“Uh-huh.” Within the warm circle of his arm, she buttoned up her wool coat and popped the collar against the chill that awaited them outside. “And this connection you have with him. It’s the reason you’ve been getting off work so early this week, right?”
He grimaced. Ghost had asked him to work overtime the last four days in a row. Ava saw nothing of him during the daylight hours, unless she went by the bike shop, and even then, her father would try to shoo her away, insisting they had a backup of import bikes that needed Mercy’s delicate touch.
“Dad,” Ava had said in reprimand, not buying the excuse.
“What? The man takes nine weeks off from work, I’ve got shit for him to do when he gets back.”
Either way, she’d enjoyed having dinner with her hubby, even if she’d been too green to eat anything herself.
His arm was around her shoulders, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She slid her arm around his waist, inside his cut and jacket, around the hard lean middle of him, pressing herself into his side. She heard his light breath of a chuckle through his nostrils, felt his fingers tighten on her shoulder, the little signs that he marveled and delighted in her intense affection. Her sweet boy. Her sweet, broken man.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked quietly, pausing as they reached the door, his free hand on the push bar.
“Better,” she assured. “The ginger ale helped.”
He pushed through the door, towing her along with him, and Ava gasped at the sharp punch of December air as it blasted her face and tunneled down into her lungs. “Damn.” She turned her face into Mercy’s shoulder as they stepped out onto the sidewalk and the warm bright comfort of Bell Bar was cut off behind them with a metallic clang of the door falling back in place.
“Walsh said something about it snowing for Christmas,” Mercy said, lifting his voice to be heard above the rippling breeze.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Her jaw clenched and she burrowed closer to Mercy as they walked, awkwardly, together like this, back toward their apartment. Walking the short distance to the bar had sounded fine earlier. It seemed like a stupid idea in retrospect.
“Poor fillette,” he crooned in a voice that was half-laugh, half-come-on. “Cold little girl.” A playful voice she knew all too well.
“It’s freezing,” she said, in her own defense. “Yeah, I’m cold.”
Once they were out of sight of the Bell Bar door, he spun her back against the brick wall, landing her gently against it, covering her body with his, his open leather jacket shielding her from the worst of the wind.
Ava gasped in brief surprise, then laughed. “What are you doing?”
“Warming you up.” In the smeared light of the streetlamps, she saw the quick gleam of his teeth as he beamed a wicked grin down at her. One of his big hands reached through the gap between her coat buttons, slipped beneath her sweater, covered her belly. “You don’t want the baby getting cold, do you?”
“The baby’s plenty warm in there.”
His hand moved lower, shoving boldly into the waistband of her leggings, fingers toying against the cotton screen of her panties.
Ava closed her lips against the scandalized, delighted sound that tried to leave her throat. Her hips titled in automatic invitation, her body responsive to his touch at a moment’s notice. But she said, “The baby’s not down there.”
“Good, I don’t wanna have to share.” He bent to kiss her, his hair swinging forward to tease at her face. It smelled like the flowery Herbal Essences shampoo he used; felt like watered silk on her skin.
“Mercy,” she protested, even as her neck stretched and her lips parted.
The loud and unhappy grumbling of a rattletrap car engine going past brought her back to her senses. He kissed her once – it was warm and verging toward hot – before she gave him a little shove. “Not on the street,” she said, laughing. “Not when it’s this cold, and there’s people driving by, and we’ve got a warm bed waiting on us at home.”
His hand slid from her leggings – she regretted that, if she was honest – and he tossed a glare over his shoulder at the rust bucket Buick limping along in front of the bar at a halfhearted one mile an hour.
Ava reached to lay her hand over the breast pocket of his cut, his chest, his beating heart beneath the layers of leather and cotton, and the tattoo of her teeth inked into the skin above. “We don’t have to steal time anymore,” she reminded, an excitement pulsing through her words. Just the sparse contact they’d had so far had heated her skin, faded the breeze to an annoyance, a dim scraping at her skin that was no match for the heat storm building inside her. “We can take however long we need.”
His gaze came back to her, a soft, tender expression lurking just behind the cocky smirk he presented to her. “We can, can’t we?” There was a small note of wonder in his voice, trace of that disbelief that still lingered in both of them. They were married now. No one could keep them apart. No one could threaten them with anything.
“Let’s go home,” Ava said, reaching for his hand, threading her fingers through his long dark ones. “I’d rather have you naked anyway.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
There were still tears in her eyes. Holly blinked at them furiously and dabbed at them with a napkin, but they kept coming in little trickles, leaking away from the buildup of frustrated sobs that wanted to burst out of her. She wouldn’t allow that sort of crying, of course. Crying had never served her a purpose a day in her life. But she’d been so patient, had been working all this time to cozy up to Michael, and he’d rejected her flat-out. If he had no interest in her body, what was her currency to be, then? What could she trade to get what she wanted? What she so desperately needed. Killers weren’t killers, she knew, out of the goodness of their hearts.
“Holly, hon.” Carly drew up in front of her as she stood in front of the soda station, trying to restore her composure. The other waitress, small and brunette like Holly, was on eye-level, and there was no hiding the wet sheen of tears from her. She laid a hand on Holly’s arm. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.” Holly forced a smile and made a few final dabs with the napkin. “Just allergies, probably.”
Carly made a face, not fooled. “Did that guy say something to you?”
“Which guy?”
A gentle grimace. “The one you…the one you always sit and talk with. That creepy guy who doesn’t ever say anything.”
“He says things,” Holly defended, before she could catch herself, then, in a rush: “And it’s not about him, anyway. Something must be blooming. Ragweed, maybe.”
“In the middle of December, yeah,” Carly said, frowning. “Look, you’re closing up tonight, right?”
Holly nodded and jammed the crumpled napkin into the pocket of her silk uniform shorts – boxing shorts in keeping with the boxing theme of the bell, because Jeff the owner claimed the old ring bell mounted above the bar was signed by Muhammad Ali.
“Let me cover for you,” Carly said. “You go home, get some rest. You’ve been pulling really long shifts.” Her expression said she was worried about Holly.
“That’s sweet, Carly, but I couldn’t–”
“Can and will,” Carly said, nodding, her mind made up now. “You go take a hot bath, watch crap TV, go to bed early. I took all that vacation time last month; I’m glad to close up tonight.”
“I really should–”
“Go home, is what you should do. Go, shoo.” She made a waving motion that left Holly smiling.
“Thank you.” Holly was exhausted, if she let herself think about it. Maybe that’s why Michael’s refusal was so devastating: she was just too tired to handle it right now.
On impulse, she pulled the other girl into a fast hug. “Thank you,” she repeated. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Carly snorted, like she knew. As Holly went to punch out, Carly called after her. “And don’t you waste one tear on that weirdo loser. There’s a million other g
uys better than him. You deserve better.”
When her back was turned, Holly felt her mouth twist in a wry grimace. Carly, if only you knew, she thought. I don’t deserve anyone.
The owner, Jeff, wasn’t in tonight, so there was no one to protest her punching out early and stowing her apron in her cubby. Her jacket was one she’d bought at a secondhand store here in Knoxville, her first week in town, with a crumpled wad of cash. It was brown leather, with zippered pockets and feminine darts at the waist, a collar that snapped across her throat if she chose to fasten it there. Very appropriate for a waitress trying to make friends with a biker, she thought. But it was hopelessly little protection against this December cold snap; the wind cut right through it. She pulled it on and zipped it up, as she stood in the break room, because that was all she had. At Target, she’d bought a child-size pair of cheap red cotton gloves, and she tugged them on too, along with her five dollar matching red scarf, which she knotted tightly under her chin.
She left Bell Bar via the rear door, the one that fed into the alley, and the coldness outside snatched the breath from her lungs, squeezed tight at her sinuses and gave her an instant headache.
The alley was narrow and more than a little slimy. The one good thing about the cold was that it had pushed back the normally strong stench of the dumpsters. The overhead security lamp offered precious little in the way of light, and the shadows lay thick across the asphalt, most of them human-shaped and misleading.
Holly was glad she hadn’t walked to work. In the small grubby lot behind Bell Bar, her car waited.
It wasn’t hers, per se, but she’d been slick enough to swipe it, the day she left home. Her old home. And she’d had the thoughtfulness to have it repainted. She didn’t like to dwell on that particular transaction, was just glad for the halfway decent coat of new black paint on the old, formerly red Chevelle.
Her keys made the familiar jangle as she unlocked the door. She scanned the shadows of the lot, the spots of deep dark between the other cars as she opened the door and slid inside. Thump – she locked the door the second it was shut. The engine turned over with a conspicuous growl that was too loud. Nothing to be done for it. The thing was a classic – 1967 – and it was a deep-throated, proud machine.
It was a short drive to her apartment, and an even shorter walk to the door. She rented a room on the third floor of an old converted Victorian estate, the manse carved up into four units, plus her attic loft. The driveway was a wide circular pass that went all the way around the house, passing in front of the carriage house where she had a storage locker, and out on the other side, leaving plenty of parking room for the five tenants.
Holly clutched her purse to her chest, keys clenched tight in her fist as she skirted the heavy shade trees and power walked up to the front porch. It was so dark. Shadows everywhere: between the shrubs, under the thick oak limbs, in the corners of the wraparound porch, lurking in the eaves, with their contrasting black trim on the gingerbread. She hated nighttime, hated everything about it. She felt small, vulnerable, and exposed. For all that it hid the demons of her imagination, it seemed to put her on display, her footfalls too loud, her breath pluming like smoke. She waited, every night, for the life she’d fled to catch up to her, to literally spring from the shadows and dig claws into her.
That didn’t happen tonight, though. Tonight, she made it to the door, unlocked it, slipped inside. The main floor of the house smelled like burnt cookies: old Mrs. Chalmers baking again. She heard the dim thump of music: Eric putting together another demo album for his band.
The front hall ran straight back to the sun porch, the first floor units branching off to the side, light shining dimly through the glazed glass transoms and door insets. Holly took a moment to breathe in the musty scents of the old mansion, the tang of beeswax, the dry smell of dust, letting her pulse slow. Then she started up the staircase, hand on the smooth waxed bannister, the steps creaking and groaning beneath her work sneakers.
The second staircase was narrower, tucked away in a corner of the second floor hallway. Formerly used by the servants that lived in the attic, it gave Holly private access to her loft. She let herself in, welcomed by the lamps she’d left on, and set about the business of engaging all her locks.
She’d gone to Home Depot the day she’d moved in, and bought an assortment of locks and security chains. Eric the bass player downstairs had helped her install them, more than a little curious as to her reasoning.
“I want to feel safe,” she’d explained, and left it at that.
She didn’t feel safe, even with them, but it was better than not having them.
Only once she was all locked in could she release a deep breath and let herself slump back against the door, enjoying the sight of this, her first place that was hers and hers alone. A place that she’d decorated. A place where she slept with the foreign and wonderful knowledge that no one would wake her roughly in the night. A place lived-in and loved. She’d told herself not to fall in love, because she had no idea how long she could stay here, but it had happened anyway. She loved these walls, and this space.
There were five windows, Gothic dormers that projected out along the roof, creating deep ledges, one of which she’d filled with a tiny fake Christmas tree, draped with colored lights. The ceiling was sloped, angling down in the four corners from a central ridge. It created a cozy, cave-like loft, full of charm.
Her furniture had come with the place: the iron framed bed under one eave; the sun-faded, but clean peach sofa and loveseat; the patchwork chair and footstool, the rug with its brown and cream swirls and loops. There was a dated, but serviceable TV, hooked up to the satellite that fed the whole house. A shabby-chic wall of corrugated tin provided sliding barn door access to the bathroom in one corner. There was a bookcase loaded with dusty old volumes, left by the various tenants over the years, Mrs. Chalmers had explained. The kitchenette boasted a narrow fridge, sink, oven with cooktop, one small counter and three cabinets. Original knotted pine floors ran the length of the apartment, smooth and scalloped from years’ worth of tread.
Holly unwound her scarf and gloves, left them on the pegs by the door with her jacket, and went first to the Christmas tree that filled the window and half the apartment with the multicolored glow of the cheery lights. She turned on the TV, found a channel running sitcom reruns. Walked to the bed and sat down on its edge, on the faded peach and mint green quilt.
Her legs were covered in chill bumps and vaguely blue thanks to the silk boxing shorts she had to wear to work. Some nights she folded up a pair of jeans to take in her purse, but other nights she didn’t bother.
She chafed her shins with her hands, bringing the circulation back to them, letting the Christmas lights and the happy murmur of the TV soothe her, warm her shaking cold insides. Usually, just those small things were enough to push the shadows back, such small comforts she’d never known before.
But tonight, her heart was heavy, and it would take more than small comforts to assuage its hurts.
She clicked on the bedside lamp and then reached for the snaps of the leather cuff on her left wrist. She had vague tan lines, from September, when she’d first found them at a thrift store and started wearing the bracelets. The skin they covered was milky white by contrast, and the old rope scar had been angered by the cold night air, red and raw-looking under the lamp. She massaged it, though it didn’t hurt; willed it away, though she knew it would stay forever. Off came the other cuff and she set them aside, on the nightstand. Her shields against all the questions she never wanted to try and answer.
Her journal was in the top drawer, and she withdrew it now, the small notebook with the red leather cover. It was the kind with silk ribbon ties, which she always knotted carefully after each use. A symbolic way to keep the words safe, hidden. God help her if anyone ever found this book, but she had to keep it. She had to put her observations somewhere, or go completely mad at last.
She unknotted the ribbon, turned to the mos
t recent page, reached for the pen in the bottom of the drawer.
December 19.
He said no. What am I going to do?
**
The sound of the siren woke Ava. She was dreaming about New Orleans, about the sanctuary in the swamp that was Saints Hollow, the swarming midges and the relentless heat, wanting an escape from this tight grip of winter, perhaps, when the siren cut through the dream fog and brought her slowly awake, as its whining grew stronger and stronger, right outside on the street.
Mercy was, as usual, taking up most of the bed, and when she opened her eyes, she could see that it was his hair, and not her own, that fell across her eyes. His face was tucked tight against the back of her head, his strong arm tight around her, his hand pressed over her belly. It wasn’t possible for him to hold her any closer than he was doing, and she could hear, and feel, him snoring against her neck.
She reached to brush the silky black hair out of her face and shifted position, easing from beneath his arm, earning a snort for her efforts.
He inhaled deeply, chest swelling, pressing at her back. “Wha…?”
“You could sleep through the apocalypse, couldn’t you?” she asked, managing to sit up, his arm still heavy across her lap.
He was breathing hard, a little disoriented, coming out of a dream of his own. He cleared his throat and sounded more awake. “What’s wrong?”
“Sirens.” Her robe was draped over the bed post and she slipped it on over her naked, chilled skin.
“So? There’s always sirens.”
“They stopped right outside. Close somewhere.”
Mercy and the bed both groaned as she got to her feet.
She smiled to herself in the dark. He was downright clingy these days, wanting to take advantage of every second they had together, wanting to be as close as possible. She woke, sick to her stomach most nights, and found him either tangled with her, arms and legs locked at funny angles, or awake and watching her. He would settle, eventually, once he got used to the idea that they had nothing but time ahead of them, but for now, she thought his overflowing affection was pretty adorable.
Price of Angels (Dartmoor Book 2) Page 3
