Five
They went back to her place, the rented attic loft in the creaky old converted mansion. When she’d told him, at the bar, what she wanted of him, he’d almost choked on his dinner. Almost. He’d thrown down the rest of his Jack, told her to fetch another, and then told her not to breathe another word about it, until she got off her shift, at which point he’d follow her home, and they’d talk about it in private.
She’d agreed, eyes bright, frightened, hopeful, sliding out of the booth to retrieve his whiskey.
Michael hadn’t glanced at her, the rest of the evening, as he sipped at drinks and studied the wood grain pattern in the table. But he’d known where she was, every second of those two hours. He’d felt her presence, smelled her as she breezed past, acutely aware of her every smile and laugh and gesture. She’d surprised him. Truly, completely shocked him, and that was a rare occurrence these days. Her unexpected boldness made her a fascination, a dangerous one.
Finally, she’d come to the table, once the customers were gone and the chairs were overturned on the tables. The bartender had been giving him dark glances, like he didn’t approve of him waiting around for Holly.
She’d still been wearing her work uniform of silk boxing shorts, wedge sneakers, and tank top, flipping her hair over the collar of a light leather jacket not suitable for the weather outside. “Ready?”
“It’s thirty degrees outside,” he’d said.
She’d shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Meet me on the street out front. I’ll be in the Chevy. You won’t miss it.”
And he hadn’t. As he’d sat astride his bike, waiting at the mouth of the alley, he’d been surprised again, this time by the black ’67 Chevelle that pulled out into the street. A gorgeous year for that car, though the paint needed a re-do. Hardtop, mag wheels, what sounded like the original, downturned pipes, the way the chugging of the Big Block echoed down onto the pavement.
Holly was so small, her silhouette looked like that of a child, as she turned left and passed in front of the greasy light of a street lamp. He couldn’t see her curves, from this angle, just her little head, poked up over the window ledge.
She cruised slowly past, giving him a chance to fall in behind her, and then they headed to the mansion with the big circular drive shaded by trees, and up the two flights of steps to the place she called home.
Michael made no comment on the seven door locks; a frightened girl, he reminded himself. And not a stupid one, either, apparently.
She locked the locks again, with a series of clicks, once he was inside; he took the chance to look his fill.
The old attic had high ceilings in the center, sloping down to points in the eve. Streetlamp glow filtered in through the dormer windows, framing the tiny Christmas tree that stood in the center one. She had a bed, a dresser, a rod of hanging clothes in place of a closet. A couch, a cozy chair, threadbare rugs. The bathroom must have been behind the corrugated tin sliding barn door. The kitchenette was tiny, but there were dishes draining on the rack, along with pots and pans. She used the stove, obviously, for something besides storage. It was small, comfortable, warm, and probably had an impressive view from the windows.
But for some reason, it held a certain sadness. Everything tired, frayed at the edges, the shelves sagging just the tiniest, the old floorboards in need of refinishing. The little tree, without ornaments, its colored lights blazing against the cold fogged window glass, evidenced this girl’s attempt to bring something bright into her frightened life. Just…sad.
“Coffee?” she asked from behind him, as she hung up her jacket. When she stepped around so he could see her, he noted the chill bumps all down her arms and across her chest. She was freezing.
“Sure,” he said, not because he wanted any, but because he thought if he had some, she would too, and it would warm her up before she caught pneumonia.
“It’s dark roast.” She crossed to the kitchenette, the swish of her silk shorts loud in the quiet loft. “Hope that’s alright.”
He hummed a sound that meant he didn’t care.
“I’ll just get it started,” she said in a happy voice, as she pulled a filter from a box on an open shelf and dropped it into the top of the maker. The Folgers canister opened with a popping sound. “Then I’ll change.” Questioning glance over her shoulder as she scooped coffee grounds into the machine. “If that’s okay.”
It hit him then, the absurdity of this moment. Her cheerful tone as she made him coffee…so she could make a formal request that he murder three men for her. As far as taking out a hit went, this was beyond abnormal.
“Fine,” he said, hands going in his jacket pockets.
“You can sit down.” She pressed a button and the maker came on with a hiss. “I’ll be right back.” She went through the sliding door, easing it shut behind her.
Alone, he took a turn around the large, open space. Two matching tables flanked the peach-colored sofa. On one was a tidy stack of magazines: People, Time, Cosmo, Redbook, Entertainment Weekly, Southern Living, and Shape. Some were this month’s issue, but some were a few months’ earlier, like the Redbook, the one with the promise of teaching sex secrets that would drive men wild on the cover.
On the other table were books: a stack of New York Times bestsellers, all released within the last two months, half of them on Oprah’s booklist. They looked like secondhand copies, the hardback edges downturned and browned with use.
None of the books nor the magazines had been available for sale before August.
Five issues of TV Guide lay across the coffee table: August, September, October, November, December.
She’d moved into this loft at the end of August – that was the first time he’d seen her at Bell Bar. But none of her print media evidenced a life before that.
He wandered toward the bed. Tidily made up with old quilts and white pillows. The top drawer of the nightstand was slightly ajar, and the lamp above didn’t quite reach inside the gap of dark space.
Michael checked over his shoulder that she was still in the bathroom, then pulled the drawer open a fraction.
Inside was a narrow book bound in plain brown leather. He fingered the cover aside, and saw the lined paper within, with the slanted, steady handwriting filling up the pages. Not a book, but a journal of some sort.
He heard the door sliding back at the bathroom and shut the drawer with a fast, silent movement, turning to face her.
And there was yet another surprise.
Michael expected the sweats and slippers of the night before, that she’d been getting into something warm and comfortable. Instead, Holly walked toward him in skintight denim miniskirt that hit across the tops of her shapely thighs, and a strappy little black shirt that showed the lace edging of the red bra beneath it. She’d brushed her hair out, and it shone, brilliant and chocolate-brown down her shoulders and back. Her lipstick was blood-colored, the same color as the toenail polish on her bare feet.
“Coffee should be done,” she said, going straight to the kitchen without glancing at him.
Michael approached her slowly, moving around the couch toward the counter with deliberate steps, so as not to startle her. She was a dream to look at – the lush curves of breasts and hips, the creamy skin, the way her waist was corset-small – but her attitude was that of a bird who’d gotten indoors, trapped and panicked.
He watched her pull down two mugs and pour the steaming black coffee into them. They were mismatched, one white, and one yellow.
“Cream?” she asked.
“Black’s fine.”
She nodded, and stirred two big spoonfuls of sugar into the yellow one, hers, before she turned to him. Her hand trembled as she passed the white mug into his grip. And her eyes, when they finally came up to his face, were saucer-wide and stricken.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the hot mug by the handle. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She closed her eyes, face pained. “It…has to do with paying you.” Her eyes opened again, studded deep with anguish, though her voice was even. “Let’s sit down and talk about the job first. Okay?”
He nodded, and followed her to the sitting area. When she sat down on the couch, he took the small plaid recliner, on purpose, to give her some space.
She looked at him and nodded, a silent thank you. She sipped her coffee, took a deep breath, and said, “So I want you to kill three people,” like she was commenting on the weather. “I guess I should tell you who they are.”
“That’d be helpful,” he said.
Another sip, and she said, “I escaped at the beginning of August. I assumed they came after me, just because I was paranoid, but now I know, because I saw two of them yesterday, at Bell Bar.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug, as if she were drawing its warmth into her curled, chilled body, and she watched him, waiting for his questions.
The word escaped caught his attention, but he wasn’t going to ask about that. Her past had no bearing on this conversation, or his decision.
He studied the wide leather cuffs on her wrists, and then glanced at her face, the soft trembling of her lower lip. She had a very pretty mouth. “Were they looking for you?”
“They were talking to two of your friends, actually.”
He lifted his brows, inviting her to explain. He had club brothers; he didn’t have friends.
“Mercy and Ratchet.”
He nodded, cursing inwardly. The dealer Ghost had sent them to meet.
For a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the “what if” idea of having accepted Holly’s offer last night. He might have eased himself inside her, and then she might have made her request about the hit. He might, even, have killed those two before they could have their sitdown with his brothers.
But now, they’d become involved with the club. What the hell did he do now?
Feeling sure that he would refuse her now, he said, “I don’t normally take on contracts from outside the club.”
She made a face that seemed desperate. “It wouldn’t be a regular thing. I promise. Just the once – well, three times, I guess; the three of them – but then you’d never have to see me again. I could leave town after, if you wanted me to.”
It was all making so much more sense now. She’d never been flirting with him, he hadn’t thought, and now he was proven right. She’d been feeling him out, trying to decide if she could trust him with something like murder. Well, she’d made a good choice, hadn’t she? Of all the Dogs she could have sought, she’d honed in on him as the one most likely to serve her killer purposes.
“You’d go to jail, if we got caught,” he said. “It wouldn’t just be me; you’d go too, for hiring me.”
That tidbit didn’t seem to faze her. She shook her head. “That’s a risk I can take. Not,” she said in a rush, “that I want you to go to jail. That’s not what I meant. But you’d be…professional, I know you would. You wouldn’t get caught.”
That was true.
He said, “How do you know they’re after you? Maybe you’re just being paranoid.”
She flinched; that stung. “Maybe,” she said, voice growing faint. “But…but no. No. They would never let me get away. No matter where I went. They couldn’t afford for me to be loose in the world.”
She withdrew into herself, her mind, some awful memory that left her pale and shaken.
“Holly.”
Her eyes came to him like backlit jewels, huge and wet.
“Who are they?”
She swallowed, her slender throat working. “My father, my uncle, and my husband.”
Father. He knew all too well the horrors of fathers.
“Explain it to me.”
She lifted her chin in a quaking semblance of bravery. “No. You don’t care.”
“You’re asking me to kill three people,” he countered, “and you won’t tell me why you want them dead?”
“I may be behind a little, but I’ve been trying to catch up with movies.” Her chin kicked even higher, daring him to challenge her. “I know enough to know that hit men don’t have to know the reasons why. Just the who and when and how much.”
He was silent.
“I want a straight bargain, no details.” Her voice was shaking. “I give you the names, you kill them, and I’ll pay you for it.”
“Pay me how?” He gestured to the secondhand loft around them. “You gonna rob a bank?”
“No.” She was quaking all over, little rivulets of coffee streaking down the sides of the mug where her tremors had spilled it. Her voice was resigned, though. Flat and emotionless. “I have a little cash to give you, and then after that, I’ll have to pay you with my body.”
He tilted his head in silent question.
She said, “I’m twenty-six. My breasts are real. Thirty-four double Ds. I’m very small and tight.” She laid one shaking hand in her lap, as if he needed the demonstration. She met his gaze squarely. “I’ll do whatever you want, for however long, however many times. You can tie me up if you want. I don’t care. I can act like I like it. I can do…anything,” she repeated, voice the barest scrape of sound. “Anything, if you’ll do this for me.”
“You want to pay me with sex.”
“It’s all I have to give.” She didn’t break eye contact, her earnest gaze absolutely tragic. “Please. I don’t have anyone else to go to. I know it’s not much” – she gestured to herself – “but I…” She didn’t finish. What else could she say?
He studied her a long moment: the shadowed view up her short skirt to the red panties beneath; the full swell of her breasts against the neckline of the tank top; the sharp inward flare of her waist; the shape of her lips. Yes, he wanted her, because he was a man, and she was a young, beautiful girl. It was only natural.
“Come here.” He flicked two fingers in command.
She set the sloppy coffee mug on the table and rose, coming to him with well-shielded trepidation.
He opened his knees, giving her a little space to stand between, and he sat forward, catching her hand and drawing her down, so she was bent at the waist, so he could see all the way down into her shirt, the gooseflesh across the tops of her breasts.
Michael took her face in one hand, fingers pressed to her jaw. Brought her in close enough to feel her breath against his lips. “That’s a real good way,” he said slowly, “to get your brains raped out, offering yourself up like that.”
She smiled, sadly. “My whole life has been one long rape. Nothing you could do to me would compare, Michael.”
The thought was thrilling. He could throw her down right here on the rug, mount her, and she wouldn’t resist.
But it horrified him, too.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“No,” she said. “I think you’re beautiful.”
They were almost his undoing, those particular words. He stared at her face, the open pleading and offering in her expression, and he knew she meant what she was saying. That he could do whatever he wanted with her. And that she did find him beautiful, whatever her reasons.
In a rare spark of weakness, he let himself entertain the idea. Maybe she didn’t want him, but there was at least fascination on her part. Admiration. And there was no fear. She would lie down willingly beneath him, and she wouldn’t be one of those scared, anxious groupies he hated. She was young, and soft in all the right places, and he wanted to feel her skin against his hands.
And if he gave into the sudden, intense urge, he’d owe her a few murders, wouldn’t he? That was her bargain. Her body for his blade. A fair trade, and then their separate ways.
Maybe it was worth it. Ghost hadn’t made anything official with the prospective dealers yet. He wouldn’t miss them; didn’t need them. Maybe a night or two with a willing, beautiful girl would be worth whatever repercussions he’d face afterward.
He had no memories, after all, of ever bedding anyone who’d wanted to be under him.
As inducement, Holly pulled gently back from him, straightening, hands going to the hem of her shirt. She peeled it up, and over her head, back arching as she lifted it clear, and then dropped it to the floor, rib bones pressing at her thin white skin, smooth muscles of her abdomen stretching.
Her breasts were plump perfection inside her red bra, full and straining at the cups. He could see the hard round buttons of her nipples, as the cold air swept across her skin.
She unfastened the skirt, and worked it off her hips, one at a time, swaying back and forth to aid the tight denim in its descent. She stepped out of it delicately, left it on the rug behind her. The panties were the same bright red as the bra, a slick satin that only half-covered the rounded globes of her bottom. The lingerie had cost more than a girl in her condition could afford, he could tell. She’d splurged. She’d bought it for this moment, this transaction, so he’d want her.
He should stop her, he decided, because she was so frightened her teeth were chattering. But he sat leaning against the back of the chair, unmoving, as she urged his knees together and then settled onto his lap, straddling his legs. She moved in close, leaned forward and put her hands on the back of the chair on either side of his head. Her breasts were right there; he could drop his face and bury it between them.
She wasn’t taunting him. It didn’t feel like that. She was encouraging. And she might have been enthralled, and she might not have hated the idea, and she might have let him do whatever he wanted…but let was a long way from want. And he could smell the acrid burn of fear along her skin. Could feel the trembling in every muscle and every inch of her.
Michael made his decision, and once he’d made it, he had the will to execute it to the letter.
He caught her around the waist with one arm, and surged to his feet.
She gasped. “What–” Her question became another gasp as he swung her up into his arms and carried her toward the bed.
Catching his meaning, she slipped her arms around his neck, leaned into his chest as he walked.
“Pull that back,” he instructed, when they reached the side of the bed.
She took the covers in-hand and jerked them loose from the pillows, tossed them aside.
Michael laid her down on the sheets…and then let go of her, righted, pulled the covers up and over her and tucked them tight beneath her chin in a harsh imitation of a mother putting her child to bed.
Holly struggled to sit up. “What?” she repeated. “What are you–”
But Michael was walking back to the sofa, picking up her coffee, bringing it back to her. The spills were drying down the sides, gummy against his hand. “Here.” He held it toward her. “Drink this. You’re freezing.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
He lifted one of her hands, wrapped it around the mug, and didn’t let go until he felt her take hold of the thing. Then he sat down on the foot of the bed, a respectable distance away, his arms crossed.
Holly glanced down at the mug in her hands, dark lashes beating quickly against her cheeks. She took a shaking breath. “I’m not enough,” she said in a soft, broken voice, lifting tear-filled eyes to him, “am I? I can’t pay you, but I’m not enough to sway you.” She attempted a smile. “It’s okay. I was sort of expecting that I wasn’t.”
He cleared his throat. “If you’d made that same offer to one of the other members, you’d have your knees up around your ears right now.”
Her mouth pressed into a flat line, face going scarlet.
“I don’t take contract hits,” he told her. “I don’t accept payment for killing.”
“What makes you kill, then?” she came back at him, quicker and harder than he’d expected. “What’s it take?”
“Loyalty. I’m not a hit man.”
She regarded him a long moment, sitting up with the covers around her waist, sipping coffee with her breasts trying to spill out of her red bra. “Then what are you?”
“Most of the time, I don’t know.”
She nodded, and swallowed; closed her eyes, and glimmers of moisture gleamed in the outer corners. “Oh, God.”
He waited, studying her.
“I’m not a stripper,” she said, eyes opening again, full of tears. “Or a prostitute. At least, I don’t want to be. But I don’t know what to do, Michael.”
“You could get a divorce. Move to California.” Though the idea of her leaving put a strange tightness at the base of his throat.
She shook her head. “Dewey would never agree to that. My father would never let him.” She gave him a level, sure look. “They have to be dead. That’s the only way to stop it. Trust me: I’ve thought about it, and thought about it, and there’s no way to make it all end if they’re still alive.”
“Go to the cops, then.”
She sighed. “I tried that.”
He sucked at the corner of his lower lip, feeling uneasy with what he was about to say, but unable to keep from saying it. He had to give her something. Some kind of solace. “Do you know how to shoot a gun?”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
“A knife? Can you use one of those?”
“Only when I’m cooking.”
He sat forward, something very much like emotion moving through him, exciting him in some way. Not that he projected it outwardly. “What if I show you how?”
She’d never felt like this before: wanting to throw her hot coffee in a man’s face and to hug him at the same time. After about five seconds of careful thought, she realized something. No, he didn’t want her, didn’t find her attractive, wasn’t going to accept her offer of sex in exchange for murder.
But he wasn’t abandoning her either. Teach me to shoot? she wanted to ask him. Throw me to the wolves, how ‘bout it! She’d be dead in no time, if he left it up to whatever shooting skills she could acquire on such short notice.
And yet…
“You can’t just do it the easy way?” she asked. Genuinely curious, though flickering at the edges with relief. Her offer of anything he wanted had seemed only fair, but had scared the hell out of her.
Michael watched her with more of his unshakeable composure, eyes narrowing further as he considered. “Sex terrifies you,” he said, and she shivered, caught by the razor-edge of the truth. “And maybe you need someone to show you that it shouldn’t,” he continued, without one scrap of innuendo, “but that’s no way to bargain for three lives.”
“Biker with a heart of gold?” she asked, feeling the wistful smile tug at her mouth.
“With a president to answer to.” He stood, and she was sorry for the loss of his body heat seeping into the covers at her toes. “I’ll meet you in front of the bar tomorrow, three hours before you have to be in for work.”
“It’ll take three hours?”
“Longer, but that’s a place to start.” He glanced across the loft, like he was searching for something. “You got something else to wear?”
“My robe’s in the bathroom,” she said, and started to climb from bed.
“I’ll get it.”
Holly watched him retrieve it, his exact strides carrying him across her floor. She liked the way his shoulder blades shifted beneath the leather on his back. Liked the way he made walking look so effortless. Liked the way his jeans fit, tight all over, and just loose enough on the bottoms to cover his boots.
“Put it on,” he said when he returned, tossing the terrycloth nightmare across her legs on the bed.
She set her coffee aside and reached for it. “I’m not that cold,” she said, drawing it around her shoulders.
He made a face, an actual face, lips pressing together and brows lifting. “Yeah? Well, you being scared only goes so far, and I’m not a saint. Cover yourself up, before I change my mind.”
“Okay.” She complied, hiding a sudden smile into the shoulder of the robe.
“Tomorrow,” he reminded, and as he left, Holly felt the faintest of hopes, beating its dusty wings deep in a part of her she’d thought long-dead.