Price of Angels (Dartmoor Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

Ghost considered. Michael had told him it had been one of Holly’s three tormentors. The husband, he’d said. The one with the big ears, mistaking the other waitress for Holly, strangling her to death when he realized his mistake and panicked, thinking she’d report him to the police. “Well,” Ghost said slowly. “If I did know anything, I’d say it’d be safe to assume that your killer isn’t gonna be bothering any more waitresses.”

  Fielding stiffened. “You know him, then.”

  “Can’t say that I do.” Ghost walked away from him, ambling toward the clubhouse.

  “Ghost,” Fielding said behind him. “Ken!”

  He threw a wave over his shoulder. “Afternoon, sergeant. I think you know the way out.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Knoxville had never looked so beautiful as it slid past the windows of the Chevelle. The melting snow had left everything wet, and beneath the sharp strike of the sun, every smooth surface looked sugar-glazed, shiny like fresh doughnuts. Holly didn’t see every parked car and shadowed doorway as a hiding place for a demon. She wasn’t waiting for one of three specters to appear before her, smiling and rope-bearing.

  All of that was gone, done, dead. They were dead.

  She had tried, during the past week, to find some scrap of remorse or revolt at the knowledge of their murders, but she couldn’t. When she closed her eyes, and envisioned their blood in the snow, remembered Dewey’s last gasp of breath, she was flooded with peace.

  She didn’t have to run anymore. She could live.

  She could love.

  She rolled her head against the seat and glanced over at Michael, silent and thoughtful behind the wheel. He had such dark circles beneath his eyes; he’d slept terribly at the hospital, and without the benefit of painkillers, the way she’d slipped out of consciousness each night.

  “You need a nice long nap,” she said, reaching to brush her fingertips against the disheveled hair at the side of his head.

  “Hmm,” was all he said.

  They drove past the bar, and Holly winced. “I’m fired, by the way. I finally called Jeff back, and he was very nice, but he said he had to let me go. He and Matt sent a big basket of muffins to the hospital.”

  “Is that who those were from?”

  “Yeah. Also” – deeper wince; this was the worst part – “you’re sort of banned from Bell Bar.”

  He glanced over at her, a quick sharp look. The first time he’d done so since they’d gotten in the car an hour ago. “I am?”

  “You ran through the bar with a knife in your hand. Yeah, you’re banned.”

  He frowned and faced the road again.

  Holly nibbled at the inside of her cheek. “Is everything alright?”

  “Fine.”

  No, it wasn’t. Something was bothering him, which in turn was bothering her. Now was the time when they should have been happy. Now they were free.

  She didn’t realize they were headed for her place until he was turning onto the street and the Victorian mansion loomed into view. “The loft,” she said, startled.

  “Yeah.”

  There were unsaid words building between them, as they climbed from the car. His words. Holly could feel them pushing at her, and she wanted to pull the pin that would release them, but wasn’t sure how to do it tactfully. And the more steps they took – into the house, up the stairs, into the loft – the more awkward things became.

  The loft was as she’d left it, the air stuffy and warm, but pleasantly so, after the chill of outside. Sunlight fell in golden panels through the dormer windows, bright boxes on the floorboards.

  Michael carried her bag in and set it down on the floor beside the bed. When he straightened, he scratched at his hair, his movements jerky, almost nervous. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll–”

  “Michael.” She couldn’t stand this weirdness another second. At first, in the hospital, she’d thought it was just his lingering worry, and that he’d begin to relax. But instead he’d wound tighter and tighter. Screw tact – she had to have it out with him, bald and honest, because she could think of no other way to phrase what she wanted to say.

  “Why did we come here?” she asked. “I thought we’d go to your place. You’ve got more room.”

  It seemed miles that separated them, rather than a few feet of hardwood floor, as he stared at her with the most rattling, haunted expression in his hazel eyes, his face pulled tight with pain and regret, and something very like grief.

  Holly pulled in a deep breath and felt the shifting of the silver cross against her chest. She was still wearing it. She couldn’t bear to take it off, because it had been his mother’s, and he’d given it to her.

  “I’m going to my place,” he said, quietly. “And I brought you to your place.”

  “But why is it your place and my place?” She felt the first sting of tears at the backs of her eyes. “I want it to be our place. Wherever that place is. I don’t want to be apart.”

  He sighed, breath shaking on the exhale. “I know you think that now, but you don’t have to rush into anything. Take some time. Think about what you–”

  “No!”

  She startled both of them, her shout echoing through the open space of the loft.

  “No,” she repeated, softer, throat aching with sudden desperation. “Don’t push me away. Not now, not when we have all this time now…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “How can you murder three men with a knife – how can you be that passionate – and then stand there and tell me you’ll give me time, and that you won’t rush and – How could you, Michael?”

  He walked toward her. “Hol–”

  Her stitches tugged and burned as she sucked in a huge breath. “Maybe it was only ever a transaction for you. Maybe it was a job,” she said, on the verge of sobbing. “But I love you! You have to know that by now. And maybe you think it’s because I never…or that I have emotional problems because of…or that because you killed them…but, Michael, it’s you! It’s because you’re you, and you’re so lonely, and I just want to love you–”

  His arms banded around her, crushing her into his chest. His was breathing in deep, ragged draws, his lungs expanding beneath her face, where it was pressed to his shirtfront.

  “I love you,” she said, her voice a broken, jagged thing. “It will only ever be you. Don’t push me away. Please, Michael, don’t push me away.” The tears spilled from her lashes, running hot down her face.

  His face pressed against the top of her head, his breath shivering through her hair. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “Hol, I don’t…”

  “Then we’ll learn together, won’t we?” She forced a croaking semblance of a laugh. “We’re both beginners.”

  “You could have everything,” he said, miserably, against her ear.

  “I do have everything. Everything I could ever want or need.” She clutched at the back of his jacket, burrowed against him.

  His hands caught at her shoulders, her hair. “God,” he whispered.

  In the warm fall of sunlight, she felt his promise, shaking through his bones and skin; felt it in the rush of his breath and the gentle stroke of his fingers. Love, and the future, and everything. Together.

  Six Weeks Later

  Walking was starting to become work. Not hard work. She wasn’t panting and huffing, but at this point in her pregnancy, Ava could feel the distance she’d walked in her legs; she felt the drain of fatigue as she adjusted her shoulder bag for the tenth time and let herself into the English building. It had been a long walk from the parking deck to her classroom, and the baby was making her feel every inch of it.

  Some of it may have been the lack of caffeine. She’d expected, once she was used to going without, for her daily caffeine cravings to pass. No such luck. She was a writer; she needed her fix.

  At the end of the hallway, students were reclined against the wall, playing with their phones, some cross-legged on the cold tile floor. So Pitts was late again, as usual. Ava sighed; she found
a spot of bare wall, leaned back against it, and let her eyes drift aimlessly across the feet of the students across from her as she settled in to wait. Sometimes, Pitts was as much as an hour late; a time or two, his TA had appeared at ten after to inform them that the class was cancelled.

  “Excuse me.”

  Ava lifted her head in automatic response to the voice, and saw that one of her classmates was looking at her from across the hall.

  A girl, a little older than she was, with the most brilliant head of dark blonde hair, restrained in a tidy plait over one shoulder. She wore black, rectangular-framed glasses, and very little makeup, but was pretty, in a way that needed to be studied, rather than glanced at on the fly. She looked every inch the grad student in her chunky gray sweater, tights and ballet flats.

  She offered Ava a small smile. “Last week, when Pitts handed out the papers – did you say your name was Ava Teague?”

  Ava nodded, wondering if this was about to turn into one of those conversations – the ones in which people realized her club connections and starting laying judgment. “Used to be. I got married last year, but I take it Pitts still has ‘Teague’ on his roster.”

  The girl nodded. “I thought you looked familiar. I went to school with your brother.”

  Ava raised her brows. “One of Aidan’s old conquests?” she asked with a rude snort, too tired to care at this point.

  The girl blushed. “No. Oh no. He never knew I existed. But everyone in town knows him and…” Twinge of something flickering across her face. Regret, maybe? “You look like him. In the eyes.” She gestured to her own. “And I was just…”

  “Surprised Aidan sister knows how to read, let alone get into grad school?” Ava chuckled. “We’ve got some DNA in common, and that’s about it. The big idiot,” she said, with an affectionate smile, so the girl knew she was teasing.

  The blonde gave an uncertain laugh of her own. “I liked what you said the other day, about Salinger, and I’d been meaning to introduce myself.” She adjusted her bag and stepped into the middle of the hallway, hand extending for Ava to shake.

  “I’m Sam,” she said. “Samantha Walton.”

  Ava took her hand. “Ava Lécuyer.”

  **

  “Have you ever done any bookkeeping?” Maggie Teague asked, her hand resting on top of the computer monitor perched on the desk of the Dartmoor Trucking office.

  Holly tried not to grimace. “No, ma’am. But,” she rushed to say, “I’m a real hard worker and I can learn most anything, if someone can teach me.”

  The MC queen studied her a moment, expression unreadable. “If nothing else, you’ve got the right attitude,” she said. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

  Holly went around the desk and sat in the indicated chair, watching the computer screen with dutiful attention as Maggie clicked through the spreadsheets, showing her the programs, instructing her how to plug in payments and print receipts. It seemed simple enough.

  “You know, we can’t keep a trucking manager around here,” Maggie said when she stepped back, sitting on the edge of the desk. “They either get scared of Ghost, or some club drama happens and they bail, or they’re too incompetent to keep around and get fired.”

  Holly nodded. “Well, I’ve got the scared and the bailing covered; that’s not going to happen.”

  Maggie gave her a small smile. “Tough cookie, huh?”

  “And I don’t think I’ll get fired around here if Michael whips out a knife and starts chasing people.”

  Maggie laughed. “Definitely not.”

  She sobered, regarding Holly with a critical eye. She was no dummy, this woman, no blind maternal sort. She was a beautiful, golden-haired shark. “After all the people we’ve hired on, it’s not exactly a risk giving you a shot.”

  It was an insult, one Holly felt was deserved, given that she was a newcomer, and this was a culture in which hierarchy was everything.

  She nodded. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

  Maggie gave her a small, secretive smile.

  It would be fun to prove to the woman – to the club – that she was someone who could be trusted. A true old lady, and not just an empty-headed piece of arm candy.

  “Alright.” Maggie stood and fetched a sheaf of papers from the top of the file cabinet. She spread them before Holly on the desk. “Sign here, and here, and I’ll get this filed. I’ll need your bank info for direct deposit…”

  Holly plucked a pen from the cup beside the computer, and began laying her signature on the appropriate lines.

  Holly Marie McCall.

  The gentle gray touch of dawn’s light brushed her eyes and urged them open. She lay on her side, in the warm soft bed of the old Craftsman home that had been Michal’s, and now was her home, too, the loft left empty and awaiting the next tenant. She wore a soft cotton nightgown, short, with narrow straps, something she’d thought might entice her husband. But so far, he hadn’t touched her with anything but friendliness and comfort since her surgery.

  He sat on the side of the bed, his back to her. The inked wings were beautiful, detailed and feathered in the early light, taking up all of his back.

  Holly reached through the still morning air and laid her hand against his skin, over the tapering shape of the right wing.

  He jerked, stiffening, and she smiled. It wasn’t often that she got the drop on him.

  She sat up, drawing her legs beneath her, fitting her front to his back and sliding her arms around his neck from behind. She loved the heat of his skin soaking through the thin nightgown, warming her breasts and belly. She loved the clean-sheet and masculine smell of him; the mess of his unwashed hair.

  Over his shoulder, she saw the quick retraction of his hand from the waistband of the shorts he slept in. Saw him press his palm down guiltily on the mattress. The flush of color in his cheekbones. He’d been busted, and the sight of him like this flooded her with tenderness.

  She pulled her arms from around his neck, wrapped them around his waist instead, her hand going to his lap, where she found him thick and rigid with usual morning arousal.

  Holly curled her fingers around the shape of his cock, stroking him lightly through the shorts.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked, lips flitting against his shoulder.

  He grunted something she couldn’t make out, and reached to pull her hand away.

  “Wait.” She flattened her palm, trapping his hard cock against his thigh, and saw his abs leap in response. He took a deep breath in through his nose. “The doctor said I’m fine to get back to ‘normal activity.’ ” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “That means sex, you know.”

  “Maybe you should wait a little longer,” he said, and she felt the tremors running beneath his skin as she teased him with her open palm. “Christ, stop…You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

  “Hurt myself?” She chuckled. “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. I think this is about to snap off in my hand.” She squeezed him, to prove her point, biting back a sharp laugh as he half-leapt off the bed and forced himself back down with a ragged sound.

  “Holly,” he said through his teeth. “If you don’t stop, I’m not gonna be held liable for whatever happens.”

  “We haven’t even had a proper wedding night,” she said into his ear, taking the lobe lightly between her lips.

  They hadn’t had a big club wedding. There was a tiny white chapel with a stone staircase ten minutes from Chaceaway Farm. Uncle Wynn had put on his best shirt, pressed his Wranglers, and combed his hair down with water, so it clung tight to the sides of his head, little wisps curling up as it dried.

  They’d needed another witness, and when Holly asked Ava if she’d mind, Ava and Mercy had both come, lean and well-matched in their casual fierceness, all in black as they stood beside the pulpit.

  Holly had found a simple long-sleeved gray dress on the clearance rack at Macy’s, and she’d worn her boots.

  Michael had worn hi
s cut over his black shirt, and his hands had been strong and sure and warm as they held tightly to hers.

  That night, he’d stretched out beside her in his bed – their bed – and he’d kissed her for a long time, alternatively slow and deep. Knee-melting, clinging, time-stopping kisses. Then he’d folded the covers around her and told her to go to sleep, because it was too soon after her surgery, and he wouldn’t risk her hurting anything.

  She’d cried against his shoulder, touched beyond measure by his sweetness.

  But now, she was about ready to cry from frustration. She wanted her husband; wanted him to love her as his wife.

  She withdrew her hand, like he’d asked. But then she slid the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and pulled her arms through, pushing the slip of fabric to her waist. She lay against his back, pressing her naked breasts to his skin, to his wings, letting him feel their weight, and the points of her nipples.

  He groaned. “Hol, your stitches…”

  “All healed up. Here.” She could hear how her breathing had picked up; her pulse was elevated. “Feel.” She reached for his hand, intending to draw it back and place it over the faint scar at her abdomen.

  Instead, she gasped as he whirled around and tackled her back across the bed. A careful tackle, but a tackle nonetheless. There was no delicate word for the way he covered her with his body.

  She sighed inwardly, a sigh of relief. Finally.

  He didn’t kiss her. He’d kissed her to death in the last weeks. In an unacknowledged part of her mind, Holly had begun to wonder if he still wanted her in the same way, now that the crisis was past, now that they were looking down the long barrel of forever together.

  That worry was obliterated as she watched his head bend to her breasts, and he clamped his lips to her nipple.

  He suckled her, one breast and then the other, wet, desperate sounds leaving his mouth. He bit the tender inner curves, abraded her skin with the stubble along his jaw.

  She heard seams rip as he dragged the nightgown off her hips and found her naked beneath, growling to himself, his breath leaving his lungs in harsh bursts.