“We’re negotiating?”
“I’d like to set up an east coast chapter. Thought you and I could talk about a location. There’s no reason we can’t be allies.”
Ghost shared a look with Walsh.
The Englishman’s brows twitched once in silent question. Did they mention the kids they’d met from Spring City?
Ghost recalled the feral gleam of fear in Boomer’s eyes. That boy had nothing to do with these men in his parking lot. Something was up, but there was no sense tipping his hand this early in the game.
And whatever it was, it was a game.
This whole thing stank of Roman. And something more sinister. Something growing out of control.
Ghost said, “Yeah. I don’t see why not.”
Badger grinned.
~*~
Out in the real world – the non-club world – Ava had been on the receiving end of many definitions of the phrase “growing up.” Did growing up involve drinking, smoking, voting, having sex? Knowing right from wrong? Drinking and sex had never been what anyone would call determining factors in her life. In her mind, growing up had a lot to do with realizing there was a difference between what you wanted to do, and what you had to do. Sometimes, if you were lucky, those things coincided.
She’d styled herself a novelist when she was younger. Now, as an MC old lady and mother of three, she operated a literary blog – under a pen name, of course – and taught online writing workshops. She published the occasional short story and had a manuscript file buried on her hard drive, awaiting time and divine inspiration. She’d never be James Patterson, but it paid the bills. And most days, she had no idea how she would have juggled a more conventional job. She loved being home with her babies.
And everyone knew she did, which was why her very extended family tended to drop by unaccounted frequently. Some members were more welcome than others.
Ava jumped when the doorbell rang. No one used the front door. The last person to do so had been Colin, and that had ended in fisticuffs.
“Mama, somebody’s here,” Cal announced gravely.
“I heard that, baby, thank you.” She scanned the living room as she walked through to the door. The high place on the shelf where Mercy had hidden a gun in a decorative box. The secret safe in the end table where Mercy had hidden a gun. Her man had hidden a lot of guns in this house.
Then whoever was at the door peeked through the window and Ava’s apprehension turned sour. It was her grandmother.
She forced a note of brightness into her voice when she opened the door. “Hi, Grammie.”
Denise seemed, almost defiantly, like she was trying to stand on as little of Ava’s front porch as possible. Feet tucked together, purse clutched tight in her arms, shoulders back and head lifted. In her sharply-cut slacks and blouse, she looked washed-out and too-straight. Like a lamppost, Ava thought, but half as cheerful.
“Hello,” she said. Her eyes shifted to a point above Ava’s shoulder, searching deeper into the house. “Is your husband at home?” She hated all of the Dogs, but she was petrified of Mercy.
“No, he’s at work.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Would you like to come in? I have a little time before I have to go pick up Remy at school.”
Denise seemed to consider it a moment, gaze tracking across Ava’s face. What a terribly unhappy person she was. Finally, she nodded. “I guess for a moment, yes.” She wiped her feet on the mat before she entered, though Ava knew the soles of her shoes were spotless. “I had to get out of the house. Your grandfather is driving me crazy.”
Ava doubted that. The man didn’t so much as breathe out of turn. “How’s he feeling?” she asked, shutting and locking the door.
“Tired. But fine. Cranky. Wanting to do more than the doctors will allow.”
“Will he be okay while you’re gone?”
“Of course, dear. He isn’t stupid.” Denise reached the center of the room and stopped, staring down at Cal like he was an alien lifeform she hadn’t expected to encounter. To his credit, Cal blinked up at her in the same way. “This is the middle one?”
Ava swallowed what she wanted to say. “Yes, Grammie, this is Cal.” She didn’t tell Cal to greet his great-grandmother; she’d long ago decided she wouldn’t ever force her children to speak to the woman.
She cleared her throat. “I have coffee if you’d like some.”
Denise jerked out of her stare and proceeded toward the kitchen. It was going to be a kitchen conversation, then. “No, thank you. This won’t take long.”
Ava followed. “What won’t?”
Denise pulled out a chair and sat.
Ava moved around the table so she stood opposite her, hands braced on the back of chair. She wasn’t going to sit.
“I saw your mother at the hospital a few days ago,” Denise said, folding her hands on the table and pinning Ava with a look. “She didn’t look well.”
In moments like these, Ava thanked God she was born to Maggie. She’d take her outlaw parents over a mother like this any day.
She met her grandmother’s look with one of her own. “Probably because she didn’t feel well. That’s generally the reason people go to the hospital.”
“Yes…well.” She hadn’t expected to be met with firmness. “I wanted to check on her.”
“You could have called her.”
Denise sighed and her gaze dropped to her hands. “She wouldn’t have given me a straight answer. She thinks I hate her.”
“Don’t you?” Ava asked, more harshly than she’d intended.
“Of course not!” The words came out angry, offended. Her eyes flashed halfway to furious.
“Really? Most of the time it seems like you hate all of us.”
Denise’s mouth tightened. It was an expression that had no bearing on Ava’s life, but had once ruled Maggie’s. “How could you say such a thing?”
“You just asked me if Cal was ‘the middle one.’ Not feeling the love, Grammie.”
“You–”
“Brat? Impudent little shit? Trust me, I know. Think whatever you want about me, but it’d be great if you could go a little easier on Mom.”
Denise fumed silently. Ava imagined she could hear the crash of artillery fire in the woman’s head as she warred with her short temper. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked after a moment.
“Nothing. She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Denise pushed back from the table, brows shooting up, totally shocked.
“Yes.”
“Was…it planned?”
“No.”
“But she’s–”
“Over forty, yes. She’s aware,” Ava said drily. “The doctor said everything looks fine.”
“I…” Speechless. No doubt, her head was full of insults, and couldn’t decide which should break loose first.
Ava wasn’t going to give her a chance to voice them. In as gentle a voice as she could manage, she said, “I know everything about Dad offends you. He’s the opposite of everything you wanted for Mom. But he’s a good husband. And you don’t get to choose who your kids marry – just hope they’re good to them.” A lesson she’d had to teach Ghost. “If you really do love Mom, you’ll stop trying to make her miserable.”
Denise opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I’m not…I don’t…”
“Please,” Ava repeated, firm. “Things are stressful right now.”
A long moment passed.
“Mama?” Cal called from the living room.
Finally, Denise gave a jerky nod.
Ava chose to see it as a victory.
~*~
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Maggie popped the tab on yet another can of Sprite – she was getting damn sick of the stuff. “I knew you’d drive over and there was no need. Plus, the kids didn’t need to see that.”
Ava held Millie in her lap now, the boys working through a book of mazes with Lucy on the sofa beneath the Lean
Dogs flag. She frowned. “Still.”
They were in the clubhouse, and the liquor selection behind the bar was currently mocking Maggie. Ava and Holly had sodas in a show of solidarity, and the sugar was probably making them all edgier.
“The man from yesterday,” Holly said. She’d grown since Maggie first met her, subtle layers of confidence and security where once there had only been prey-drive and fear. “I didn’t get the impression you were on friendly terms.”
“We’re not,” Maggie confirmed, frowning. “The thing is.” Her chest felt tight and unsteady with nerves just remembering. “When I was sixteen, a girl at school spray painted ‘Lean Bitch’ on my car.”
“Shit,” Ava breathed.
Holly gasped a little.
“None of our current crew was around then. The only ones who would know are Ghost, Collier…and Roman.”
“Not a coincidence,” Ava said.
“Doesn’t seem like it, no.” Screw “seem” – this was definitely Roman’s doing. Currently-running-from-another-club Roman. Jesus.
“Come stay over with me tonight,” Ava said, and it wasn’t exactly a suggestion. “Hol, you and Lucy are welcome, too. We’ll have a big slumber party.”
“Oh, well…” Holly said, clearly considering.
“The guys will worry less if we’re together.”
The front door squealed open – once, years ago, Maggie had offered to oil the hinges, or volunteer one of the prospects to do it, and Ghost had said you should never waste a squeaky door; it let you know someone was coming – and Mercy strode in, bringing the scents of river and early autumn.
“Ladies,” he greeted, his smile and his whole face warm. Maggie just loved him to death. She couldn’t have hand-picked a man to love her baby girl better. Ghost saw the extractor; Maggie saw the sad boy who worshipped Ava.
“Hi, baby.” Ava threw him a wave over the back of her chair.
Mercy came to kiss her lips, and Millie’s head, who baby-smiled up at her daddy. He murmured something in French Maggie knew she wasn’t meant to hear. When he lifted his head, his expression was impossibly tender, laid-bare, vulnerable as an open wound. He was Felix in that moment, the sad boy who’d been hurt and become hopelessly attached. Then his friendly, Cajun-boy mask slid into place and he was Mercy again, rather than a man whose beating heart sat in the chair beside him.
“Y’all going to talk with Roman?” Maggie asked when he was securely himself once more.
He nodded. “Rottie’s out sniffing around now. Ghost wants Michael and me with him when he goes.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, Mags. We’ll watch out for your baby daddy.”
She made a face and he laughed.
“And,” he continued, “I think he wants you girls to hang out tonight. Let Aidan and Tango keep watch.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and saw Ava do the same.
“I feel so safe already,” Ava said.
~*~
Ghost was half-convinced Rottie was part actual black dog, what with his superhuman ability to find and follow the kinds of trails no one else could have detected. He called at six with a location – a run-down collection of rental cabins favored by hunters during the various game seasons, deep in the woods and thirty minutes away from Dartmoor. Ghost found it suspicious – why not hit up one of the inexpensive motels in town? Because the asshole was hiding something, that was why.
They took one of the trucks in the interest of blending in, crammed three-across in the single cab, Michael behind the wheel.
“I worked a hunt up here once,” Michael offered as they turned off the main road and the tires bit into gravel.
Ghost exchanged a quick glace with Mercy. Mercy looked both amused and proud. Look at little Mikey sharing!
“Brought the dogs,” he continued. “The whole damn mob could hide here if they wanted. It’s a rabbit warren.”
“Roman’s never been good at laying low,” Ghost said, and hoped that, cabin or not, he was still too conspicuous for his own good. If they couldn’t find him, hopefully someone had seen something.
The gravel track was just wide enough for two regular-size pickup trucks to pass one another, washed-out on the edges, deeply rutted and in need of grading. Sapling pines stood in the shade of vast hickories, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder along the roadside. The hill grew steeper as they went. Rich golden slices of evening sun peeked through trunks and between branches, dizzying stripes across the windshield. Idyllic.
After what felt like a half-hour of climbing, the hill topped out and the campground appeared. Ghost immediately saw what Michael had meant by “rabbit warren.” The hill had never been cleared, the cabins lodged in the natural gaps between trees, the result a labyrinth of footpaths, driveways, fire pits, RV hookup areas, and dozens of small log cabins with screen doors, stone chimneys, and rusted tin roofs. The whole place had a charming absurdity to it. Thomas Kinkade meets Dr. Seuss illustrations. Trucks and ATVs were parked all over; chimneys and charcoal grills puffed smoke into the gilded air, turning it hazy; dogs on temporary tie-out cables barked as they drove past.
“Did Rottie get a cabin number?” Mercy asked.
“Fifteen,” Ghost said. “But I can’t read the numbers.”
“I know it,” Michael said. “It’s up that way.” He pointed through the windshield, up a narrow offshoot of the main drive.
A flock of small birds wheeled overhead, swooping low past the windows. A distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Ghost felt his nerves wind slowly tighter and tighter.
Fifteen was a long and low structure with a peaked roof nestled in a copse of cypresses. Two ratty trucks and a utility trailer were parked in front. A Weber grill was set up on the porch beside stacked cases of water. Something rested under a blue tarp, and Ghost would have bet money it was a bike.
They left the truck fifty feet back and approached on foot. With the sun going down fast, it was obvious there were lights on in the windows. Throw in the vehicles, and there was someone home.
Ghost motioned to Mercy and he headed toward the back of the cabin with a nod. If anyone tried to run, they’d hit a six-five Cajun wall.
Ghost and Michael had a silent conversation on the porch. A shrug, a few raised eyebrows, and they decided to pick the lock. Michael made quick work of it and sent the door gliding inward with a press of his fingers.
They stepped into the living room with the upper hand: Ghost could hear voices somewhere deeper in the cabin, but no one had heard them enter. Well, almost no one.
Amid the rough-hewn furniture, rope rugs, lamps, and mounted deer heads, Ghost spotted a girl. Or young woman, rather. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, he guessed. She leapt up from the sofa with a gasp. A pretty thing: slender, blue-eyed, with a bright banner of strawberry-blonde hair. She was dressed in jeans, scuffed boots, and a man’s flannel shirt. She put her back to the fireplace and faced off from them with panic in her eyes. She breathed like a racehorse, audible, jagged breaths; her gaze shifted between the two of them, again and again, frantic.
Ghost made a calm-down gesture. “Shh, hey, it’s alright.”
She sucked in a breath and screamed, “Roman!”
“Shit,” Michael said.
A wordless shout echoed from a back room, followed by the scrape of chairs and pounding of feet.
Michael pulled his gun.
The girl whimpered.
Ghost feigned relaxed as Roman and the four young, apparently-fake Dark Saints from the boat parlay burst into the room.
“Ghost,” Roman said, gratifyingly shocked to see them. His wild-eyed gaze moved from Ghost, to Michael, to Michael’s gun, and then to the girl. His expression changed, then, did something Ghost had never see it do before. “Kris!”
The girl darted to him. Roman caught her around the waist with one arm – a familiar, unconscious gesture – and pushed her back behind him. He was snarling when he turned to face Ghost. Boomer and his friends crowded around the girl, bowed up like cornered snakes.
“What are you doing here?” Roman said through clenched teeth.
Ghost was so glad to see the man off his game – spitting mad and shaking with adrenaline – that he smiled. “Oh no, Roman. You don’t get to ask me that question.” He took a step closer, hands going in his pockets, confident in Michael’s trigger finger behind him. “You come back to my city, come onto my lot, feed me some bullshit story about whoever the hell they are.” He nodded toward Boomer and the others. “And bring the entire Colorado chapter of the actual Dark Saints to my doorstep.”
Roman didn’t react, still and tight, every muscle tensed.
“You knew they’d show up,” Ghost interpreted. “I’m guessing you hoped they would.”
Roman took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.
“Explain yourself. I won’t ask nicely a second time.”
The moment spun out. The men shifted, cutting glances toward Roman. The girl – Kris – curled her fingers into the back of his shirt.
Roman’s shoulders slumped a fraction. “I needed to buy us some time. And your favor.”
“Why?”
“I need your help. I – we’ve got nowhere else to go, and the Saints want us dead.”
“’Cause you stole half their stash, apparently.”
“No.” He reached back and captured Kris’s hand in his. “I stole her.”
~*~
Ava’s house wasn’t made to hold this many people. It was no worse than a big Christmas gathering, but instead of seasonal joy, the whole affair was tainted with an undercurrent of worry. They all hid it well, smiling and laughing at the kids, drinking, passing around popcorn and cookies, but Maggie could detect the way smiles flickered and tried not to come unglued. Not the scariest night they’d ever had – not by a long shot – but not a peaceful one either.
She snagged a water bottle from the fridge and let herself out onto the patio. The sun burned orange along the treetops, the air blessedly cool.
Aidan stood at the grill, flipping burgers and chicken with one hand, holding a cigarette with the other. “Oh, hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the sound of the door closing. He ground his cig out on the plate that rested on the deck rail, its surface spattered with raw chicken juice.
American Hellhound Page 21
