Price of Angels (Dartmoor Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  Michael’s gaze went to where his hand was, the shapes of his fingers stretching the black fabric of her shirt from inside, the pale exposed slope of her breast.

  He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Are you scared?”

  She looked down too, hair falling to shield her face, as she stared at the way he cupped her. “Yes.”

  “Does it feel good?”

  “It…God, yes.” She was breathless, like she couldn’t believe it. “It does, it does.”

  Michael pulled his hand away, adjusted her top so she was covered. Her bra was still out of place, and he could see her nipple outlined perfectly beneath the fabric.

  “Oh, no,” she gasped. “We have to. Because you said you would do it after all.” The killing, she meant. Her hand went to his lap, pressing at his erection through his jeans. “Michael” – she lifted her eyes to his – “I want to honor our bargain.”

  Her little fingers found the shape of his cock, straining against the denim, and she molded her palm to him, gave a gentle squeeze. She took a deep breath, her chest lifting, and there was her raised nipple staring at him, and he could almost believe she was ready for this, that she truly wanted it.

  His hips lifted without his permission, boot heels digging into the rug as his body sought contact with hers.

  He ground his teeth. He had to stop this, and stop it now, or he’d be on top of her, and it wouldn’t be the careful gentling that she needed.

  “Stop.” Taking her by the waist, he swung her off his lap, setting her on the sofa beside him.

  Holly looked surprised. “But I–”

  “You’re not paying me that way,” he said, roughly. “You’re not paying me at all. I’m taking care of those bastards because no one’s ever deserved to die as bad as they do, and when I come inside you, it’ll be because you want it, not because it’s part of a business deal.”

  Her eyes were huge.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He had to get out of here. He staggered to his feet, and only then realized just how truly drunk he was. Unsteady, stiff and hurting and wanting her, he walked to the door and pulled down his jacket like an eighty-year-old.

  “Michael.” She followed him. “You had too much to drink. You can’t get on your bike like this.”

  “Right.” He leaned against the wall a moment. “I’ll sit on the curb for a bit.”

  It sounded like she giggled. “No, come on. You can lie down for a while.”

  “Oh no.” Like hell was he lying on her sheets, that smelled of her, when he was already hard and aching for her. He’d probably hump the mattress in his delirium.

  “At least let me make you some coffee–”

  “No,” he snapped. “Open all these damn locks.”

  She did, fingers nimble on all the latches.

  “Get some sleep,” he commanded as he stumbled out onto the landing.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and he definitely heard a giggle this time.

  Holly stood in front of her bathroom mirror, naked to the waist, halfway through changing out of her uniform and into something warm and comfortable. As she watched her reflection, she reached to cup her left breast in her hand, the one Michael had touched. She ran a fingertip around the nipple, watching it shrink and tighten. A pleasurable chill chased through her, just as it had when it had been his hand against her.

  That had never happened before. So tiny a gesture, such a small stirring, and he’d been the first to give it to her.

  It felt like a gift. Some awareness she’d always been lacking.

  Turning away from the mirror, she pulled on a hip-length hoodie and went out into the loft, in need of the coffee she knew would be ready by now.

  Before she filled a mug, she glanced through the dew-glazed window out at the street below. Michael was still sitting on the curb, feet in the gutter, a thin wisp of smoke curling over one shoulder as he worked on a cigarette. Two white butts lay on the asphalt, tiny from her view up here.

  With a smile, she pulled down two coffee cups, filled them both, and then began her careful way down to the front foyer, not spilling a drop.

  He didn’t turn at the sound of her approach, but she could tell he heard her the way his shoulders tightened. The morning was awash in a light fog that was rapidly being blasted apart by golden sunlight, the grass white and crunchy with frost.

  Holly’s breath plumed as she sat down beside him. “Gosh, it’s cold.” She passed over a mug. “Here. In case the cold’s not sobering you up.”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed, nasty glare, but took the mug. “I thought you were going to bed.”

  She felt a laugh bubble up in her throat, and she let it spill out into the morning. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  He groaned and sipped the coffee.

  “Besides. I wanted to do something nice for you. It makes me happy. So if you won’t accept any other hospitality, I can at least bring you coffee.”

  Another glare, but he said, “Thanks.”

  Sensing he was embarrassed by how drunk he was, she gathered herself to leave. “Leave the mug out here when you’re done. I’ll come get it later.”

  He grunted in the affirmative.

  On impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingering a moment, loving the press of her face against his bristly skin. “You’re a very special man, Michael McCall,” she said, and left him alone with his coffee and his thoughts.

  When she was safely locked in her loft again, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her journal from its drawer, put the pen to the paper with a smile on her lips.

  I had no idea men like this existed.

  Part II.

  With Wings

  Nine

  “Bonjour, Monsier President.” Mercy took off his helmet and set it on the fuel tank of his Dyna.

  Ghost sent him a flat, unamused look from his position on his own bike.

  Mercy gave him his widest smile. “Come on, boss, it’s a beautiful morning.”

  It was a cold morning. Their breath steamed in the dry air, like they were three dragons sitting here in the blue shadows of this pale winter dawn. But it was beautiful too: the sun a bright disc climbing up the cloudless crystal bowl of the sky, the little sparrows picking for scraps across the pavement, industrial smells of burning dampened by the frigid temperature. The weather man was still calling for a white Christmas, and Mercy could believe it.

  “Tell me something,” Ghost said. “How long do I gotta put up with this hyperactive, Singin’ in the Rain newlywed bullshit?”

  Ratchet grinned over on Ghost’s other side.

  “Probably for a while,” Mercy said, mock-serious. “Bein’ married’s some good stuff.”

  Ghost mumbled something and glanced away, watching the street in front of them. “They’re late,” he said, changing the subject. You told them eight-thirty, right?”

  “Yeah,” Ratchet said. “But you know how dealers are.”

  More grumbling from Ghost. “I oughta shove all of ‘em out of town. Permanently.”

  His father-in-law was extra cranky this morning, Mercy thought. This business was weighing on him more heavily than any of them would have thought.

  The sound of an unhappy engine split the peaceful morning, and Mercy turned to see a decrepit Buick limping toward them. Its primary color was rust, with patches of blue clinging to the doors. It sounded like everything was wrong with it. It belched as it leapt the curb, backfired, and came to a wheezing, rattling halt. There was no telling whether the engine had been shut off, or simply died.

  A spark of recognition: Mercy thought back, the walk home from Bell Bar a couple nights before, pressing Ava up against the wall in the cold, interrupted by a noisy car. It had been a Buick. This Buick, if he’d seen properly, and he knew he had.

  He frowned to himself as Abraham and Dewey climbed out.

  Ghost saw him. “What?”

  “Nothing. Tell you later.”

  “Good morning,” A
braham said as he approached. He wore a cheap shirt buttoned up to his throat and a canvas duct jacket over it. His jeans were badly out of fashion, belted too high on his waist.

  Beside him, Dewey was similarly awkward, in stiff clothes that looked two sizes too big. His hair was still wet from his morning shower and plastered down tight on his head, which only served to emphasize his big ears.

  “Morning,” Ghost said in a cold voice. “You’re Abraham Jessup?”

  The man nodded. “And my son-in-law, Dewey.”

  “Hello,” Dewey said, hands curling with obvious nerves.

  Ghost didn’t glance at the boy. “You brought the product?”

  Looking slightly taken aback, Abraham nodded.

  The white plastic-wrapped brick that Abraham put into Ghost’s hands turned out to be coke, and not cheap shit cut with baking soda.

  “You’ll distribute yourself?” Ghost asked. He sounded grudging, like he liked these two about as much as Mercy did, but the coke was legit.

  “Us and my brother,” Abraham said. “And sometimes some of the fellas from my church.”

  “Your church?” Mercy asked.

  He hated Abraham’s smile when he said, “All paths are righteous, if they lead a man to the lord.”

  **

  Ava didn’t think she’d ever stop finding wonder in the acres of asphalt and corrugated steel that composed Dartmoor. Her father’s shining emblem of MC enterprise would always stir nostalgia and pride in her, the simple act of driving through the main gates a salute to the Lean Dogs’ savvy and ingenuity. With Ghost’s passion and Walsh’s money know-how, this generation of Dogs had elevated the club business from a sad Harley memorabilia shop to a robust string of shops that occupied club-owned land right along the Tennessee River. Dartmoor, named for the mist-shrouded English landscapes that had fostered the black dog legends their club was named for.

  Even if she felt a little green around the gills this afternoon, she smiled to herself, because when she pulled up to the clubhouse these days, it was as an old lady, and not a daughter. She’d become one of those admired, mythical women within the club, the beloved wives who kept the men running, so they could keep the MC running.

  Maggie and Jackie were already parked before the portico, and Ava took a moment leaning against the side of her truck, deep-breathing the cold air in through her nose, convincing her stomach that it didn’t need to make any sudden moves. Then she went in.

  Maggie had insisted on a girl’s afternoon out, a lunch at which they could discuss their plan of attack for Christmas dinner and the New Year’s party that would inevitably follow. Ava knew her mother could plan a dinner like this in her sleep; today was about including Jackie, and making her feel like she was still part of the club family, even though her man would spend the holiday behind bars.

  Ava shuddered; she didn’t want to imagine. She didn’t know what she’d do, at this point, without Mercy’s warm arms around her when she woke, and his French singing as he shaved, and the barefoot breakfast conversations sitting cross-legged on the floor because it was too much trouble to clear her laptop and books off the tiny kitchen table.

  Ares was there to greet her when she stepped into the entryway. His thick tail beat a rhythm against the floor as he waited to be scratched.

  “Hi, buddy.”

  There were voices coming from the small sitting room just to the right, and as Ava passed, she glimpsed Jackie seated on one of the chairs the boys kept for formal visitors, talking to a lean, dark-headed man in a suit. She recognized Ethan Briscoe, Briscoe’s son and the club’s attorney.

  Quickly turning away, Ava pressed on into the common room, where Maggie sat at the bar with several open magazines spread before her.

  “Hi, baby,” she greeted, and with one look at Ava’s face, she wrinkled her nose. “Stomach still not good?”

  “It’s just touchy.” Ava climbed onto the stool beside her. “What are you looking at?”

  Maggie took a fast second to press a hand against the far side of Ava’s head, pull her in close so she could leave a motherly kiss against her temple. There was that now-familiar smile as she pulled back, the one that was mingled pride, joy, and maternal grace. She’d expressed so many times how thrilled she was for Ava’s happiness, how right this expansion of their family felt. Mercy at the dinner table, one of them in an official sense, now, felt preordained, a realization of what was always meant to be.

  Then she turned back to her magazines. Southern Living, Garden & Gun, Good Housekeeping. “I’m thinking about centerpieces.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ava said, and knew from her mother’s glance that she’d failed to sound interested.

  Footsteps rapped on the boards behind them, and they both turned.

  Ethan and Jackie had come into the room, Jackie to join them, and Ethan because he was the kind of guy who made sure to tip his hat to any ladies present before he took his leave.

  “…I’ll talk with the DA,” he was telling Jackie.

  She nodded, wings of her red bob swinging against her face. Her expression was one of a trembling unhappiness; her skin looked drawn and too-pale. There was a certain dryness to her, the look of someone who’s done lots of crying and not enough rehydrating.

  Ethan squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry until we know more,” he said with a gentle smile.

  Jackie nodded again.

  Then the attorney turned to them, the pleasing lines of his face drawn into the perfect expression of polite farewell. “Maggie, Ava.” He dipped his head in a little nod. “Always good to see you.”

  “You too, Ethan,” Maggie said. “Be sure and come to the New Year’s party. We’ll have plenty of food.”

  His mouth turned down in a graceful half-frown. “Maybe I will.” Though he’d never come to a single club function. “Afternoon, ladies,” and he swept around with one last shoulder-squeeze for Jackie and hit the front hall with a stride that suggested a casual confidence. He was an excellent attorney, and as Nell had often suggested, he looked excellent from behind in the tailored suit trousers he wore.

  Ava smiled to herself, remembering the words.

  And then her eyes fell on Jackie and the smile vanished.

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.

  Jackie sighed, and glanced down at the toes of her pumps, brushing her hair back from her face. Her shoulders were thin and birdlike inside her blue work button-up, her hip bones narrow points at the tops of her slacks. She was skeletal these days.

  “Nothing’s for sure yet, but there’s talk of transferring Collier to the federal pen.”

  Maggie drew herself upright. “What for?”

  Jackie’s breath trembled. She wouldn’t look at them. “Because he’s a member of an organized crime family…it’s all bogus. It’s just a way to remove him from Knoxville. The DA knows how much the club can still get done from the inside.”

  “That’s stupid,” Maggie said. “Who has the room to worry about that shit? Don’t worry. Ethan will get it sorted.”

  But Ava had no idea if that was true.

  “Come on,” Maggie slid off her stool. “Let’s go get some lunch, huh?”

  At Jackie’s unexcited nod, she frowned and said, “I bet Stella’s is too crowded anyway. We’ll hit Bell Bar.” She went to put an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

  Bell Bar, and a stiff afternoon martini for the prison wife.

  Michael couldn’t remember having a headache this bad. He couldn’t remember having a hangover ever. He had a strong constitution when it came to alcohol.

  But he’d been nine the last time he’d contemplated something as horrible as Holly Jessup’s upbringing. His nine-year-old self had cried into his pillow. His thirty-eight-year-old self had upended a bottle of Crown, and now he was fumbling through his kitchen for the aspirin.

  His house had belonged, before him, to a widow who’d left behind one child, a son, when she’d passed two years ago. The place had been full of furniture, appliances, the
kitchen cabinets packed with delicate blue, white and yellow dishes. “Keep what you want and trash the rest,” the son had told Michael. “I don’t have any use for it and I don’t have time to sort through it all.”

  The frilly furniture Michael had sent to Goodwill, keeping only the sturdy, basic pieces that he needed, mixing in the furniture he already had. The kitchen he’d left as is. He only used one plate and glass at a time, but there’d been something that had kept him from boxing it up. Some latent thought that he might have need of stainless flatware and colored china and little linen placemats. Some secret longing for a wife, perhaps.

  He was digging through one of the upper cabinets, pushing aside blue juice glasses, when he remembered that he’d taken the aspirin into the bedroom last night.

  He was so hungover.

  The tidily made bed seemed to stretch forward as he entered the bedroom, the plush chocolate-colored quilt like a soft, welcoming hand, waiting to catch him.

  But the comfort wasn’t appealing. Not this morning. He’d left coffee brewing in the kitchen and he shook out three aspirin from the bottle on the nightstand, going into the bathroom to scoop up a handful of water from the tap and swallow them down.

  Thankfully, the old widow had shared something of his taste in bathrooms: utilitarian white everywhere, sink with plenty of storage beneath, medicine cabinet with mirror. He turned on the shower and pulled off last night’s rumpled, stale-smelling clothes while he waited for the water to heat up.

  He happened to catch a glimpse of his reflection, as he pulled a towel from the cabinet and laid it on the counter. He almost didn’t recognize himself, the way his eyes were bright, almost feverish, gleaming with a strange light inside a face that was clenched tight with an active, vibrating tension. He looked wild, unpredictable, pulsing with energy.

  Ghost was wrong. He didn’t need a break; this wasn’t the look of fatigue, overwork. This was purpose. This was, for the first time in a long time, something more than obedience. This was revenge. Revenge by proxy, but no less driving.