Candy caught Melanie’s gaze and tipped his head toward the kitchen.
“What the hell?” he asked in a whisper, when they were standing in front of the fridge.
She flapped a hand toward the other room. “I told you. He’s bad.”
“He’s drugged. What did he take?”
“Drug…” Her eyes widened, and then narrowed into a scowl. “He doesn’t take drugs,” she hissed. “You know that as well as me.”
“I know sobriety when I see it, and that ain’t it. This isn’t just depression. He’s on something.”
She folded her arms. “I was here all last night. If he’d taken anything, I’d know.”
He gave her a look.
“He’s not that way!” she insisted.
“Well, that’s not normal,” he said, pointing toward the wall. “So either he slipped something in the bathroom, or he’s having some kind of episode.”
Her nose wrinkled. “What kinda episode?”
Michelle would have had the word for it; one of those moments when a person’s brain cracked under too much stress.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I need to ask him some questions.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
He wanted a drink, badly, but didn’t think now was the time to ask for one, with Melanie squared off from him. The wave of déjà vu that accompanied her stance was unwelcome; that was how it had been between them, once they moved out of the short, thrilling honeymoon phase at the beginning of their relationship. Her with her arms folded, her head cocked, her expression challenging; him asking himself why he bothered.
He let out a breath and nodded. “Well, guess I have to.”
She followed a few paces behind when he returned to the living room. Pacer sat very still, watching soup drip off his spoon back into his bowl.
Candy wanted to scream.
He sat down in the chair beside him and said, “Hey, Pace?” He didn’t expect to get a response, but Pacer did turn to him, finally, slowly, his face eerily blank.
Fuck, this was so wrong.
“I need to ask you about your boys,” Candy continued, speaking slowly, clearly. “The ones who – the ones you lost. You couldn’t tell me much about them the last time we talked.”
He heard Melanie shift her weight behind him, a rustling of clothes, and he imagined her unfolding and refolding her arms, an old habit he remembered.
“Okay?”
Pacer blinked at him, his eyelids out of sync. “O…okay.”
The sunlight shifted across the floor. Candy hated this.
~*~
Sometimes, Michelle marveled at the speed with which she’d grown accustomed to the seasons of Texas. She loved the long, hot summers; the winter days, short and blustery, reminded her of home – of London – in a way that didn’t offer much comfort.
All afternoon, she mulled over what Jinx had told her of Pacer, of the Vultures, and the MC war that wiped a whole club out of existence. She wondered if any of the other Dogs shared Jinx’s…reluctance when it came to Pacer. She thought about it, and thought about it, and suddenly it was getting dark, and the happy hour crowd was filing in, and she was exhausted.
“Can I suggest something?” Jeannie asked, scooping TJ up from his Pack-n-Play and tucking his head deftly on her shoulder. His fussing stopped immediately, and he went limp, comforted in the arms of someone he knew. “Go home,” she said with a warm, motherly smile tinged with worry. “You’re too tired, your baby’s too tired, and we’ve got things covered here.”
“But…” Michelle protested, and promptly ran out of steam. She didn’t even know why she was protesting; it was a kneejerk reaction, the constant urge to stay longer, to do more, to work harder.
The irony of it: Devin Green’s restlessness had manifested in a string of fleeting romances that came with a string of illegitimate children. All of those children – and their children – in turn funneled that restless spirit into work, work, work.
Jeannie chuckled. “Everything’s done. All you need to worry about is getting home safe, and getting some food in you. Have you eaten today?”
She’d nibbled an onion ring out of a basket in the kitchen, earlier. “A little.”
“I already had someone go grab Jinx from the bar – ah, speak of the devil.”
Michelle turned – and, whoa, she was dizzy – and saw him trooping into the room, already wearing his heavy leather riding jacket and carrying hers. He must have gone back to the storeroom to grab it; thoughtful, she noted, fuzzily.
“You ready?” he asked, like he was afraid she’d say no.
She almost did – it was hardwired into her brain. How many times had Dad, or Tommy, or Miles, or Albie asked her the same thing, and she’d shaken her head, and sipped more coffee, and pressed on.
She couldn’t have coffee now, though, so she sighed, and nodded, and took her jacket. “Thanks.”
Jinx took TJ from Jeannie, and made a face when Michelle offered to take him. “I got him,” he said, and slung the backpack full of all his toys, Pull-ups, and snacks over his other shoulder.
Sometimes, she was damn glad of big men with broad shoulders.
Jinx even had the car seat down pat, buckling TJ in with a few deft movements. TJ’s head lolled and he was asleep almost immediately.
“You’re good at that,” Michelle said, smiling tiredly. “Preparing for little ones of you own soon?”
“No.” He said it so emphatically that she laughed – and then smothered it in her hand to keep from waking TJ.
“I’ll follow you,” Jinx said. “You good to drive?” He looked at her critically, one arm braced on the roof of her Challenger.
She squared up her shoulders and nodded. “I’m fine.” She didn’t want him to have to leave his bike here and bum a ride to pick it up tomorrow. Given the goings-on lately, he might need it before then.
She buckled in, started the engine, locked her doors, and checked her phone. Still no word from Candy. She fired off a quick text to let him know she was headed home, and then backed out of her reserved space. Jinx’s headlamp pulled up behind her, and then they were off.
When it happened, it of course happened after they’d left downtown behind. It happened on a stretch of empty road, because that’s always where terrible things happened.
Michelle checked her rearview mirror every so often, an old habit, checking that the single, bright eye of Jinx’s headlamp still followed. She did it the same way she would occasionally touch the hilt of a knife she carried; a thoughtless reflex. She drove with one hand, her free elbow resting on the window ledge, not in danger of falling asleep, but melting a bit like ice cream on a warm day. She wanted home, and comfortable pants, and her favorite spot on the couch. Maybe, if she hadn’t drifted off, Candy would arrive home, soon, and they could–
She did another check – and then a double-check. Something was wrong.
Someone was passing them. This was a long, flat, straight stretch of road, and the center line was a broken one; let your speed drop at all, and some wanker would go hurtling around you, as if jet-propelled. Michelle knew a moment’s panic when she saw a set of headlights rear up behind her, coming alongside Jinx in the oncoming lane, but she knew she was driving slowly. It was only someone passing. No need to–
The passing car swerved sharply to the right.
Jinx’s headlamp swerved, too – and then buckled, and was gone, somewhere along the shoulder. The passing car settled in his place behind her, high-beams – sitting tall; it was a truck of some sort – blasting through her back window, striking white fires in all her mirrors.
Michelle was suddenly very, very awake.
She sat bolt upright, both hands gripping the wheel tight, heart leaping. God, Jinx…
But she couldn’t think of him now, because the headlights were roaring up behind her, closer and closer. The glare in the mirrors was blinding; she had to squint against it.
It would overtake her, and then what?
Run her off the road? Rear-end her?
Oh God, oh God, she thought. And then: No.
Fox had been with her when she’d bought this car, and he’d insisted she upgrade and get the Hemi.
The truck bearing down on her might be big, even suped-up; might be fast and powerful.
But it wasn’t a muscle car.
She let out a deep breath, and punched the gas.
The engine roared. The wide rear tires grabbed, and pushed. It was too dark to see the evidence of her acceleration flashing past the windows, but a gap opened up between her and the truck, as the tachometer flipped wildly and the Challenger cycled up through its gears.
But then what was she supposed to do? At the midway point between home and work, there was no bit of salvation waiting on the side of the road. Pulling over, stopping, would only open an opportunity for a fate worse than a car crash.
Maybe she could outrun him outright. Maybe…
But, no, the truck was gaining again. She’d bought herself some time, but…
An idea occurred. The kind of crazy, unsafe, unlikely to succeed idea that hit like lightning in the midst of awful panic. But it was the only idea she had, so she took tight hold of it.
All the logical, Devin Green parts of her brain were screaming the same thing at her, pointing out the same ratio. She was in a low-slung, wide-bodied car built to hug the road. The truck bearing down on her was tall, too tall; the kind of jacked-up truck teenage boys took mudding. Of the two vehicles, one had a significant stability advantage.
She steeled herself, sent up a little prayer, edged her car halfway across the center line, and stepped on the brake.
She hit it with two quick taps, to keep from going through the dash; even so, the car dipped hard, and TJ woke with a startled yell in the backseat.
Two taps, then she cranked the wheel hard to the left, and hit the gas.
The truck’s headlights hit her full in the face for one awful moment, and she was totally blind. Then they were past, and she was blinking red spots out of her vision, and touching the brakes again, coasting down slowly this time. Even over the roar of her own engine, and the squeal of her tires, she heard the scream of the truck’s mud tires skidding across the pavement, and she heard the terrible thunder of collapsing metal as inertia carried it up and over, and it flipped.
The high-beams flared and spun, a revolving disco ball as the truck tumbled roof-over-tires again, and again, and again. She steered her car around, and in her own headlights she could see that the truck had ended up thirty feet off the road, upside down, motor choking and tires spinning down slowly; the roof of the cab was crushed. Ugly black streaks on the pavement veered off crazily toward the shoulder, and disappeared, a trail of laid-down rubber leading to the place where the truck had flipped.
Michelle braked the Challenger to a halt, and sat there a long moment, breathing sharply through her mouth.
I can’t believe that worked, she thought. And then, Shit, shit, shit. Her skin buzzed; the second the adrenaline started to drain away, she’d be shaking uncontrollably.
Sounds began to filter back through the steady throbbing of the blood in her ears: her engine purring quietly, ready for her next command. TJ full-on wailing now, crying, “Mama!” over and over.
She twisted around to look at him. Red-faced, crying, little feet kicking, but still buckled in and unharmed – save maybe a little whiplash. Kids were resilient; he’d be okay. Better than if that truck had caught them.
Jesus, she could have killed them both with that stunt.
She let out a deep, unsteady breath. “It’s okay, baby, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Someone tapped on her window.
She couldn’t help the little scream that left her lips as she whipped back around. She was already fumbling for the center console, for the gun stowed there, when she saw that the bearded face filling her window belonged to Jinx. Blood snaked in a thin rivulet down his temple, but he was on his feet, his expression tight with worry.
She buzzed down the window. “Are you okay?” she asked, voice shrill, panting.
“Fine. Bike’s a little banged up, but I managed to lay it down and get off the road. What about you guys?” He leaned in a fraction so he could look toward TJ, sobbing gustily now. “Y’all alright?”
“Just rattled.” Her hands were starting to tremble; her lungs felt quivery and insufficient, but seeing him whole and on his feet sent a wave of relief crashing through her. “We need to get out of here. There might be more. Is your bike still rideable?”
“Yeah. But hold on. I wanna check something.” He stepped back, and headed for the downed truck. In the bright flare of her headlights, she saw him draw his gun; he approached soft-footed, and ready to duck, prepared for any sort of attack.
But none came. He walked all the way up and crouched down beside the shattered passenger window. Even leaned down and braced himself on his hands to peer inside. He swapped his gun for his phone, and snapped a few photos.
“Shh, baby,” Michelle crooned, “shh, shh, you’re fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine, we’re going home soon.” Lilting like a song, and TJ subsided to sniffles and hiccups.
Jinx returned to her window, shaking his head. “If they’re not dead, they will be. I’m not risking putting a bullet in them and leaving a calling card.”
She was afraid to take her hands off the wheel and turn to TJ again; shock was coming on, and she thought she might swoon if she moved too much. “Right.” She swallowed. “That’s smart.”
“Here.” He fished in his pocket, and then handed something through the window to her. It took her a moment to realize it was a wrapped peppermint. “Suck on that. Get some sugar in you, at least until we get back. You good to drive?”
She unwrapped the mint with shaking fingers, and popped it in her mouth. Her nausea was returning, but the taste was instantly soothing. She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
It seemed to take forever to get home, the familiar roads now sinister, the darkness on either side hiding all sorts of monsters. An animal darted across her lane at one point, and she nearly screamed. She caught a glimpse of sandy brown and tan fur, a bushy tail: a fox.
It felt prophetic.
When they finally pulled in, and she killed the engine, it took all her strength to undo her belt and open her door. Jinx came around and helped her to her feet. Scooped TJ out of his car seat when she realized her arms were in no shape to hold her own baby.
Candy wasn’t home yet, still dealing with Pacer.
With Pacer’s sister, Michelle thought with a detached sort of ugly resentment.
Darla fussed over her; brought her tea with lots of sugar, and a sandwich that she couldn’t eat. Took TJ from her and went to lay him down in the sanctuary.
When she was finally alone, she sank down onto the couch in the sanctuary and folded her legs up beneath her. Still shaking, but more clear-headed now. She pulled out her phone, dialed, and waited.
Not long, though. He answered after the second ring.
She let out a deep breath that she knew gave away any calm she was about to feign. Oh well. Let him know. She should have done this days ago.
“Hi, Uncle Charlie. I need your help.”
Knoxville
Sixteen
Because Albie wouldn’t settle on a place for his new shop, Ghost was letting him use a coned-off section of one of the big steel storage warehouses at Dartmoor to work on furniture. Judging by the sad array of half-turned table legs laid out on the work bench, he hadn’t been very productive so far.
Fox had crossed the vast concrete floor silently, setting his booted footfalls down with a deft quiet he’d mastered long ago, so he whistled to announce his arrival when he pulled up on the opposite side of the cone barricade.
Albie – perched on a stool, bent over a sketch with his brow furrowed unhappily – lifted his head, glanced around, and then got marginally unhappier when he saw who it was.
“Nope,�
�� Fox said lightly, before his brother could speak. “You don’t get to act like I’m a stray cat turning up on your doorstep. Not when, one, this isn’t even a doorstep, and not when, two, you’re the one who got on a plane and chased me here.”
“I didn’t chase you.”
Fox grinned at him. “The remarkable part for you is that there was any chasing at all.”
Albie sighed and set down his pencil.
“How goes it with your lady love?”
“She’s not my – it’s fine. Things are fine,” he said, correcting hastily, jaw set.
“Really? Because I’ve heard you don’t even know how to kiss a woman after a date.”
Albie’s eyes went comically wide. He looked panicked. Then he scowled. “You bloody gossip. Who told you that?”
Fox slouched sideways and let his shoulder rest against the cool steel of the wall. “Your girl works for my girl. They talk, you know.”
Albie glared at him a moment longer – then groaned and wiped a hand along his jaw. “Fuck,” he said with great feeling. “I’m–”
“Pathetic.”
“Rusty. I’ve forgotten how to date someone properly.”
“Albert, you never knew. Tell me honestly, now: Have you ever been with anyone who wasn’t a club groupie looking for a wild night out?”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I” – Fox splayed a hand across his own chest – “never claimed to be a relationship man. You, though, have all the makings of a boring old sod with a wife and two-point-five, picket fence and all, but none of the savvy as to how to get there.”
Albie snorted. “Not a relationship? What do you call what you have with Eden?”
“A mutual understanding,” Fox said, ruthlessly shoving down the unhelpful little voice that piped up in the back of his mind. The one that was asking for things he didn’t begin to understand or recognize in himself. “And if you’re not pathetic, explain these flaccid attempts at table-making.” He gestured to the three half-formed legs resting at Albie’s elbow.
Albie glanced at them, mouth twisting with obvious disgust.
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