Fearless

by Lauren Gilley

  It was a cute picture, and Maggie smiled a moment, lingering in the shadowed foyer. But she’d been jailbait. She’d been a mom at seventeen. She knew what it was to have a heart that sang a siren’s song to deeper waters, and older men. She knew what it was like to get tangled up in the confusing feelings of age difference.

  Mercy had heard her come in, and he glanced her way, his eyes dark and flinty. Maggie saw the way he reared back from her in his mind, the way he wondered what she’d say to him.

  “I know it’s past her bedtime,” he said, “but she fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake her.”

  Maggie nodded on her way through to the kitchen where she put her bag and purse down. When she returned, she half-expected to see Mercy getting to his feet, but he was still planted squarely on the sofa, still holding Ava against his side.

  Sweet boy, Maggie thought fondly, with only a touch of worry for the future fate of Ava’s emotions. Right now, she was glad to have a six-five monster watching over her baby.

  She settled into her favorite little chair and pulled her feet up beneath her. The empty pizza box on the coffee table told her neither Mercy nor Ava was hungry. She’d reheat leftover meat loaf for herself later.

  “Aidan’s not home yet?” she asked, taking the elastic out of her hair and running her hands through her damp locks.

  “Nah. He and Tango were on cleaning duty last I heard. James told ‘em to wipe down the weight room floor to ceiling.”

  Maggie sighed. “Those boys…I swear. Neither one of them’s gonna graduate. I told Ghost he couldn’t prospect them until after they were done with high school…” She pursed her lips and silently cursed the situation. This new threat from the Carpathians had sent panic rippling through the club. Aidan and Tango had been begging to prospect since they’d obtained their driver’s licenses. Two weeks ago, they’d gotten their wish. Now, they had old beat-up bikes of their own; they wore cuts with Prospect bottom rockers. And instead of calculus homework, their evenings were filled with club housekeeping and strategizing revenge.

  “Aidan has his books with him,” Mercy said, clearly trying to console her. “He’s a sharp kid; maybe he can keep up with both.”

  Maggie twitched a smile for him, her gaze lingering on his massive hand where it rested on Ava’s shoulder. “He’s so wild,” she murmured. “Sharp, yeah, but restless.” She leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair and propped her temple against it. “My mother thinks I ought to kick him out of the house if he won’t keep up with school.”

  Mercy’s dark brows jumped.

  “I’d never do that. That’s the kind of mother she was. That doesn’t accomplish anything. I mean, look how I turned out.”

  He grinned. He had one of those truly happy grins, one that didn’t seem to belong on his harsh face.

  Maggie changed the subject. “You’re good with her.” She nodded toward Ava. “She doesn’t take to new people right off most of the time. She likes you.”

  There were people who feigned modesty, suck-ups who wanted to appear gracious. The way Mercy’s face twitched held nothing fake. He wasn’t a man who’d had many compliments in his life; he didn’t know what to make of them. In the pale wash of blue light, his cheeks darkened slightly. “Well, she…she’s smart. I don’t ever spend any time with kids, really, but I don’t guess most of them are smart and quiet.”

  Maggie snorted. “God knows I wasn’t.”

  Mercy’s returning smile was polite; his eyes went to Ava, the little sleeping cat-like creature she was at his side.

  It wasn’t just the children who were smart, Maggie acknowledged; her husband was a quick-thinker too. He’d perceived that vacant spot in Mercy, the cold loneliness. She wondered, though, if Ghost had ever anticipated that Mercy would grow to love his little charge. Because that’s what it was, the type of love that an uncle or father or big brother would have shown. Ava – who’d had so much trouble making friends at school – had captured this big biker effortlessly.

  The rain drummed ceaselessly on the roof.

  “You want a drink?” Maggie asked. “It’ll be a while before the boys get home.”

  “I don’t guess you’ve got any Johnnie Walker Red,” Mercy said with a hopeful voice.

  “Oh, honey.” Maggie stood. “Never doubt the liquor cabinet of an MC old lady.”

  **

  Present Day

  “He’s the mayor?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Maggie stirred the bubbling pot of oatmeal and stole a taste on the end of the wooden spoon. She made a face. “Ugh. Baby, you’ve got to tend what you’re cooking. This is like oat paste.”

  “No, Mom, you didn’t tell me.”

  Maggie knew she hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted anything to deter her daughter’s return home. So sue me, she thought. “I know I told you he was running.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  Maggie turned from the stove and saw Ava sitting at the table, eyes on the front page of the local paper, expression horrified. She was still in the terry shorts and tank she’d slept in, her hair a little flat as it fell in sheets down her shoulders. It was hard – especially after they’d been apart for any length of time – to rectify her little girl with the young woman who sat before her now. Beautiful in an unassuming way, long-limbed and sure-footed and all grown up.

  Yes, Maggie had known that the news of Mason Stephens Sr. finally winning office – here in Knoxville, no less – would upset Ava. And yes, she’d withheld the news on purpose, not wanting anything to discourage her baby from coming home.

  Ava glanced up, her brown eyes wide with fear. “He’s not kidding around,” she said, tapping the paper with her index finger. “He’ll want blood, and he’ll come get it.”

  “Try to come get it.” Maggie clicked off the burner behind her back and moved the pot off the stove in a covert move. Bless her heart: Ava liked to cook, but she sucked at it. “What happened last night wasn’t on us.”

  “Like Stephens will care.”

  Ronnie, sporting monstrous bedhead, shuffled into the room, stretching his arms up over his head.

  Ava half-turned to him. “Oh, hey. How’d you sleep?”

  “Fine.” He put both hands on the back of Ava’s chair. They didn’t kiss, didn’t touch; they maintained a respectful distance. It was all very circumspect.

  It was nothing like Ava had been with Mercy. When Ava was still just a girl, there’d been that effervescent affection. When Ava was a teen, there’d been that longing, that way Mercy had hated his own tangling of love and new, sudden attraction. Those two had never had a prayer. The energy had shimmered between them, dark and healthy in a way no one else had seen and so, so strong.

  But Ava with Ronnie – that was nothing. That was Melba Toast.

  Maggie waited for Ronnie to meet her gaze. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” As she went for another mug, he asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Satan’s the mayor,” Ava said.

  “Don’t give him that much credit,” Ghost said as he entered, and Ronnie nearly jumped out of his skin. “He’s not smart enough to be Satan.”

  Ghost was dressed, his salt-and-pepper hair damp from the shower, his cut in his hands. At fifty, his pecs and biceps stilled filled out his black muscle shirt in a way that left Maggie’s pulse skipping. He’d maintained that post-army hardness and strength in all the years they’d been together. From the slicked-back feral charm of the twenty-seven-year-old who’d caught her eye, to the proud, stern MC vice president who graced her kitchen every morning, her love of him had become more precious and resilient as she’d grown up within their marriage, like a hard shiny pearl. The jagged passion of girlhood had evolved into something sterling and beautiful.

  “Satan’s minion, then,” Ava corrected. She dropped the paper with a disgusted face and turned to her father.

  Ghost shrugged as he dropped into his usual chair. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. He can’t touch us. We haven’t done anything.” The
n he lifted his unforgiving gaze to Ronnie and the poor kid went rigid with terror.

  “How’d the couch work out for you?”

  “Fine.” Ronnie swallowed hard. “Sir.”

  “You gonna get your own place? Or have I got to put you up from now on?”

  “Ghost,” Maggie said. “Don’t.”

  “He’s going to get an apartment, Dad,” Ava said in an exhausted voice.

  “Is that true?” Ghost asked Ronnie.

  “Don’t torture the boy,” Maggie said, turning her back on the situation and going to the fridge for a fresh cantaloupe.

  She could no longer see Ronnie’s bulging eyes and quivering lips, but could envision them as she heard the tremors in his voice.

  “I – I’ve got two places to go look at today. Believe me, sir, I don’t mean at all to overstay my welcome.”

  In a mock-affronted voice, Ghost said, “ ‘Believe’ you? Is there something wrong with my couch?”

  “No, sir. I just meant that – that I didn’t want to…to infringe. I mean…I don’t want to bother you–”

  “You think I don’t know what ‘infringe’ means?”

  “Dad!” and “Ghost!” Ava and Maggie said together.

  “What? I can ask questions in my own house,” he grumbled.

  “Ronnie’s a responsible young man,” Maggie said as she sliced into the cantaloupe. “He’s not planning on living on our couch long term. Are ya, Ronnie?”

  “N-no, ma’am.”

  Maggie bit down hard on her tongue as she pulled down a serving platter, her back still to the crew at the table. Ronnie. Oh, Ronnie, you don’t have a prayer. Ava had grown up with decisive, unshrinking men, not stuttering yuppies.

  “What’s for breakfast?” Ghost asked. “I smell something burned.”

  “How sweet, baby.” Maggie plated the sliced cantaloupe and went to the pantry for the box of Cheerios.

  “Well, I smell it.”

  “I burned the oatmeal,” Ava said in a miserable voice. “I’m just never going to be any good at this cooking thing.”

  “Here.” Maggie set the cereal, three bowls, and the cantaloupe on the table. “We’ll have to make do.”

  Ghost reached for the Cheerios and his quick, disgruntled glance told her his mood this morning had nothing to do with breakfast, and everything to do with Ava’s boyfriend: an annoyance dumped onto his pile of annoyances.

  Maggie gave him a quick tight smile that said stop worrying about that, and passed out the bowls. “Ava, when do you need to leave this morning?”

  Ava glanced up at the wall clock and gasped. “In forty-five minutes! Oh, shit.” She bolted up from her chair, hair trailing behind her as she whipped around and headed for the hall.

  “At least eat something,” Maggie said.

  “No time!”

  In her absence, Ghost and Ronnie regarded one another with contempt on one side, terror on the other.

  “Right, then,” Maggie said, sliding out her chair. “Some weather we’re having, huh?”

  **

  Mercy dreamed of the swamp. Its mists and vapors, its brackish glass-topped water splitting against the prow of the bateau.

  He sat at the outboard, steering, the motor a low purr echoing off the surface. Ava sat in the bow, her legs drawn up beneath her, her dark hair glimmering in the hazy sunlight as she watched the bayou slide past from behind the lenses of her sunglasses. She wore cutoffs and a white tank top, her limbs sun-bronzed. Her small elegant feet were bare, resting against the bottom of the bateau; he could see the navy nail polish on her toes.

  When she turned to regard him over her shoulder, her smile was wondrous, her lips soft and pink. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “Why’d you ever want to leave?”

  But then, like always happened, he remembered that Ava had never been to New Orleans with him.

  And then his eyes opened, like old rusty steel vent shutters, heavy and gritty with the sleep he hadn’t had enough of. He was in the dorm room where he’d had Ava in his lap the night before, alone, still fully dressed, and mildly hungover. Last night, the party had dispersed, and they’d sat vigil around the bar, waiting for news from the hospital. Hound and Rottie had gone hunting, wanting to be just the two of them, keeping low profiles on the streets as they sniffed around for whispers of what had happened at Dartmoor.

  In truth, he wasn’t sure why he’d hoped for a peaceful return. Knoxville had always been both the best and worst place for him. That would never change.

  He wouldn’t shed any tears for Andre on a personal level; he hadn’t known him well and couldn’t claim to have liked him. But on a club level, the murder of any member was a capital offense. Especially since Andre’s murder hadn’t been about him, but about the colors he wore. It was a murder against the club, not just the man in it.

  Welcome back, Merc. Now get to work.

  The clubhouse was quiet, but in the distance, he could hear the humming of air wrenches at the bike shop. Whatever internal drama within the MC, it was a Saturday, a work day, and the Dartmoor businesses would be running like always.

  Mercy shoved out of bed, brushed his teeth with a swallow of the Johnnie Walker he’d left on the nightstand, and went to greet the day.

  The common room was in a crepe streamer shambles, chip crumbs, empty bottles, damp napkins, and condom wrappers littering the floor and every table service. A hangaround was in the process of sweeping and trash-collecting. The kid nodded to Mercy on his way through and said a quick “morning, sir.” Louisiana members Matt and Grady were at the bar, talking over coffee, the hangaround behind the bar laying out napkins, swizzle sticks and a jar of creamer.

  “I like how respectful the flunkies are around here,” Mercy said as he climbed onto the stool next to Matt. “They call me Sir. I could get used to that.”

  Grady chuckled a thick, smoker’s laugh. “Whoever said these Millennials can’t respect their elders was wrong. They find their manners when it counts.”

  “You’re the only one who thinks that,” Matt said, voice distracted. He was reading a newspaper and slid it toward Mercy. “Read that. See what you’re getting yourself into.”

  The front page declared that the mayor, some dick named Stephens, was “vowing” to shut down the MC. There was a hastily snapped nighttime photo of the ambulance leaving the clubhouse, clearly taken from a distance. So the press had been alerted. That photographer had been waiting to take photos, before anyone knew that Andre was being carted off to the hospital.

  Then the name struck home: Stephens. Mercy had never met the Knoxville mayor, but he’d had an intimate run-in with the man’s son, Mason Jr. The night five years ago filled his mind and crippled him a moment, bringing back to him that awful fear and tenderness that had accompanied his usual rush of furious adrenaline. That night, he’d been murderous on Ava’s behalf, and it was an experience he had no desire to repeat. It was too lethal, that kind of rage, too all-consuming.

  “You picked a good time to patch Tennessee,” Grady said with an eyebrow twitch. “Good luck with all that shit.”

  Mercy pushed the paper back as the hangaround handed him a steaming mug of coffee. He nodded a thanks. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he said. “I can handle it.”

  Grady smirked. “Just make sure you’re handling the right thing.”

  Matt chuckled into his coffee.

  “I could take offense to that,” Mercy said. He sipped his coffee and found it sugared just the right amount, no cream. He saluted the hangaround with his mug and earned a pleased smile for it. Knoxville had way better flunkies than NOLA.

  A sudden tangle of footfalls heralded brothers coming in the front door.

  “Good, you’re up,” Ghost said as he stepped into sight, a supportive arm ready for an unsteady James should the president wobble. “You ready for church?”

  “Yeah.” Mercy took a slug of his coffee and slid off the stool with one last glance for his NOLA brethren. Grady and Matt gave him ope
nly confused glances; neither of them understood why he’d throw himself against temptation again, not after what had happened before.

  But that wasn’t their business.

  To Ghost, he said, “Let’s do it.”

  “Purse, keys, phone…” Ava checked her reflection in the floor length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. She wore pressed black skinny trousers, black leather pumps, and a pale blue summer sweater over her sleeveless white silk blouse. She’d flat-ironed her wavy hair and then secured it in a sleek ponytail. In her ears, she wore the diamond studs Ghost had given her for her high school graduation. Her fingernails were unpainted.

  All very professional and severe.

  She was a totally different girl than she’d been the last time she’d checked her outfit in this mirror.

  “Ten till!” Maggie called from down the hall.

  “I know!” she called back. She snatched her slender leather briefcase off the bed and ducked into the hall, trying not to hurry so fast that her heels got tripped up in the carpet nap.

  Maggie was packing a brown bag lunch for herself at the kitchen table, and she had company. Jace sat at the table, drinking coffee out of a Tweety and Sylvester mug, his eyes half-open and the color of a bruised pomegranate. He was in the rumpled flannel Ava had seen him in the night before.

  “You might want to mainline that,” Ava said, gesturing to the coffee.

  “Oh, I missed you,” he grumbled.

  Maggie swatted him hard on the side of the head without taking her eyes off Ava, smiling. “Well, don’t you look…” Her smile, brittle already, began to crack around the edges.

  “Like a yuppie,” Ava said. “Yeah, I know. Bye, Mom, I’ll call you in a bit.”