by Juli Valenti
“That’s cause your daddy done scared them all shitless to help you.”
Mercy arched an eyebrow at the club ass, who merely cocked her head. “Sorry, I’ve heard a bit. Mainly from Train.”
“Who’s Train?”
Artist snorted and Teagan beamed. “My man. He’s the VP of the Bishops.”
Mercy rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to retort how he wasn’t really her man. She was merely his bed partner, someone he found comfort with after a long day. Artist stopped her, eyes narrowing slightly, a message for her to keep her mouth shut.
“Teagan was shot not long ago, almost didn’t make it. That man took care of her.”
This club is so weird, she thought. It wasn’t unrealistic for club members to protect the sweeties. Hell, they protected everyone involved in their club life. But for one of them, especially an officer within their ranks, to actively take care of one of those women, wasn’t normal. More, for one of those sweeties to claim an officer as her man was even rarer. Sure, they could become property of, but judging by the expression on Artist’s face, and the absolute delight that radiated from Teagan as she elaborated what had happened, that wasn’t the situation.
“Yep. Best friend over here went ape shit for revenge. Train… well, that man makes me weak at my knees. He made me soup, changed my bandages. When I was in the hospital, he was there every day, taking shift to keep watch over me like Pres had demanded. I wasn’t the only one shot —”
“What happened to the others?”
Teagan’s eyes shadowed and her forehead crinkled, the question obviously a touchy subject. “They didn’t make it. Anyway,” the other woman said, placing boxes of filters neatly in a row, “I did and he took care of me.”
Mercy couldn’t help herself. “And is he faithful?” she asked, trying to keep any incredulousness from her tone. It was unheard of if he was, and even if she said yes, she wasn’t sure she’d believe her.
“He is, or I’ll cut his nuts off,” came from Artist. “No one fucks with T. She’s my girl.”
This time Mercy stared at the female biker she’d grown fond of. So, so weird. Artist sighed.
“Jesus, Mercy, your face really does broadcast a giant question mark anytime you’re thinking of questions,” the girl told her, echoing what Tonka said. “T was one of the rare sweeties who was actually kind to me when I prospected in. The other girls were more… territorial, I guess you could say, when it came to me. They were used to Poet, they knew her and respected her. I was another female jumping into their world and 'not paying my dues’ the way they thought I should. Teagan never cared. And when she got hurt, I saw red. She’s my friend.”
“And you’re mine, you sexy bitch,” the redhead said proudly before turning to face Mercy. “It’s okay to have questions, you know. We all have them. And really, I don’t mind. I know it must be super different than what you’re used to, our situation and our club.”
Different was the understatement of a century. No matter how much time she spent with Hells Redemption, around the men and women involved, no matter their role, she wasn’t sure she’d ever truly understand. It was a completely different world, which was saying something. Especially when taking into account that the MC world was already opposite of the world most knew… Throw in HR and it was like talking about three different planets in different galaxies even.
Before Mercy could open her mouth, she heard a faint sound and spun. It was a phone, but it didn’t sound like a cell phone. She heard it again, still turning to find the source.
“Do y’all hear that?”
“Hmm?” Teagan asked, clearly not, and Artist shook her head.
Mercy’s brow furrowed and she took a few steps toward the sound, hoping it would keep ringing so she could find it. It did as she bid, though she wasn’t sure it was a good thing. Who called and let it ring without an answer that long? And, more, why wasn’t there an answering machine? In the three days she’d been there, she’d never come across either, and just assumed that Lock had done his work through a cell phone.
On the far side of the shop, in the corner of the far-left bay, she zeroed in on the muffled sound. Amongst dirty rags and tires, she found what she searched for. An old-fashioned style phone, plugged into a wall, the receiver dirty from grease. Hesitantly, she picked it up and put it to her ear.
“Hello, Lock Shop?”
Nothing but silence greeted her on the other end, the dead air humming through the phone.
“Hello?” she asked again, still hearing nothing. Faintly she could hear breathing, but no other sound. No background noise, nothing. Eventually the line clicked, and buzzing met her; they’d hung up, whoever it was.
Dread rose in her stomach. Don’t be silly, it was probably a wrong number or something, she told herself, wishing she believed it. But all the call did was raise more questions. Who had called? Was it really a wrong number? And why the hell was the phone on the garage floor rather than on the wall, or in the office, or somewhere it made sense?
“Who was it, Merc?” Artist called and she turned to face the other woman, shrugging.
“I don’t know. They hung up.”
Artist merely lifted her own shoulders in answer. “Must not have been important. Anyway, we’re done here. You set for a little bit? Tonka should be here in a while, but I have to get Teagan back to the clubhouse and run a couple errands. I can send a prospect?”
Mercy glanced around, surprised to find the workers packing up their own tools, and heading toward the garage bay doors. She’d expected their jobs to take at least the rest of the day, if not well into the next, but it seemed Tonka hired only the best. Or the club had hired them, she wasn’t sure of the details. Only that she’d been told to put her credit card away.
“No, I’m good. It won’t take long for the giant to get here… besides, a prospect will just get in the way. I’m actually pretty excited to get to work. I feel like I haven’t been on the right side of an engine in a long time.”
Artist laughed. “Our definitions of the right side are so different. Here.” Moving toward her, Artist extended a hand, a cellphone in it. “It’s a burner, but it has most of our numbers in it, don’t want you here without contact.”
“Well,” Mercy said, reluctantly taking it. She didn’t want to, but she’d learned by now that arguing with anything club related was a waste of time. When these bikers said something, or did something, they meant it. And there was little anyone could do to get out of it. “I have a phone now.”
“You have a piece of shit stuck to a wall that should’ve been retired a long time ago. I don’t even know why it’s there, honestly.”
“Tonka send this one?” she asked, running a finger over the glass screen of the iPhone. It wasn’t locked, and she checked the phone book in it, finding Tonka’s number as a favorite.
“Not that you’ll believe me,” Artist said, walking toward a bay door, “but no. Poet did.”
She was right. Mercy didn’t believe her, but hearing that it was given to her on Poet’s orders meant something to her, if it was true. Not that Artist had a reason to lie to her about something as trivial as a phone. But she hadn’t seen Poet since the first night… that meant either someone was speaking highly of her, or, more than likely, it was Tonka, saving face with a small fib.
Teagan bounced over and hugged her tightly, surprising Mercy, before following the other woman out the door, to the bike parked outside. It seemed that not all women within HR were given a loaner bike, she noted as the redhead pulled a helmet over her hair and waited. She watched as Artist started her Harley, and allowed the sweetie to climb behind her, her pale arms moving to wrap around her middle.
The thought brought a smile to her face and she held a hand up in a wave as the girls pulled away, following the trucks of workers out the long driveway. She glanced around once more at all the equipment that had been set up, and grasped the key to one of the bikes closest to the bay.
It was time to get t
o work, to roll her sleeves up and get dirty, literally. And she was so excited about it she could hardly contain herself. A broad smile spread across her face as she approached, unsurprised when the bike didn’t start. Squaring her feet, she pushed it into the garage in neutral, and set to work.
15
Chapter Fifteen
Hours passed in a blur of grease and oil, rubber and metal.
Mercy had found a new groove in the shop, maneuvering through equipment like she’d grown up in that garage, like it was hers. She guessed it was, for now at least. For however long she could manage, though she refused to think about the future. In that moment, she was more than content.
An alternator and starter replaced on one bike, and it purred like a dream. Another only needed a new fuel pump. She was under the hood of a 1994 Explorer when she heard heavy footsteps, and she pulled herself on the wheeled creeper out, glancing around. Boots on concrete got louder, and she grinned up at the sight of Tonka as he appeared above her.
His expression was dark. Whatever had happened in the day did not a happy Tonka make.
“Where the fuck is your protection.”
His words were a statement, rather than a question, spit through clenched teeth, the muscles in his jaw tight. Okay, so it’s nothing that happened during the day.
Wheeling out from under the truck completely, she got to her feet, wiping her hands down the thighs of her jeans. When that didn’t work to clear the grease, she grabbed a towel from her toolbox and faced Tonka, working the fabric with her fingers.
“Huh?”
“Your fucking protection. You’re not supposed to be left alone.”
“Tonka, I’m a big girl.”
“Don’t start that shit with me, Mercedes.”
“Mercy,” she corrected him, fire rising in her stomach. She liked when he used her full name in the bedroom, but as an admonition, not so much. He sounded too much like her father, the way his tongue shaped the syllables of her name, and it pissed her off. “And I am a big fucking girl. The girls haven’t been gone that long, and I knew you’d be here soon, so it’s not a big deal.”
“The girls left six fucking hours ago.”
Surprised, Mercy turned to glance at the wall clock, shocked to find that it was close to midnight. He was right, the girls had left hours ago, before the sun had even begun to set. Eyes darting toward the bay doors, she saw that it was pitch black out, something she hadn’t even noticed while she worked. It was generally that way, the groove of her work taking her far away from everything else. She shrugged, which only seemed to piss the man off more.
“I was fine,” she said simply, and he scowled, the lines on his forehead deepening.
“I was fine. I was fine?! I was fine, she says. Jesus fucking Christ, Mercy,” the man swore, his feet loud as he stomped away, only to stop and stomp back toward her. “And what if you fucking weren’t? What would you have done if the Static Law men had shown up? I told you that you had to have protection. Hell, I don’t even know how you got Artist to leave you here alone — Poet even ordered that you had to have one of us with you at all times. It’s not safe. You’re not safe. And the only way to make you safe, is to be with you, to protect you.”
“I was working, Tonka. And if my father or his men had shown up, I would have, I don’t know,” she waved toward the gun and phone currently resting atop the metal tool chest,“I would have shot them. Or called for backup. I can’t honestly tell you which I would have done in the heat of the moment, but surely one of them.”
“And if there were more than one? You only have so many rounds in one clip, Mercy. You have to use your fucking head.”
“I do use my fucking head, Boone. I use it probably more than most women you fucking know, so don’t give me that shit. I’m well aware of the sword over my head, you don’t need to remind me. And I can take care of myself.”
The last was meant to sound confident, but the words came out sounding more like a petulant child, and she resisted the urge to stomp her foot. One thing she’d taken pride of her entire life was her ability to survive, to thrive, to make a shit situation on the right side of things. Static Law never hesitated to try to stop her, to make her miserable, and she’d refused to let them, to let them win. Yet, here she was, feeling small and hating it.
Mercy had never called Tonka by his given name, and it hung in the air, but she refused to back down. She refused to move, refused to look away. He couldn’t just barge in on her and yell at her for no reason.
He has a reason, her voice flitted through her mind, but she shook her head.
“There’s nothing you can tell me about any of this that I don’t already know. Literally nothing. And while I understand that Poet said HR needed to be with me at all times, I didn’t expect you to take so long to get here. You were supposed to be here hours ago, so how about instead of jumping all over my ass you should turn some of that on your damn self. Did you stop to think that maybe some people have better things to do in their lives than babysit a grown-ass adult? Hell, I have better things to do than to be babysat. Everyone has a job to do, and that includes me,” she continued, waving around at the shop. “Unless you’ve forgotten… though I doubt that since you or the club shelled out a shit ton of cash to fix this mess up so I could take care of shit. Which I did. And I had a damn good time doing it, too… until you showed up, that is. Jesus Christ.”
Mercy huffed, frustrated beyond belief. No matter how different the clubs were, it seemed the men always had the same ‘I’m He-man’ attitudes. But coming from Tonka it irritated her more than any of the Static bikers. At least in that club, she knew what to expect. She knew the men saw women as fragile and frail. With them, women were nothing more than property, weaker than they’d ever be, regardless of what they did or who they were. Mercy expected more from a man in a club with a woman in charge… one who could clearly take care of herself and most everyone around her. And yet, there he was, making her feel just as the SL men always had. Like she was nothing more than the pussy between her legs, and the emotions behind her eyes.
Turning away, she refused to allow the hot, angry tears that were welling in her eyes to be seen. No way would she give in, let them fall, and make her exactly what he was making her out to be. It had always driven her crazy that she cried when she was angry, her eyes leaking the rage inside her.
A large hand grasped her forearm, swinging her back around to face Tonka, and she jerked, trying to get away. It didn’t work; instead his grip tightened and he locked eyes with her, leaning toward her, despite her efforts.
“I know you use your head, I’m just fucking pissed, Mercy.”
“Well, you’re pissed at the wrong fucking person. You want to be mad? You want to rage? Don’t do it at me, because trust me, I have more anger and more rage than anyone in this entire goddamned town. I’ve taken enough of this shit my entire life and I certainly don’t need it from you.”
Tonka sighed, finally releasing her arm, but Mercy remained rooted where she stood. She dug her proverbial heels into the concrete and held her ground, refusing to back down, despite the tear that trailed down her cheek.
“Mercy —”
“I’m not fucking crying,” she snapped at him, angrily wiping it away. “I’m fucking mad as hell — at you, at my father, at fucking everything. My eyes just can’t get with the stupid program.”
Another sigh came from the man as he closed what little space remained between them. “Mercy—”
“No. You don’t get to just swoop in now and try to fix things. I’m not a car that needs repaired. You’re a fucking ass.”
“I am an ass,” he told her.
“I know you are, that’s why I said it.”
“I am an ass,” he repeated, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I know this. I never told you otherwise. I’m human and I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“You probably shouldn’t have yelled at me?” she asked incredulously, throwing her arms up in frustrat
ion, but again he spoke as if she hadn’t.
“I knew where you were, and that you were working. I got held up at the restaurant, and then I had a club errand to run. I lost track of time or I would’ve been here hours ago, like you said.”
“And, like I said, you’re a fucking ass.”
“But when I pulled up, and you were under that truck, the gun on the goddamned tool box, I saw red. How can you possibly use it to protect yourself when you’d have to detangle yourself from an engine?”
“It’s what I do, Tonka. I’m a fucking mechanic.”
“Yes, you are… but you’re also in danger. Not only from your father, but also his men — we still haven’t found out which of the patch-overed prospects ratted you out in the first place. Or if one even did. You need to think.” He held a hand up, stopping her protest before she could get the words out. “I know you think, but you need to think. When shit goes down, it’s not going to go easy. It’s not going to be a walk in the park. You aren’t Keanu Reeves and this isn’t a John Wick movie. You’re not going to have ample time and weapons to defend yourself if you can’t get to them.”
Mercy ignored the tone in his voice toward the end of his statement. Even through her anger, she couldn’t completely disagree with him. He wasn’t completely wrong. It would be on the harder side to get out from under a car or truck or whatever, a creeper only wheeled so fast. And, she probably needed to find a better resting space for the gun, so it was in her reach while she worked. Because she had to work, and, more, she wanted to work. Not that she was going to admit any of it to the man peering down at her, his chest rising in time with hers.
“I really care about you, Mercy, and I want you to be safe. If I have to piss you off to do it, I will. You can be mad at me from now until when the fuck ever, but if it keeps you from taking lead, it’ll be worth it. This isn’t child’s play and you know it. It’s real fucking life with a psychopath you have more experience with than any of us.”