Ghost gave him one brief glance, a welcome and a reprimand all in one.
Directly across from Michael, in the VP spot, blonde-haired blue-eyed Walsh was giving him a steady look, the Englishman, as always, difficult to read.
Ghost said, “I saw Collier this morning,” and silence reigned, all eyes on the president as they honed in on the news he had to share.
Michael allowed his guilt and stress to fade, white noise in the back of his head as he listened.
“Andre and Jace were cooperating with Fielding,” Ghost continued, “because they were deep in debt with some dealer. Shaman. For all we know, they were in tight with him before they ever prospected. They could have come into the club with the intention of infiltrating it. Shaman was betting on the Carpathians pushing us out of town, and he musta been putting some kinda pressure on Andre and Jace for them to turn stool pigeon to the cops.”
“They couldn’t tell us that this dealer was after them,” Rottie said, grim-faced, “because that would have been admitting they were betraying the club.”
“Figured we’d…” Walsh drew an elegant finger across his own throat.
Hound made an old man’s deep-throated harrumph sound. “Yeah, and look how that turned out for ‘em.”
“What I don’t understand,” Mercy said down at the foot of the table, “is how no one around here knew anything about the little shits’ personal lives.” He lifted his brows expectantly, inviting one of them to explain.
Ghost sighed and shook his head. “I dunno. I never spent any time with them.”
“They were only friends with each other,” RJ said. “They did club stuff, but they were always together, and they didn’t hang out after hours with anyone else.” He winced. “Except for the time Andre was with Collier.”
And Collier had noticed something off, had realized the betrayal, and handled it himself, putting both the traitors in the ground.
“I was Jace’s sponsor,” Dublin said, hanging his head. “I shoulda known.”
“We all shoulda known,” Ghost said, addressing Mercy. “We were busy, and we needed new members to beef up the ranks, and we all got careless. Those two were assholes, but so’s everyone in their generation. None of us put the time in to investigate them like we should have.” He gave his son-in-law a glance that said are you happy? We fucked up, and we admitted it.
Mercy didn’t look happy, but there was a flash of pain and anger in his eyes. He’d been banished, and in his absence, disloyal members had been patched. That didn’t sit well with him.
It didn’t sit well with Michael either, but he was loath to agree with the man.
“What do you mean everyone in their generation is an asshole?” Aidan asked, indignant and young and stupid as always. “We’re in their generation.” He gestured between himself and Tango.
Tango had the grace to duck his head, spiky blonde lock of the middle part of his hair falling onto his forehead, earrings glimmering dully in the lamplight.
Aidan stared indignantly at his father.
“Right,” Ghost said. “You are.”
Not another father/son fight at the table. None of them needed that right now.
Michael interrupted, dispelling the sudden tension. “The real problem here is that Collier went rogue. He should have come to us, told us what he suspected. Now we can’t question Andre and Jace, and we’ve got no way to get the answers we need, save from prison gossip.” The more he spoke about it, the more disgusted he became. He’d always respected the previous VP; he’d been fair, competent, focused. What he’d done went against everything Michael had ever been taught about the MC. “Collier knew better.”
“He did,” Ghost agreed. “But now it’s spilt milk, and all that.”
“That’s three members who went off grid.”
Ghost gave him a surprised glance. He’d never argued in church before. Or anywhere, really.
If he was honest, Michael wasn’t sure where this was coming from, only that it was boiling up inside him.
“So Andre and Jace were traitorous pricks who never loved the club. Yeah. Okay. But Collier? He had a duty to bring their transgressions to this table.” He thumped his hand down onto it.
Ghost, to his surprise, said, “He was doing what he thought was right.” They’d been childhood friends, after all, and he would defend the man.
“That’s not how a motorcycle club works,” Michael said. “If we all went around doing whatever the hell we wanted, because it was ‘right,’ then it’d be chaos. What’s the point of the MC if no one respects it?”
And then understanding dawned, in a moment of sheer horror.
This was about Holly. This was about his own wants, his own code of right and wrong. Collier had overridden the protocol, and he’d been forgiven for it. Michael felt sure he wouldn’t be allowed that same grace, and he was wall-punching, teeth-gnashing angry about it.
He needed to get a grip.
He needed to get some air.
No, wait, couldn’t get air. Church still in session. Sit very still then, get quiet, don’t say anything else.
He took a deep breath and stared down at his hands. They were knotted together in a pose that should have looked relaxed; he could see the veins standing out in his fingers and wrists.
The truth hurt: he wanted to kill three men for a pretty little waitress who’d spent four months talking to him. Who’d said she wanted to be friends. Who’d invited him into her bed, her body, because she couldn’t afford to pay him, and she had no idea how much more valuable her offer was than cash.
He wanted, for once, to use his gifts of speed and silence and deadly force to do something that felt good and right, rather than just necessary.
He didn’t want to see Holly’s face in the paper and know she’d been killed, and that he could have done something to prevent it.
He’d zoned out, and the meeting had continued on around him. He refocused. Ghost had switched topics, was talking about the new dealers who wanted to be a part of their district.
The men who’d met Ratchet and Mercy at Bell Bar and frightened Holly. The men he’d been propositioned with executing.
“We’re meeting tomorrow morning to sample the product,” Ratchet was saying. “If it’s decent, you wanna walk them through the rulebook?” he asked Ghost.
“I want to meet them personally,” Ghost said. “We can’t afford another fuckup right now.”
“I’ll come,” Michael offered. As sergeant at arms, his presence would be expected at something like this, there to protect his president.
But Ghost shook his head. “Merc can tag along. He’s already met the guys. And” – he sent a smirk down the table at his son-in-law – “if anybody’s gonna put the fear of God in them, it’ll be him.”
Mercy gave an elaborate mock bow over the table.
“Shithead,” Ghost said, affectionately.
“Gramps,” Mercy shot back.
Several of the guys chuckled.
Michael studied the dirt under his fingernails. Dark, rich dirt, from the farm, from scraping the sticky-backed targets off the plywood.
When the meeting was adjourned, Ghost said, “Michael, hold back a second.”
Michael complied, dread pooling in his belly. He stood with his arms folded behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, soldier-alert and ready for his general’s instructions as his brothers emptied out of the chapel behind him.
Tango was the last out, and closed the doors with a tactful, respectful gesture of bowed head and silent hands against the knobs.
Then they were alone, as chatter erupted down the hall, and spilled into the common room.
Ghost lifted his abandoned cigarette from the ash tray and took an absent drag, leaning a hip against the table and fixing Michael with a pointed look.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael frowned. “Nothing.”
Ghost shook his head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say so many words at one time before.
You wanna tell me what’s up? You tired? Things were crazy for a while.” He gestured absently toward the air, smoke swirling off the end of the cig. “I was serious about you taking some time off, if you need to. Dublin’s got plenty of help at the garage, and I’m hoping I won’t need anybody six-feet-under for a little while, at least.” He grinned, a thin, emotionless gesture. Ghost was never truly casual and happy save with his old lady.
Michael wasn’t causal and happy ever.
He said, “I don’t need time off, sir. I’m fine.”
Ghost studied him a moment, his dark eyes – so much like those of his children – fathomless. “Do me a favor, though. Take the time anyway. Don’t you usually go see your uncle at Christmas anyway?”
Michael nodded. He had turkey and stuffing at the big dining room table at the farm with his Uncle Wynn, while the Great Danes and hounds looked on.
Ghost said, “You know you’re welcome at the house if you don’t have other plans” –
No way did either of the Teague women, or Mercy, or probably even Aidan want him at the family table.
- “but either way, I think you need a break. You’re tense.”
Michael took a deep breath. “Is that an order?”
“A suggestion. From one stressed bastard to another.” Ghost grinned. “You’re twitchy, and that’s not normal.” Or helpful, was the unspoken sentiment.
“I’ll think about it,” Michael consented.
Ava was pulling the cling wrap off the brownies when church let out, and the boys came into the common room.
Aidan reached her first. “Shit. Are they poisoned?” He lifted one of her double chocolate brownies with green and red sprinkles, holding it to the light with a grimace. “Am I gonna die if I eat this?”
“Of sheer bliss,” she said in a falsely sweet voice that she saved just for her brother. “They’re pretty good, if I do say so.”
“What’s in ‘em?”
“Chocolate chips and chocolate chunks. Hence the double chocolate brownies.”
Tango joined them, and asked her with a glance if he could have one, waiting for her nod before lifting one from the plate. “They smell fantastic, hon.”
“Thank you, Kev.” She sighed and looked at her brother. “Why can’t you learn from him how to talk to people properly?”
He ignored her. “No, I meant, what’s in them?” He made a face and tilted the brownie toward her top side-up.
“On them,” Ava corrected. “Those would be sprinkles, Aidan.”
His face intensified in its disgust. “Why’d you do that?”
“They’re festive that way.”
“Yeah, man,” Mercy said, drawing up to the bar and knocking his shoulder into Aidan hard enough to set him off balance for a half-step. “It’s festive. Get with the program.” He took two from the tray, took a huge bite of one to prove to the others that they were not in fact poisoned, and then spoke around it as he chewed.
“Writer’s block?” he asked Ava, face sympathetic.
This was the third time in ten days she’d brought baked goods to the clubhouse for all the guys. “Really bad,” she said. “My brain won’t cooperate.”
“That’s the baby,” Briscoe said. “My Darla couldn’t focus on anything when she was pregnant with Ethan. She messed up the checkbook once, and then thought we were five grand short when it came time to pay the credit card bills.” He rolled his eyes, then offered her one of his friendly, gap-toothed smiles. “It’ll get better.”
“Sorry.” Mercy leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Brownies are good though.”
Aidan had finally taken a bite of his, and shrugged, forehead smoothing in surprise. “That’s not bad.”
“You dork, you ate the cookies I made earlier in the week.”
“Those were yours?”
“Ava,” Ghost said, appearing beside her much like his club nickname suggested. “Are you trying to win some kind of old lady award? I keep telling you we don’t have one of those.”
She bit back on a smart retort. He’d questioned her just a few days ago about the time she spent cooking, and the time she spent with her mother, and at the clubhouse. He was worried, in the same old Ghost-way, that she had given up her grad school and author dreams for Mercy. “Dad,” she’d told him, “no one wants me to pursue my writing more than he does. I can balance it. I can be an old lady and a writer too. Stop worrying.”
He’d never stop, though.
“I made too big a batch,” she said now. “I didn’t realize till they were in the oven that the recipe said it served twelve.”
“And we’re glad for it,” Dublin said, coming to take one.
“She’s working on a new story right now, aren’t you, baby?” Mercy said. To Ghost: “She’s gonna enter it in a writing contest. Where is it? Seattle?”
Ava nodded.
She could tell Ghost still flinched a little every time Mercy called her some pet name. And that was only hearing the tame, in-public ones, that had nothing to do with her eagerness in bed. Poor Dad. He was never going to relax.
But he nodded, said, “That’s good,” and gave them both an awkward smile before he walked off.
When the others were gone, brownies in hands and mouths, Mercy dropped his voice to a conspiratorial volume and said, “He’s just sore I keep calling him Gramps.”
Ava grinned. “I thought you liked Papa T?”
“Hmm. That’s too nice for him, isn’t it? Makes me think of someone with a bald spot and a spare tire.”
She shrugged. “I like Poppy.”
Mercy’s face split with the most evil smile. “Poppy? Oh, that’s it, then. Poppy. Pretty pretty Poppy.”
“As in Pop, not as in the flower.”
“Too late, I’m already visualizing it.” He sat down on a bar stool and reached for another brownie. “Poppy. You’re brilliant, you know that?”
“I’m sure Dad will think so too.” She shook her head.
A flicker of movement behind Mercy drew her eyes, and she was startled to see Michael approaching them, his walk silent across the boards, his expression something more careful and emotional than the usual Terminator mask.
She was mildly shocked. He’d never spoken to her, never come willingly toward her, never eaten any of the baked goods she’d brought in for the boys. And yet it appeared that he was about to do all three, coming up to the bar, making eye contact with her.
Mercy turned toward him with a mixture of surprise and veiled hostility.
Ava spoke before Mercy could. “Michael. Hi.”
He nodded. “Hello.”
Ava nudged the plate toward him. “Brownie?”
He glanced down at the offering, then back at her face. If he saw the way Mercy was glaring at him, he didn’t acknowledge it. He stared at her a long moment, until Mercy cleared his throat rudely and Ava had begun to twitch inside her sweater, the heavy weave suddenly itchy beneath his intense scrutiny.
Finally, he said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
And then he just stared some more. Saying nothing, not even blinking.
“What do you–” she started.
He pulled back and turned away, striding through the common room and down the entry hall toward the front door.
“Fucking creep,” Mercy said, glaring after him.
Ava touched the pulse point in the side of her neck, felt the rapid tattoo adrenaline and fear had brought on. “Something’s up with him.”
“Yeah, he’s a fucking creep.”
“No…something else.”
Eight
She would be better off, Holly reasoned, to stop thinking about him. She would put him from her mind, stop engaging him if he came into the bar, and let him fade slowly from her every waking thought. She would stop penning his name in her journal, stop seeing it printed in her slanted, masculine handwriting each night. She’d ask one of the other girls to take his drink and dinner order. She’d do what she’d always done best:
make herself small and unnoticeable.
A great idea in theory. But when he came into Bell Bar at his usual time, he wasn’t carrying a book, and his gaze wasn’t fixed to the floor like it always was. He took his table, and she felt his eyes come straight to her across the dim interior, locking on like laser guided missiles.
She felt a weakness ripple through her, a softening of muscles, a clawing desperation. She didn’t want to stop thinking about him. It wasn’t just about him being The One anymore, the perfect killer. Mostly, it was just about him, and the way being around him made her want to be around him more.
Was this what normal women felt for normal men? Or was this just as twisted as every other part of her life?
He wanted her to come to him – that was plain by the way he watched her. But she wasn’t going to hop to. She’d done plenty of that in the past, out of fear, and necessity. She’d followed orders to stay alive. But she wasn’t afraid of Michael.
She felt the tiniest flexing of power inside herself. He didn’t own her, control her. She could make him wait a second. He, in his calmness, steadiness, his self-assured masculinity, had given her the gift of that tiny power. And because she was so grateful for that, she finally went by the bar, picked up his usual Jack, and went to his table.
His eyes were still fixed to her face.
She tried to appear calm, indifferent. “Something to eat?” she asked, setting the whiskey in front of him.
“A burger. I don’t care. Something.”
So unlike him.
Holly nodded, and turned to walk away.
“Hol.”
The shortening of her name froze her to the spot. She dampened her lips, lifted her brows, tried to keep her voice steady. How stupid, she thought, that something like a nickname should leave her breathless and giddy.
“Yes?”
“The food can wait. Sit with me.”
It was both an order and a request, the harshness of his voice softened by the fractional lifting of his brows.
She couldn’t have refused if she’d wanted to.
Holly slid into the booth across from him, tray leaning absently against her leg. She didn’t speak, but waited for him to say whatever it was that was burning inside him, forcing him to breach all his protocols.
Price of Angels (Dartmoor Book 2) Page 12