Fearless by Lauren Gilley (27)

Thirty-One

 

Monday. Funeral day. Ava sat up before her alarm went off at six with a strange weightless feeling in her stomach. She’d been to almost a dozen such funerals, but never because of murder, and never after such a strange few days as these last few. MC funerals were bedecked in pomp, steeped in nostalgia, works of art, really, and for the first time since coming home, she woke up and felt almost like her old self. Like the club daughter, instead of the country club girlfriend.

              The second her feet touched the floor, in the chilly dark of her room, the energy began fizzling in her veins, that strange, morbid excitement. A member was dead. Bring out the bikes, say all your prayers, give thanks for your once-percent blood. And so it always went.

              The pipes hummed with water flow, Maggie and Ghost already up and shuffling around, getting ready for the day. Ava felt something deep inside her, some unseen finger touching down on the clicker of a stopwatch. Like this day was about moving toward some finish line. She didn’t let it press her back under the covers and swallow her up, but she took note of it, nodded to herself, and stood up.

              She showered, did her makeup, arranged her hair: loose waves, the mass of it pulled back at the crown and held off her forehead with a series of bobby pins. She dressed in a very fitted black pencil skirt that hit just above the knees, sheer black shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, tucked in at the waistband of the skirt, her pearl studs, and her staple pumps. She folded back the shirt cuffs slipped Grandmother Teague’s pearl-studded bangle over her left wrist, the cool metal reassuring against her flushed skin.

              Maggie was already in the kitchen when she arrived, in an elbow-sleeve black velvet dress with a deep scooped neck, over-the-knee boots, her hair tied up tight and her throat spangled with thin silver necklaces. She looked beautiful and inappropriate, and carried herself in a way that showed she didn’t give a damn.

              “Good,” she said, as Ava entered. “We need to leave in five minutes.”

              “Do I need to carry something out to the car?”

              “That box there. Put it in the truck; we’re taking it so everything will fit.”

              She was halfway through the living room with it when Ronnie sat up from his makeshift couch bed, pushed his hair back and asked, “What’s going on?” around a yawn.

              “The funeral,” she explained, balancing the box one-handed and turning the front door deadbolt with the other. “Mom and I have to set up at the funeral home and the clubhouse for afterward.”

              “Oh. Right.” He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked at the floor.

              Ava frowned to herself as she stepped outside. He’d been distant since their conversation outside the ice cream parlor the day before, not unpleasant, just removed. She’d told him about Mason harassing her over the years, about the culmination of his antagonism in his almost-rape at Hamilton House. She’d left out her miscarriage, and any mention of Mercy, and thank God, because just hearing about her assault seemed to have shaken him badly. No way could he have handled anything else.

              Ghost was all in black, she saw when she returned from the truck, his black button-up over his darkest jeans, his boots spit-polished and his hair dressed in gelled, rugged spikes. He looked handsome and stern, presidential. He was grim-faced as he kissed her on the cheek. This wasn’t anything he’d wanted to do so soon in his presidency: host a burial.

              “How many chapters coming?” she asked on her way to the next box.

              He shook his head. “Just some Nomads who were in the area. I’ve got a bad feeling about today and I didn’t want to drag anyone else into it.”

              Her stomach squeezed. He was anticipating some trouble from the city, given Mayor Stephens’ newspaper headline story. No sense getting more than one chapter locked up if it came to that.

              “You look good,” Maggie told Ghost, smoothing her hands down the front of his cut. “Very in-charge of things.”

              His thin smile said he knew what she was doing, and appreciated it. He kissed her and slipped out the back door.

              Ava cast a glance into the next room, at Ronnie massaging his scalp from his slump on the sofa. Why? she wondered. Why am I not allowed to have what my parents have? Why do I have – Ronnie dug his phone from under his pillow and checked it – this?

              That was a dangerous way to think.

              The stopwatch inside her tick-tick-ticked.

 

 

It was always all-black on a funeral day; respect for the deceased, a nice set-off for their black and white center patches. And given their current errand, Mercy thought it was a nice touch of drama.

              There was an abandoned gas station a quarter mile down the street from the Carpathians’ clubhouse, and that was where they sat, leaning on their bikes between the derelict pumps and the thick tangles of weeds growing from the deep pavement cracks. The sun fell on them, full-force through the tattered remains of the canopy, and gleamed dully on the muted black tanks and fenders of their bikes, catching the lenses of their sunglasses in bright flares.

              “No, we won’t knock on their door,” Ghost had said with his back to the rising sun that morning, mist lifting up off the river behind him. “We won’t have to.”

              And here they sat, waiting.

              And here came the approaching rumble of bike engines.

              “Fifteen minutes,” Walsh said, marking the time they’d spent sitting.

              “I won the pool on that one,” Dublin said.

              From behind the screen of the neighboring property’s chain link fence, four bikes appeared, turning in at the driveway and settling to a halt some ten yards off from their own loose knot of Harleys.

              Theirs were new bikes, Mercy noted. Brand new, fresh off the assembly line. All four were current year model Fat Boys, all a shiny black, sparkling chrome pipes and handlebars, each fuel tank airbrushed with the snarling wolf head insignia in full-color, dripping saliva and everything. Flashy, uniform, tasteless, all of it. And bought with a whole damn lot of someone’s money.

              “Fucking jokers,” RJ muttered, just low enough that the four approaching Carpathians might have been able to hear.

              Aidan and Tango chuckled before Ghost snapped his fingers and earned their silence.

              The officers had come out to be the welcoming party: young little Larsen with the president patch sitting heavy over his breast pocket; an elderly, bow-legged guy who might have been another uncle was VP; the sergeant at arms had shoulders like a Spanish bull and no neck to speak off, some brainless thug with more muscle than sense; and a bird-faced middle-aged secretary rounded out the leaders of this white trash pack.

              “Jasper,” Ghost said, tone almost cordial. “It’s been a long time.”

              “Too long,” Jasper said. He didn’t have the same control over his voice, that deep well of calm and gravitas.

              Ghost smiled. “Well, a boy’s got to do some growing up before he’s big enough to fill his daddy’s shoes.”

              Mercy heard a low, dark laugh from one of his brothers. The four Carpathians stood stone-faced.

              Jasper couldn’t have been any older than Aidan. Medium build and height, the girls probably thought he was hot with his blonde hair and blue eyes and that massive chip he carried on his shoulder. There was an aura of extreme anger about him, the young, stupid kind of anger that led to snap decisions and excessive violence. The only son of Erik Larsen, his father had called himself “president” of the Carpathians fourteen years ago, before they’d ever been a legit club. Erik and his brother Peter had seen fit to crawl through Ava’s bedroom window when she was eight, deciding that assassination of one of the Dogs’ royal families would gain them a toehold, some leverage, bragging rights, if nothing else. Erik and Peter had drowned in each other’s blood that night, and Mercy had smeared sticky red streaks across Ava’s face when he’d tucked her into the crook of his arm and wiped the tears from under her eyes with his thumb. Mercy himself had dumped the bodies on the Larsens’ front lawn. The family knew his face. Knew he was to blame. Knew what he was capable of.

              And now here was Jasper, ready to battle for supremacy, avenge his father’s death, take the place he’d always wanted for himself.

              “James stepped down?” Jasper asked, voice hostile, chin jutting toward the president patch Ghost wore.

              Ghost shrugged. “Nobody ever asks to be king, huh? It just gets handed to you. You know that.” Little nod in return. Then a slow smile. “Just like you already knew James gave up his seat, seeing as you, or at least one of your boys was at his party the other night.”

              Jasper’s smile was cruel. “Do I look stupid enough to send my guys onto Dogs’ property?”

              “I don’t give a damn what you look like; I’m saying you were there.”

              “You got me on camera?” Jasper shot back. “Prove it. Who the fuck would waste time killing a coke-head waste of space like Andre, anyway?”

              “Collier,” Ghost said, in a stage aside to his VP. “Did you hear me say ‘Andre’ just now?”

              “No, boss, that I did not.”

              Jasper’s face blanked over.

              “I also managed to keep his name out of the papers,” Ghost said, his smile wide now. “So how’d you know it was Andre who got stabbed, Jasper? We’d all” – broad gesture to the group of them – “love to know.”

              Jasper folded his arms, shook his head, puffed himself up like a little prince. “Word gets around. Everybody in Knoxville knows it was him.”

              “Everybody you tipped off, you mean.”

              No answer.

              “Alright, Jasper,” Ghost said. The conversational tone, the assumed familiarity was grating on the younger man’s nerves, Mercy could see; Jasper’s jaw worked. “As much fun as this is, I didn’t come here for a social call. This” – Ghost circled a finger in the air, indicating the trip they’d all made to this side of town – “is your warning. Your polite warning. I am not having some all-out war with your crew. I don’t have time to play Cowboys and Indians with you. If you make one more move toward that end, I will kill you. I will destroy you, in every way possible.”

              It looked like it took every single scrap of his meager self-control for Jasper not to launch himself at the Lean Dogs president. He studied the other biker king a long moment, jaw so tight it looked like the skin might split. Finally, he said, “You’ve always thought you own this town.”

              Ghost smirked. “The town’s the master; we’re the dogs. That’s something your father never figured out.”

              At the mention of his father, Jasper’s gaze lifted, scanning the faces of the other Dogs. Mercy felt his jolt of recognition as his eyes landed on him.

              “Who’s funneling you money?” Ghost asked, though all of them knew there’d be no answer. “You got brand new, matching bikes, you got muscle to take over businesses. Who’s lining your pockets?”

              Jasper ignored him. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, finally tearing his gaze from Mercy. “You give me Lécuyer, and our problems go away.”

              Ghost laughed. “Oh, poor kid, you really don’t understand how any of this works.” He swung his leg back over his bike, forcing Jasper to step back. “We’ll be in touch,” he promised. “Remember what I said.”

              His bike starting was the cue for the rest of them to follow suit. Mercy felt Jasper’s stare as they pulled out of the lot, the simmering hatred.

              Larsen didn’t scare him – neither did his club, neither did anything, really. But Mercy wondered, deep down, if it came down to choosing peace and staying off the mayor’s hit list, whether Ghost would consider handing him over. That was an unthinkable sin among the brethren, betraying a brother, leaving anyone behind enemy lines. But Mercy had a feeling that the afternoon in the chapel five years ago, the day Ghost had threatened to ruin his daughter’s life just to get what he wanted, had remained somewhere in the back of his president’s mind. That resentment lingered, even if it was deeply buried.

              They were a half mile down the tumbled-down business strip when Hound and Rottie pulled out of a side street and fell into place among their double row of bikes, a seamless joining into the back, like jets locking into formation in the clouds.

              It was the entire chapter that rode through the heart of the city, the growl of tailpipes echoing off the brick facades, car alarms tripping, pedestrians snatching their heads around to look. It was a bold display, all of them on the move, in a double helix like this.

              Mercy smiled to himself and knew his brothers were doing the same.

              At the clubhouse, Ghost gathered them in a loose knot under the portico, and turned to his two trackers. “What’d you find?”

              Hound cleared his throat and spat on the pavement before he said, “There’s a couple weak spots in the back fence, but they’ve got cameras, same as us.”

              “They have cameras at the front and back, that pan about forty-five degrees,” Rottie said. “And they’re synchronized, so that gives you a window of a few seconds to get over the side of the fence and get up to the building. Their yard looks like a fucking episode of Hoarders, so there’s plenty of cover.  And the scrap yard next door has some cars parked up against the fence, that could be your boost over. And the chain link’s easy enough to climb.”

              Hound nodded, a look of pride smoothing across his wrinkled face. He had a deep, fatherly love for his protégé, without any sons of his own to follow in his footsteps. “After that, the back door’s the best way to get in, I’m thinking. My boy can pick the lock no problem.” He clapped Rottie on the back.

              “If it’s locked,” Ghost said. “As cocky as these bastards are, I can’t see them taking too many precautions.”

              “The cameras were provided for them,” Rottie agreed. “And it looks impressive to have them. But I don’t think they’re practical types.”

              Ghost nodded, absorbing all the intel. “I don’t want too many. Rottie, you can lead the way, since you’ve scoped it out” –

              Nod from the tracker.

              “- and then I want Michael and Mercy carrying things out. This job needs muscle…and other skillsets.”

              There were a few dark chuckles.

              Mercy glanced over at Michael’s expressionless mask of a face. Boy, oh boy, wasn’t this going to be fun? He didn’t trust the guy, and that made for a dangerous situation going downright deadly.

              “Eleven-thirty tonight,” Ghost said. “Now let’s head to the funeral home.”

 

 

Though Flanders was part of a street-facing strip of shops, and not the cream of the crop in the city, the owner did his fanciful best to make sure the place looked as elegant and soothing as possible. The lobby fed into a T-shaped hall; to the right were the offices and showrooms; straight ahead went out the back to the waiting hearses; to the left were the viewing and gathering rooms, the carpeted parlors with their dainty Victorian settees, heavy damask drapes, short maroon carpet, and pull-down projectors for families who’d compiled slideshows for their dearly departed loved ones.

              Andre lay waxen and eerie, a certain life-like quality to his lips that made Ava think he was about to smile, in a mahogany coffin in viewing room two, carnation wreaths on easels around him, a tall spray of hothouse iris set up on a table behind.

              The old ladies had outdone themselves: too many flowers; a guest book on a podium done up like a Doric column, a table full of framed photos and a stack of keepsake programs.

              “We’re not doing it for him or us,” Maggie had explained, “but for his kids.” When they were old enough to understand what had happened to their father, they would have solid evidence that he had been loved and looked after, rather than an empty story from their mothers’ unenthusiastic lips.

              Ava was setting out cups of lemonade and little cocktail napkins on a second table – Maggie had learned the hard way, once, that you always needed a sugary drink on hand in case a bereft family member got faint – when Andre’s ex, Kayla, walked in, new husband, toddler, and baby bump in tow.

              Bonita touched Ava’s elbow beside and her whispered, “Ay Dios mio, here we go.”

              Ava watched her mother go to meet the young woman, fake smile touched with an appropriate amount of sympathy. “Kayla, it’s so good to see you.”

              Kayla – pretty, but dull and open-mouthed most of the time – held her little girl’s hand with one hand, and pressed the other to the top of her rounded stomach. Her husband wore a new, but ill-fitting suit. The three of them looked miserable.

              Kayla’s eyes moved around the room. “You didn’t need to do all this. Not like he deserved it.”

              “Charming, no?” Bonita whispered.

              Ava shook her head. “I’m surprised she even came.”

              Ronnie appeared in the threshold of the viewing room, stepping awkwardly around Kayla and company, coming straight toward her. He’d pulled a sport coat on over his khakis and plaid oxford; very casual for him, only a little too casual for a funeral. He looked happy, which Ava found inappropriate. By the time he reached her, she was frowning, wishing he wasn’t even here.

              God, how awful of her.

              “Hey, I’ve got good news.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Everything’s all finalized. I’ve got the apartment.”

              She didn’t smile back. “That’s great.”

              “I’m going to start moving my stuff in right now.” He cast a wondering glance at Bonita, not sure how much he should say in front of her. “You wanna come? We can make a day of it. If I get the furniture set up, we can spend the night there tonight.” His wide eyes and lifted brows said, We can get away from your parents and finally get some action off each other.

              Her frown deepened. “My mom needs my help today.”

              He looked over his shoulder, at the mostly empty room, at Andre in his coffin with a little shudder. “No offense, but there’s nobody here. She needs your help with what?”

              Bonita excused herself, and went to join Maggie. Ava caught the woman’s fast glance, though, that question as to how she meant to handle this situation. If there was a code amongst the guys, then there was one amongst the old ladies, too. There was an expectation of strength there.

              Ava folded her arms. “A member died, Ronnie. It doesn’t matter if I spend all day counting the ceiling tiles; I need to be here to show support to the club with the other old ladies.”

              His head jerked back, like she’d slapped at him. “Show support? Ava, you’re not an old lady.”

              Then it was her turn to feel slapped, because he was right, wasn’t he? She wasn’t an old lady. She was a club daughter, and even if the club loved her like one, there was a big difference there.

              He’d held her hand yesterday when she’d talked about Mason, when she’d shed tears at the memory. But she couldn’t detect any of that sympathy in him now. He used it like a weapon, the change in her: you don’t belong here.

              “The club’s my family, though,” she said, voice a little unsteady. “And I’m helping in any way I can.”

              He sighed. “I’ve tried to be really…ugh. You know what, forget it. I’ll talk to you later.” And he turned away from her and left the way he’d come.

              Maggie appeared at her elbow. “What was that about?”

              Ava shook her head. “I’m different, when I’m here at home. Different, and he doesn’t like it.”

              Maggie made a thoughtful sound. “No, baby,” she said. “I think you’re different away from here.”

 

 

The procession to the cemetery was a spectacular thing to behold. Her dad was the spearhead directly behind the hearse, and the rest of the Dogs were staggered behind him in twin columns, all in black, all proudly flying colors. The cars followed, hazards flashing. And every resident who happened to be on the streets of Knoxville at the time turned to see what the immense animal growl coming down Main Street heralded. From the passenger seat of her truck, Ava watched the mingled awe and fear bloom on the faces they passed, a little nervous, a lot proud. She watched their sinister black reflection in the wavy plate glass of shop fronts, in order to keep her eyes off Mercy up ahead of them.

              She’d known the moment he’d come into the viewing room, back at Flanders’. She’d felt his presence, this little tickling up the back of her neck, a faint heat stirring under her skin. When she’d turned, she’d found him watching her, his face pleasant and incomprehensible. She hadn’t seen him since Saturday, when the moment under the portico with him had stirred up all the old memories that always left her shaken and sick. He’d given her a single nod and looked away, and she’d had an aching lump in her throat, touched more by that gesture than she had been by Ronnie’s desertion.

              It was a horrible thing, realizing she was still so in love with Mercy.

              “You’re awful quiet over there,” Maggie said from behind the wheel.

              “Just thinking.”

              Several of the churches had small, private cemeteries, but they were laying Andre to rest in the city graveyard, amid its rolling, oak-studded hills, behind its twelve-foot iron fence. The drive wound slowly up and back, around a manmade pond with a bubbling fountain in the center, up through the gnarled trunks of Civil War era trees, over a crest and to a plateau of land that had a view of the entire grounds. It was the place where other Dogs had been buried, and it was here that Andre would join them.

              They had to park on a hill and trek up it in their heels, steps cautious and slow. Ghost came back and took each of their arms, helping them forward. Rottie helped Mina steer their two sons along. It looked like Nell helped Hound, rather than the other way around. Jackie murmured something soothing to Collier as they walked, rubbing his arm. James leaned on a cane, Bonita holding his elbow firmly on the other side. Voices were low; the sun glazed the pavement in buttery tones.

              The graveside service took only fifteen minutes, Pastor Thomas keeping it short, but heartfelt. The two baby mamas threw hateful glances at once another until Nell wedged herself between them and elbowed them both hard in the ribs. Ava stood beside Maggie, hands folded in front of her, feeling dazed and robotic. The sun was too warm for her black clothes, and the humidity creeping into the atmosphere made her itchy and restless. Her skirt was too tight, her heels too high, and when she flicked her hair over her shoulder, she caught sight of Mercy from the corner of her eye and felt the nervous perspiration bead up between her shoulder blades.

              The stopwatch kept ticking away, deep inside. Anxiety, a restless tension, a threat in the building banks of low clouds out west of the city.

              When it was over, and the backhoe operator was left to his work, Ava stood rooted a moment, watching the western sky darken, feeling the sun beat even hotter at her back. A storm was blowing up, in this crushing press of heat, and the wind billowed her hair around her face, proving the point.

              “Ava,” Maggie called. “Let’s go, sweetie.”

              Halfway down the hill to the cars, she spotted the police cruiser, and the black Mercedes, and she stiffened.

              She recognized Sergeant Fielding and another uniformed officer. And she recognized the salt-and-pepper suited man beside them, because she’d seen his son just yesterday: Mayor Mason Stephens.

              It seemed like the entire Lean Dogs company came to a halt in unison. Ava grabbed at her mother’s arm and heard Maggie say, “It’s fine.”

              “Kenneth Teague,” Stephens said, in a booming, political voice that carried. “You’re in violation of a city ordinance that bans anarchist demonstrations on city-owned property.”

              “Do you see me burning flags?” Ghost returned. “This is a funeral, Mr. Mayor. If you’re looking for anarchists, I suggest you talk to those hacky-sack kids at the park.”

              Stephens’ smile was straight from a debate hall. “An outlaw and a comedian.”

              “What can I say – I’m multi-dimensional.” He gestured and the rest of the Dogs pressed forward, going to their bikes.

              Ava felt Maggie’s hand at her wrist and was towed down the hill toward the truck.

              “Cute,” Stephens said. “But Sergeant Fielding is here to break up your little protest.”

              “It’s already broken up. Go get yourself another spray tan and don’t worry about it.”

              “I’ve also,” Stephens continued, “asked him to question all of you about the murder of Andre Preston.”

              “That’s right, question us instead of the bastard who stabbed him,” Ghost shot back.

              There was a real possibility, Ava thought, that her dad might actually come to blows with the mayor.

              She and Maggie were slipping past the man when his head turned.

              “It’s Ava, right?”

              Ava froze, one foot poised above the asphalt. She swallowed hard and felt her mother’s reassuring squeeze as she turned to face Stephens.

              He was beaming at her, all false charm and friendly interest.

              “Yes.” She managed not to stammer.

              His smile broadened, if that was possible, with a blinding flash of teeth. “It’s good to see you up and around.” What the hell did that mean? “I’m glad you’re doing well. You are, aren’t you? Doing well?”

              “I’m fine.”

              “Glad to hear it. I hear you’re starting grad school at UT next week; you must have finished at Georgia, then.”

              Ava felt the color drain from her face. How did he know that?

              “Come on, you don’t have to talk to him,” Maggie said, giving her a little tug.

              “I was happy,” Stephens said, “more than happy, really, to send that recommendation letter for you to UGA. I always love to help bright young people excel.”

              Maggie’s nails bit into her arm, but she didn’t feel them. She didn’t feel anything. All sensation and breath and fight had gone rushing right out of her, passing through her lips in an outward gasp that left her lightheaded.

              Stephens gave her a little wink. “Say ‘hello’ to Dr. Benson for me at the English department at UT.”

              Maggie dragged her away and she stumbled over her own shoes, nearly falling. Only Maggie’s iron grip at her wrist kept her on her feet.

              Recommendation letter.

              Recommendation letter…

              The blood roared in her ears, drowning out all other sounds. The drive tilted in front of her and she thought she might pass out.

              “Mom…”

              “Later,” Maggie said firmly, marching her around to the passenger side.

              “He wrote me a recommendation letter?”

              “Later.”

 

 

Later was about thirty seconds later, as Maggie was piloting the truck down the cemetery drive and Ava had calmed enough to form coherent sentences. “What does he mean he wrote me a recommendation letter?”

              Maggie sighed and leaned her temple against her fist, pressed to the window as she drove. “Ava…”

              “No, patting me on the head and treating me like I’m five isn’t going to work here. If that man helped me get into college, I deserve to know about it.”

              Maggie gave her the side-eye.

              “Please. Ma’am.”

              Another sigh. “Yes, he wrote a letter.”

              “Why in the hell–”

              “You knew your chances of a scholarship were slim after your suspension. You might not have gotten into Georgia if it wasn’t for that letter.”

              “And you didn’t think I ought to know that the father of the kid who murdered my baby got me into college?!” Her voice was a contained shriek inside the truck. “Jesus, I would never have gone if I’d known–”

              “Don’t,” Maggie snapped. “Just stop. That’s exactly why we never told you; you would have been stubborn and never gone.”

              “Why should I have? Oh my God, Mom, how can you not…I’m going to throw up.”

              “Roll down your window.”

              She did, and the incoming air was hot and damp against her face. It wasn’t helping.

              “How could you do that?” she whispered, words snatched away out the window.

              Maggie said, “Your dad and I saw a chance to right the wrong against you, to give you a chance at a real education – the education you deserved – and we took it.”

              She swallowed down the bile. “What did you give Stephens in return?”

              “What?”

              “He didn’t write me a letter just to be nice, so what did you guys give him?”

              Maggie frowned at the road. “We threatened to sue him for your medical bills, and make it all public. All of Knoxville would have known what Mason did to you; it would have damaged his image.”

              “So the letter was hush money.” She swallowed again, her chest and eyes and throat stinging.

              Maggie was silent a beat. “It was what you deserved. The threat was the thing that got it for you. What use is having power if you can’t use it to get the justice you deserve?”

              Ava didn’t answer because she couldn’t without sobbing or puking. She felt dirty and used. Betrayed. Those five years getting her degree, and it had been built on a bribe and a threat, on club power. She felt like all her sturdy ropes had been cut, and she was floating out to sea.

              Maybe it had never been about her being different. Maybe home was different.

 

 

At the clubhouse, she threw herself into making coffee, setting out plates, fetching for Jackie, Bonita, Nell and Mina, avoiding her mother, prepping for the handful of Nomad and out of town members who would come to pay their respects at the wake. She made cold cut sandwiches and arranged them on platters, flicked mustard specks off her shirt and kept tossing her hair back to keep it out of the way.

              The guys trooped in, all loud boots and throat-clearings. The mood was sober, respectful. Ava had no doubt that by the end of the night, that would have changed, once they broke out the hard liquor and started swapping stories.

              She was setting a platter down on the bar when Mercy materialized in front of her, not there one minute and then standing in front of her the next. He opened his mouth to say something –

              And she fled. She hated herself for the weakness, but she couldn’t take another emotional roller coaster ride right now, she just couldn’t. Nothing Mercy could say would help; he could only hurt her worse. And when nothing about her life felt controllable, she could at least control where she stood – or ran. Because she was running by the time she went through the clubhouse door.

              The wind had kicked up, a hard shove against her chest as she ran into it. The clouds pressed low, gray and fat with rain, swirling in turbulent arcs against one another. She felt the fine mist against her face; felt the growl of the thunder in her bones. The storm was going to be wicked when it finally broke.

              She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. She made it halfway to the bike shop, was right in front of the central office, when she heard Mercy say her name.

              “Ava.” He was at her heels, of course, because his long legs took such massive strides.

              She whirled and her hair streamed across her face; she shoved it roughly back and felt a bobby pin come loose. There was Mercy, huge and illuminated by the eerie under-glow of the clouds. Lightning forked through the sky behind him, prophetic, atmospheric. His eyes were black.

              “What?” she snapped, voice near to breaking.

              He was wearing a plain black t-shirt that clung to the heavy muscles of his chest and arms, dark jeans with grease stains on the knees. Silken wisps of hair came loose from the queue at his nape and fell across his forehead.

              “I wanted to say hi,” he said, and Ava couldn’t stop the disbelieving laugh that burst out of her.

              “You chased me across two parking lots to say hi? Are you serious?”

              His expression tightened, jaw clenching. “I said I didn’t want things to be weird with us, didn’t I? I’m just trying to be friendly.”

              “Friendly,” Ava fumed, “is waving across the room. Friendly is smiling. Running me to ground like some kind of prey animal, with that look on your face, is stalkery, Merc. Do you not see the difference?”

              Thunder crashed over them, and in its wake, Ava heard the slow whine of the city’s tornado sirens cranking up. The first fat drops of rain splattered on them.

              “Oh, fabulous,” she said. “I’m about to be sucked up like Dorothy, and the last conversation of my life will have been with you!”

              Mercy had the gall to smirk at her. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

              And then the rain turned loose, like someone had tipped a bucket over, thick white sheets of it coming down too fast for comprehension. Ava felt something like a bee sting on her bare arm, and then another. It was hailing. One of the ice pellets beaned off her head and she yelped in pain and surprise.

              “Come on,” Mercy shouted above the deluge. His big arm came around her and he hustled her to the door of the central office and through it, slamming it behind them.

              Through the raised blinds, Ava saw the hail pinging off the pavement outside, the torrential rain, the fervent slashes of lightning. She could still just make out the sirens, above the constant slap of raindrops on the flat roof.

              “We’re lucky the door wasn’t locked,” Mercy said, running his hands along his pulled-back hair, smoothing the rainwater against his scalp.

              “Mom had to…” What had Maggie needed in here again? Whatever. She didn’t remember or care. “Something. She unlocked it when we got back from the funeral home.”

              “Hm.”

              Mercy rested his forearm against the window and peered through it at the leaden sky. The rain fell in earnest now, dancing sheets of water too thick to see through. The clubhouse was an indistinct blur, just the line of the roof visible above its hulking shadow. “It’s really setting in,” he murmured, his breath fogging the window. His profile, limned in silver by the storm light, looked sharp enough to cut the glass from where she stood.
              Ava turned away, arms banded tight across her middle, teeth beginning to chatter as the AC stole over her damp skin. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, grinding her jaw, as she glanced down and saw the way her soaked shirt had glued itself to her torso. The little blue flowers on her bra were starkly visible through the sheer, waterlogged fabric.
              “What was that?” Mercy asked.
              This felt orchestrated, somehow, like he’d called down a tornado, all those vivid tongues of lightning, just for another chance alone together, to insult and torture her. “I said ‘Why am I always wet when we’re together,’ ” she snapped, too aware of that first night in the dorm room, vodka all down her front.
              He chuckled, darkly.
              “Wet with water. Not that kind of wet.”
              “Hmph. Do you hear me complaining about that?”
              She whirled around, the anger firing in her like rockets, boiling in her bloodstream. “I’m complaining about it, Mercy. I am. Because for some crazy reason, I don’t want you to be able to see my tits.”
              Still propped against the window, his gaze dropped to her chest on impulse.
              She lifted her arms higher, shielding her breasts. “Stop it!” She sounded like a child pitching a fit, but she didn’t care. Panic was clawing at her insides and she couldn’t stand to be around him anymore. These moments couldn’t keep happening, or she’d have a nervous breakdown. If a tantrum was what it took to get rid of him, then she’d throw one. “Stop looking at me, you fucking pervert!”
              His jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitched, a ripple went up through his face, flash of darkness in his eyes that turned them black. Not the reaction she’d wanted.
              He pushed away from the window, and for some reason, her eyes caught at the warm imprint of his hand, the little demarcation of steam, against the cold glass. What great big hands he had. Then she was forced to look at him, because her backside was up against the desk and he was closing in on her in just two strides.
              “Pervert?” he asked, his voice a dangerous low rumble. “After everything that happened” – those times she’d professed her love, that first time, the second, the third, the moonglow on the grass in the James’ yard, the baby, the night at Hamilton House, and before: the poetry, the Louisiana stories, the late nights in front of the TV, the afternoons under the portico, all that blood on her bedroom carpet – “and I’m a pervert?”
              Everything that had happened…and he’d thrown it away.
              She began to tremble, awful shudders running through her that had nothing to do with the cold. “You did your very best to destroy me,” she said in a cracking whisper, “and now you want to flirt and feel me up and act like I’m some bitch you met in a bar somewhere. What do you call that besides ‘pervert’?”
              He leaned down low, in her face, the aggression lifting off him like steam. “I didn’t–”
              She couldn’t listen to one more denial from him. “I miscarried our child.” Her voice was a strangled, awful sound. “Mason Stephens kicked me in the stomach, and I lost our baby, and you left. You left the goddamn state. Nothing you say can even begin to justify that.”
              “You were seventeen,” he growled. “What the fuck were you going to do with a baby?”
              “What do you care? You obviously wouldn’t have wanted it.”
              He moved before she had time to startle, and then his hand had hold of her face, his fingers framing both sides of her jaw. He caught her, but it wasn’t hard. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t hurt her. His touch was feather-soft.
              He came in so close she could see the gold striations in his eyes. And then she saw the pain, etched deep in the hard planes of his face.
              “Don’t say that to me.” His voice was nearly lost in the sounds of the rain and the far-off wail of the sirens. “I wanted it more than anything in this entire damn world, and you know it.”
              Tears filled her eyes, the pulse in her ears pounding. “No, I don’t. The Mercy I knew growing up is long gone.”

              His thumb lifted, swept across her lower lip, pressing lightly at the center, his expression one of deep loss. His voice was a little hoarse when he spoke. “No, he’s not.” And he kissed her.

              It was gentle at first, just the touch of his lips against hers as he held her chin. Even that much contact reminded her, as Friday night had, that her body would always crave him, always respond to him. No amount of common sense or threat of heartbreak could touch that heat that lingered in her bones, waiting for his touch and his touch alone to draw it out to the surface, until it shimmered on her skin. It wouldn’t matter if there turned out to be a hundred Ronnies in her life; it was Mercy she’d always want.

              Then he angled her head and went in deeper, urging her lips apart, asking her, sweetly, to soften for him. And she was lost.

              His tongue flicked into her mouth, a sly flexing, and her knees gave out. She let her legs go until the edge of the desk caught her, and she was sitting on it, head tipped all the way back as he cradled her face in his hands and launched an all-out assault against her mouth.

              She grabbed at his cut to steady herself, and then her hands slipped inside it, flattening over the hard stretch of his stomach.

              It wasn’t enough.

              She had no idea how long this stolen moment could last, or how she’d even have the strength to stand afterward, the way he kept kissing her, but she had to have more, had to have skin. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, rewarded with the hot, damp, soft skin of his belly, the hard steel of muscle, the coarse line of dark hair that was his treasure trail. She clawed upward, over the ridges of his abs, toward his ribs; she wanted his chest. Wanted him shirtless.

              He nipped at her lip, pulled it hard between his teeth, and then his hands dropped down to her chest, the V of skin at the neck of her shirt, the pearl buttons. The fabric was wet and difficult to manage, the buttons tugging.

              “Don’t rip it,” she gasped as he broke away from her mouth. She tried to withdraw her hands, but she wasn’t fast enough.

              He thumbed open the top three buttons and spread the halves, down to the waistband of her skirt where it was still tucked in. There was her skin, pale and clammy from the rainwater, her drenched black bra with the little light blue flowers.

              Her head spun, the longing and the want in her making her dizzy, turning her pulse into an awful, percussive force in her ears. She was breathless.

              Mercy reached for her bra straps, and she said, “Wait, it opens in the front.”

              He was fractious, panicked. “Thank Christ.” With a rough tug, he sprung the clasp and the cups fell to the side, her breasts spilling into his hands, the centers tight, cold, and aching, seeking out the warmth in his palms.

              “God,” she breathed. She was covered in gooseflesh, and his fevered skin was delicious as he touched her, cupped her breasts and squeezed.

              “Yeah, fillette.” He breathed a thin laugh. “I’ll be your god.”

              He put his hand against her sternum and pushed her back, lowered her over the desk. Papers crackled under her shoulders, the desk was rock-hard, but she didn’t care. She lifted her spine and offered her chest to him as he bent to kiss her nipples, draw them into his warm mouth.

              He touched her, soothed away the goose bumps with steady passes of his hands, across her belly, her collarbone, her breasts. He smoothed her skirt across the tender flesh of her lower belly, down her thighs, like he was trying to decide the fastest way to get the damn thing off her.

              “Mercy,” she whispered, feeling helpless, needing him so badly she wanted to cry.

              He hooked both hands behind her knees and lifted her legs up, pushed her skirt up, bundling it roughly, shoving it up to her hips. Then he passed his hands up and down her smooth, bare thighs, all the way up, to her hips, into the lace of her panties so he could palm her ass and squeeze. He was enjoying the feel of her, and the knowledge made her shiver.

              “It’s been too long,” he murmured. “Too damn long…shit, I don’t have a condom…”

              “I’m on the pill; I don’t care.”

              He skimmed her panties down to her knees, calves, ripped them over her high heels. And then he was between her legs, stroking her, passing his hands up the insides of her thighs, sliding his fingers through the wetness at her sex.

              “Mercy, please.”

              She heard him get his jeans open, and then he pushed her knees up, leaned over her, sank inside her.

              She’d forgotten, just a little, how large he was, and her breath caught a moment as he filled her. That little twinge of discomfort; that ungodly stretching. She felt that first slow stroke all the way up at the base of her throat, his contained power moving through her entire prone body.

              And then she pulled in a deep breath that was more of a sob, because it had been five years, and he was inside her again. She had no grace for this moment. She was nothing but raw nerves and bleeding heart, and she didn’t ever want to let go of him.

              When she caught his face in her hands and pulled him down, so their foreheads touched, he acquiesced with such gentleness. His warm breath feathered across her lips and his eyelashes flickered against hers and he held so still while she traced his jaw and cheekbones with her fingertips, holding him to her.

              “Felix,” she murmured, desperate and terrified, a plea and a claim of ownership.

              “I’m right here,” he said, voice the low, heavy purr she only heard now in her memories. “Hold on to me, baby.”

              And then she felt the first great thrusting of his hips, and his face pulled away from her, and he braced a hand on the desk beside her head and reached under the small of her back with the other to draw her hips up tightly against his. She felt the tremors in him, the energy under his skin, the powerful muscles flexing and clenching.

              And then she understood. Hold on to him, because even if he wanted to cradle her and take her gently, he just couldn’t. It had been five years, and she’d yelled at him, and this was too overwhelming. He needed to make a statement; he needed to fuck her. And she needed it, too.

              He drove into her again and again, so deep, with such force the desk creaked in protest. Ava couldn’t breathe; she dug her nails into his forearms and prayed for it not to end, though she could already feel her climax coming, crashing through her like the storm that raged against the window.

              She didn’t know if she screamed, or if it was the thunder, or the sirens; she thought she might have blacked out.

              Mercy shuddered hard, and then dropped down over her, muttering nonsense into her neck between slow, open-mouthed kisses against her damp skin.

              Her hands were like lead, but she lifted them to his shoulders, crept inward until she massaged the back of his neck. He was crushing her. His cock was still inside her and he had at least one more round in him. Ava wanted to lay like this forever, even if she couldn’t take a deep breath, even if there was a telephone cord digging into her spine. The thought of separating from him brought fresh tears to her eyes. Because once he pulled back, this moment would shatter, and they’d be back to square one, tense and hating one another.

              Mercy pushed up on his hands, so his face hovered over hers. His eyes had that soft, post-coital liquid look to them, almost awestruck. “Break up with your boyfriend.”

              Relaxed now, exhausted as the adrenaline drained away, Ava laughed. “Say what?”

              He put his elbows on the desk and smoothed her hair back from her face with both hands, cradling her scalp like it was an eggshell he was afraid of breaking. He was still breathing hard, his chest pressing against hers, his t-shirt rubbing at her sensitized nipples. His face gleamed with a healthy sheen of perspiration. “Break up with your boyfriend. That’s not a request.”

              She pushed at his shoulders but he wouldn’t budge. “It’s bad enough I just cheated on the poor guy. Now I’m supposed to drop him like a hot rock because you say so?”

              There was no hostility, just words, the sense they were too raw for them not to mean anything.

              “It doesn’t count as cheating if it’s with me.”

              Her heart fluttered hard at that.

              “And yeah. Drop him. I won’t share you.”

              She pushed harder. “Get up, please.”

              He sighed dramatically, but climbed off of her, zipped up his jeans and folded his arms, stared at her.

              Ava sat up and tugged her skirt down. Stepped into her panties.

              “Leave the shirt open,” he said.

              “No.”

              “I want to look at you.”

              She pulled her bra cups back in place and fastened them with a decisive snap. She gave him a pointed look as she started doing up the buttons. “If I break up with someone who’s willing to be my boyfriend, you’ll just hurt me again.”

              A complex series of expressions moved across his face. “Break up with him anyway.”

              “Mercy.” She was getting exasperated. “I’m not a teenager anymore, and you never wanted to be my old man; you can’t order me around,” she said, gently, filled with a sense that she was hurting him somehow, and still weak enough to care if she did.

              He unfolded his arms, and she saw the blood on them, the deep gouges she’d dug with her nails.

              “Shit. Someone’s going to see that.”

              He cocked one black brow. “Now who’s worried about being secret?”

              The rain had softened, just a gentle pattering against the window. She couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, and the thunder was only a low growl, growing more distant.

              She had no idea what to say to him, how to fast forward beyond this. Sneaking around held none of its old thrill. And as the warmth faded, the anxiety came rushing back, her anger at her parents, at Ronnie, at both Mason Stephens, at Mercy – life in general.

              She pushed her damp hair back and realized all the bobby pins were gone. Whatever.

              “I’ll go back first,” she said, easing to her feet, her legs feeling like half-cooked spaghetti noodles. “You’ll have to come in after. And do something about your arms.”

              He caught her around the waist as she moved toward the door, spun her around so she faced him, locked tight in his embrace. “My arms?” He smirked. “You’re gonna walk away and not even apologize. I’m bleeding.”

              She sighed. “Stop.”

              “I’m just saying – you cut a guy up like a mountain lion, you should say sorry.”

              She managed a thin smile. “Sorry.” Her eyes were burning again. “God, what are we–”

              He ducked his head and kissed her, cutting her off. The kind of rough, wet kiss that would go somewhere, if she let it.

              Ava pulled back, the breath trembling in her lungs.

              “Break up with him,” he said softly, “or I’ll put his head through a window.”

              She shoved away from him, hard, and he let her go. “Leave me alone.” And she rushed out the door before he had a chance to catch hold of her again.

              It was still misting, the clouds still gray and angry. Steam licked up off the pavement, thick as dry ice vapors. Her heels rapping the asphalt echoed strangely in the damp atmosphere, sounding too-conspicuous. Her legs wobbled, and she was afraid she’d trip and go sprawling. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked a bedraggled mess. She could smell the sex on herself.

              Damn, she was stupid.

              The guys were elbow-deep in sandwiches and beer when she walked back into the clubhouse. Maggie glanced up at her entrance, and her laser-guided mother-gaze took Ava’s appearance in in less than a second, and her eyes flashed because she knew exactly what had happened.

              Ava grabbed her purse and keys off the bar and said, “I’m going home. I don’t feel well,” without glancing full-on at her mom.

              “Were you out there in that?” Nell asked. “You’re dripping wet, girl.”

              “I’m fine.” She couldn’t look any of them in the eye; she was too full to bursting with shame.

              She ground to a halt in the parking lot when she found Littlejohn waiting beside her truck.

              Something like panic rippled through her. She’d forgotten all about her constant shadow; he had begun to fade into the background; she didn’t notice him as she drove, walked down sidewalks, shopped and strolled with Ronnie. She hadn’t even noticed him move, but he must have followed her before, and judging by the rain in his hair, he hadn’t managed to get to shelter soon enough. He’d seen her go into the office with Mercy. He was loyal to her father, above all else; if he thought it relevant, he’d rat her out.

              She snapped. “Listen to me, prospect,” she said, charging toward him, her finger out in a threatening gesture so like her mother she would have laughed if she hadn’t been so desperate. “Whatever you saw, whatever you thought happened, you wipe it out of your mind right now, or I swear to God, I’ll put a bullet in you.”

              Unfazed, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared with open curiosity at her stabbing finger, where it wavered just under his nose. “My job is to make sure you’re safe; that no one in a Carpathians cut tries to jump you.” He shrugged. “Ghost never said anything about keeping tabs on your love life.”

              She fumed silently, biting her lip. When she was sure she wouldn’t scream at him, she said, “I will not stir up a bunch of shit for the club right now with my personal drama. I will not. Do you understand me?”

              He nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”

              “There is nothing going on with Mercy and me.”

              “I didn’t figure there was, ma’am.”

              “It’s really damn hard to rant at you when you keep saying ‘yes, ma’am.’ ”

              “Yes, ma’am.”

              “Fucking men,” she muttered to herself as she climbed into the truck.

 

 

Mercy used the coiled garden hose on the side of the bike shop to rinse the deep scratches on his arms. They were vivid, angry marks, and there would be no hiding them without sleeves. Seeing them made him feel victorious: she could glare at him all she wanted, but when he got up under her clothes, she was still liquid and soft for him, melting and whimpering and clinging to him.

              He could find no shame, no guilt, no remorse. He was too past rational thought for that. He was like a junkie who’d finally fallen off the wagon. He needed, badly, in his world of knife-points and gun-muzzles, to have something sweet and yielding, something that was all his, something that embraced his sharp edges, without fear or recrimination. He needed Ava, just like he always had.

              She needed him, too, she was just fighting it right now.

              Mercy entered the clubhouse through the back, popping into the dorm he was using to change clothes, finding a black long-sleeve to cover the claw marks. For a little girl, she scratched deep, when she was in the throes like that.

              He wondered if her little boyfriend had had his back shredded. He wanted to search the boy for scars…and press a hot branding iron to them if he found any.

              He made it all the way to the bar, and had half a roast beef sandwich shoved in his mouth, when Michael appeared at his elbow like a fucking ghost materializing out of thin air. He didn’t say anything, just stared, unblinking. A mannequin from hell.

              “Hey,” Mercy said while he chewed, and figured his ironic tone was lost on the robot.

              “We need to go over our plan for tonight,” Michael said.

              “Yeah, well, planning’s not really my thing. I’ll leave that to you and Rottie.” He turned his shoulder toward him, taking another huge bite of sandwich. He didn’t have the patience for this weirdo right now.

              Michael might have frowned; it was hard to tell with him. He said, “If you won’t take this seriously, then you can stay behind. I don’t need your help.”

              “No, you need the muscle,” Ghost said, rearing up on Mercy’s other side. “This is at least a three-man job.” To Michael, he said, “You set everything up, and tell Merc what you need him to do.”

              Michael nodded and left them, something almost like resignation tweaking his blank face.

              “I’m like a missile,” Mercy said with a half-smile, reaching for another sandwich. “Aim me where you want me, and deploy, right, boss?”

              Ghost wasn’t smiling. “Why are you so damn wet? What were you doing outside in the middle of that shit?”

              He shrugged. “I got homesick for the swamp. Thought I’d go jump around in some puddles.” When he glanced over and down, he found Ghost’s stare to be too-knowing, his expression tight.

              “You didn’t happen to see Ava out there, did you? She disappeared too.”

              Mercy didn’t hold eye contact, because that felt like challenging, so he glanced away and said, “I figure she’s smarter than me; she probably knows to get in out of the rain.”

              “Yeah. Probably.”

              But Ghost knew. He knew, and at this point, Mercy didn’t care.

 

 

“Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. Wanted to know if you’d like to grab dinner. Call me back.” Ava disconnected the call and tossed her phone into her purse. Ronnie hadn’t answered, and she figured it wasn’t because he was busy.

              She’d come home, she’d showered, and under the hot pounding jets, she’d felt the guilt begin to spread, plucking at her tattered nerves, making her feel like an absolute bitch. She didn’t want to be a cheater, a liar, a girl who had secret desktop sex.

              She toweled her hair and resolved to let it air dry. She went into the kitchen and dug a box of Famous Amos from the back of the pantry, was eating one tiny cookie after the other standing up against the counter when Maggie came in through the back door in an agitated rush.

              “What in the hell were you thinking?” she demanded, throwing her purse onto the counter.

              “I thought Jackie or Nell could give you a ride home. I’m sorry.”

              “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” Her eyes were flashing, bright hazel shards, pulse fluttering in the little hollow at the base of her throat. “You are a smart girl, Ava,” she said, advancing on her a step, hands going to her hips, hair beginning to slip from its up-‘do. “You are too smart to let this happen again, and you know it!”

              “Let what happen?” Ava squirmed inwardly. She set the box aside and the cookie on her tongue turned to cardboard.

              “How, in the middle of all the shit going on” – big, wide gesture to the world around them – “could you be thinking about Mercy right now?”

              It was too late for lying at this point. Bag open, cat out. She drew herself up, folded her arms across her middle. “Because I always think about Mercy when things go to shit,” she said. “Because I spent years and years trusting that he would be there when things were awful and scary. It’s instinct, Mom, and I can’t change that, no matter how bad I want to. When Carpathians are after us and the demonic mayor has leverage over me, and members are dying and I’m being tailed by prospects, then, yeah, I think of Mercy. Sometimes…” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sometimes I just need to feel like I used to, when everything was right. I don’t expect you to understand that.”

              Maggie didn’t falter, but pressed on, relentless. “You have a boyfriend! What about poor Ronnie? Are you going to tell him? Or are you just going to hope he doesn’t notice the next time you come to bed smelling like someone else?”

              “Why do you care?” It was another little stab of pain, on top of what the day had already dealt her, to hear that her mom held no empathy for her situation. “You didn’t care when I was seventeen, when I was getting pregnant, but you care now?!”

              “You’re fucking up,” Maggie accused. “You know you are.”

              “Gee, I wonder why, when I’ve got such stellar role models around me to learn from.”

              “That’s no excuse–”

              “Oh, I know, do as you say, not as you do, huh?” She shoved the cookie box, just to have an outlet, satisfied by the way it skidded across the counter and slammed into the microwave.

              Maggie didn’t look like herself; she looked lined and weathered and stern in a way that was nothing like her usual force-of-nature turbulence. She looked like a typical, angry parent, and nothing like the champion who’d held Ava and rocked her while she sobbed, in Mercy’s abandoned apartment five years before.

              She said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have come home, if you were going to throw everything you’ve worked for away on the promise of a casual fuck.”

              Ava stared at her toes and felt the tears building, the painful burn in the back of her throat.

              What in the world was happening?

              Maggie’s boot heels struck the tile loud as gunshots as she left the room.

 

 

Thirty-Two

 

The Carpathians’ compound had an air of something…wrong about it. That was the only way Mercy could think to describe it. The old Milford pool hall was standard issue corrugated steel, with chain link fence, cracked pavement yard, security lights on high power poles.

              But the club’s top and bottom rockers and center emblem had been rendered in colored neon signage along the side wall. It was bright, obscene really. And classless. All those identical, airbrushed bikes stacked up like dominos at the front doors, the shiny new fleet vehicles: white panel vans, construction-grade Chevy pickups. A vulgar display of money, contrasting the weeds sprouting through the cracks, the built-up crud on the steel siding.

              No one from this crew came from privileged backgrounds. None of them had jobs to speak of, save those working the stolen mattress store across the street. Who’d bankrolled the bikes, the cars, the neon? This place contrasted so strongly with the humble, tidy splendor of Dartmoor that it was difficult to rectify its existence. The Lean Dogs were working class and proud and didn’t put on airs. The Carpathians were some mongrelized blend of pure trash and hauteur. They might have patches now, they might call themselves a true MC, but they were pretenders.

              The fact that they posed a threat of any kind was disgusting.

              The three of them stood on the roof of a wrecked Pontiac in the scrap yard next door, peering over the fence through the holes in their ski masks. All in black, no colors. LDMC S.W.A.T. team.

              Rottie pushed a button on his watch and the face glowed green. “Tell me when you see the red light on the camera. Then we book like hell up against the wall.”

              Mercy squinted through the dark. “Now.”

              They vaulted over one a time, Rottie, then Michael, then Mercy. Thump. Boots on the pavement and they were moving, ghosting through the deep shadows and throwing themselves silently up underneath the neon werewolf that looked like something out of a bad 80’s bikers vs. zombies movie. 

              Rottie led the way, hustling them through the dark to the side door they’d already talked about. They’d talked the thing to death, over beers back at the clubhouse; at least, Rottie and Mercy had talked. Michael had issued edicts on occasion that made Mercy want to punch him in the damn non-smiling mouth. Mercy had all the supplies they’d need stowed in the inside pockets of the dark Carhartt vest he wore over his hoodie.

              The Carps were a lazy lot; no one patrolled the yard, no one was coming or going. This late, they’d all be inside, parked in front of the tube with a beer in one hand and a girl’s waist in the other. Mercy shuddered to think of the caliber of women who hung out with this crew.

              They stayed flat against the wall, and the shadows were dark enough, the camera shouldn’t pick them up, or so Hound had guessed, given the angle of the camera. It didn’t matter, either way, because Rottie picked the lock in under three seconds. Then they were inside, going down a dark hall on the balls of their feet, noses assaulted by the stench of garbage in bad need of taking out.

              Through a friend of Ratchet’s at the courthouse, they’d managed to get a blueprint of the pool hall, from some real estate record of long ago, when the building had needed to pass city building codes. This hall was a delivery entrance. It fed into a larger hall, where the restrooms and office were located. Then there was the main part of the building, a lobby beyond that.

              Flickering lights illuminated the next hall, the old bulbs hissing. None of the cash, apparently, had gone toward making the inside more hospitable. Proof that it wasn’t the Carpathians’ money: only gift money was ever spent on frivolous shit.

              The office door stood open and Rottie ducked inside. Mercy heard the quiet sounds of rummaging.

              He glanced at Michael, noting that there was no less life to the man when his face was covered versus when he stood bare-faced in the open daylight.

              Rottie emerged tucking a wad of folders into the waistband of his jeans. He tucked his sweatshirt down over it and whispered, “Part two.”

              This was the tricky part. This was where things could go wrong.

              Mercy found the light switch along the wall and turned it off, bathing them in darkness. Then they had to wait.

              It was probably five minutes before they heard shuffling footfalls and the heavy breathing of a man who’d had too much to drink. He moved toward them slowly, lumbering. “Shit,” he said, into the darkness. “Fucking bulb’s burnt out.”

              Mercy waited for the man to move toward the bathroom, but he moved past them instead, out the narrow garbage-smelling hall. The back door opened and closed with a squeal.

              “That makes life easier,” Rottie whispered.

              They followed their target, Mercy first. “You’ll need my size,” he’d told Michael earlier, no small amount of aggression in his voice. “Trust me, if we’re taking someone alive, you need me to hold on to him.” So he was the one that stepped out the door first, as the Carpathian reached for the fly of his jeans, planning to piss right there on the asphalt.

              Mercy had him in a sleeper hold before he had a chance to gasp properly. He was on the thin side, which was a boon, as he went boneless and Mercy caught his weight, swung him up over his shoulder so he could carry him out.

              Without a hitch, all of it, until Mercy tossed his unconscious captive up onto the fence and made a move to follow.

              “Hey!” someone shouted behind them.

              Crack of a gunshot.

              Mercy felt it go in between the base of his neck and the strap of his Kevlar. Like he got punched. The blinding white arrow of pain.

              He grunted, flexed his fingers, knew he could still use the arm, and heaved himself up and over the fence. 

 

 

Ava opened her eyes to her dark bedroom and knew there were more people in the house than there should have been. A low murmur of voices, a buzz of energy. She checked the bedside clock: 1:22. This wasn’t her dad sneaking into the kitchen for some ice cream. By the time she’d pulled her robe on over her shorts and tank top, her heart was pounding.
              Maggie nearly ran into her as she stepped out into the hall. Their argument was put on mutual hold as their gazes locked amid the shadows. “Get the first aid kit,” Maggie said, “and come in here.”
              Her hands were slick with sweat as she fumbled the plastic kit from under the bathroom sink.
              She was halfway through the living room when she heard someone say, “Shit,” and recognized Mercy’s voice. She halted, clutching the first aid kit to her chest, heat rushing to her breasts and between her legs. Nervous energy flooded her, gave her goose bumps. She took a deep breath and pressed on, blinking against the harsh overhead light as the scene in the kitchen took shape.
              The table had been pushed to the side, up against one counter, and Ghost, Maggie, Rottie, and Michael stood half-bent under the chandelier. Maggie was in yoga gear, hair cinched back with an elastic and headband. Ghost had tugged on jeans and a t-shirt. Michael and Rottie were in all black, jeans and hoodies, stocking caps low over their foreheads. In the center of them all, seated in a chair, was Mercy. He was shirtless, and a thick river of blood had spilled down his chest, across his stomach, was trickling down his arm and dripping down onto the floor with little splats.
              Ava made an involuntary mewling sound of distress. It felt like the floor tilted beneath her feet. There was a lot of blood. He was a big man, and he could stand to lose a lot, but…Her eyes were filling with tears and she was wracked with shivers by the time Mercy looked up and spotted her.
              “Christ,” Ghost said, “why the hell did you get her up for this?”
              “I need another set of hands,” Maggie snapped back. “She’s alright. Ava, babe, come on. He’s okay.”
              Their voices sounded like they were coming down a pipe. Her eyes were riveted on Mercy, on all the blood.
              He gave her one of his widest, most disarming smiles, all sharp teeth and sharp eyes. She could see the undercurrent of pain, though, that little line of tension in his lean jaw. “Hey,” he said, voice soothing. “Hey, hey. It’s just a little blood, yeah? You’ve seen way worse than this.” His head tilted, his eyes softening. “I’m alright, fillette. You come here and help your mom.”
              She nodded and took a deep breath, blinked the fat tears from between her lashes. It was too much: the revelations of the day, having him inside her again, seeing him wounded like this. She wanted to sit down on the floor and bawl her eyes out.
              Instead, she handed her mom the first aid kit, pulled the elastic off her wrist and tied her hair back. She took off her robe, folded it up and set it on the counter. “What happened?” she asked, pulling on every scrap of professionalism she could muster as she stepped over the blood spatters and leaned in to inspect the damage.
              “GSW,” Rottie said. “It’s a through-and-through. We would have gone to the ER, but…”
              “They’d call the cops,” she said.
              “We can’t afford that right now,” Ghost said behind her.
              “Here.” Maggie passed her the betadine scrub. “Go wash your hands.”
              She did, scrubbing under the nails like she was prepping for surgery. When she shut off the tap with her elbow, Rottie handed her two clean paper towels so she wouldn’t have to touch anything on her way back to Mercy.
              Ghost, she noted, with a lump forming in her throat, was staring at her murderously, but he folded his arms and kept silent as Maggie urged her closer.
              Michael looked as removed and spooky as ever.
              God knew what any of them were thinking. She tried to shove all of it out of her mind, focusing solely on the task at hand as she leaned in close enough to Mercy’s gunshot wound to smell his shampoo.
              The shot had gone through his trapezius, and it had been a large caliber round; the hole was wide, the edges angry and gory. “Were you wearing your vest?” Ava asked.
              One corner of Maggie’s mouth twitched: amusement or disapproval of the question.
              “Yeah. This was just inside the strap,” Mercy said.
              She wanted to ask where he’d been, and who the shooter was, but she knew he’d never answer those questions, not even if they were alone.
              Maggie did the flushing, Ava the mopping and dabbing. A syringe of rubbing alcohol went deep into the wound, the liquid running pink out the other side as Ava caught it with clean cotton batting. Mercy didn’t make a sound, but she saw the involuntary twitching of the tendons in his neck. It burned like a son of a bitch.
              They packed the bullet hole, and taped it up, Maggie giving stern warnings that the dressing would need changing twice a day, and that he was to come here for that if he couldn’t or wouldn’t do it himself.
              Then, to Ava’s horror, she grabbed Mercy’s wrist and lifted, passing a finger down one of the red gouges along his forearm. They were unmistakable in the lamplight. “How’d you get these?” Sharp, dark look at Ava, then at him.
              Mercy didn’t miss a beat. “I got a cat.”
              Maggie held his gaze a long moment before she finally turned away, going to the sink to wash the blood and ointment off her hands.
              Ava reached to start packing up the first aid kit, and barely managed to catch the hot, damp clean towel Ghost threw at her. She looked up at him, startled.
              His face was awful. He tipped his head toward Mercy, muscle leaping in his throat. “Clean him up.”
              “Dad–”
              “If you’re old enough to claw him up” – his voice was a harsh, contained roar – “then you’re by God old enough to clean him up when he gets shot.”
              “Dad, I didn’t–”
              Soft click of the back door closing; Michael and Rottie had slipped outside. And now it was just the four of them, the family tableau that was history repeating itself.
              “How fucking stupid do you think I am, Ava? Huh? You think you can both be gone in the middle of a tornado warning, and I’ll think you’re playing kickball in the parking lot? Jesus Christ,” he fumed. “Neither of you has been back in town a week, and you can’t even keep your legs closed for that long,” he said, gesturing at Ava. “I didn’t raise you to be a slut.”
              She felt like she’d been slapped. She choked on her next breath.
              And then Mercy said, “No, you didn’t raise her at all.”
              Maggie clapped a hand to her throat, her eyes huge.
              “I did,” Mercy said. His voice had gone soft and Cajun-flavored, scary-calm. “I raised her. Don’t you dare blame her for loving me because of it.”
              “Oh, God,” Maggie muttered.
              Ghost opened his mouth –
              And Ava said, “I don’t love him!” Her voice came out shrill and cracked. If she didn’t say this, there was a good chance her father and her lover would end up battling it out to the death right here on the blood-stained kitchen floor. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I hate…I hate him for what he did to me. I made a mistake today,” she added in a rush. “I was having a bad day – because I found out you” – she pointed at Ghost – “used Mason attacking me as leverage. Stephens wrote me a college recommendation letter, and neither of you ever told me.”
              Maggie glanced away.
              Ghost reared back visibly.
              “And I was weak and upset today,” she continued, “and I made a stupid mistake, one I won’t make again.”
              Ghost studied her face a long moment; Ava had no idea what he found there, how sincere she appeared. She had a feeling she looked like a bundle of unshed tears, because that was what she felt like.
              “Wipe up the blood,” he said, and went out the back door, slamming it behind him.
              Ava clenched the towel tight in her fingers, staring at it, trying to gather the strength to turn around.
              “Here.” Maggie made a reach for it. “I can–”
              Ava spun, keeping her eyes low, her movements quick, almost frenzied. She mopped the blood on Mercy’s stomach, scrubbed upward and cleaned off his chest. She faltered when she saw the tattoo over his heart, as its black shape was revealed beneath the blood. An oval of irregular little marks. Her mind went back, five years ago, plucking up a memory from the gloom: Bonita and James’s yard, up against the house, the silver moonlight, Mercy lifting his shirt. “I want you to draw blood.”
              No. No, it couldn’t be…
              But it looked like a bite mark. Little teeth marks.
              She lifted her gaze and forced it to meet Mercy’s. He was watching her with open tenderness, his eyes wide and gentle. “Yeah,” he said, quietly. “It’s what you think it is.”
              She let her eyes fall, moving the towel again, slower this time. It was a thin barrier between her hand and the hard padding of muscle, the firm contours of his body. She wanted to fold herself into his lap. She wanted to touch the tattoo – she did, one fast pass of a fingertip over the smooth stretch of his skin.
              Then she remembered that her mom was in the room, and she wanted to step back…but she couldn’t. She wiped every last trace of blood, all the way down his tatted arm, over the large square shapes of his knuckles, his long fingers. Until the towel was soaked and pink.
              Maggie stepped up beside her and took it away; Ava let it go, but didn’t move. It was too much. It was all too much.
              “Merc,” Maggie said, “why don’t you head out, sweetie. Come by tomorrow to have your shoulder looked at.”
              He sighed. “Yeah.”
              When he stood, Ava was both soothed and mortified that he cupped the side of her head in one big hand, pulled her over, and kissed her in the middle of her parted hair. She stood, studying her toes, between her mother and the man she loved most in the world, Maggie’s arm around her shoulders, Mercy’s face in her hair, and for that brief second, all the planets were in perfect alignment.
              And then Mercy pulled away and scooped up his shirts from the floor, leaving the way the others had.
              When he was gone, Maggie pulled her into a tight hug. “Ava Rose,” she said with a groan. “Oh, baby, I wasn’t mad at you before. All of that this afternoon, that was a lie.”
              Ava lifted her head. “What?”
              Maggie smoothed her hair back, like when she’d been a little girl. “I knew your dad would fly off the handle. I had to prepare you. I had to get you thinking defensively so you’d be ready to handle him.” She smiled. “And you did; you handled him fucking fantastically.”
              Ava felt numb. “So you don’t care that Mercy and I…”
              Maggie pulled her in close again, hand on the back of her head. “If Kenneth Teague thinks he can keep the two of you apart, he’s stupid.”

 

 

“…just a small dose. We ought to be able to wake him up,” Rottie was saying as Mercy joined the others down at the mailbox. His neck, shoulder – that whole general area – hurt like hell, a sharp throbbing that radiated up into his skull and down the length of his arm. The pain was good, he decided. It would help keep him awake, keep him sharp and pissed off enough for the night’s task.

              Ghost turned to glance at him over his shoulder as he finished shrugging into his sweatshirt and pushed the hood back. The moment they’d just shared in the house had been shoved aside. That was family business. This was club business. Ghost was drawing a firm line between the two tonight.

              “Get as much as you can out of him,” he instructed, voice calm, authoritative.

              Mercy nodded. “Yeah.”

              Ghost turned back to Rottie and Michael. “Cattle property afterward.”

              That’s where they’d bury the body. If that tract of land ever fell out of Teague hands, and was developed, the backhoes would break ground on a cemetery’s-worth of unsanctioned graves. How many bones lay under that earth? Mercy wondered. Enough to bury them all four times over.

              They were walking away, heading for the truck they’d left around the corner, when Mercy felt something catch at his sleeve.

              Ghost’s hand, his face harsh in the shadows. “I’m tired of having the Ava conversation with you.”

              On some level, Mercy wondered if this was a test. If he backed off at this point, he’d never have the man’s respect as a father. If he pushed, he could see himself banished back to New Orleans.

              He took a gamble on test.

              “Yeah,” he said, “I bet you can’t wait to have that little chickenshit Robbie sitting across from you every Thanksgiving.”

              “It’s Rodney,” Ghost corrected.

              “Is it?”

              “I…yeah. I think. Richie, maybe?”

              “Either way” – Mercy shook the hand off his arm – “I’m sure he’ll make you a great son-in-law.”

              He was four steps away when Ghost called after him: “You’re a goddamn asshole.”

              Mercy saluted him with a wave over his head.

 

**

“It just…it doesn’t piss me off. It’s just that, damn, how old do I gotta be before I’m not some stupid kid to him, you know?” Aidan put a spin on the next dart he tossed at the board; it spiraled in tight gyrations, feathers blurring, and sank into the bull’s eye.

              When he turned, Tango was leaning back against the edge of the pool table, hands braced on the wood, face restive and thoughtful, as per usual.

              “Ghost has really high expectations is all.”

              Aidan sighed.

              “Look at how he is with your sister; he’s a hardass. It’s not about anything you’re doing wrong; it’s just about him.”

              Aidan picked up another dart and ran a fingertip through the feathers. “Yeah, maybe.” But even if that was true, how could he do anything right? His old man was such an unquestionable leader that he’d been content to sit back all these years, still feeling sixteen and like it was just a matter of time before he was taken into Ghost’s confidence and groomed for the throne. But suddenly, he was thirty, and he was still the dumb kid of the club, and Ghost didn’t rely on him for anything other than a warm body to fill a chair at church.

              “Bro,” Tango said with a chuckle, “are you actually bitching about not having to go help torture a guy to death?”

              “Well, when you put it like that…” He sent the dart flying, sinking it right beside the first. “But I thought it’d be different by now, you know?”

              He turned again, and the look on Tango’s face instantly made him regret what he’d just said. His best friend had no family to speak of, no support system outside the club; he didn’t have a father to rebel against, and here he was offering advice, being the sympathetic one.

              Aidan resolved to let it go. He picked up another dart. “Tournament?” he asked, spinning it between his fingers.

              Tango lost some of his vacant sadness; he grinned. “Last tournament we had, I ended up owing you lunch for a month.”

              “I’ll throw with my bad hand,” Aidan said, swapping the dart to his left.

              The front door opened, the sound sending electricity under the floorboards; Aidan felt it go up through his boot soles, tightening his stomach. The kidnapping crew was back.

              Rottie came in first, dragging his folded-up ski mask off his head, dark hair springing up in staticky clumps. He pulled a stack of file folders from his waistband. “Ratchet, I brought you a present.”

              The secretary was out of his recliner and halfway to him already, hand outstretched for the files.

              Mercy had his “toolkit” slung over one shoulder, the nondescript black bag that held his grisly assortment of knives, pliers, screwdrivers, nails, whatever household construction items he thought looked “fun” for the moment.

              Michael looked…like Michael, only spookier, in all black with his mask doubled up on his forehead.

              “How’d it go?” Aidan asked.

              Rottie made a grim face. He fished a USB-equipped audio recorder from his sweatshirt pocket. “It was mostly just screaming, but he said some stuff. Who knows if it’s useful; I don’t think he knew much.”

              “He’s worm food,” Mercy answered the unasked question. “And except for that one glitch, it went off well.”

              “Glitch?” Tango asked.

              “Sasquatch over here got shot.” Rottie hooked a thumb at Mercy. “While we were going over the fence at their clubhouse.”

              “In the vest?” Aidan asked.

              “The trap.” Mercy gestured to the base of his neck. “It nicked through; it’s fine.”

              “Except who knows if the shooter got a good look at him,” Michael grumbled, heading for the bar.

              “I was wearing a mask,” Mercy called to his back.

              “Yeah? And how many six-five random B&E suspects do you think they see around there?” He pulled the Jack from under the bar, unscrewed the cap and took a slug straight off the bottle. It was probably as close to fuming mad as he was capable. “What did you tell me? I’d need your size? Your ‘size’ is gonna get you picked out of a police lineup.”

              “It’s gonna get you pile-driven through this goddamn floor.”

              “Hey, people get shot; it happens,” Tango said. “The important thing is everybody’s whole – you are, right?”

              “Mags and Ava cleaned me up,” Mercy said, letting his bag slide off his shoulder onto one of the round bar tables. “I’m fine.”

              “Jesus,” Aidan muttered. “Way to not traumatize my sister.”

              Mercy’s eyes came over in a fast snap, narrowing. “She’s fine, too.”

              “Kids,” Rottie said with a sigh. “If I wanted to deal with this kinda shit, I’d have stayed home tonight.”

              That sobered all of them up; this wasn’t about any of them, not really. It was about keeping their families safe.

              “Mina and the boys alright?” Tango asked.

              Rottie nodded and eased down into a chair. “Yeah. They’ve been spending nights at Hound and Nell’s place, so he can keep an eye out while I’m…” He gestured vaguely.

              “Yeah,” Tango said. “Collier’s been keeping Jackie close. James is king of his own castle these days.”

              “And Littlejohn practically lives in Dad’s driveway,” Aidan put in.

              That’s how the Carpathians had played things last time: going after the women and children.

              Aidan held out a hand. “Here, let’s listen to it now. I wanna hear.”

              Rottie lifted his brows. “Ghost will want to be here.”

              “So he can listen when he shows up. I want it now.”

              Rottie reached for the recorder, and Aidan’s phone rang.

              Curious looks cast his way.

              “Greg,” he said as he checked the screen. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he really wants to be a rat,” he told the others before he answered. “Yeah?”

              There was a muffled shuffling from the other end, like a hand was being cupped around the base of the phone. Greg’s voice was low and frantic. “Dude, what the fuck?”

              “I dunno, Greg. What the fuck’s up with you?”

              More rustling. A strained whisper. “Man, Fred is gone. Fucking gone. Adam saw two guys going over the fence, popped a shot off, and now nobody’s seen Fred since.”

              Inwardly, Aidan was delighted to have broken enough barriers down that Greg was telling him all this. He urged his brothers closer and they moved in silently. Aidan could smell the Jack on Michael’s breath.

              Outwardly, he affected bored and said, “That’s a great story and all, but what’s it got to do with me?”

              Frustration. “It was you guys, wasn’t it?”

              Aidan gave a vocal shrug. “I’ve been kicking Tango’s ass at darts all night. It sucks your guy defected, but that shit happens.”

              “He didn’t defect. He wouldn’t do that.”

              “But you would, obviously, or you wouldn’t be on the phone with me right now.”

              A beat. Then: “Just tell me if it was the Dogs.”

              “So you can what? Run to Larsen? Run up the flags? Let’s say you knew who it was, Greg; what would you do about it?”

              Silence.

              “I’m guessing that, no matter what happened tonight, Larsen’s gonna blame it on us anyway. So why do you need to know so bad?”

              The line disconnected.

              “You guys hear any of that?”

              “I say lay out some cheese,” Ratchet said. “ ‘Cause that dude’s sprouting whiskers.”

              “I’m impressed,” Mercy said, grinning. “Look at you, gettin’ shit done.”

              “Keep it up,” Rottie said. “If he’s not happy with that crew, we can exploit that.”

              Aidan smiled to himself as he pocketed his phone. It wasn’t much – skinny Greg with his acne scars and his unfavorable memories of high school – but it was a start. And that was better than anything he’d ever handed his dad before.

 

 

Mercy had had a front row seat for the screaming confessions of Fred the Carpathian. He still had the stink of blood and piss in his nose. He checked the time on his phone – four-eighteen – and walked away from the laptop Ratchet had set up on a bar table, ambling down the back hall to the dorm he was using. He needed a shower in the worst way, but he couldn’t get his bandage wet. The pain was starting to set in good, now, its hooks buried deep in his wounded muscle, a stiffness taking hold of him that was in bad need of a good soak and a gentle massage, neither of which he was going to get tonight.

              He shrugged out of his sweatshirt, toed off his boots, and sank down in the hard wooden chair beside the door, closing the latch with a touch of his socked heel.

              Exhausted, hurting, if he was honest, still reeling from that afternoon, he had his phone in his hand and was dialing before he was conscious of it.

              Ava answered after the first ring. “Hi.”

              Just one word, but her voice was soft, afraid, hopeful. It was her voice, not the sharp, brittle tone of the college grad who tried to push him away, but the voice of his Ava, who he’d broken to pieces five years ago.

              “Hi,” he echoed.

              She took a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”

              “I’m fine, baby. You’re a good nurse.”

              Another breath. He envisioned her wide dark eyes slick with tears, her head pressed in the soft white pillows of her bed, the moonlight drifting through the blinds she always left gapped.

              “I didn’t wake you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

              “I couldn’t sleep.” He heard the rustling of her covers, imagined her sitting up against the headboard. “When I shut my eyes, I keep seeing the blood.”

              “You’ve seen blood before,” he said, aware that he was purring to her, that low soothing voice he’d used on her when she was just a tiny girl of eight.

              “But I…” Little sniffle. “I could touch you then, and reassure myself that you were okay.”

              He almost laughed; there was a smile in his voice, to go along with the purr. “You could touch me now if you’d get your cute ass over here.”

              She groaned. “Mercy…”

              “You could give me a backrub. I need a backrub bad.”

              Silence, the gentle rush of her breathing.

              “You’ve got those nice skinny fingers,” he prodded. “You can get in all the tense spots.”

              She made a sound that might have been a laugh. “I can’t. I start school in about…” Pause; checking her clock, no doubt. “Five hours.”

              “I can wait till after. That’s cool.”

              “Ugh. Mercy.”

              “Mon amour.”

              “Do you have any idea how much you’re testing my self-control?” she asked, without malice, just a laid-bare question, revealing more than she would have wanted to in the daylight.

              “Hopefully a lot.”

              Silence, again.

              “Come spend the night with me, tomorrow. After school. Say you’re with your little douchebag, if you don’t want to come clean to your old man yet.”

              “Oh, like it was me who wanted to lay low and keep quiet.”

              “I’m not gonna argue with you. I miss you. Give me one night – one whole night – and tell me you don’t miss me, too, and I’ll leave you alone.”

              “Liar.”

              “Maybe a little.”

              A beat passed. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no.

              “Call me when you get out of class,” he said, pleading at this point. “I’ll still need that backrub.”

              She sighed. And then… “Yeah. Okay.”

              He grinned, so wide his face hurt, there in the dorm room by himself. God, he needed this. How had he gone five years without?

              “Hey, fillette?”

              “Yeah?”

              “Kick ass tomorrow.”

              There was a faint smile in her voice when she said, “Night.” And then the line disconnected.

              When he was in the shower, with the nozzle angled low so the jets hit him in the stomach and his bandage stayed dry, he shoved the ache, the remembered screaming, the bullshit aside, and unfolded an image of her face inside his mind, until she filled up the dark corners.

              He went to bed a mostly happy man.