Nineteen
Michael took New Year ’s Day for the two of them. They went riding, the cold nipping at their faces, funneling up their sleeves and chilling their arms. He liked the soft shape of her pressed against his back. The way even her slight extra weight sent the Dyna dipping deeper into the sharp turns. Her hands were relaxed against his stomach, her chin tucked over his shoulder. She loved it. He heard her laughing in his ear.
They went back to the cattle property for target practice, and stayed until the shadows were long across the grass, and she could knock each soda can off a hitching rail with precise aim.
She fried him chicken for dinner, at her loft.
It was well after midnight, when, both exhausted and gleaming with sweat, he clicked off the lamp and they sought sleep beneath her piles of quilts.
All that day, he wasn’t a Dog, and she wasn’t someone who’d tried to hire him. They were just them, and it was glorious in its own quiet, simple way.
But there was a rock in his stomach the next morning as he approached the clubhouse. Before he clocked in at the garage, he knew he had to see Ghost, and take whatever punishment was given to him.
The president was talking to Ratchet in the common room when Michael entered. Ghost looked up at the sound of the door, pinned Michael with a glance, and turned back to Ratchet.
“Yeah, print it out for me,” he said, squeezing the secretary’s shoulder where he sat in front of his computer. Then he came to Michael. “Outside.” He gestured to the door and Michael followed him that way.
It was an unseasonably warm morning, the sky packed with clouds, the humidity piling up in stagnant pockets on the lot. The news was predicting more snow soon.
Ghost put his back to the same steel support pole Holly had been clinging to on New Year’s and folded his arms, brows lifted in expectation. “The guys ended up taking RJ to the ER for an X-ray. Docs said he had a concussion.”
Michael met his president’s stare unflinching and said, “We’ve all had one. He’ll live.”
Ghost’s nostrils flared at the edges, as he pulled in a breath. “That’s what I said. It happens: guys have arguments; guys throw punches.” He twitched a humorless smirk. “Mags says it’s suicide, surrounding ourselves with more testosterone.” He sobered. “If that had been Aidan or Merc or even Briscoe, I woudn’t have thought much about it. But you? You don’t get drunk and brawl at parties.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
Ghost frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Who’s the girl?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if she’s making my most dependable guy act like a fucking moron. That’s not you, Michael. You don’t go off half-cocked like that.”
Inwardly, Michael was tight with anxiety. No, it wasn’t like him…in Ghost’s eyes. Because Ghost hadn’t ever been around him when he gave a damn about something. He was the best sergeant at arms this chapter had ever seen, because he didn’t care to be anything else.
Outwardly, he held his icy composure and said, “So I hit someone. You just said it happens. Guys throw punches.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “It’s one thing to hit a brother in anger. You make up later, have a beer, things are all good again. But you don’t even like your brothers. You start getting pissed off at them – then where does that leave us?”
“It doesn’t change anything with us.” Michael frowned and gestured between the two of them. “RJ crossed a line, and he got knocked back across it. End of story.” But Ghost had struck home – he wasn’t close with any of his brothers. If he started showing outright animosity, his loyalty to the club as an entity would come into question.
He couldn’t afford to let that happen, not when he had no other options.
Ghost gave him a measuring look. “I don’t expect it to happen again.”
“It won’t.”
A beat passed. Then Ghost finally said, “Good. Saddle up, then. We’ve got the children’s hospital run today.”
In his state of total preoccupation with Holly, Michael had completely forgotten the annual trip to children’s cancer ward, where their year’s worth of collected donations and club member contributions were handed over to the head oncologist, and gifts were taken to the children. Photos were always snapped for the paper: Ghost shaking hands with doctors while he flew his Dogs patches. It was great PR for the club, a tradition continued after Ghost’s uncle Duane had stepped down years before.
“That’s today?” he asked.
Ghost gave him another of those narrow glances. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”
He would be away from the clubhouse and beyond Holly’s reach most of the day, if she should need him.
But he said, “No, sir.”
Holly stood in Ava and Mercy’s tiny outdated kitchen, weak sunlight pouring through the naked window, sleeves pushed to her elbows as she contemplated the lump of floured dough Ava had amassed on the cutting board.
“It’s hideous,” Ava said.
“No.” Holly stepped to the counter and patted the dough with one flour-dusted hand. “It’s just a little overworked.”
“Said no man ever,” Ava deadpanned, and they both burst out laughing.
Holly had been shocked to get a call from Ava that morning. After Michael had left for work, and she’d been tidying the loft, her cell had rang. The boys were going on a charity run, Ava had said, and her classes at UT didn’t start until next week, and she had writer’s block, and would Holly like to come over and help her with this bread recipe?
Holly had jumped at the chance. She didn’t have to be at work until two. And she couldn’t believe, after New Year’s, that anyone involved with the club would want to see her again. Ava had sounded relaxed and genuine on the phone.
So now here she was, in the tiny apartment above the bakery, putting her baking knowledge to the test. The apartment was very old, all-original, classic dark hardwoods with white walls. And it was full of books and mismatched furniture and an underlying warmth that reflected the lovebirds who lived here.
“I think it’ll be okay if we let it rise,” Holly said.
“How do we do that?”
“Do you have a deep bowl?”
Ava produced one from an upper cabinet and Holly transferred the dough into it, draped it with a damp towel and set it off to the side. “We won’t know for sure until it comes out of the oven,” Holly said.
“That’s a lot of work for potentially shitty bread.”
“If it turns out bad, you can always go downstairs and buy some.”
Ava nodded and turned, put her back to the counter. She made a face. “Yeah.”
“Their bread’s not good?”
“It’s delicious,” Ava said. “It’s just that…” She exhaled through her nose. “Well, Mercy didn’t have much in the way of a mother growing up. And since I’ve had some time off, and nothing else to do – well, I guess I’m trying to be the mother he never had,” she said, and it had the air of an admission. She gave Holly a wry smile. “How dumb is that? I’m twenty-two and trying to be his mom.”
“It’s not dumb. I don’t think it is, anyway.”
“He–”
The crash of shattering glass was like a slap, it was so loud, and so sudden. Like a fist punching into the room, it assaulted them.
Holly shrieked and couldn’t hear it, her voice lost amid Ava’s shout. They grabbed at one another, falling against the counter.
There was a brick on the floor. Winter air streamed in through the jagged hole in the kitchen window; bright slivers of glass littered the tile.
“Someone threw a brick through the window!” Ava said with total disbelief. “Holy shit!”
Holly’s ears were filled with the pounding of her heart. A cold sweat chased across her skin as her eyes moved from the ruined window to the brick.
“There’s a rubber band around it,” Ava said, voice a shaking semblance of collected. She released Holly’s hands and took a cautious step forward, avoiding the glass.
Holly followed her. “Be careful.”
Ava knelt and took the brick in her hands. On the underside, beneath the rubber band, was a folded slip of paper. She withdrew it, opened it, and read it, her pale face going chalk white.
She turned it toward Holly, so she could read it too.
We found you. You’re coming back home with us.
“Holly, how could it be worse to tell me?” Ava sat perched on the arm of the chair in her living room, arms folded across her middle in an instinctual, protective gesture, covering the baby inside her.
Outside, the two uniformed officers who’d responded to the call were still milling around at the foot of the iron staircase, filing the report and checking in with HQ.
Holly hadn’t expected Ava to call the police, and she’d almost begged her not to. But that would have made her look suspicious. That would have let Ava know there were secrets worth protecting; if Ava knew, Mercy would know, the whole club would know…She couldn’t let that happen.
So two officers had shown up, snapped photos, and collected the brick for evidence. They would dust for fingerprints they said, and survey the shop owners down on the street to see if anyone had witnessed the brick being thrown.
“This has nothing to do with the club,” Ava had explained, while they waited for the cops to arrive. “I want the little rat caught.” There had been a strange gleam to her eyes then, one that made Holly think she knew more than she let on…
But her expression was different now. Concerned and a little harried.
Holly studied her hands. “It would be worse,” she said, still too rattled to come up with a convincing lie. She shoved to her feet, stumbling over her own boots in her haste. “I’ll go. I’m so sorry this happened.” She looked at Ava’s face. Here she was in the home of a kind stranger, a woman who was pregnant, who was married to a devoted husband, and Holly had earned her a brick through the window. What if it had hit Ava? A projectile like that could kill a person. “I’m so sorry…” And she spun to go.
Footsteps were pounding up the iron staircase outside, and before Holly could reach it, Mercy burst through the door. His slick dark hair was pulled back, and it added to the tightness around his eyes. He was dressed in a thick leather jacket under his cut, leather gloves he hadn’t bothered to remove. He was tracking mud into the apartment and didn’t seem to care.
His eyes went straight to Ava. “Jesus Christ, are you okay? The cops outside–”
Ava held up a hand, like she was steadying him as he went to her. “We’re fine.”
At the sound of “we,” he turned sharply toward Holly, his gaze dark and aggressive.
She shrank beneath its touch.
He turned back to Ava and said, “Who the fuck threw a brick through the window? What did they want?” His face paled, muscles leaping in his lean cheeks as his jaw clenched. “Was it…” He trailed off, staring at his wife.
Ava shook her head. “It wasn’t anything to do with us.” There was an apology in her eyes as she glanced over at Holly. “The note on the back – I think it was for Holly.” She leaned forward. “Please tell us who did this. We can help you.”
Ava may have been earnest, but Mercy wasn’t. He had to be wondering if he could chuck her out the window the way the brick had come in.
He stared at her with a grim blend of understanding and fear – fear for his wife. “I always thought you were bad afraid of something,” he said.
She bowed her head.
“Holly…” Ava sounded frustrated.
“Call Michael,” Mercy said. “I wanna talk to him.”
By the time Michael parked his bike at the foot of the iron staircase leading up to the Lécuyers’ apartment, his stomach was one hard knot. His pulse thumped at his temples. Inside his gloves, his palms felt damp, sticking to the leather.
Mercy waited for him, sitting on one of the lower steps and having a smoke.
Michael propped his foot on the lowest step, rested a hand on the railing, so he had to look up at the man. He would give him that deference: this was his house, and his world he’d endangered with his own.
“What happened?” Michael asked. They’d already talked about the brick over the phone. He wanted the underlying story.
Mercy took a long drag and released the smoke slowly through his teeth. “They were in the kitchen when it came through. Standing at the counter. Neither of them heard anything beforehand, down in the street. But they wouldn’t have – they were talking.”
He continued: “Ava said it looked like one of those old heavy bricks. I’m guessing whoever it was snitched it off the pile where they’re doing the restoration at the courthouse.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Mercy flashed a humorless smile. “Jesus.”
Michael curled his fingers around the iron rail, tightening and releasing them in a pattern that matched the angry beating of his heart. A sweeping sense of guilt and failure washed over him. Abraham and Jacob should be in the ground already, nothing but a few small bones left to grind beneath the hogs’ hooves. He had failed Holly, in his slowness. It was inexcusable.
“The girls are alright?” he asked, not recognizing his own voice for its thickness.
“This time they are.”
He let out a long, unsteady breath.
“Michael.” Mercy’s voice became cold, serious. When Michael met his gaze, the dark eyes were a perfect match to it. “Holly’s not welcome here anymore.”
He had expected as much, but still it sounded cruel.
“She’s a sweet girl,” Mercy said, “and it’s not often Ava takes a liking to new people, but I will not allow anyone, even defenseless little waitresses, to endanger my wife and child.”
Michael had never been present when the man was this determined, this ferocious, this insistent. It was a portrait of intimidation that far outshone the Cajun goodtime boy he presented under normal circumstances.
“I don’t know if you understand that, do you?” Mercy asked. “That brick came through my window, into my house, into the room my girl was standing in. That can never, ever happen again. I will not allow Ava to be put at any risk. Not for the sake of a brother, or the club – not for anything.” Face flushing dark with fury, he said, “I won’t watch her lose another baby.”
“I don’t expect you to. I understand.”
Mercy’s eyes narrowed. He flicked the cigarette away into the damp gutter. “Do you though?”
“Yes.”
The big man stood, turning to go up the steps. “I’ll send Holly down.”
“Mercy.”
He paused, glanced back over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry about what happened. I never meant for Ava to get hurt.”
No response. Mercy went up the steps and disappeared inside.
Holly came out a moment later, and her face crumpled when she saw him standing at the foot of the stairs. She came down to him in an unsteady rush, and his arms were open for her when she launched against him, twining her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder.
He hugged her hard, and whispered into her hair, “I’ll make it right. I promise I will.”
**
It was a long time before she stopped shaking. Even hours later, as she carried trays to tables, she saw the occasional tremor in her fingers. She had three near-accidents with full drinks, nearly sending them into customers’ laps.
“Sit down for a second,” Michael ordered gruffly as she passed his table. “You look like you’re gonna fall down.”
“I’m fine.” But she eased down on the edge of the seat opposite him and let her tray rest against her knee. “The anxiety takes a long time to go away,” she explained.
He frowned at her. He’d had no interest in his dinner, and at this point had shoved the plate to the side. His glass was empty, and she pushed to her feet to get him another.
“Just sit, damn it.”
“I can’t. We have a full house tonight. I’ve gotta check on three tables, and you need a refill anyway.”
“Coffee, not whiskey this time,” he said.
She froze, hand resting on the table. “Why?”
“Because I’m going hunting and I want to be good and awake.”
Not hunting for wild boar, she knew. “Michael, you shouldn’t–”
“Do what I said I’d do? No. I shouldn’t. I shoulda already done it.”
She started to argue with him, and decided she’d get nowhere, judging by the harsh set of his jaw. “Coffee, coming right up,” she muttered, and headed off to the kitchen.
She made her rounds, and then went back to Michael’s booth. He made an unmistakable gesture for her to sit, which she resisted.
“Have some of this.” He tried to give the mug back to her after she set it down.
“I can’t be seen drinking a customer’s coffee.”
At another time, she would have laughed herself breathless looking at the dark scowl that marred his face. “I’m not a customer.”
“Then what are you?”
“You know damn well.”
With a sigh, she sat down across from him.
He shoved the coffee closer.
With a consenting eye roll, she took a quick swallow, and set it firmly back on his side of the table. “Happy?”
No response.
It was one of those silences that felt like an opening, and she caved forward, bracing her elbows on the table. “I can’t believe that happened today,” she groaned in a quiet voice.
“Your psycho fucked up family is trying to take you back? I can believe it.”
“I can’t believe I let them get near Ava.”
Michael gave her a steady look. “You didn’t.”
“What do you call it then?” she challenged, anger rising against despair, the two winding together into one ugly plait. “I should never have been at her house. I should never have exposed her–”
“You didn’t expose her to anything.”
“I exposed her to me!” Her hands fell down onto the table and curled into fists. “To me, Michael, and I knew better.”
He made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “Will you just calm down? You didn’t do anything wrong. And after tonight, it won’t matter anymore.”
“You found them?”
“Working on it.”
“They won’t go back to the house, you know. You can’t find them sitting at home waiting on you.”
“I know that,” he snapped. “Stop, okay? Don’t worry about it. This is my problem.”
She pressed her lips together against a protest. His problem. He’d taken it on as such, pulling the mantle fully onto his shoulders, trying to leave hers bare and light. Did he even know the kind of wonder and love that inspired in her?
“Be careful,” she said. “No man who believes he has God on his side makes impatient mistakes. Abraham and Jacob are dangerous.”
“So am I.”
She felt a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know that. Thank God.”
She swung her legs to the side, gathering herself to get up – the bar was swarming with patrons, people on their feet and shuffling back and forth to the pay phones, the rest rooms, the jukebox; she had to get back to her customers. She pulled up short, though, when she saw two men standing at the end of their table. Amid the intensity of their conversation, and the noise of the bar, neither of them had heard anyone approach. And there they were, like a matched pair, in their straight-leg jeans and dirty Carhartt jackets.
Abraham and Jacob.
Holly opened her mouth but could produce no sound. She had no breath; there was no air in her lungs or moisture on her tongue. She couldn’t look at Michael for a reaction, because her eyes refused to swerve away from her father’s face.
Abraham didn’t smile; somehow, it would have been easier if he had. With grave seriousness, he said, “Hello, Holly.”
Jacob, always the less tactful of the two, said, “Is this what you’ve done? Thrown in with one of these bikers?” He turned a sneering glance on Michael. “Ain’t you the one that’s s’posed to come kiss us in our sleep? Won’t your boss like to hear where your hands have been.” He laughed, seeming delighted by the prospect.
“It’s time to come home, girl,” Abraham said. “You had your fun, and now you’ll have to pray for the Lord’s forgiveness for the sins you’ve committed.”
He reached toward her.
Holly heard the soft whisper of Michael pulling the knife out of his boot and risked her first glance at him. He didn’t appear to have moved, but one hand was in his lap, and she knew the knife was in it.
Abraham had heard the sound too, and he was frozen, his hand hovering a few inches from her.
“Hol,” Michael said in a low, even tone. “You sit right there, sweetheart. Don’t move.”
The Jessup brothers sensed what was about to happen the heartbeat before it did. They leapt back, and Michael was right after them, flying from his seat, making a reach for Jacob with one hand while he brought the knife up with the other.
Jacob had the barest head-start, though, and dodged the blade, shoving his brother sideways into a table as they both fled for the door.
The table tipped sideways, its contents sliding to the floor. Beer fountained in a tall golden plume. French fries scattered everywhere. Patrons yelled and shouted, and all eyes went to the trio hammering across the boards to the door: the two men in front of the one with the wicked length of knife.
In the chaos, Holly lurched to her feet and took off after them.
Outside, the street was clogged with evening traffic, the streetlamps burning bright smears against the dark sky. Abraham and Jacob had dodged between cars and were on the opposite side of the road, jogging down the sidewalk toward the ruined Buick she recognized all too well.
Michael was still on her side of the street, passing headlights sliding down the knife as he looked for an opening. One wasn’t coming, though, and he leaned forward at the waist, prepared to make a run for it.
“Michael, no!” Holly grabbed at the back of his cut and he tried to shrug her off, changing course, heading up this sidewalk instead, to run parallel of them.
“Michael!” She latched on with both hands, trying in vain to pull him back. “You can’t catch them now, let them go!”
He spun to face her, and his eyes were wild and white-rimmed.
“Wait,” she pleaded. “They’re trying to get you off-balance. They knew we’d both be there and they came in on purpose. Don’t chase after them right now. Wait. Please.”
She curled her hands around his forearms, and felt the tension in them beneath his jacket sleeves. “Michael.”
His swallowed, his throat working, and seemed to collect himself. He glanced down at her, opened his mouth to speak –
And his phone rang.
He couldn’t take her with him to the clubhouse. They were there. Michael stood for a long moment, blindly watching the traffic, trying to decide where it was safe to leave her. The loft, he finally decided. Two flights up and secured behind heavy locks. Rapunzel wouldn’t have been safer there.
He left her sitting on the side of her bed, his gun in her hands. “Don’t leave for any reason,” he told her. She was shaking, but she nodded. He had no time to console her; Ghost was waiting for him.
The Jessup brothers were sitting in the common room when he walked in. Relaxed, comfortable, they were on one of the sofas, beers in their hands. Walsh and Tango were with them, and their calm was a deceptive mask. Walsh had one hand resting on his thigh as he sat in a recliner opposite the brothers, within close reach of the gun at his waistband.
Michael wasn’t prepared for the hot blast of rage, the way seeing them was a physical burning sensation inside him.
He ought to kill them right now. He could, he reflected, and probably neither Walsh nor Tango would interfere. He could cross to the couch in two long strides and take Walsh’s gun from him. But, no – he didn’t want to shoot them. He wanted their blood on his hands. He wanted to feel their skin give as the blade passed through it. He wanted to slaughter them like hogs.
Walsh’s gaze flicked up to his face, expression a subtle warning, like he could read Michael’s intent. “Ghost’s waiting for you in the chapel.”
The Jessup brothers were watching him, and their bold appraisal was a mockery. They knew he didn’t have leave to do anything to them here. They knew they were safe for the moment.
“Okay,” he said, and headed that way, each step more difficult than the last. He couldn’t recall a time when self-control had ever been a problem. Maybe that was why it was being so thoroughly tested now.
The doors to the chapel stood open at the end of the hall, and Ghost waited for him in his chair at the head of the table. “Sit,” he instructed, and Michael closed the doors and did so.
This room had a stale smell. The old, heavy, ornate furniture was polished weekly, and the scent of the wax blended with the musk of the wall paneling, and the accumulated cigarette smoke that never truly dissipated, only found crevices to cling to.
In his usual seat, at the right hand of the president, Michael had a view of the tension in Ghost’s face, the tightening of all the fine lines in the skin around his eyes. There was an ageless quality to the man; he seemed both older and younger than his fifty years. He was so much better-suited for the role as president than his predecessor had been that Ernest James was a laughingstock by comparison. Michael had longed for the day that James would finally step down and Ghost would take the throne.
This was the first time he wished he was sitting beside James instead, because there were no traces of gentleness or understanding in Ghost’s harsh face.
He took a breath and, staring at the table before them, said, “How long have you been banging Jessup’s daughter?”
It was more direct than Michael had expected. The question was vulgar in his ears; his brain recoiled from it.
“She’s been working at Bell Bar since August. She always sits and talks to me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Michael frowned. “Since before Christmas.”
Ghost slanted him a quick, narrow glance. “Did you know who she was?”
“Not at first. But then she told me.”
“When?”
“Right around the time you let them start selling for you.”
“Christ. You didn’t think you ought to mention it?”
“It wasn’t anybody’s business.”
“It’s the club’s business,” Ghost said, voice undercut with a violent anger. “We’ve got fifteen of Jasmine’s friends walking around here with their tits out, but no, you had to go after that bastard’s daughter. Do you understand the difficult position this puts me in?”
“No,” Michael said, and meant it. He met Ghost’s glare with a level one of his own. “Tell them to fuck off.”
Ghost twitched a non-smile. “They’ve already called their boss. Now Shaman wants a meeting, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.”
When Michael didn’t respond, Ghost continued: “I need more time to put together some intel on this guy. I don’t want to walk into a sitdown blind. And the Jessups are saying they can put the pin back in the grenade, and things can go back to normal. For a price.”
Michael stiffened. “What price?”
“I hand over the girl, and they keep on quietly selling.”
“You can’t do that,” Michael said, without missing a beat.
Ghost sighed. “I don’t want to do it. But I don’t see what choice I’ve got.”
“Have the meeting with Shaman. I’ll be with you. Walsh will come with us. The whole club can come.”
“And what do the Jessups do in the meantime? Throw more bricks through my daughter’s window?” His eyes flashed, murderous like Mercy’s had been earlier.
“Holly won’t go near Ava again. It won’t happen–”
“The safety of my family isn’t up for discussion.”
“What about the safety of mine?” Michael growled before he could catch himself. “If Holly goes back to them, they’ll kill her. And after what they’ll do to her before that, she’ll be glad for it.”
Ghost frowned. “I know these guys are assholes–”
“You don’t know anything about them. There’s not a word for what they are. What they’ve done to Holly…No. No. I won’t let her go back with them. I would never do that to her.”
Ghost studied him a long, unreadable moment. “What sort of story did that girl spin for you?” he asked.
“What?”
“She cried on your shoulder, didn’t she? Fed you a sob story. What did she want from you?”
Michael ground his molars together.
“Considering you chased them out of Bell Bar wielding a knife, I’m gonna take a wild swing and say she wanted you to kill them, didn’t she? A few tears, a couple of doe-eyed looks, and you bought all of it, didn’t you?” He pulled a disgusted face. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
Michael felt the press of heat beneath his skin, knew his face was flushed. “It wasn’t a story,” he said tightly.
“How would you know? A girl from out of town – you don’t know anything about her. All you have to go on is her word. Have you knocked her up yet?”
Michael couldn’t form a question, could only stare.
“Have you been using rubbers? For all you know, she’s trying to get pregnant to trap you.”
“She wouldn’t–”
“Play the damsel when she’s really helping her father manipulate us? Think again. Remember Ava’s little boyfriend? Remember the Carpathians trying to find a weak link? That’s how people bring down clubs: they rip them apart from the inside out.
“Jessup starts selling for us, meanwhile, his daughter’s spinning tales for you, fucking with your head, pulling you away from us, and then there’s an opening. There’s a weak flank, and Shaman’s got a way to get to us.”
Michael’s breathing had picked up, a shallow rushing through his mouth. “You don’t even know that Shaman wants to ‘get to us.’ ”
“So what? We sit on our hands and wait around to find out?”
“We-”
“The girl is going back to her father,” Ghost said, tone final. “Wherever she is, go and get her, and bring her back here.”
“They raped her,” Michael said, feeling as helpless as he had at age nine, when he’d stood beside Caesar and clutched his collar and listened to his mother’s final screams. “Her father, and her uncle. They beat her, they…” He trailed off, hands wrapping tight around the arms of his chair, his body shaking. Nothing he said mattered. Nothing he wanted was important.
For one quick twitch, Ghost’s face softened. He heaved a deep sigh. “You like her. Hell, maybe you love her. And I don’t want to make this decision. But this is about all of us. Everyone who leans on this club. I can’t put all of us at risk for one girl. That’s what a president does – makes the hard call.”
Michael stared at the old, deep scratches in the table. His head was throbbing, the blood pounding in his temples and ears.
“The son-in-law,” Ghost said. “You killed him?”
Numbly, he nodded.
“Well, he was a fucked up little weirdo.” Another sigh. “Michael, go get her. We’ll wait here.”
Holly had done nothing but pace since Michael left. To the center window, to the sofa, to the fridge, and then back again, an irregular triangle. She was shocked to realize she hadn’t worn a layer of varnish off the floorboards.
When someone knocked on the door, she leapt, banging her shin on the leg of the chair, hissing between her teeth as the bright spot of pain swelled and grew hot and damp; she’d broken the skin.
“Michael?” she called as she limped to the door.
“It’s me.”
She threw the locks in a hurry and ushered him in, re-engaging all of them the moment he was clear of the threshold. Her supercharged anxiety was lessened just by the quick brush of his sleeve as he came through the door, and she took her first deep breath since his departure. Turning, letting the door hold her weight behind her, she started to ask him what had happened…and frowned instead, when she saw him standing in the middle of her loft with a bowed head and a tense hand clamped to the back of his neck.
“What?” she asked, starting toward him.
His eyes snapped up to hers, and the sharpness in them froze her cold.
She halted mid-stride, arms going around her middle on instinct. “Michael, what?”
“Everything you told me – about where you come from and what they did to you. All that. It’s true?”
Holly felt the air leave her lungs like she’d been punched. An invisible weight landed against her chest, dragged at her shoulders. Her voice trembled. “Yes.”
“Is it?” he pressed.
“Yes! I…why would I…don’t you know…” She couldn’t fathom why this was happening, now of all times.
“Did your old man put you up to this? Is this some kind of plan–”
“No!” Tears sprang suddenly to her eyes.
His expression became dark and furious. “Are you pregnant?”
She gasped. “No–”
He stalked across the floor toward her, the energy rippling off him like steam. “Jesus Christ, I wasn’t even careful,” he snarled, catching her by both arms, shaking her gently. “Are you trying to get knocked up?”
“No.” The tears began to spill and she didn’t try to stem them; she knew it was useless. “I’m on the pill, not that you even asked. I’ve been on the pill since I was sixteen, and Abraham started forcing them down my throat.”
Another shake. “Are you lying to me?”
She kicked him in the knee. Hard. As hard as her little leg could kick, and when he let go of her, she whirled for the door.
Just as she reached it, his body closed over hers from behind; she caught herself against the door with her hands, and his arms closed around her, hemming her in, his hands resting on the painted wood beside hers.
His face landed in her hair and she heard him take a deep, ragged breath.
“Why are you asking me this?” she whispered. “You know it’s true. You know. You know me.”
“I know,” he said.
They stood for a long moment, as she wrestled with her tears and he struggled for breath. When his hands closed gently on her shoulders and he turned her to face him, she complied, her hands finding his chest, the rapid pulsing of his heart beneath his shirt.
Holly rested her head back against the door. “Your friends think I lied to you.”
“They’re not my friends.”
She pressed her fingertips into his pecs as her hands flexed. It meant so much to her, his sentiment, but her heart broke for him, because he was a member of the club, and it wasn’t as simple as friendship and differing opinions.
“I never wanted to get you in trouble.”
“You didn’t.” He sounded like he meant it.
She took a deep, sniffling breath. “What are you going to do?”
He shook his head. “I’ll figure something out. Right now, I’ve got to get you safe.”
“Michael–”
“Don’t argue with me.”
And she didn’t.
He watched her packing her meager things into a beat-up leather suitcase as he held his cellphone to his ear and listened to the other end ring. He was amazed by the lightness in his chest, just how much he didn’t care about the consequences anymore. There was no threat any of his brothers could lever against him that would change his mind in this case. If they thought he cared about his own safety, his pride, his reputation, then they were woefully mistaken. Let the slings and arrows come. Let there be judgment laid against him. Holly would be safely away, and that was all that mattered. To the club, he was nothing but a knife. To her, he was everything.
Wynn finally picked up. “Hello?”
“Uncle Wynn.”
Some vibrating note in his voice caused his uncle to pause a second, before he carefully said, “Michael, son, what’s wrong?”
Holly glanced up, a sweater in her hands, her eyes huge and wet and brimming with sympathy.
Michael swallowed. “I need a very big favor, and it’s very important. And it has to be now.”
Wynn didn’t hesitate. “Tell me what you need. I’ll be there.”
His phone kept ringing, over and over, and he wouldn’t answer it. It had to be the club, and with each electronic chime, Holly’s tension wound tighter. She made coffee neither of them could drink. She set out a plate of cookies they didn’t touch.
“Maybe you should…” she started, and Michael shook his head.
“They can wait.”
It was over an hour before he glanced out the window, saw the headlights in the street below, and said, “That’s Wynn.”
Holly’s stomach jumped into her throat. “Michael, I don’t want to go,” she whispered, one last desperate display of nerves.
He came to her, gathered her up against his chest with his arms strong around her. His kiss was hot and fast and tasted like absolute despair.
“You’ll like him,” he said in a low, fierce voice, as his forehead rested against hers. “You’ll like the farm. I need you to be safe, and I’ll come for you when I can.”
She closed her eyes, her wet lashes gluing together. One last time, she breathed in the smell of him, felt the warmth of his hold and let it soak into her skin.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kissed her once more, and then it was time to go.