Half My Blood

by Lauren Gilley

  Maggie sucked in a deep breath.

  Holly watched the brunette’s thumbs dig into Jasmine’s windpipe.

  “Hey!” Maggie shouted, stepping forward.

  The brunette let go of Jasmine with one hand and reached lightning-fast into her purse, coming back out with a small, gleaming knife that she brandished toward the Lean Dogs queen.

  “Jesus, are you insane?” Maggie demanded. “Jazz, what the hell is going on?”

  Jasmine’s eyes were huge, tear-brightened, and she said nothing, lips trembling.

  “This isn’t your business,” the brunette hissed, gesturing with the knife.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Maggie said, stepping back, hands help up to show that they were empty. “Jasmine, what the hell is going on?”

  Jasmine pulled in a deep breath, but only air left her lips afterward. She was either too petrified to speak, or worried whatever she said would launch the brunette’s knife toward her.

  “Get back,” the brunette told Maggie. She shifted sideways, so she had Jasmine up against the fridge with her right hand, the left extending the knife toward the old lady.

  She didn’t seem to see Holly.

  Which meant Holly had a choice to make, and a split second to act. She might not have been part of Jasmine’s cheering section, but the woman was loyal to the club, and was valued for it. And then Maggie – well, she was the queen bee, the president’s wife, the mother of the first friend Holly had ever had in her life.

  And she was no stranger to violence. She was well-acquainted with it, actually.

  Holly slipped around the corner, into the storage room, and took one of the collapsed folding chairs in both hands. She didn’t hesitate on her way back – she might lose her nerve if she did. She swung around the doorjamb, brought the chair up –

  And cracked the strange brunette across the back of the head with the aluminum chair as hard as she could.

  The sound echoed inside the small kitchen. Like a gong ringing.

  The girl’s head flew back, neck going limp, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. She collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap.

  Holly glanced up, chair still held up high against her chest.

  Jasmine and Maggie stared at her, eyes huge, totally speechless.

  Holly dampened her lips. “Was I not supposed to do that?”

  Tango didn’t see the text until he arrived at the bike shop. Burning with guilt already, he hopped off his bike, raked his fingers through his hair, pulled his phone out of his pocket….and stopped breathing.

  It was from Maggie: Something’s happened w/ Jasmine. She won’t say, but I think she wants you.

  “Christ,” he whispered, lifting his head, scanning the open roll-top doors in front of him. He’d taken a two-hour lunch. He couldn’t afford to dally anymore. But his heart was thundering as he tried to work out what “something’s happened” meant.

  Aidan and Carter were crouched in front of a shiny blue Bob loaded with saddlebags and flying a raccoon tail and an American flag off the back. Sponsor and prospect had their heads close together as Aidan pointed something out in the engine with a grimy finger and Carter nodded his understanding. The kid was turning out to be a good little mechanic. And he was a strong prospect: polite, responsive, respectful, but he had a personality under his pretty-boy looks and he let it shine through when he thought he could.

  They were busy, distracted; they’d done without him this long, what was five more minutes to check on Jazz?

  He took off toward the clubhouse at a jog. And then broke into a run.

  God. Had she…? Was she…? A dozen possibilities spun through his mind, each more horrible than the last.

  He saw a cluster of people standing under the pavilion, and headed that way, out of breath by the time he drew up behind Maggie.

  She turned to face him. “That was quick.”

  He gave her a cursory glance, eyes skipping wild. “Where is she? What happened?”

  Maggie stepped back with a small, smirking sort of smile. “I’ll let her explain it.”

  Sitting on the bench, between Holly and Harry the prospect, Jasmine had a damp cloth pressed to her throat and cupped her forehead with the other hand, looking frightened and exhausted. Her eyes came up to him and there was fear glimmering in their depths. The foreignness of it – he’d never seen her scared – nearly took his legs out from under him.

  Harry jumped up, hands fidgeting nervously at his sides, the smattering of freckles across his nose bright against his pale, nervous face. “I’m gonna go check and see if Littlejohn got her to the hospital alright.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Maggie told him before he jogged off.

  Holly stood like she was nervous, brows crimped as she took one last look at Jasmine and then excused herself.

  Maggie touched his shoulder. “I’ll be at the office if you need anything. The prospects took care of the girl.”

  What girl? he wanted to ask, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth as he stared at Jasmine, the vivacious groupie slumped over like a wilted flower.

  Groupie. He hated that word. It implied an ugliness of spirit that he refused to ascribe to this woman who, in so many ways, had eased him into this MC world.

  “Jazz.” He sat down heavily beside her because his knees wouldn’t support him any longer, and he laid a hand in the middle of her back, rubbing lightly at the sensitive place just above her bra clasp. “Darling,” he said, because he’d heard that word so many times; never darlin’, but the unabridged, crisp, proper version. “What happened?”

  She sighed and pulled the cloth away, holding it in her lap. He saw the angry red marks around her neck and he wanted to scream.

  Who had done this? One of his brothers? Someone wanting to take things too far?

  But Maggie had said “girl.”

  “Jazz.”

  She let out a long, shaky breath, and turned a halfhearted smile toward him. “You know how you didn’t want to try the online dating thing? Turns out you were right.”

  He stared at her stupidly.

  “Our little guest of honor from the other day? Yeaaahhhh…turns out she’s a clingy psycho. She showed up looking for us.” She grimaced, teeth catching at her lower lip. “And when I told her it wasn’t gonna happen again she kinda…strangled me.”

  “What the hell?” The words exploded out of him.

  “Yeah, she, um, she had a knife too. She pulled it on Mama Mags and I–” She shook her head, shuddering hard. “I think she would have killed one of us, T, I really do.” She lifted her eyes to his, her lashes clumpy with unshed tears. “God, I had no idea something like this could – I just – I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  Tango eased his arm around her and pulled her into his side, hugging her close. His heart stuttered and his breath stalled out, but he managed a calm voice. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He tried to inhale and his chest ached. “The important thing is no one got hurt. You’re okay, right?”

  She nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Then, to his surprise, she let out a weak chuckle. “You shoulda seen Michael’s little mouse Holly. She hit that bitch in the back of the head with a chair. Knocked her right out.”

  Tango leaned back. “She what?”

  Smiling now, Jasmine disentangled herself from him and lifted both hands as if she held something, miming the action. “Bong! I mean, I had no idea that girl could swing like that.”

  “Holly?”

  “Oh yeah. And then she was just all, ‘Oh no,’ or something like that. But it didn’t even phase her.” She laughed again, stronger this time. “I give her props – I had no idea there was a badass under all that sugar.”

  Tango had a hard time visualizing it, but then again, the woman had married Michael. She couldn’t be that naïve. “What happened to the girl?”

  “The prospect was taking her to the ER. In the next county over. Gonna tell them he found her in the street.”

>   He nodded, wishing they’d had her arrested, knowing no one at the station would have believed Jasmine’s side of things.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” He reached to smooth her hair back. “God, it scared the hell out of me when I saw Mags’ text. I just…” Didn’t want to put that kind of fear and guilt into words.

  “Tango Estes” – her voice was bright, her eyes terribly sad – “do you love me or something?”

  “I do.”

  “Oh, baby boy,” she sighed, leaning into his shoulder, looping her arm through his. “That’s not love. Not the real kind.”

  He snorted. “There’s a real kind?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what’s that look like?”

  “I’m not real sure, ‘cause I ain’t ever been a part of it, you know. But I guess it looks something like the boss and Mama Mags. Mercy and that little baby wife of his. I dunno.”

  “Hmph.”

  It was quiet a beat. “I want that for you,” she said, softly. “I want you to be happy.”

  “I do love you,” he protested, but it sounded hollow.

  “I know you do, baby, but love doesn’t always make you happy.” She tilted her head back, so she could see his face. “I know you love me, but you don’t love me. I want you to love; I want it to fill you up and make you warm.” She gave him a sincere, sideways smile. “And real doesn’t mean anything or anyone in particular – it just means real. Whatever’s most real for you.”

  Her eyes held his tight and he felt their pale depths were sending him some silent communication. Like she could see inside his head; like she’d properly interpreted all that early trauma he’d been carrying with him those first few nights she pulled him down between the sheets to lie with her in a cramped dorm bed.

  Jasmine was no dummy. She knew, he realized with a lurching grab in his stomach. She knew, or she suspected the things that had happened to him before Ghost had hung a cut from his shoulders.

  He shifted, glancing away from her, skin feeling too tight suddenly.

  “Jazz–”

  “You smell nice,” she whispered. “Like something real fancy, the kinda stuff they keep in pretty bottles under glass cases.”

  He swallowed a rising knot of panic. “Jazz–”

  She kissed the side of his throat, lips against his frantic pulse. “Baby, hush, I’d never tell a soul. Did you think I didn’t guess it? You all nervous as a teenage girl.” There was nothing of insult in her voice.

  He screwed his eyes shut tight, until it hurt with the effort. “I’m not–” he said through his teeth. “I’m a Lean Dog, and I’m not–”

  “Oh, sweet boy.” She petted his hair, fingertips light against his scalp. “I know how the club works. I would never tell. I don’t care who you’ve been, or what you are.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “I know, I know.” Her voice grew thready and cracked; he could hear the tears in it. “Baby boy, I know.”

  **

  It was the next day that Tango came to thank Holly. When he appeared in the propped-open doorway of the trucking office, hands shoved in his pockets, the sun haloing around him, Holly saw how very pretty he was, under the tattoos, the funky hair, and all the piercings. Pretty like the male runway models she’d seen in magazines. Fine-boned, and boyish, and innocent-looking, in one of those unguarded moments in which a person revealed the under-layers of himself without meaning to.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling, and waved him in. “I’m just organizing receipts for the cabinet. You can come in.”

  Whether it was the prettiness, or the touch of nerves between his crimped brows, something about him was completely disarming, and he didn’t stir up her usual anxieties about being alone with men.

  He glanced down at the scuffed toes of his boots as he entered, giving her ample time to study him. His garage shirt hung off his thin shoulders. He had lean hands with long fingers; the backs of them, between the first and second knuckle, were tattooed with realistic-looking domino tiles; the black dots on them seemed to be actual depressions, the shading was done so well. Both arms were intricately tattooed, and on the inside of his left forearm, she saw a flower. A delicate white bloom. A jasmine flower.

  When he was in front of the desk, his head lifted, and his gaze was direct, soft, and full of emotion. “I wanted to come thank you, for saving Jazz the yesterday.”

  “I wouldn’t say save.”

  “I would. I’ve seen some really awful, crazy shi – stuff happen, and lots of times, there’s no one around brave enough to do anything about it. She could have–” He cleared his throat. “So thank you. She’s real important to me and I…thank you.”

  Holly smiled, tenderness unfurling in her chest. She wanted to protest, to wave off his earnest insistence. But she said, “You’re very welcome.”

  As he left, Maggie entered, and Holly figured the woman had been waiting around the corner, listening to Tango’s expression of gratitude.

  “Afternoon,” the blonde greeted as she came to take the chair across from the desk, legs crossed at a casual angle.

  “Good afternoon,” Holly echoed, tensing in anticipation of whatever this would bring about. She knew she was being tested by the biker queen, and she didn’t resent the woman for it. When Michael asked if the other old ladies were kind to her, she always said they were, because this was a tricky female thing and she didn’t want him blundering his awkward way into it. He would have interfered out of love, but it would have still been an interference.

  “So….” Maggie said, examining her fingernails. They were painted a bright summer white. “The boys have a run coming up.”

  “To New Hampshire in two weeks.” Her throat ached at the thought. They would leave a skeleton crew behind, but Michael, as sergeant at arms, would go along to protect his president.

  Maggie nodded. “Right. Well, usually, when they’re gone for a few days, we girls get together and have a potluck.” Her eyes flipped up to Holly, stern and serious. “You ought to come.”

  Holly went very still. “Really?”

  Maggie gave her a fractional smile. “Hey, sometimes you gotta conk a bitch over the head with something. I get that. You should come, yeah.”

  Twelve

  Take My Blood

  The best day of the week was, by far, Sunday. The baby still woke early, wanting to be fed, but there was no rush otherwise. When his fussy cries filtered through the baby monitor, Mercy climbed from bed and brought him back. Ava nursed him as dawn broke over the house and they lay drowsily on the pillows, talking about small, unimportant little things like saving for a new sofa and what they wanted for dinner.

  Today had been exquisite in its ordinary, uneventful complacency. Often, they’d head to her parents’ for dinner, but earlier that afternoon, Mercy had rubbed a slab of pork with spices and dropped it in the slow cooker with vinegar and a little broth. By the time the evening shadows stretched long and thin across the floorboards, the whole house was redolent with smoky paprika and garlic.

  Ava was strapping Remy into his baby swing when Mercy said, “He needs a brother.”

  The buckle clicked into place and she turned, still crouched on the floor, glancing with disbelief toward her husband where he was taking up more than half the couch, his arms and legs spread out to the side. Casual, relaxed, at-home. Not looking like someone who’d just said what he had.

  “What?”

  “He needs a brother. You don’t want him to be an only child, do you?”

  “No…but when are you thinking he needs a brother?”

  “Soon.”

  Ava laughed. “Says the man who didn’t push this through his narrow hips.” She gestured to Remy. “How soon?”

  His brows plucked together. “I thought you wanted more.” He sounded almost hurt, and it was adorable.

  “I do. Of course I do. But not now. We don’t want two in diapers, do we?”

  “I don’t…guess.”

  She bit back anoth
er laugh. “Merc, why do you look like I told you I’m gonna withhold sex for the next two weeks?”

  “First off, you’d never do that, you can’t resist,” he said in all seriousness. Then he rubbed at his jaw and stared at the baby. “I dunno. I just…” He shrugged.

  Poor baby, she thought. Coming to grips with his own bloodline had rattled him, and in typical Mercy fashion, he wanted to drown those worries in this new family he was making for himself.

  “Life’s short,” he mused, one hand going to his bad knee. “You can be really practical and careful” – his eyes flicked to hers – “or you can do exactly what you want.” He twitched a small, wry smile. “I wasted five years not doing what I wanted, fillette. I don’t wanna waste our time anymore.”

  How could she argue with that? He wanted kids – and he was the perfect strong, tall, tree of a man that kids loved to climb. She didn’t doubt, for a second, that no matter how many they had, he’d throw himself wholeheartedly into fatherhood, co-parenting with her. He didn’t shrink from diapers, from spit-up, from middle-of-the-night screaming.

  “You’re the best daddy,” she told him quietly, and his smile twitched. He blinked. “If you–”

  Her phone rang and she stood, reaching for it in her back pocket before it could get Remy upset.

  Her mom.

  “Hey.”

  “Where are you?” Maggie’s voice quivered with panic and emotion.

  Ava’s lungs seized up. “At home. Why?”

  “Your bother – there was…Aidan took a fall.” She sucked in a ragged breath that was like claws scraping across Ava’s ear. “It’s bad…Ava, it’s bad. The blood–”

  “I’m on my way,” Ava said.

  She was the only one in the family who shared his blood type.

  She punched disconnect and turned to Mercy. He was already up off the couch, sensing the distress in her.

  “Aidan crashed.” Her voice sounded faraway in her ears.