purple fingernails, she moved with precision, had a no-nonsense sternness about her, but handled Ava with the gentlest, most maternal touch.
Ghost’s elbow glanced against her ribs and she forced herself to focus on the doctor standing in front of them out in the hall. She and Ghost stood side-by-side; Aidan lounged against the wall, staring at his toes, listening intently. The doctor was pretty and petite, straight out of a primetime drama.
“…the concussion is something I want to monitor closely,” she was saying. “So far, so good, but we need to be on the lookout for swelling.” She didn’t check the chart, just pressed on; kudos to her. “There’s scrapes and contusions, typical injuries given the circumstances.” Her mouth gave a little pull that spoke volumes about the circumstances: one look at Ava, and she’d wanted to bash teenage-boy brain as badly as Maggie. “I called in a gynecological consult; no signs of sexual assault. But” – little breath like she was worried what their reaction would be – “I’m afraid she’s miscarried.”
Ghost jerked, like he’d been electrocuted.
The doctor said, “I think it’d be best if she heard that from you” – glance to Maggie – “rather than our staff. It’s easier coming from a loved one.” She clasped the chart to her chest. “If you have any questions, just have Frances page me.” And she swept away with a little nod and bob.
Then Maggie was alone with her menfolk. Both of them were staring at her, waiting for her to start spewing answers.
“Miscarried?” Ghost’s face went into warrior-mode, furious and deadly calm. “Miscarried what, Mags?”
“You know what,” she snapped.
“That kid,” Aidan said, straightening from the wall, bristling with aggression. “I’ll fucking kill him. It was him, wasn’t it? That fucking football-playing prick–”
“You morons!” Maggie hissed. “No, it wasn’t him.”
“Mags.” Mercy had appeared, halfway down the hall, hands in his pockets, face absolutely wrecked, looking gigantic and ten-years-old all at once. Maggie turned to him as the tears filled her eyes. “What’d they say?”
“Concussion,” Maggie said, swallowing. “Bumps, bruises…and a miscarriage.”
His dark eyes widened; grief played across his face, sudden and overwhelming. But he didn’t ask her any questions, the way the other two had. He knew; Maggie saw his jaw twitch and understood that he knew. Maggie wondered if Ava had told him yet, or if this was the first he’d heard of it.
He brought his hands out, smoothed his hair back, eyes gleaming. “Can I go in and see her?”
“What–” Ghost started to ask, and Maggie waved for him to hush.
“Yes,” she told Mercy. “She’s asleep, but…”
He was already moving. He didn’t spare them a glance as he entered the room, and he didn’t hesitate: grabbed a chair, dragged it over, dropped into it and leaned onto the edge of her bed, up close to her head.
Aidan was starting to get it. “No…” he said, slowly, face going slack.
Ghost said, “Who the fuck’s baby did she miscarry?”
Maggie wanted to scream. She batted furiously at her tears.
“Mercy,” Aidan said, as if in a trance. “But he wouldn’t…”
Maggie met her husband’s unforgiving glare. “Mercy’s,” she said quietly. “The baby was his.”
Ghost blinked, once, twice…and Maggie lunged at him, throwing herself in front of him, catching him by the biceps as he started to charge into Ava’s room.
“Ghost!” she pleaded in a whisper. “No, not now. Baby, just let him have a minute. Please.”
He couldn’t even speak. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes blazing.
“He can’t get her pregnant again right now,” Maggie reasoned. “A minute, Ghost. Just for tonight.” She leaned in closer, digging her fingers into his arms. “He loves her, and even if you’re furious, you know that.”
He shook her off roughly and strode down the hall, his spine an iron bar between his shoulder blades.
Maggie slumped sideways into the wall, and found Aidan’s befuddled gaze.
He was too shocked to be angry yet. “I…I had no idea.”
“No one did.” Because people saw what they wanted to, expected to, and so rarely what was.
She looked like such a tiny thing, swallowed up in the white hospital gown, tucked up on the pillows, her fanning hair black under the tube lights. Her eyes had settled deeply in her head, the lids dark not with makeup, but with bruises. The ugly split on her cheek was pulled together with a butterfly bandage. Her face, such pale, fine-grained skin and delicate features, was a frail, powdered-sugar thing; the veins traced just beneath her temples; the flesh of her lips grew dry and pale as breath passed between them. The IV dripped…dripped…dripped, and she slept, her chest rising in slow, shallow lifts of the covers. The bruises, so many of them, were coming up beneath her skin, on her neck, her arms, the wedge of shoulder where her gown gapped.
Miscarriage. The word was a brand against his frontal lobe, burning through his brain.
Miscarriage meant baby. Baby meant his.
Mercy reached over slowly – he saw the tremor in his arm, and couldn’t remember ever having seen it before in his life – and laid his hand on Ava’s flat stomach.
That’s what she’d come to talk to him about that morning. That pained, tearful expression on her face in his living room had been about the baby.
He felt her pulse, through her stomach, the gown and the scratchy sheets, pushing against his palm, accusing him. Seventeen, and she’d already had a baby and lost it. Seventeen, and for a moment, they’d been co-creators of a life that was nothing but the two of them together, all their own, something no one else could touch.
And now it was gone.
Ava felt a hand on her and knew it belonged to Mercy. She knew the weight and shape of his hands, their calluses and cracks and the thick cuticles from the hours he spent in the bike shop. She knew the pattern of his breathing. The aura he brought into a room, the way the air felt when he stirred it.
But when she cracked her eyes, it was Maggie’s face poised over hers, and Maggie’s hand smoothing her hair back off her forehead.
Hospital: white acoustic tiles, white walls, hum of AC, IV, machines. The pain, so much pain, and the memories tumbling back into her mind from the void, filling her with panic.
She blinked at the painkiller film over her eyes.
“Hi, baby.” Maggie’s lips trembled. “You doing okay?”
Her mouth was dry as cotton. She worked her lips, trying to wet them.
Maggie produced a cup of water and pressed it to her lips, gave her a small sip, just enough to dampen her tongue.
“The baby,” Ava said when she could. Her head was too fuzzy to form a proper question or worry about secret-spilling. She had to know.
Maggie glanced away and shook her head, her eyes glazing over.
Ava looked at a spot over her mom’s shoulder, a poster about hand washing during flu season, and wished she wasn’t so full of drugs, so she could feel something.
Mercy wasn’t sure there were any answers waiting for him on the pavement, but that was where he went, his Dyna splitting the atmosphere with knife-like precision, the wind howling down into his ears, drowning out his thoughts. He wasn’t ready to wrap his mind around it yet. And he damn sure wasn’t ready for the shitstorm he’d walk into at the clubhouse.
He and his full bottle of Johnnie Walker Red ended up at the empty cottage for rent in Moshina Heights, its windows black and slick in the dark, the moon laying over it like frost. He sat on the edge of the porch, unscrewed the bottle top and drank in long, slow draws, like he was drinking water.
He’d been lax. Instead of finding the man who’d used this house, finding the dealer at the core of this, he’d been distracted. He’d been full of desire and the forbidden thrill of finally getting his girl under him, and in his absence of thought, she’d nearly been killed. His unborn child had been.
A few brave autumn crickets kept him company, and the moon offered its cold sympathy.
He drank until he didn’t have the strength to go on a killing spree.