Sixteen
The city of Knoxville ground to a halt, shut down beneath a blanket of snow. Black ice glazed the streets. The South did not bustle and plow and struggle against the snow; it slept beneath it, the silence broken only by the chatter of hungry birds and the exuberant shouts of children using trash can lids as makeshift sleds.
They were snowed in, and Holly wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced this kind of happiness. There was nothing to do but watch movies, and Michael didn’t seem to care that she leaned against him, or slipped her arms around his waist. They talked in unhurried bursts of words, lapsing back into comfortable silence afterward. He wasn’t chatty, but he didn’t mind the way that she sometimes was. She could sense him listening, even if he didn’t respond.
Holly cooked, and she wore his clothes, and they ate in front of the fire while they watched all the Lethal Weapons.
He opened up the gun safe and took out his impressive collection of handguns and rifles, showing her how they worked, letting her heft their weight in her hands, talking of the shooting lessons they would have.
And they were in his bed, and he was gentle and rough, and patient and raw, and Holly didn’t want this time together to come to a close. There were words building in her, pressing behind her lips as she watched him sleep beside her, and felt the strong thumping of his heart beneath her hand. She wanted to express to him how much it meant to her that he’d brought her into his home, and into his bed, and that he’d showed her what it was supposed to feel when a man was inside a woman. She wanted to describe the prettiness of his eyes to him; wanted to tease him for the way scowls or frowns were his favorite facial expressions. But mostly she wanted to thank him until she was out of breath, for the nights he’d given her.
She didn’t say any of it though, only closed her eyes and slept beside him.
And the time did come to a close, because it had to. Two days after Christmas, they woke to a morning of forty degrees, and the snow was melting in thick globs from the trees, collecting in puddles on the asphalt. It was time for Knoxville to wake again, and time for them to go back to work.
“I’ll drive you home,” Michael said, collecting her keys off the kitchen counter.
She studied the casual, assertive set of his shoulders as she flipped her hair over her jacket collar. “How will you get back?”
“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
She didn’t protest. It was in her nature to tell him not to bother, that she could make it home alone. But she knew now that he would ignore her; better to have his company without arguing and making him extra surly.
The streets were clear, but the sidewalks were not, and people bundled in coats were slip-sliding in snowy patches and clutching at brick building facades to keep their footing.
“What will you do today?” Holly asked, enjoying the sun coming through the windows and the quiet warmth of his company.
He shrugged as he drove. “Go into Dartmoor I guess. See if there’s any work for me.”
“Okay, two questions.” She put her back against the door so she could face him fully. “What is Dartmoor?”
“You came to town looking for a Dog and you don’t know what Dartmoor is?”
“Well I’ve heard of it. It’s you guy’s headquarters, right?”
He nodded. “It’s where our clubhouse is. And it’s the corporate entity that owns all the club businesses.”
“Corporate entity,” she said, smiling. “I’m impressed.”
He snorted. “Second question.”
“Well, now it’s three. But okay, number two: what sort of work do you mean? Like…murder and stuff?”
He gave her a dry, sideways glance. “You’re all about the murder.”
“Well I don’t know what being a sergeant at arms means.”
“I’m a mechanic,” he said. “I work on cars. The sergeant title is just my role in the club.”
“So you guys all have day jobs.”
“How else do you think I pay for all those Salisbury steak dinners?”
She felt her cheeks color, a bit embarrassed at her own assumptions. “I didn’t know,” she defended, “so that’s why I asked.”
“Question three?” he prodded.
“Why is Dartmoor called Dartmoor?”
He studied the road a moment, as they pulled to a slow stop at an intersection built up in the corners with snow. “There’s legends all over the UK of black dogs,” he said, not looking at her, his voice taking on a reflective quality. “Hell hounds. Crossroads demons. Dartmoor, in England, is where the stories of ghost hounds are the strongest. The Lean Dog is a specific legend,” he continued. “The vengeful ghost of a chimney sweep, hanged in Hertfordshire. The club’s founding fathers were English – based outta London. They named us for that legend. The Lean Dogs.”
Holly envisioned the mist-shrouded green landscapes of Sherlock Holmes movies; felt the tradition of lasting English lore. “Wow,” she murmured.
Michael glanced over at her. “You don’t have to make fun of it.”
“I’m not. I think it’s–”
“Beautiful?” he mocked.
“I happen to like beautiful,” she said. “Now who’s making fun?”
He shook his head and accelerated as the light changed. “It’s an old club,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Way older than me. I owe it my respect.”
And killing men who did business with the club wasn’t doing so. The sudden resurgence of the outside world – the real world, beyond their bubble of snowbound sex and movie-watching – was an unpleasant shock.
Holly frowned. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your brothers – that’s the word for them, right? Your brothers? I don’t want you to get in hot water with them because of me.”
“Might as well get in hot water for something.” The words were flippant, but the lines bracketing his mouth were grave.
“I’m serious, Michael,” she said. “What you’ve already done for me is so much. If you can’t–”
“I said I’d do it, didn’t I? Don’t you worry about it.”
Holly held back the tender smile that threatened. He wasn’t gracious in his sweetness; at his most earnest, he was either locked in the throes of passion, or grumbling like an old grouch.
“Yes, you did,” she said. “And you have no idea how grateful I am.”
“Don’t be grateful. Just be alive.”
She left him alone the rest of the short drive, resisting comment as he walked her up both flights of steps to her loft and ensured the door locks were still in place.
He caught her around the waist before she slipped inside, kissed her hard, and pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “You call me if you get scared,” he said, like it was a dire warning.
The paper was his phone number, written out in his bold, strong hand.
Holly went to the window and watched him walk off down the street, his shoulders set in a way that would repel rather than attract attention.
“Michael, Michael,” she murmured to herself, and typed his number into her phone.
In wake of the snow shutdown, Dartmoor was teeming with business. The bad press from back in the fall had, as Ghost had predicted, blown over. Quality had always been heavily emphasized at all the Dartmoor shops, and the reputation of good work had finally overridden the reputation of violence. People had short memories, and busy lives. Dublin’s crew ran a tight ship at the auto garage, and it was raucous with air wrenches and shouted instructions as Michael approached the open roll top doors.
One of the prospects, Harry, was trying to roll two tires into the first bay, and he paused and ducked his head in reference as Michael passed.
Stupid kid, he thought, but approved of the respect. This new crop of prospects, if nothing else, were reverent in their address of all the patched members. Good little squires tending to the knights’ every need.
Dublin was under the hood of a Chevy, an old Nova that immediately brought to mind Holly’s Chevelle. The thing had a bad Maaco paint job, one which Michael intended to correct in the near future. No sense letting a classic like that roll around in shitty paint.
He pushed thoughts of her aside and said, “I’m here.”
Dublin paused, greasy hands wrapped around a bad battery, and gave Michael a look of mild frustration. “Good for you.”
Michael frowned. He wasn’t sure he could claim any of his club brothers felt like actual brothers. “You got anything for me to do?”
“Nah. Actually, Ghost’s looking for you. He’s been by twice to see if you’re in yet.”
Michael took a step back. “He’s at the clubhouse?”
“Yeah.”
He shoved his hands in his cut pockets and walked that direction. Probably later he’d regret that his bike wasn’t close at hand, but he anticipated walking back, taking on an oil change or something. He at least wanted to check the work order board and see if there was a good time in the coming weeks to work Holly’s car into the rotation. It really did need that new paint job.
As so often happened after an aggressive snow, the morning was mild, the sky blue and brushed with wisps of high clouds. Everything was wet and gleaming as the snow continued to melt with ever-increasing speed. The water was evaporating, making the lot humid, shot through at moments by a cold breeze coming off the river with that usual taint of muck.
He was almost at the clubhouse, was walking past the small central office building where Maggie Teague ran this entire battleship, when he spotted Ava Teague climbing out of her truck. Ava Lécuyer, he had to remind himself. Here to visit with her mother, most like.
He paused.
He’d approached her before, and almost put a question to her the day she’d brought brownies to the boys after church. It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask her, but he’d been less certain then, still struggling with his own understanding of what was happening in his personal life. And Mercy had been there, glaring at him. So he’d backed off.
But now here she was again, alone, with no one around to disapprove. And the question was a solid, certain weight in his mind now. It was something he felt he had to ask someone. And he didn’t know anyone besides Ava to ask.
“Ava,” he said, as he walked toward her, and she froze, spun to face him, her dark eyes large with surprise.
He’d never said her name before. The sound of it leaving his mouth was more of a shock to him, he thought, than it obviously was to her.
He hung back a few steps, not wanting to crowd her. The way she clutched the halves of her jacket together told him she was nervous and uncertain. Maybe even frightened. How she could marry the likes of Mercy and be afraid of anyone, he didn’t know.
The irony: Holly wasn’t afraid of Michael, even if other women were. They had that in common at least, Holly and Ava – a total lack of fear when it came the men they let into their beds.
“Michael,” she said, her voice polite but careful. “Hi.”
“I…” He held up a hand in a helpless gesture. He didn’t want to scare her worse, and wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. Hell. Nothing to do but ask, he guessed. “Can I ask you something? A favor. It would be a favor to me. You can say no,” he rushed to assure her. “I just…was wondering.”
Her eyes narrowed, expression shifting, growing curious. She edged a half-step back, though. “What sort of favor?”
Shit. She was thinking… “It’s not…” Oh, hell, this wasn’t going the way he’d wanted it to. He took a breath and forced on. “There’s this girl.”
Ava blinked, and he watched her face relax, the wariness giving way to something gentler. He didn’t know her well enough to read her properly, and she was a strange girl, which made it even more difficult.
“Holly,” she said. “From Bell Bar.”
His turn to blink. “Yeah. Holly.”
Ava nodded and offered him a small smile. “She’s your girlfriend?”
“She’s lonely.” God, he was being awkward, and he couldn’t seem to stop. “She doesn’t have any friends and she’s been spending time with me, but I’m…” He gestured to himself, at a loss as to how to explain how ineffectual he was as anyone’s friend.
Ava nodded like she understood.
“I think she ought to have a girl friend. A friend who’s a girl,” he amended.
Ava smiled and then pressed her lips together, erasing the curve in them. “Are you trying to ask me if I’ll be her friend?”
Michael sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. I don’t have anyone else to ask–”
She held up a hand, stopping him. No female had ever done such a thing to him. He was shocked into compliance. “I think it’s really sweet that you care so much about her.”
“Well girls need to talk to other girls, don’t they?” he grumbled. “About girl shit?”
She nodded gravely, and he had the impression she was mocking him a little. “Yes, I think so.”
“So…”
“So I’m not really in the habit of making friends on command.” Shrug, apologetic look. “I don’t know anything about her.”
He frowned at her; little princess brat. “She’s sweet. She can get along with anybody.”
She smiled again, that I’ve-got-a-secret smile. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it, Michael, I’m just pushing your buttons a little.”
It was a full-on scowl he gave her this time.
“I think she’s sweet, too,” Ava continued. “I can reach out to her. If she’s going to be an old lady, she’s got to meet the gang at some point, right?”
“I never said ‘old lady.’ ”
“You didn’t have to.” She turned, the wind catching her hair, streaming it out behind her like a dark banner. “I’ll talk to her,” she promised. “God knows I don’t have many tally marks in the Friend column.”
“Did you get some rest?” Ghost asked him when he joined his president at one of the round tables in the common room.
Carter had brought them coffee and fresh glazed doughnuts, and was now behind the bar, cleaning the beer taps, his movements industrious. He was a worker, Ava’s old friend from high school. There was no keg too heavy nor bathroom floor too grungy for the kid, and he threw himself into his prospecting with a fervor that would have been comical if not so necessary.
Michael sipped his coffee and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Feeling better?” Ghost was looking over a sheaf of papers in a file folder and spared him a questioning sideways look.
Michael understood the question for what it really was: Are you ready to put your fucking head in the game again? Or can I expect more insubordination?
He nodded.
“Good, ‘cause we’ve got to go see the Jessup brothers.”
There was a sudden, involuntary tightening in his stomach. “What for?”
“They’re stirring up trouble with Fisher, and I’m about done with the assholes.”
Michael held a swallow of coffee in his mouth a long moment, letting it burn his tongue, thinking of the most careful way to phrase his question. “Aren’t they your only link to this Shaman guy Collier warned you about?”
Ghost sighed. “Yeah, they are.” He shoved the paperwork into a military-precise pile and closed the folder. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fisher’s place looked its usual worst, only slimy with melting snow. The dirt yard, the scrap metal art sculptures, the ruined wrecks of cars that would never run again. The falling-down trailer with its exposed rusted axles was a sad sight. There was a rusted-out Buick parked behind Fisher’s truck. Steam curled from the trailer’s roof vents, dissipating in the strong currents of breeze.
Michael paused as they passed the Buick, memorized the plate. Then stretched his legs to catch up to his president and vice president.
Walsh had come with them. This was about as official as any visit from the MC could get. All they needed was Ratchet taking manic notes alongside them.
The porch of the trailer groaned in an ominous way under their combined weight. It wouldn’t have been surprising if the thing collapsed and dumped them all into the mud.
Ghost knocked hard, an insistent pounding against the door. “Fish, it’s us. Open up.”
There was a scurrying sound, and the locks disengaged, and then their skinny redneck dealer ushered them in with a blanched look. He was in a wifebeater and jeans, gooseflesh raised in obvious pebbles down his thin arms.
“What’s the matter?” Ghost asked him, when they were all inside, but the question wasn’t necessary.
The living room was a scabby ruin of mildewed carpet, accumulated trash, dry rot, and TVs stacked one on top of the other. Two mean stood in the doorway between this room and the kitchen, both in jeans and canvas jackets, both with the same square face and harshly-lined mouths.
The Jessup brothers, Abraham and Jacob, they had to be.
Holly’s father and uncle.
Her rapists and captors.
Monsters.
Michael’s hand was on the butt of the gun at his waistband before he registered the movement. Every cell in his brain screamed for action. Shoot them. Kill them. Chop up the bodies like shark bait and burn the wet remains in a deep hole on the cattle property. Everything in him wanted to destroy everything about them. Call Mercy, that’s what he ought to do; unleash that Cajun torture machine on the brothers, and listen to them scream and beg and cry. Make the prospects mop up the blood. Make a trophy of the teeth that survived the burning and take it back to Holly, to lay at her feet, proof that they would never touch her again.
His thoughts shocked him. They frightened him, if he was honest. That’s not who he was: he didn’t step out of line; he didn’t enjoy what he did for the club; death was a responsibility, and not a gift.
What had the girl done to him?
Or why, he questioned himself, had it taken her of all people to wake the wrath inside him, after so many years of numbness?
He waged this war in his mind, and outwardly did nothing, rooted and blank-faced, as Ghost did the talking.
“Gentlemen,” Ghost said, squaring off from the Jessups. “Why is it we keep meeting when something’s wrong?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong,” one of them said. “Abe and I” – so this was Jacob speaking – “was tellin’ Fisher that we need some of his territory. We told him he didn’t need to get you stirred up about it. We coulda sorted it out.”
“Ah.” Ghost nodded. “Actually, no you couldn’t have. I draw up the territories. My guys stick to them” – fast snatch of a cold smile – “or they’re not my guys for very long.”
“I told them that,” Fisher said, staring at Ghost with a deferential tilt to his head, hands clasped together in front of him. “They wouldn’t listen. I told ‘em you wouldn’t be happy.”
“I’m not,” Ghost said. “So what’s the problem with the territory?”
“We need more,” Abraham said. “We’ve got more product than we can move in our district. There’s not enough buyers where you put us. What we’re selling is better than what Fisher’s got, so I didn’t figure it’d be a problem.”
“Better? Where’s it come from then? Who’s your supplier?”
The Jessup brothers traded a look, some silent communication of shrugs and eyebrow lifts.
When they faced Ghost again, Abraham said, “Shaman.”
Jacob grinned and said, “But you already knew that, I’m guessing.”
Ghost frowned, his poker frown, unreadable beyond a general discontent.
Walsh was totally dead-faced – of all his Knoxville brethren, Walsh was the one Michael most respected, on account of his calm, cool façade, the way he gave away nothing, and kept a level head in any crisis – but his narrow blues eyes were riveted to the men, sliding to touch Ghost, then Michael, then riveting again. Silent questions, wonders, drawing of his own conclusions.
He didn’t like this, Michael could tell. But he probably wasn’t ready to rip throats out with his bare hands the way Michael was.
“Fisher,” Ghost said, tone polite, “why don’t you step out and have a smoke while we talk to these gentlemen.”
Fisher nodded and flitted out the front door, the wind catching it with a slam behind him.
The brothers stiffened, visibly distressed. They probably thought they were about to get pistol-whipped.
That would have been too kind for them.
Ghost sent a stack of greasy pizza boxes tumbling out of a chair with a flick of one hand, and then sat, managing to look regal in a tattered recliner spotted with dried-on pepperoni.
“Alright, boys,” he said with a deep sigh. “Let’s be straight here. What does your boss want? Why did he send you here to sell coke for me?”
Relaxing some, Abraham shrugged. “Shaman doesn’t tell us his business. He has an interest in you – your club – is all we know. He told us to come work for you. He said he ‘wanted to see what happened.’ ”
Ghost looked troubled.
Walsh said, “He’s some kinda big shot, huh? He wants to take over an MC, make it his own. He’s gotten tired of dealers and thugs – he wants to own a piece of one of the biggest motorcycle clubs in the western hemisphere.”
Michael felt the jolt of shock, saw it reflected in Ghost’s sharp glance. None of them had ever considered such a thing.
Walsh’s expression was grim. “He wants to acquire us, boss,” he said to Ghost. “Another prize in his collection.” The statement felt dire delivered in Walsh’s London accent. Sharper and more sinister.
Ghost pinned the brothers with a look. “Is that true?”
They shrugged.
“We know what you know,” Abraham said. “I just want to sell what I was given to sell.”
“You want to push your luck,” Ghost said, getting to his feet. “Take heed, boys: So long as you sell in one of my districts, you will follow all of my rules. You’ll leave Fisher alone and stick to your territory, and you won’t cause me any grief. Otherwise, this guy” – he gestured to Michael – “is gonna come give you a kiss in the middle of the night, and trust me, you won’t like it.”
Both men looked at Michael. He felt the touch of their eyes and was repulsed by it. Seeing them in the flesh like this made it too real for him: he could envision their hands on his Holly; could imagine them forcing her down, climbing above her. Could see the way their faces would torque with passion and fury, as she lay helpless beneath them.
Slowly, holding their gazes, he drew his finger across his throat.
Both of them glanced away.
Ghost made a gesture that meant they were leaving, and Michael headed toward the door alongside Walsh.
“Oh,” Ghost said, hanging back a step. “Did you ever find your son-in-law?”
Abraham frowned. “No.”
Michael remembered the feeling of the knife punching through the boy’s flesh, sliding between his ribs, finding the tough muscle of the heart. Inwardly he smiled. Outwardly, he caught the fleeting brush of Abraham’s gaze…and he swore he’d make it tortuous when he brought the man death.
All the long ride back to the clubhouse, Michael ran Walsh’s words through his head. By the time they’d parked their bikes in front of the clubhouse, his fingers were curling and uncurling in involuntary twitches. The agitation was so strong, it was taking physical form.
He slammed his helmet down on the handlebars and said, “So what do we do now?”
His president and VP were dismounting with none of his enraged clumsiness.
Ghost tugged at a glove and said, “I don’t know about you boys, but Mags put a Ziploc box of chicken in the fridge this morning” – he gestured over his shoulder at the clubhouse – “so I’m gonna have lunch.”
Walsh, standing up the collar of his chambray shirt against the wind, rings on his fingers catching the light, understood the question. His eyes were cautious. “You mean about those brothers.”
Michael nodded and swung off his Dyna, wanting to be on eye-level, not wanting to feel like the seated child in this exchange.
“Do you think you’re right?” he demanded of Walsh. “That this Shaman wants a takeover?”
Walsh shrugged. “I think I’m probably right, yeah.” Without a shred of self-congratulation, he said, “I usually am.”
And he was, which was the part that made his prediction so frightening.
Michael looked at Ghost. “You can’t keep them on. They’ve got to go.”
Ghost’s brows lifted. “I can’t?” Little snort of amusement.
Michael sighed and glanced out across the parking lot. Cars were milling about. Customers talked on cell phones beneath the beaming sun, oblivious to the buried politics of the MC. A normal day. And by that standard, a good day.
So then why was there this hot ball of anger clawing its way up Michael’s throat?
He was challenging his president; he’d never done that before.
He met Ghost’s gaze again. “I’m sorry. You’ll do whatever you think is best.”
Ghost nodded. “An enemy in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he said, sounding almost cheerful, and headed for the door, thinking about lunch and not at all about the two sick fucks they’d left standing in Fisher’s living room.
Walsh lingered, studying Michael in that unnerving way of his. “Something’s got under your skin.” Not a question.
“Yeah, well…”
It was a five-foot-two something, and damn if she wasn’t already grafted on.
“I need you to do something for me.”
Ratchet startled hard, sending a full can of Red Bull to the floor off the edge of his desk, sticky energy drink showering across the floorboards, spattering Ratchet’s boots and jeans. “Jesus!” He grabbed at the paperwork that had gone flying in his sudden scrambling panic, snatching the sheets that drifted like autumn leaves and managing to save them from the Red Bull catastrophe.
Michael stood on the other side of his open laptop, watching the spaz attack. “Did I scare you?”
“No.” Ratchet shook his head, but his face was flushed. He slapped the gathered paper back onto the desk. “I just didn’t hear you coming is all. You need to wear a bell, man. Anybody ever tell you you’re quiet as a cat?”
“Loads,” Michael said. He repeated, “I need you to do something for me.”
“Yeah, you said that.” Ratchet sighed, glanced down at his splashed boots, made a face. “Man, these are pretty new, too…”
“Have a prospect polish them. Ratchet.” He levered some authority into his voice. “Can you run a license plate for me?”
The club secretary could do just about anything you asked him to, given the right time frame and the right snack inducement. He nodded. “Yeah, what for?”
“It’s just for me, personally. Ghost doesn’t need to know about it.” Meaningful eye contact, driving home the point.
Ratchet sat back in his chair. “Oh.”
Michael imagined none of them had ever heard him do anything that wasn’t an express command from the president.
First time for everything.
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ This needs to stay between us. Just get the vehicle info for me, and if anyone ever asks, I’ll say I looked it up myself. No one ever has to know you were involved.”
Ratchet frowned.
“I’m not asking this for the club. It’s personal.” From his cut pocket, Michael withdrew the plate number of the rusted Buick, a Snickers bar, and a crisp new twenty that he placed on the desk beside the laptop. “Please,” he said, swallowing and hating the way the word got stuck in his throat.
Ratchet thought about it another second, then nodded. “Done. I’ll call you when I know something.”
Michael nodded. “Thanks.”