Fifty-Two
“The key is the name,” Ratchet explained. “Once you have a name, you can find out anything about anyone. For instance.” He clicked two keys on his computer and a web browser popped up. Over his shoulder, Ghost recognized sensitive banking information. “Once I knew that it was William Archer who’s been buying up retail, I was able to hack into his personal finances. From there, I could tell that he was moving large sums into dummy accounts. He had to use his social security number to open them, but was able to use business names for them. Those businesses were listed as being owned by other people – his aliases…”
Ghost made a hurry-up gesture.
“Right. Long story short, he must have friends at the bank who helped cover for him, and he used some creative money-moving to fund all this shit. But I’ve got all the records we need.”
“How does this implicate Stephens, too?”
“Ah. Stephens was less careful. Two months ago, he bought twenty Harleys, five fleet vehicles. He bought all of it with campaign funds.”
Ghost laughed. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“And you have the paperwork to prove it?”
“Printing it right now.”
“Captain WikiLeaks,” Walsh said with subtle, but noticeable affection. “I think he could hack into the Pentagon if you kept him in Slim Jims and Red Bull.”
“I might be able to,” Ratchet said in all seriousness, without a trace of ego, as he stared distractedly at his computer.
The printer chugged away on the table beside him, spitting out sheet after sheet of irrefutable evidence.
Walsh looked to Ghost. “You going to use Ava’s recommendation letter?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we need to. And I don’t want to drag her into this mess. She’s been through enough.”
Walsh nodded in agreement.
They’d been home for almost a week now. They’d set a TV up on Ava’s dressing table and turned her bedroom into a recovery room. The crutches and the bum leg had sent Mercy into a spiral of furious silence; he spent almost all of every day watching the tube or sleeping. Ava was persistent, though, making him take his meds like clockwork, trying to draw him into conversation, contacting the local doctors and surgeons to ensure his chart had been faxed up from New Orleans so she could talk about his rehabilitation with them. The exhaustion shone in her face, but she refused to let her spirits flag, and every time Ghost saw the glimmer of gold on her finger, he reminded himself that this was her fight, and she had every right to sleep beside the man every night, even if the idea made his skin itch.
He tapped Ratchet affectionately on top of his shaved head. “You’ll have everything ready for the meeting this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
From the clubhouse he walked to the central office, beneath a clear blue sky devoid of all humidity. Each hour he spent back home soothed him. He’d spent days with an elevated pulse, after Collier’s surrender had been chased with the awful phone call from Aidan – the news that Ava and Mercy had crashed. He felt in control again now, confident and capable.
The door to the office stood open, as always, Maggie at her desk, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows as she sorted through stacks of folders pulled from the open file cabinet beside her.
“There you are,” she said as he entered. “Do you have any idea how many regular customers we lost thanks to all this protest bullshit?” She shot him an unhappy look from beneath her honey bangs. “A lot. A whole lot. I don’t know how we’re gonna cover our expenses for this quarter.”
“We’ll get ‘em back,” Ghost said, dropping into the chair across from her.
She snorted. “Well look who’s Mister Optimistic all the sudden. One Dog shot another Dog in the goddamn high school. How do we get them back after that?”
He shrugged. “People have short memories, generally. And we’re really good at what we do. In all departments.” He gestured to his right, toward the long stretch of Dartmoor businesses that unfolded beside them.
She sighed. “I hope you’re right.” Then: “How’s Operation Smear Stephens going?”
He lifted his brows.
“I named it in my head. It needed a name.”
He grinned. “That reporter Aidan’s piece of tail knows is coming by at three to get the story. It should be all over the papers in the morning.”
“Perfect.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten after twelve.”
He nodded and stood. “I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“With…?”
He smiled. “Safer if you don’t know.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Isn’t that the story of my life.”
Ghost leaned over her before he left to steal a kiss. “You know I mean it,” he said quietly, as he pulled back. “About keeping you safe. It’s never ‘cause I don’t trust you.” Or because I don’t need you, he added silently.
She reached to lay a hand along his face. Her eyes gentled. “I know, baby.”
Mason Stephens Sr. looked like two-day-old dog shit. That had been run over by a lawnmower. He wore no tie, a rumpled shirt stained with amber droplets that could only be bourbon, going by the smell, and his slacks hadn’t been pressed. His bloodshot eyes further evidence heavy drinking, and he needed a shave. His normally immaculate, paste-slicked hair was unwashed and sticking up in untidy clumps. He sat far back in the chair across from Vince’s desk, hands braced on the arms, legs splayed out like he couldn’t be bothered with decorum.
“She’s leaving me,” he said to the wastebasket he contemplated between his feet. Vince had set it there the first time Mason gagged. So far, there’d been no actual vomiting. “She doesn’t want the house here; she wants the one in Destin. She likes the beach.”
Vince cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sure it mattered that he sounded insincere. “But I’m not a divorce attorney, Mayor Stephens.”
Mason lifted his head, scowling out of mismatched pupils. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Well you’re sure as hell not worth a damn as a cop.”
“Mayor Stephens–” Vince tried again.
“What have you found out about my son? Huh? Why” – he pulled that morning’s paper from the inside of his jacket and slapped it down on the desk – “am I not reading about Kenny Teague’s arrest right this fucking instant?”
“I have a suspect in custody,” Vince said, calmly, “who has admitted to killing Mason, Ronnie, and two members of his own club. Collier Hershel is being charged, thanks to his own statement. I know it doesn’t help the grief” – Stephens made an awful face – “but the case itself is closed, Mister Mayor. You have your killer. It will be in the paper this week sometime, I’m sure.”
“I want my boy’s body,” Stephens bit out. “I want something to put in the coffin.”
“According to Hershel, he dumped it downriver about five miles from here. We can drag–”
“Then drag the fucking river!”
“We’re going to do everything that we can,” he assured.
Stephens didn’t seem to hear him, shaking his head, fuming quietly to himself. “Collier Hershel. Who the fuck is that anyway? No.” His eyes lifted to Vince again, glazed-over and unfocused. “This was Teague. Teague and his whore wife and his bitch daughter and that giant shithead who hurt Mason so bad when he…” He made a choking sound. “This was Teague,” he repeated. “I want him arrested.”
In a feat of truly cosmic timing, there was a rap at the door.
“Shit,” Vince muttered.
The door eased open and Ghost Teague leaned in, taking in the scene before him with a small, smug smile. “Am I interrupting? You did say twelve-thirty, right?”
Vince wished for an earthquake, a big fault line to open up beneath him and swallow him, desk and all. No such luck.
He nodded. “Yeah. Give me five minutes.”
He wouldn’t need them, though. Stephens pushed unsteadily to his feet. “You,” he said through his teeth, turning toward Ghost. “You son of a–”
“Don’t go insulting my mama now,” Ghost said, and pushed the door wide, so they had a view of the bullpen…and so the officers in the bullpen could see, and hear, everything that transpired within. “You say whatever you want about my dickhead dad, but Mama’s off limits.” He grinned. He knew he had them in a trap, the bastard.
“Mister Mayor,” Vince said with a sigh, “why don’t you and I continue our conversation later?”
Stephens spared him one scowl before he left, glaring a hole through Ghost that was received with another smile.
When he was gone, Ghost heeled the door shut and dropped into the chair Stephens had abandoned, hands clasped loosely, relaxed and in good spirits. He looked younger when he wasn’t pissed off. The resemblance to his son became even stronger.
“You two ladies having a tea party?” he asked.
“Bite my ass,” Vince muttered. “Stephens knows your boy Collier didn’t kill Ronnie or Mason.”
Ghost shrugged. “He says he killed them. What more do you want?”
“The truth would be nice.”
“Oh, you mean like the truth of you turning my guys into rats?”
Vince tried not to flinch.
“You fucked with me. With my club,” Ghost continued. “I may hate your sorry guts, but I don’t come into your precinct and try to turn your uniforms over to my side.” He snorted. “Who’s the real outlaw here, Vince?”
“Andre and Jace knew what they were risking when they came to me,” he defended.
“Came to you?” Ghost made a disbelieving face. “Those two couldn’t take a shit without consulting an instruction manual. No, you went to them.”
“You seem awful comfortable with them being dead.”
Ghost shrugged. “What use have I got with rats? My VP agrees, apparently.”
“What do you want, Ken?”
Ghost sat back and folded his arms, made a thoughtful face. “For starters, I want my daughter to find the drive to go back to grad school in the winter. I want my son-in-law to not be crippled. I want my real son to take more initiative. But right now, I want you to agree to do your job tomorrow. Because when the paper hits your desk in the morning, you’re gonna have grounds for launching a full-scale investigation into Mason Stephens and his cousin, William Archer. What they’ve done to this city is unforgivable, and I want you to do something about it.”
The junior reporter who’d been tipped off about the murder at Dartmoor weeks before – Donald Malory – was in a not-subtle state of awe to have been invited into the Dogs’ clubhouse like this. He sank slowly down onto one of the couches and let his gaze wander around the common room, drinking in every detail, mouth falling open as he became absorbed in his inspection.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Ghost said dryly, and the kid snapped to, fumbling his notepad out of his hands in his haste to pay attention.
“Sorry. Yeah. Just…” He shook his head. “Nevermind.”
Aidan and Tango were grinning.
“No, what?” Ghost said with a sigh.
Malory hitched up his thin shoulders – dwarfed inside his too-large corduroy jacket – and said, chewing on his lip, “It’s just that…when I was a kid I used to wonder what it looked like in here. I kinda had a thing for motorcycles. And you guys are local legends.”
Aidan beamed.
“There’s worse things to be called,” Ghost said with a consenting sigh. “But, let’s keep this strictly business.”
“Absolutely.” Malory nudged his glasses up his nose and said, “You said over the phone that you had a scoop on the mayor?”
Tango produced the folder and spread it open on the coffee table in front of the reporter, fanning out the bank statements and records of transaction. Malory leaned over it, squinting at first, then going goggle-eyed behind his lenses.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes,” Ghost said. “Will you run it?”
“Try and stop me!”
They talked through the article, and then sent Malory on his way, clutching the stuffed folder to his skinny chest as if his life depended on it. His career did, anyway.
Ghost glanced over his shoulder at the security monitors. Malory’s VW was backing away from the front of the clubhouse. He turned to Aidan and Tango. “Where’s Greg?”
All their good humor faded.
Aidan swallowed and said, “He’s in back, pulling housekeeping duty in the dorms.”
Ghost nodded. “Take care of him tonight. He’s our last loose end.”
Aidan’s face was pale. “Yes, sir.”
To his immense surprise, it smelled like food when Ghost walked into the back door of the house. The kitchen was warm, the window panes steamed against the cool afternoon outside, and the air was redolent with the scents of herbs. Not just food, but good, edible food.
Ava stood at the stove, stirring something in a skillet, sleeves of her sweater folded back, socked feet lined up together on the tile, one hand tucked behind her back as she studied whatever she stirred. She looked very thin and young to him, in that moment, more like her little girl self than the grown woman she’d become.
She glanced up, distractedly, as he closed the door. “Hi.”
“You’re cooking?” He went to look over her shoulder. The skillet was full of a bubbling red sauce flecked with chopped herbs.
“Tomato sauce,” she explained. “I used fresh tomatoes and everything.”
“It looks…good, actually.”
She made a face. “How encouraging.”
Ghost stepped back, went to the fridge for a beer. “Where’d you learn how to make that?”
“Mercy taught me. While we were in New Orleans.”
He twisted the cap off the Budweiser and flicked it onto the table, took a sip. “That’s some exciting honeymoon. Culinary school.”
She turned to give him a smirking glance over her shoulder. “I don’t figure you want to know about the other things we did.”
“Nope. Where is the beast anyway?”
He saw the shadow move through her eyes, the way her throat contracted. Her voice was light as she said, “In the bedroom.” But she couldn’t hide the hurt.
“Hm.”
“Where’s Mom?” she asked, returning to her sauce.
“Working still. She wanted to get caught up on paperwork. I’m heading back there in a few to follow her home.”
“Crap,” she said, “I started cooking too soon, didn’t I?”
“It doesn’t matter. You and Merc eat. Mom and I’ll heat some up later.” He took another sip and set the bottle on the table. “I’m gonna go say hello before I leave.”
Ava turned back to him, frowning. “Dad, you never just say hello. You say words, but they aren’t anything like hello.”
He challenged her with his usual dad-look. “The man’s still in my club, isn’t he? I can say whatever I want to him.”
She made a disagreeing sound as he left the kitchen.
Mercy was exactly where he always was, on Ava’s bed, leaning back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, barefoot, in ratty gray sweats and an undershirt, looking like a great big waste of meat as he stared blankly at the TV. It was a WWII documentary, Ghost saw, as he eased into the room and took a seat in the desk chair. Mercy’s eyes touched him briefly, just checking who’d entered, but then went back to the screen, devoid of all color or life.
The prescription bottles were lined up on the dresser in front of the TV, along with a stash of bottled water and Gatorade. A bottle of something labeled as lavender. Mercy’s wallet and keys; a tube of Ava’s chapstick. Little assorted odds and ends of sickbed domesticity. Ghost didn’t know how Ava stood it, to be honest, sleeping in here every night with this hulking lump of disgruntled silence.
“Ava’s making dinner,” Ghost said. “It doesn’t smell half-bad.”
Mercy’s nostrils flared as he inhaled. “Tomato sauce. She does okay with that.”
“She said you taught her how to make it.”
Mercy nodded.
“You’re good with her that way,” Ghost said, sighing, leaning sideways against the desk. “I never had any patience. Not for anything, really. Not like you. You’ve always had all the time in the world when it comes to Ava.”
Mercy’s eyes slid over, narrow and suspicious this time. “Giving me your blessing?”
“Recognizing the work you put in,” he corrected. “You’ve always taken a real interest in her. That’s the sort of thing a father appreciates.”
“Once you get over how much it disgusts you, you mean.”
Ghost frowned. “That doesn’t matter anymore. You two are married now. I have to respect that.”
Mercy twitched a non-smile.
“So I’m not coming to you as your president, but as your father-in-law right now. Because as my son-in-law, you’re pissing me off. Yeah, your leg’s fucked. We all get that. Have the second surgery, go through your physical therapy and get the fuck over it.”
Mercy’s brows lifted in mild surprise.
“Ava’s too relieved you’re not dead to give you the ass-kicking you deserve, so I’ll deliver it for her. You will not turn my daughter into your nursemaid. You will not sit here for months, feeling so damn sorry for yourself that the worry and the guilt break her. Because you will – you will break her. Losing that baby was the start five years ago–”
Mercy’s eyes flared with aggression at the mention of the baby. That was forbidden territory. Ghost didn’t care.
“ – and then finding out about her little boyfriend. What she did to Larsen. She’s hanging by a thread.
“You two, your marriage – you have my full support, because I think that might be the only thing to keep her from going off the deep end.” He stood. “So do your fucking part. Get better. Stop sulking. Be her damn husband.”
Mercy’s gaze raked up him slowly, boots to brows, his eyes black and gleaming with rage. Ghost realized, in that moment, that he’d never been on the receiving end of this particular look. He’d been to war, he’d earned his way to the club’s president seat, and still, he felt the chill, deep along his bones, of Mercy’s threat. He was transported back to the night five years ago in Hamilton House, to the moment when he’d been unable to call Mercy off Mason Stephens. Ghost felt an emptiness in his hands. President or no, he wasn’t the one who held this truly frightening man’s leash.
“Not as my president, huh?” Mercy’s accent thickened noticeably when he was riled. The voice was quiet though, too low for anyone outside the room to hear. “From where I sat, you were never much of a father, either, so don’t come at me from that angle. You wanna be Kenny and Felix? Fine, let’s be them. Don’t lecture me on what’s best for that little girl. You don’t have a damn clue. And don’t you dare fucking mention that lost baby to me one more time. I know what it did to her. What it’s still doing to her.” He looked away, with the deliberate dismissal of a tiger.
Ghost was startled by the sound of the door creaking open. Ava stood in the threshold, arms folded, her face drawn into a tight, furious knot. She looked like a dark-haired Maggie, and when she opened her mouth, she sounded like one too.
“For the love of God,” she said. “Are you kidding me? You two have been having – are still having – the stupidest argument I’ve ever heard!” She threw her hands up. “Trying to decide who actually loves me? Wasting all this hate on each other instead of the people who are the actual problems in our lives? Stupid!” she shouted, hands accentuating her point. “Let it go already! Jesus Christ.”
“Ava–” Ghost started.
“Let it go!” And she stormed off, narrow feet stomping extra hard across the carpet for effect.
Ghost sighed, watching the empty doorframe. “I hope you know what you’re in for,” he muttered, “because she’s going to turn out exactly like her mother.”
“I didn’t know you guys were cattle ranchers,” Greg said, gazing out the window at the fields touched by deepening twilight as they began the climb up the old farmhouse driveway.
“We’re not,” Aidan said, steering the truck around one of the deeper potholes in the gravel drive. Every bump and rattle of the truck tightened the awful fist clenched in his belly. He couldn’t seem to work his face into its normal state of animation. He looked dejected and guilty, when he caught a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. How Greg didn’t suspect anything, he had no idea.
“My grandfather had cattle,” he explained, taking them into the first of a series of switchback curves. “And he left my dad the property when he died, but none of us have ever done anything with the place. It’s falling apart, actually.”
“Hm. It’s kinda nice up here.” Greg had his nose pressed to the window like a kid. “It looks peaceful.”
“It is.” Save for all the bones buried beneath the lapping waves of grass.
In truth, Aidan did love the property. Ringed along the edges and cut across in several places by thin strips of forest, it was a dipping and diving expanse of hills and hollows, deep stream beds and high crests. You could see nothing of Knoxville up here. There were no sounds save those made by the animals that slept between the trees. A forgotten, timeless place, all brushed over with gray in the evening like this.
The drive climbed for a while, before finally leveling out, and at its end, beyond the fork that led to the barn farther up the hill, was the house. It was a classic old farmhouse, white clapboard, wraparound porch, high peaked roof with slate shingles. It was falling apart, slowly but surely, a spectral ghost as it glowed in the fading light, its porch spindles broken and uneven, like gapped teeth.
Aidan parked in front of the detached garage and stared through the windshield a moment after he’d killed the engine. His skin felt too tight and cold all over, prickly even, as he contemplated what was about to happen. He envisioned Ghost’s face from earlier, the unforgiving insistence of his dark eyes. He was the president, and if he asked Aidan to rob a bunch of nuns at gunpoint, he expected his order to be carried out without protest.
What must that be like, Aidan wondered, to have such absolute certainty in your authority?
“Aidan,” Greg said, yanking him back to the present. “You alright?”
“Fine.” Aidan gave himself an all-over shake. “Let’s go.”
They climbed from the truck and Greg stood waiting, hands in his jacket pockets, expectant and maybe a little excited. He was being included. He felt needed, and that was bringing some small happiness back into his life.
Aidan wanted to throw up.
“What did you say we’re supposed to be picking up?”
“There’s an old Impala engine up in the barn. Dad’s convinced we can salvage it.”
Greg turned, scanning for the barn. “Should we drive there?”
“Nah. We can walk. Come on.”
They fell into step beside one another, Aidan keeping his strides short so he didn’t outdistance the smaller man, their boots crunching on the gravel. The sky had clouded up, and the last light of the day was an underwater silver, pressing low at the horizon. The wind scudded along the ground, blowing dirt and sand, providing resistance to their pace as it tugged at their jeans.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Greg said, as they left the house behind.
“For what?”
“For helping me out like you have. You didn’t have to believe me.” He shot Aidan a sideways glance that was almost shy. “You could have tossed me out on my ass. But you listened. Really listened. You got me away from Larsen and his crew–”
“Look, Greg–”
“And I’m thankful for that.” He kicked at a rock. “What happened to Jasper anyway? He just split, didn’t he?”
“Something like that.” Aidan sighed. He scanned their surroundings. The driveway was flanked by tossing pine trees, crowded at their bases with honeysuckle. This seemed like as good a place as any. “Look, Greg,” he started again. “Step over here for a second.” He left the drive, walking toward the trees, and heard Greg follow.
“Um, why?”
Aidan slipped a hand inside his cut, fingers curling around the butt of the .45 in his shoulder holster. “I want to show you something.”
“What?” Greg asked, but he followed. Trusting. Unsuspecting. Doomed.
Aidan leaned between two trunks, pointing beyond at the needle-strewn earth. “Look there.”
Greg pitched forward at the waist and stuck his head between the trees, not noticing that Aidan had stepped back, that he was withdrawing the gun from inside his cut. “I don’t see anything.”
“Greg.”
Aidan had meant to sound commanding, but some strain in his voice gave him away, caused Greg to go still, and then turn slowly, his eyes already wide before they landed on the .45 aimed at his heart.
“Aidan.”
“I’m sorry,” Aidan said, grinding his molars together.
Part of him wished that Greg would run, so that he’d have no choice but to fire. But instead, the poor man stared down the barrel of the gun, tears springing up in his eyes.
“You brought me out here to kill me?”
“You had to know this would happen, man,” Aidan said. “After you turned on your own club–”
“It wasn’t my club! I never wanted to be one of them. Aidan.” He took a half step forward. “You know I would never try to go back to Jasper. I wouldn’t hurt you guys like that.”
“Jasper’s dead.”
“Good! I don’t care. Aidan, please–”
“How could we ever trust you? You proved that you’re not loyal. I don’t care what kind of shithead Jasper was; he was your president, and you told us his secrets. That’s called being a rat, Greg. Did you think we’d ever patch you? You think we’d knowingly patch a rat?” The words were cruel and he hated them. He hated all of this. He wanted to scream.
“Please,” Greg said in a small voice, his chin beginning to tremble.
“It’s my fault,” Aidan said. “I contacted you. I encouraged you to leave the Carpathians.” He took a deep breath that didn’t bring him the air he needed. “I’m sorry for that. Really I am. I wish I didn’t have to do this, believe me.”
Greg looked like a sacrificial lamb. Some poor, innocent thing that had to fall beneath the churning wheels of the MC machine. A casualty of protocol. He knew too much, had seen too much, had belonged to the enemy side.
Aidan tried not to, but he couldn’t help remembering Greg at sixteen, scrawny and pale, fending off the jabs and towel-snaps of the jocks in the PE locker room. He didn’t want to remember Alex Curtis putting a hand around Greg’s throat and slamming him back against the lockers, the sound of Greg’s head hitting the metal.
Just a nerdy kid with nothing to his name. He didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t some thug, some white trash crusader like Larsen, hell bent on revenge and violence. Greg wasn’t a Carpathian, not in his heart, where it counted. He was just this unlucky kid who’d thought Aidan was cool, and who’d been trying to do the right thing in an unjust world.
“I’m sorry,” Aidan said again. “I’m so sorry.”
Greg shut his eyes, throat quivering as he swallowed, resolved to his fate.
Aidan felt the sweat on his palm, the way his finger slipped against the trigger. This was one of those moments that had the potential to determine his future in the club. One of those situations his president – his overbearing father – had thrown at him on purpose, to test his loyalty and mettle. Killing Greg had nothing to do with Greg. This was about him, about his penchant for leadership and making the hard call.
He thought of his brothers. Dad, Collier, Walsh, Michael, Mercy – they wouldn’t have hesitated. They would have put a round in Greg’s heart and gone back to the truck for the shovel. No second thoughts. No regrets. Hell, he wasn’t sure his stepmother and sister wouldn’t have done it.
But Aidan felt his heart squeeze tight.
Wrong, a voice said, ringing through his head. Not his subconscious, but every fiber of his being: Wrong, wrong, wrong.
His gun fell limp to his side. “Run.”
Greg’s eyes opened. “Wha–”
“Run,” Aidan said. “Get out of here, go. And don’t look back. Get as far away from Knoxville as you can. Go! Run!”
Greg slipped as he spun, feet sliding on the fallen pine needles. But then he took off, sprinting away into the gloomy evening, toward the long stretch of pasture that would eventually take him to the road, and then freedom.
He looked over his shoulder once, and Aidan waved him on with the gun. Then he kept running.
Aidan stood rooted until the chill of the wind overtook him. Until he was shaking, and Greg had receded into nothing, and night had fallen. Then he walked slowly back to the truck.
**
Ghost woke automatically at six the next morning. Maggie’s face was against his throat, her warm breath ruffling across his Adam’s apple, one of her legs between both of his. She was asleep, but the feel of her hand down low against his stomach, even unmoving like this, had the ability to turn his mind to unproductive things if he let his thoughts dwell too long on the shape and heat of it.
He eased away from her and sat up. She murmured something, fingers brushing against his thigh.
“I’ll come back,” he promised, smoothing her hair back off her face. It didn’t matter that she pouted in front of the mirror about the lines around her eyes. She was only thirty-eight, and she’d always look like jailbait to him.
Barefoot, he walked past Ava’s closed door – he could hear Mercy snoring softly – and went through the dark living room by feel, managing not to stub his toe as he made his way to the front door, and then opened it.
There was the morning paper, waiting on the stoop like always. He opened it up, and in the light of the streetlamps, saw the headline on the front page.
Mayor Funds MC War: The Shocking Truth of Mayor Stephens’ Anti-Crime Agenda
Ghost smiled.