Fearless

by Lauren Gilley

  “No.” He opened his mouth against her neck, tongue flexing against the pounding pulse point in her throat. His fingers teased her. “Can you?”

  She applauded herself for holding out a full five seconds. Because in those five seconds, his fingertips worked against her until she was slippery.

  “No,” she breathed, as her hips rolled, unable to keep still any longer. “No…but, God, Mercy, this is wrong…”

  But he was tugging her shorts down, and his palm was against her sex, pushing her legs farther apart. And then he was entering her from behind, as they lay on their sides, nestled together like spoons.

  His hand splayed across her belly and he drew her back against him. They barely moved, the sex slow, easy nudges of his hips, and the bed made not a sound. The sheets whispered and even that was hard to hear.

  Ava fell into a pleasure-swamped dream state, half-awake, feeling drunk and languid. She could have drifted like this, searching, for hours, it felt like. But they had to sleep; they had to find some kind of finish.

  He eased her over onto her stomach, helped her get her knees under her. The hard thrusting sent her over the edge and she felt him come as the spasms pulsed through her.

  “Just wait till I get you alone,” he murmured afterward, as he pulled her up against his chest. “Just wait, fillette. You won’t be able to stand it.”

  The alarm went off at four. They dressed in the dark, and before they left the bedroom, he kissed her, petting her hair and neck for long moments, a wordless greeting and display of affection and a desperate sort of need to be touching that she echoed in her own skin. They needed time together. Real, unbroken, continuous days of time, to take back what they’d lost in those lonely five years, and whisper quietly about what they planned to do in the years to come. To enjoy each other and breathe the same air. She hated the travel, and his hands on her hair told her that he hated it too.

  Layla and Sly were waiting in the kitchen, Sly dressed, Layla in a gray silk robe tied tight at her waist.

  “I made sandwiches,” Layla said. “So you don’t have to eat roller food on the road.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Ava said as she accepted the tightly rolled bags that were just the right size to fit in the saddle bags.

  “Hey, this big monster brings my hubby home safe from London” – Layla gestured to Mercy – “a few sandwiches are the least I can do.”

  More than a few sandwiches, Ava reflected, feeling the heat wash across her face. “I pulled the sheets off the bed and–”

  “It’s fine,” Layla assured. She smiled. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Wait, what’s wrong with the sheets?” Sly asked, glancing down at his wife.

  Layla elbowed him. “Do you guys need anything else before you hit the road? Drinks? Chapstick? I can’t imagine traveling all that way on a bike.” She shuddered.

  Ava took a deep breath, touched with dread at the idea of getting back on the Dyna. “No, I think we’re good.”

  Layla hugged her in the kitchen, wished her well.

  “Thank you so much,” Ava said to her, squeezing the other woman’s small shoulders. “You have no idea. This was so wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Stop on your way back through,” Layla encouraged. She squeezed Ava’s hand as they pulled apart. “Good luck.”

  Sly walked them out to the driveway. “I know you’ve got an army of Dogs at your back,” he told Mercy, “but if you need anything, let us know.” His face, expressionless and harsh with its lines framed by the overhead security light in the carport, was somehow benevolent.

  “I appreciate it, man. I owe you one. Personally.” Mercy shook his hand, pulled him into one of those man-hugs she’d grown up witnessing.

  And then Mercy was on the bike and she was settling onto her perch behind him, hands on his leather-clad shoulders.

  “Ready?” he asked, before the motor turned over.

  She pressed her helmeted head against his back and nodded, so he could feel it.

  And they were off.

  Forty

  The doorbell chimed at seven-fifty-three. Maggie was ready, sitting at the table in jeans, white silk shirt, and her favorite slip-on around-the-house shoes, little leather clogs Ghost told her were too ugly to be seen out of doors. She took one last swallow of her coffee, stood, and made her way through the house toward the front door.

  Harry sat on the sofa, watching the morning news, and was half-out of his seat. “You want me to get that?”

  “No, just sit tight,” she told him. She didn’t doubt, at this point, that he’d come running if she yelled.

  It had been a tense twenty-four hours since she’d waved Ava and Mercy down the street yesterday morning. It was one thing to send her little girl off to college; quite another to send her off to hide in the swamp while the disappearances of two rich boys blew over. She kept waiting for the phone to ring, the bell to chime, some imaginary bomb to go off. Her first thought, as she’d listened to the doorbell, had been Thank God. Waiting was terrible. She’d rather face interrogation than sit on her hands and wait for something to happen.

  The man on the front step looked like he was Aidan’s age; close-cut hair and a broad face that didn’t lend itself well to expression. He was dressed in jeans and a sport coat, sneakers. She didn’t miss the shiny flash of a badge at his belt.

  Maggie put a benign smile on her face and opened the door by a third, so she filled the threshold. “Can I help you?”

  His eyes did an up-down sweep of her before landing on her face. She knew what he was looking for: visible tattoos, tits hanging out, lit cigarette and a bad dye job on her hair. All the old clichés. She took satisfaction in the veiled surprise in his gaze. Her tats were nobody’s business but Ghost’s, and she’d be damned if she walked around looking like a hot mess.

  “Margaret Teague?” he asked.

  “Maggie,” she corrected, wrinkling her nose.

  “Margaret is such a grandmother name.” Which, given the state of things with Mercy and Ava, she’d earn that title at some point in the near future.

  He lifted his brows.

  “Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”

  “Agent Grey, ma’am, FBI.” He brushed his coat away from his waist so she could see the badge better. “I’d like to have a word with your daughter. Ava.”

  So this was Ronnie’s handler. Maggie kept her face carefully blank.

  When she was sixteen, a cop had come to the door of Ghost’s apartment once, wanting to have a look around, trying to make an unwarranted search. She’d told him no – she knew the law – but she’d been quivering and chewing at her lip, knees shaking. When Ghost got home, she’d thrown herself into his arms. “I was so scared,” she’d admitted, tears streaming down her face. “Is he going to arrest you?”

  “No, baby,” Ghost had assured. “He’s just being a pain in the ass. Don’t ever be afraid to tell somebody like that to get the fuck out.”

  She’d never done that – she prided herself on having more grace than her man – but over the years, she’d learned to go Teflon-faced and let all these boys in brass just slide right off her. She should play poker, she reflected. Nobody could crack her.

  She let her smile widen at the corners, a move he hadn’t expected, judging by his responding frown. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you missed her. She just left for school ten minutes ago.”

  “Where? At UT? Can I find here there now?”

  “You probably could.” She propped her shoulder in the doorjamb, casual, relaxed. “But I have no idea what her schedule is or which building she’s in.”

  His frown deepened. “What about after school?”

  “Sometimes she comes by my office, sometimes she comes home, visits with her friends.” She shrugged. “You know how kids are; they get grown and you can’t ever pin them down anymore. But if you have a card to leave, I can have her call you.”

  He shoved both hands in his pockets, clearly pissed off
at this point. Not so elegant, this agent. “I’m also looking for Ava’s boyfriend, Ronnie Archer. I understand he came to Tennessee with her.”

  “Ronnie.” Maggie smiled. “Sweet kid, really. Not ever what I expected her to bring home, what with growing up with these biker boys and all.” She chuckled. “And here comes clean-cut Ronnie with his real Polo and his hair gel. He’s adorable.”

  “Yeah,” Grey said, flatly. “I’ve heard. But where is he?”

  “Out somewhere buying a Porsche or something, I guess. I dunno. I have no idea what he does while Ava’s at school. As you can imagine, he doesn’t exactly” – she dropped her voice – “fit in around my house. He and my hubby avoid one another when they can.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But like I said, leave your card, and I’ll have them both call you. What did you say your name was?”

  “Grey.” His right hand withdrew from his pocket, and in it, a business card. “It’s imperative that I speak with both of them as soon as possible.”

  Maggie gave him a little mock salute with the card. “I’ll tell them.”

  Then she shut the door in his face and turned the deadbolt. As she walked back into the living room, she took a photo of the card with her phone and texted it to Ghost. The fed, she said in her message. For Ratchet. Then she deleted the text, and fired one off to Ava.

  How r u this morning?

  Layla, not knowing what they would prefer, had packed a mix of peanut butter, roast beef, and turkey sandwiches. They decided to save the peanut butter for later, since it wouldn’t spoil, and they each took half a turkey and have a roast beef, so they could mix it up. They ate on the grass median strip in front of a Texaco somewhere outside Montgomery, Alabama, cross-legged amid the empty drive-through cups and cigarette butts that littered the short turf. The sun was warm, and Ava shed her jacket, enjoying the heat on her skin as she chewed and watched the activity of the gas station from behind the lenses of her shades.

  Mercy had eaten, as always, like a hungry dog gulping its food, and had stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, his giant dirty boots in her lap.

  “Do you think my old place is still available?” he asked without any real concern, entranced by the cloud patterns above them.

  “It might be. You want Mom to go by and see? Maybe we could wire a deposit check from New Orleans. It’d be waiting on us when we got back.” Waiting on us…because they were a unit now. Ghost could be as angry as he wanted; Mercy was her husband, and she’d be living with him. The idea sent a thrill through her.

  “I dunno.” He sighed and his great chest lifted and then dropped again. “Maybe.” His head turned toward her. “Or maybe you want a real house. Somewhere bigger. That doesn’t smell like bread all the time.”

  “You married me,” she said with a snort. “If the place doesn’t smell like bread, it’s gonna smell like burnt toast.”

  He grinned. “Nah. You can at least make toast.”

  “Oh, you think? Unwrapping a candy bar is a culinary feat for me.”

  His face moved like he was rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Well, grad student, you could learn.”

  “That hasn’t proved very effective in the past.”

  “That’s ‘cause every time you screwed something up, your mom stepped in. How’s it go – you gotta crack a few eggs?”

  “I don’t think that has anything to do with cooking. Or eggs.”

  “I’ll teach you,” he offered. “The things I know how to make, anyway.”

  She grinned and lifted her brows. “You’ll teach me?”

  “Hey, I’m French, baby. I can cook.”

  “I thought you were only a quarter French.”

  “A quarter’s all you need,” he said smugly.

  Ava let her head fall back, face sun-warmed, her laughter breathy and happy. “Will you do the Julia Child accent? I think that would really accelerate my learning.”

  He opened his mouth, and for a second, she thought he meant to do it, then he chuckled and pressed his head back on the grass. Most of his hair had come loose and fanned around his face, black silk in the sunlight. “God, you’re a brat.”

  “A brat that you married.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  She crumpled up her tin foil, set it aside, and slapped at his boots. “Sit up. I need to check your shoulder.” There was that twinge of guilt again. “I should have done that before.”

  He waved her away. “It’s fine. You worry too much.”

  She crooked her finger. “Nope. Up you go.”

  With an overdramatic groan, he sat and pulled his legs in, so he mirrored her pose, facing her. “Happy?”

  “Radiantly.”

  “Show off.”

  She got up on her knees so their faces were even, and eased his flannel shirt off his shoulder. She passed a hand over the bandage, frowning. “Did you get it wet in the shower last night?”

  “Nah. I didn’t wash my hair.”

  She sat back. “I’ll redo it again tonight, when we stop.” She realized she had no idea how much farther it was to New Orleans and glanced at his face. “If we’re stopping.”

  His expression was sympathetic. “We’ve only got about four hours left. We’ll ride in this evening.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath, wondering how much worse the soreness would be by then. “There’s a reason women don’t ride bikes,” she said. “Because only a moron would subject himself to that torture.”

  He smiled. “Mama always said I was awful stupid.”

  Ava froze, her hands still on his shirt as she straightened it, searching his face with her eyes. He never mentioned his mother.

  “What?” he asked. “You know I’m stupid.”

  “No, you’re not. Did your mom really tell you that?”

  She saw the shutters close over his eyes, the way he locked everything away tight. He shrugged, his face smooth and humorless. “Yeah. Whatever.”

  Ava sucked her lower lip between her teeth and debated the wisdom of what she was about to ask. But they were married now. She had a right to her curiosity. “Merc…”

  His brows flicked up.

  “What’s the thing you won’t tell me about your family? What happened there?”

  His smile was slow and grim. “Whatever it was, it happened a long time ago.” He patted the top of her head, like she was still a little girl. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She took a breath and turned his words of yesterday back around on him. “That’s one of the perks of being married: I get to worry.”

  He shook his head. “Not about this.” He stood and extended a hand for her, his body blocking out the sunlight above her.

  “Mercy,” she persisted, as he pulled her up. “You can tell me.”

  “Can tell you; won’t tell you.” He bent to pick up her jacket and handed it to her, his expression telling her that he was done with this line of questioning.

  “Now who’s being the brat?” she asked.

  “You.” He slung his arm around her waist as they started back for the bike. “Always you.”

  The answer to the question of Littlejohn’s whereabouts was answered when Maggie pulled into the Hershels’ driveway. The other prospect was parked beside Jackie’s Buick, having a smoke. He nodded to her in greeting as she climbed out of her car. “Ma’am.” And he traded a smooth sliding of palm-against-palm with Harry.

  “Jackie’s here alone?” Maggie asked, as she headed up the front walk.

  Littlejohn said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maggie frowned. Something was definitely off. She’d pestered Ghost about it last night, but he’d refused to say anything, shoveling in his dinner and telling her not to worry. Was he kidding? All she could do right now was worry. Her daughter was on the lam and there was an ever-increasing crowd of protesters outside Dartmoor.

  Collier and Jackie lived in a modest blue split-level about two miles from downtown, the yard edged with a tangling of jasmine,
honeysuckle, and wisteria. There was a flag mounted on the siding above the garage. A pair of wellies beside the welcome mat at the front door.

  Maggie rang the bell and Jackie’s face appeared in the sidelight after a long moment of waiting. She looked pale, washed-out, her eyes prominent and her freckles bright by contrast.

  Maggie waved through the window. “Can we talk?”

  Jackie watched her with an obvious caution, more of that strange expression from outside the flower shop a few days before. Then she nodded and the locks disengaged with a click, door swinging inward.

  Jackie had a rumpled look about her, like she hadn’t showered yet; she was dressed in baggy sweats that made her arms look thin and pale. The house was shadowed, like the blinds weren’t open all the way. The air was cold, and it stirred against Maggie’s face as she entered, like she was the first thing to pass through it all day.

  Wrong. The word hit her right between the eyes. Something wasn’t just off, it was wrong.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, deciding not to beat around the bush.

  Jackie left the door standing wide and held onto the knob, leaning against its edge with her shoulder. “Fine.” Her voice was too thin.

  Maggie surveyed what she could see from here: the living room and the squishy blue sofas, recliner with the footrest kicked out, magazine open over the arm, kitchen cold and empty. “Is Collier here?”

  “No.”

  Maggie finally pinned her gaze to her friend, pushing her shades up into her hair. “Where is he?”

  Jackie glanced away. “At Dartmoor, I guess. He left early this morning.”

  “Did he? Or did he even come home last night?”

  Jackie’s eyes snapped back, expression sharpening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Maggie kept her voice gentle. “No one’s seen him around the clubhouse since early yesterday morning. Ghost has been looking for him.”

  Jackie shrugged. “What do you want me to tell you? I’m his wife, not his warden. He was here last night.”