He didn’t seem to notice. “What’s OSS?”
“Out of school suspension.”
“Huh. Shame I dropped out in the eighth grade. I mighta enjoyed that.” He bumped her shoulder with his elbow, grinning.
Ava didn’t smile back. “I have to ask you something. But I don’t know if you’ll tell me the truth.”
He hid it well, but by the lights of the precinct shining through the glass front doors, she watched something akin to panic flare in his eyes. She knew, with a grab in her stomach, what he thought she was about to ask. And it saddened her to see his anxiety. He knew how she felt, and he was dreading the day she told him. He wouldn’t distance himself, wouldn’t leave her alone and set up any kind of boundary – no, how could he torture her that way? But he was afraid of her love; afraid of the day she turned it loose and let it slide off her tongue.
“Mason had some kind of colored tablet,” she pressed on, forcing herself not to think about the way he was manipulating her. “It looked like candy, and it sent him into a full-blown seizure. He said he bought it from Dad. From the club.” She swallowed her devastation as his panic was replaced with visible relief and a new interest. “Did he?”
He shook his head. “The Dogs don’t sell drugs,” he repeated the old mantra, the assertion she’d thrown at Mason earlier.
“I know, I know,” she said, waving away the old tired words. “But I’m asking you, Merc. Did the club sell that crap to him?” She glanced up at him with her head tilted back, feeling vulnerable and small. You, Merc, because you’re you and I’m me, and what’s happening to us?
He grew serious, studying her face a moment; she felt the touch of his eyes against her brow, her eyes, her nose…her mouth. If she just stretched upward…but no. She couldn’t. He’d never allow it.
“No,” he said. “We didn’t sell him that shit.”
“But you know something about it,” she pressed. “You’re not a good liar.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed…and then he glanced away and he smiled a false smile. “Ah, fillette, you know I can’t talk to you about that shit.”
She put her hand over the back of his, where it rested along the inside of his thigh. “The Stephens are a powerful, dangerous family in this town. They could make big trouble for the club.”
“How ‘bout you let us worry about that, alright?” His gaze moved down, to her hand. On his thigh.
Oh, shit, what was she doing?
Before she could pull away, he turned his hand over, capturing her slender fingers within his, trapping them gently in his closing palm. He had so many calluses, all the pads and planes rough from years of hard work and riding.
She was tucked against him and his body shielded her from view, from the light, from anything that would interfere. His large thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist, over her pounding pulse. Staring at their hands, he said in the softest, gentlest voice, “No, chéri. No, no, no. You’re just a little thing.”
Her eyes were full of tears before she could find any meaning in his words. “Why is that a bad thing?” she whispered.
“It isn’t.” He lifted her hand, placed it back in her own lap, and released her. “It’s a very bad thing.”
She wanted to stand, to walk away, put her back to him, but instead she sat, her head bowed against his arm, as the awful evening crashed over her and she mourned the loss of him as the man in her life. Things couldn’t continue. He could never again be “her Mercy,” because her feelings for him could never go back to the innocent adoration of childhood.
The door squealed open behind them and Ava rushed to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. She straightened away from him, only then realizing how close they were. She half-turned to glance over her shoulder and saw her parents exiting the precinct.
Maggie’s expression was a blend of tender, maternal things.
Ghost’s was suspicious.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” Ava got to her feet and dusted off the seat of her jeans, refusing to look at Mercy. “I was telling Mercy about the drugs, about what Mason–”
Ghost halted her with a raised palm. “We’ll worry about that,” he said, dismissing her. He cast a fast glance around them. “Somewhere that isn’t the police station.”
He looked to Merc. “Follow them home?” he asked. “I have a feeling I can look forward to a visit from our wannabe governor tonight at the clubhouse. I need to get some things in order first.”
Mercy climbed to his feet. “Sure thing, boss.” He gave Maggie a smile that suggested he hadn’t just broken Ava’s heart to bits and motioned toward the shallow precinct stairs. “Ladies first?”
Maggie pressed a fast kiss to Ghost’s mouth, then said, “Come on, baby,” and herded Ava down toward the car.
“Text me,” Ghost called.
“Always,” Maggie said.
Ava tried not to notice the way Mercy’s shadow mated with hers as he followed them.
“Something to eat, Mercy?” Maggie asked as she hung her jacket on the peg.
Ava dropped down into a chair at the table and risked a glance at him, the way he occupied too much of their kitchen. He looked like he belonged there – because he did. Even if now, in this moment with her eyes on him, she saw the barest scraps of self-consciousness in him. Her earlier assessment had been right: he didn’t know what to do with her feelings. He wouldn’t stop baiting them and he wouldn’t discuss them.
Bastard.
“Nah,” he said. “I should get going. You girls will be okay?”
“Of course.” Maggie waved him away as she opened the fridge and came out with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. “Thanks for the escort.” She gave him an affectionate tap on the arm.
“Yeah.” He lingered, just a moment, longer than he should have. Ava glanced away from him, but she felt his gaze. “Call if you need anything before Ghost gets home.”
“Will do.”
When he was gone, Maggie flipped the deadbolt, and then some of her carefree veneer sloughed away, leaving her tired and a little caved in at the shoulders. “Oh, baby,” she murmured as she returned to the counter and uncorked the wine, pulled down two glasses. She filled two regular dinner glasses halfway, then returned the wine to the fridge and returned with a can of Sprite that she halved between the two glasses. She brought the fizzing spritzers to the table and sat across from Ava. “I’m so sorry.”
Ava shrugged and watched the bubbles rise in her drink, wondering how many other mothers were pouring their daughters wine at the age of seventeen. She’d had her first sanctioned drink last year. “If you’re old enough to be in this family, then you’re old enough for a little nip here and there,” Maggie had said.
“We’ll get it sorted,” Maggie continued.
Ava shook her head. “Not this time, Mom. The club doesn’t have any sway with the school.”
Maggie made a face and sipped her spritzer. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”
“Mom…” Ava trailed off into a sigh. She was too tired to argue. Too tired to care. Her suspension would begin tomorrow, marking the day her college dreams would end. Her throat ached thanks to her tears from before. She wanted to take a bath…maybe drown in it…and go to bed.
She left her drink untouched and was getting to her feet when Maggie glanced up at her with sudden, intense seriousness. There was a graveness to the fine lines around her eyes, something sad and almost like regret.
“What?” Ava asked.
Maggie wrapped her hands around the cool glass in front of her and tipped her head, her body language an apology before she spoke. “You and Mercy sitting on the steps…”
Ava gripped the back of her chair hard. She felt her jaw clench and tried to keep her breathing regular. Just the suggestion that her mother knew sent her into immediate fight-or-flight mode, and since she was a Teague, fight was winning out. “Mom–”
“I understand,” Maggie said. “Trust me, baby, I understand more than anyone else in the world.” Her little
smile said, Pregnant at your age, remember? “There’s pain there, Ava. It would be so messy and it would hurt you so bad.”
Ava swallowed and stared down at her white knuckles. “You think I don’t know that?”
Maggie’s voice was all sympathy. “That’s why you went with Carter tonight, wasn’t it?”
“And look how well that turned out.”
Maggie exhaled in a tired-sounding rush. “Yeah. Sit down and drink your wine.”
Mercy saw the car turn in at the main clubhouse gate via the closed circuit monitor behind the bar. The black and white security camera feed showed a low-slung Mercedes glide up to the clubhouse and park alongside the tidy row of bikes.
“Company,” he announced, turning to face his VP.
They were a skeleton crew tonight, because this was family business, and not club business. James was there, and Aidan, and Mercy, because Ghost had enfolded him into his family after all these years of loyal, personal service.
Aidan lounged in a recliner with a magazine, and eased to his feet, a subtle tension stealing over him. He was a little more graceful these days, a little less overexcited, though he was still kind of a lovable douchebag.
James was at the bar, nondescript and relaxed, always the soft-spoken patriarch.
Ghost had the air of an emperor about him in the center of the common room, hands on his hips, as the front door squealed open and their guest of the evening entered without knocking.
As the rap of expensive dress shoes came down the corridor, Ghost called out: “That’s a good way to get shot, Mason, walking in unannounced.”
The footsteps paused a second, then came on, Mason Stephens Sr. making his finely-groomed, perfectly posh entrance. Mercy spotted the cufflinks, the Rolex, the breeding in the lines of his face. This was old school, Old South money. His was a family that could trace its roots back to landing at Plymouth Rock.
Stephens cast a glance around the room, searching all of them out, counting how many he stood up against. Mercy saw his nerves. The hunter in him detected the other man’s cold, ruthless interior – and the hidden deposits of fear. Stephens was full to the gills with fear, just like every man. In one glance, Mercy knew where to find that fear, and how to exploit, should it come to that.
“Not that I care,” Ghost said, “but how’s your boy?”
Stephens charged two steps forward, and his face flushed with anger. “He’s almost dead! I swear to God, Teague–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ghost said, hands raised. “You swear to whoever the hell you want to, but your kid, he didn’t get that shit from us.”
Stephens fumed silently a moment, veins popping along his temples and forehead. Then he gathered himself visibly, tugging on his fancy cuffs, forcing a professional calm across his surface. “No, and how convenient for you,” he said, tone brisk and furious. “But don’t feed me that shit you told the police before.” Some of his shaken confidence returned; he pulled on his superiority, like a mantle.
“Dartmoor,” he sneered. “Your legitimate business.” He spat the word. “Did you tell the police the names of the side companies Dartmoor funnels money into? Did you explain to them that your very legitimate money funds the man who sold that shit to my son?”
Mercy swallowed the bitter taste of that truth. That was what Ava didn’t know, what he’d never tell her. The Dogs used their real businesses as a way to fund riskier, more profitable illegitimate businesses. To the outside world, the Dogs had gone legit, but they’d never been more outlaw.
“ ‘Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghost said.
Stephens’ anger boiled over again. “Bullshit!” He stepped in closer to Ghost, close enough that Aidan edged in alongside them.
“James,” Ghost said mildly over his shoulder, “do we sell designer drugs to stupid punks who OD on them?”
“That’d be a no, brother,” James said with a helpful smile. “We’re just a bunch of entrepreneurs and Harley aficionados, Mr. Stephens,” he told Mason. “I guess people’ve seen too many movies; they think we’re some kinda devils or something,” he said with an easy laugh. “Imagine that, Merc,” he added.
“I just can’t,” Mercy said, shrugging. “How could anybody get such a wrong idea about us?”
Stephens’ eyes darted between the four of them, his jaw clenching tight. “This is how you do it, isn’t it? Plausible deniability. I ought to bring my financial advisor by; you could teach him a thing or two about immaculate bookkeeping.”
“Great. Have your people call my people,” Ghost said, “and we’ll set up a consultation. ‘Cause this meeting’s over, Mason.”
Stephens flashed a bitter smile. “What happened to Mason” – he leveled a finger on Ghost – “that’s on your head. You will pay for that.”
“Terrifying,” Ghost deadpanned.
“I’m shaking, Dad,” Aidan said. “Feel my hand. Shaking like a motherfucker.”
“Merc,” Ghost said. “You wanna walk Mr. Stephens out to his car?”
“Sure.” Mercy slid off his stool, stretched up to his full height, and saw Stephens pale.
Then the man backed toward the door. “Don’t get comfortable,” he said. “Your reign of terror in this town is over, Teague.”
“Awesome.” Ghost waved as Stephens finally turned and headed back the way he’d come. “And don’t forget LD Automotive for all your rich-boy car repair needs.
“Christ,” he muttered, turning to watch Stephens walk toward his car on the monitor. “Never a dull moment.”
“Nope,” James said.
Then Ghost turned to Mercy. “We’ve got to find out what that shit is, and get it off the streets before Stephens sics the mayor on our finances. Pay Fisher a visit first thing in the morning, yeah?”
Mercy nodded. “Yeah.”
Fourteen
Five Years Ago
“Ah, Fisher,” Collier said. “No one decorates a yard quite like him.”
“He’s an artist, really,” Mercy agreed. “I’m thinking of asking him to do my apartment.”
“Hmm,” Collier murmured in agreement. “It’d be magical.”
They stood outside the four-foot chain link fence surrounding Joe Fisher’s tumbledown double-wide trailer. It had been white fifteen years ago; the salmon trim strip along the roof was still visible, unfortunately. The windows were covered from the inside with beach towels and the whole back half of the trailer was rotting away to mushy splinters. It was the yard, though – the dirt yard with its collection of rusted car husks – that really captured the eye. In his spare time, when he wasn’t selling drugs of every variety to minors, Fisher’s favorite hobby was welding together what he called “junk art” out of old car parts, spoons, and coat hangers, decorated with chips of glued on glass. They were gnarled, ghastly shapes that resembled nothing and brought to mind creatures from Silent Hill.
Fisher’s one running truck sat parked in the driveway, as opposed to the dirt, and smoke curled out of one of the vents, from the stove most like.
“He must be cooking,” Collier said as they approached the front door and climbed its rickety porch. “Think he’ll have enough to share?”
“With the entire graduating class of the high school,” Mercy said with a snort.
Collier knocked and the sound of bare feet thumping across the linoleum echoed through the door. Mercy watched the peephole, seeing nothing, knowing Fisher was peering at them through it. He waved.
“Hiya, Joe. We need to have a little chat.”
Silence.
“A friendly chat,” Collier amended. He jerked a thumb toward Mercy. “I swear I’ll keep him on a leash.”
The feet retreated.
“He’ll go out the back,” Collier said.
“Oh, Fisher, you shouldn’ta done that,” Mercy called. And then kicked in the door.
The cheap molding gave way and the panel flew open with the sound of splintered wood and the overpowering smell of breakfast burning. The tr
ailer was one long run of filth and dumpster-quality furniture, a bedroom designated by an accordion curtain off to the right. Mercy had been inside the place before; he was well acquainted with the cigarette burns, the moldering food under the couch, the hoarded stacks of old magazines and newspapers, and the supplies for the junk art that were heaped in the corners in rusted piles.
Fisher was at the kitchen sink and, obviously having pulled the dirty plates from it (they were in a messy jumble on the counter), was in the process of pouring a bag of colored tablets down the drain, aiding his efforts with jabs of a wooden spoon. He glanced over his shoulder as they came for him, his eyes bloodshot, his features rat-like, his wispy mustache twitching.
“Joe, man,” Mercy said, “this is so not setting us off on the right foot today.”
Abandoning his task, Fisher yelped and made a leap toward the back door.
Mercy caught him by the back of his wifebeater and slammed him with one fast yank, dropping him onto his back on the scuzzy linoleum, knocking all the breath from him. Mercy put a boot in the middle of his bony chest, pinning him in place.
Collier went to the sink and lifted the half-full baggie, rattling the tablets inside. “How’d you know we were here about these?” he asked Fisher. The sun caught the sergeant-at-arms patch on his chest in a rather poetic way.
Fisher wet his lips and twitched like a trapped bug.
“And the truth would be great,” Collier said. “We already caught you with them – what good does lying do you now?”
“I dunno,” Mercy said, putting a little more pressure on the frail sternum beneath his boot sole. “Too many people tell the truth, and I’ll be out of a job. If he lies” – a wide smile for Fisher’s benefit – “then I get to go to work.”
“Jesus,” Fisher breathed. “No. No, man, I won’t lie.”
Collier folded his arms expectantly. “What are these?”
Fisher gathered a series of shallow breaths. He was high as shit, and having trouble putting all the answers together, though the sweat on his brow proved he was trying like mad. “It’s – it’s a designer drug. The kids call it Wild Bill. It’s like a fucking rodeo in your bloodstream.”
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