“Yeah,” Aidan said as he plopped in his chair, a dripping bottle of AmberBock in one hand. “Troy’s got important home shopping channel shit to deal with. He doesn’t have time for us.”
“I’ll come around this table,” Troy said, “and beat your ass, son.”
Aidan grinned. “You’d have to catch me first.”
Hound, their other old-timer, probably in his mid-seventies by now, smacked Aidan good-naturedly on the back of the head as he made his slow, bow-legged way to his seat. “No respect for his elders, this one.”
“He lacks my sophistication and poise,” Tango said as he sat next to Aidan.
“And your knack for ass-kissing,” Rottie said.
Tango grinned, proud of himself, and lit a smoke with a deft flick of his lean, tatted thumb.
Everyone was present. Party-hearty Jace had had a woman’s fingers through his hair; there was a lipstick smudge on his jaw and he stank of sex. RJ and Collier were in the middle of an intense discussion about the merits of their respective bike models. Hound and his former apprentice – soon to be successor – Rottie, were still thick as thieves, sitting beside one another, dark-headed Rottie leaning into gray-haired Hound to hear what his mentor had to say. Ratchet, his shaved head shiny under the chandelier, settled with an air of comical stateliness, given the size of his biceps and the squareness of his face. He looked like a nightclub bouncer, in black muscle shirt and his Dogs cut, but was the club secretary, a role he took with the utmost seriousness. Michael took his seat without speaking to anyone, as flat-faced as ever. Walsh was smoking and cleaning the dirt from under his nails with a switchblade. Dublin examined the way Briscoe’s stitches were closing over, nodding in satisfaction at the way the red skin on the other man’s arm was knitting together.
Then Ghost entered, and side conversation stopped.
Behind him, Ernest James, president of the Tennessee chapter of the Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club for over thirty years, stepped up to his seat at the head of the table for the last time.
A sudden hush fell over the room. The reverence was a tangible thing, a pulse through all their veins.
Mercy took his seat beside Hound and felt lucky to be included amongst these men on this night. The other out of town members partied on down the hall, not privy to this moment.
Ghost took his chair to the left of the head, but James lingered a moment, hands on the carved back of his chair, his eyes moving around the table with a telltale sheen glossing their aged blue depths.
“Boys,” he greeted with a shaky grin.
“Boss,” they all chorused, slapping the tabletop.
He bowed his head a moment; Mercy saw the tiny tremors in his shoulders. When he lifted his face, his eyes came to Mercy, and he smiled, a stronger smile. “Merc. Glad you’re back, kid.”
“Me too.”
The room was so silent as the president pulled back his chair and sat, arranging his new hip carefully, wincing. “Alright.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve got two things to vote on tonight.” His gaze went around the room again. “And…wait, where’s Andre?”
Six
Fourteen Years Ago
Before she’d ever been old enough to question the idea, Ava had grown used to the random member asleep on the couch when she walked through the house to breakfast. On an autumn Saturday, she found the newest member of the Tennessee chapter sprawled across the sofa, under the Picasso print, his impossibly long legs hanging off one end, his face mashed into one of Maggie’s red pillows.
Mercy, she remembered his name with a bright note of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Mercy, who was so tall and who possessed such massive hands that needed growing into, and who had intriguing eyebrows she wanted trace with her fingertips.
Maggie was in the kitchen – the scents of bacon, hash browns and eggs rolled in thick waves through the house, the hissing of the skillet riding along the tides of smell – but Ava lingered a moment, her child’s attention captured by this big new stranger taking up the entire sofa. She moved closer to him without being conscious of it; she leaned toward him and then realized her feet were taking her even closer, until she stood right in front of his face.
What rich skin he had, sun kissed and resilient, gleaming in the incoming shafts of morning sunlight. His stubble and brows and hair, so dark by contrast, brought a sinister structure to his face. Even sleeping, he looked fierce and dangerous. Like Mr. Hogan’s long-tailed, pointed-eared dog that slept in the shade of his butcher shop awning. “Come away from him,” Maggie always said, taking Ava’s hand, pulling her in close and out of reach of the dog’s sleeping jaws. In this moment, staring at Mercy, Ava would not have been surprised to see her mother appear beside her. “Come away from him,” and then the gentle towing away.
Instead, Mercy inhaled sharply, and his eyes opened.
Ava waited for the startle to hit her – to jump back and gasp and flail behind her for the edge of the coffee table. But it didn’t come, and she didn’t shrink from him.
She smiled. “Hi.”
Surprise showed itself in his features. Without lifting his head, his eyes searched the room to either side of her. He took a big breath and let it out. Then he looked straight at her. “Hi.”
With all the curious, bald honesty of a child, she said, “Did you come here because you were really tired? Or because you were drunk?”
There was surprise again, as a rich, dark chuckle broke from his throat.
Ava kicked her chin up, not sure if she should feel embarrassed. “I know what drunk is.”
“I’m sure you do, sweetheart.”
“So which are you?”
He pushed up on his elbows, and then sat, swinging up to his full, impressive height. “A little bit of both, actually.”
Maggie’s bare feet whispered across the carpet. “Oh, you’re awake. You want something to eat? Is she bothering you?”
Ava started to protest, but Mercy beat her to it.
“No, ma’am. She’s fine. And yeah. Something to eat would be good.”
Maggie folded her arms, closing her long sweater over her yoga gear. Ava had never seen her mother completely without makeup; even first thing, Maggie had a layer of lip gloss, touch of eyeliner. Her wavy blonde hair was tied back and secured at the crown with a red cotton headband. Her gaze was trained on Mercy, that sharp, miss-nothing hazel stare that had sent many a club member running for the door.
“You’re from Louisiana, right? The new kid?”
A big as he was, Mercy somehow looked small as he reached for his boots on the floor and stepped into them. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Leave those off, please.” Maggie gestured to the boots. “Last time I let Ghost in the house with his, he tracked motor oil all over my carpet. Had to rent one of those Rug Doctors to get it out.”
“Oh.” Mercy’s cheeks colored. He set the boots aside. “Sorry.”
Maggie nodded. “So. Louisiana. You eat anything besides crawfish?”
His cheeks actually began to turn pink. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Come get a plate, then. Ava, let’s go. If you don’t eat better, you’re gonna dry up and blow away.”
**
It was the first of what would become dozens of breakfasts Mercy ate with the two of them. Because two weeks after that morning, the Carpathians struck again, even closer to home this time.
Ava, well into her adult years, would always remember the morning she and Maggie had gone to Stella’s Café for a special just-because ladies’ breakfast. Aidan had his driver’s license and wanted no part of anything parental at mealtimes. He was already off, out in the city somewhere glorying in his new Dyna and the simple joy of being let loose from the apron strings. Maggie had been in the living room when Ava woke, the kitchen cold and odorless, Maggie’s smile bright, her makeup perfect, her outfit of loose sweater and ripped jeans a giveaway that an errand was on the books. “How about breakfast out? Just you and me, no reason.”
Maggie helped her
pick out black leggings, Converse sneakers, and her favorite unicorn sweatshirt, then braided her hair in two long plaits that slapped against her back as she jogged for the door, Maggie laughing in her wake.
Stella’s was owned by a pair of snowbirds, a Yankee couple who’d fled the bitter cold of upstate New York some ten odd years before. Julian and Stella, dark-haired and exotic, with their Italian complexions and harsh New York accents, had drawn their fair share of skepticism when they opened their café on Market Square. But then the doors had swung wide and the scents of homemade Italian food had flooded the sidewalk, and the customers had been drawn in against their will, pulled along by the scents hooked hard in their noses. Then, once butts were in seats and plates were clattering down on tables, Julian and Stella hadn’t needed to do a thing to ingratiate themselves with this Southern city; the food had done that for them.
Of the pair, Stella did most of the cooking, while Julian played manager, sous chef, and head waiter. His round-faced, perspiring exuberance for each day, and each customer, was set off smartly by his wife’s militaristic detail to order in the kitchen. The café, originally an end unit of a beige-on-beige retail strip, had been transformed on the inside with loving care. The walls were a rich gold fresco, buttery in the sunlight, almost ochre in the flickering of evening candles. Julian had installed the ceiling beams himself; they served no supportive purpose, but the dark timbers beneath the white plaster ceiling lent an Old World coziness to the restaurant. He’d then commissioned a massive stone fireplace that dominated the outer wall, and Stella had draped the mantle with garlic ropes, heaped it with jars of fire-roasted tomatoes, every variety of olives, hot and sweet peppers packed in rich Italian olive oil. The kitchen sat behind a bakery counter, and from it came Stella’s no-nonsense directives to her staff. The tables were small, round, inlaid with painted tiles, and afforded small pockets of privacy from one another thanks to a jungle of potted ferns and palms.
Out on the patio, Julian had ripped up the concrete, and laid heavy orange 14x14 tiles. Iron café tables surrounded a splashing three-tiered fountain, where children pitched pennies and made wishes during the warm months. It was the patio that Maggie and Ava preferred on their mornings out, and that was where they settled on the morning that would change the course of Ava’s life.
“My favorite beautiful ladies,” Julian greeted as he walked out onto the patio with black coffee for Maggie and cranberry juice for Ava. He hadn’t bothered with menus, and hadn’t needed to ask for a drink order.
An elderly couple at the neighboring table glanced over, curious about these two
Maggie, in her big sunglasses and the shade of lipstick Ava sometimes asked to wear just a little of, waved and pursed her lips in a self-deprecating smile. “The problem is all ladies are your favorite,” she said. “And you think we all fall for the flattery.”
Julian pressed a hand to his chest, feigning wounded. “That hurts, Mrs. T. I’m a faithful husband.”
“I know you are.” Her smile turned sweet. “And Stella’s got a meat cleaver with your name on it if you ever start thinking differently.”
His brows jumped. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Maggie laughed; her laughter had a bell-like quality, rich and reverberant, deep like a heavy church bell. Ava watched her banter with the restaurant owner, mystified and delighted by the way her mother always seemed able to charm and disarm. There was something subtle and endearing about Maggie’s confidence, a deft handling of humans that balanced her more direct bursts of authority. She was the most beautiful, enchanting woman Ava had ever seen in person. Her friends’ mothers always gave Maggie dark looks, and Ghost had explained to Ava, once, “They’re jealous, baby. Don’t worry about what those bitches think.” Then he’d told her not to say “bitch” until she was at least thirty.
“How are you this morning, Miss Ava?” Julian asked, and Ava’s cheeks warmed with pleasure to be spoken to as an adult. “I’m fine.”
“Driving the boys crazy, I bet.”
“She’s eight, Julian,” Maggie said. “Let’s not hope for that just yet.”
“Right. Well.” He clapped his hands together. “Let me bring you something special, okay? Stella’s just pulling fresh bread out of the oven.”
“That’d be great,” Maggie said.
When Julian had left them to the chattering of birds and other patrons, Maggie sipped her coffee and said, “Are you excited about starting school again?”
Ava’s frown was reactionary and instant. She was going into the fourth grade in two weeks, and every time she thought about it, her stomach tightened with dread. “No,” she said into her juice. “I hate school.”
Maggie’s lips pressed together; the little grooves around her mouth deepened. “But baby, you love school.”
She loved reading, and writing, and art, and talking about weather patterns and the migration habits of hummingbirds. But last year, in the third grade, she’d learned there was a big difference between liking education, and liking school.
“Not anymore.”
“Ava.” Maggie pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead, her eyes bright with worry. “You have to forget about what happened. Just throw it away and keep going.”
But Ava knew she could throw away all she wanted, and it would keep coming, the ridicule, and would worsen with time and age.
Back in the spring, just days before the big end of year party, the Knoxville Lean Dogs returned home from a two-week run up the east coast. They’d gone to Maine and back, making a delivery that Ava had been told she “didn’t need to know about.” It was something that had caused her dad to sit up nights, studying maps and talking about speed traps and police checkpoints with Hound and James. Whatever they were running, they hadn’t wanted to meet with any sort of law enforcement. Ava’s childhood was punctuated by bizarre games of Cops and Robbers, ones in which it was the unlucky child chosen to play the cop.
When she walked out of school that afternoon, it hadn’t been her mother’s battleship Cadillac Seville waiting at the curb, but Ghost on his Harley, in full Dogs regalia, flying his colors and wearing his fingerless leather gloves. In sheer delight, she’d squealed and run to him, leaping into his arms when he knelt to catch her. She’d ridden home on the back of his bike that day, thrilled and oblivious.
The next day, Mason Stephens had stopped her outside the cafeteria. He’d stood with his two best friends, Carter Michaels and Beau Ericson, his auburn hair parted on the side and arranged just so, his Ralph Lauren clothes spotless. Beau had been picking at a scab on his knee; Carter had been staring at the floor, shifting his weight from foot to foot, giving Ava a nice view of the top of his blonde head. But Mason’s eyes had been laser-focused on her.
“Teague,” he said in that nasal voice of his she hated. It was a whiny, sucking-up-to-teacher voice. “Was that you leaving school on a motorcycle yesterday?”
Every internal alarm she possessed went off. Danger. Danger. But she said, “Yeah. That was my daddy.”
Mason had smiled, a nasty smile. “Your ‘daddy’? He’s one of those Lean Dogs?”
Pride – oh, she was a proud girl, like her mama, and that always got her in trouble – swelled in her voice as she said, “He’s the vice president.”
Mason’s smile had grown nastier. “My daddy told me all about your daddy and his dogs. They’re trash. They sell drugs and guns and get people killed. When Dad wins the governor race, he says he’s gonna take all your dirty Dogs to the pound.” He’d laughed, delighted with the joke.
Mason’s father, Mason Stephens Sr., had plastered his face on every bench and bus stop canopy in the city, his winning, orthodontic smile plying the citizens of Knoxville for a vote in the fall. Politics was an area of study in which Ava had little interest; her family ignored it. Most of the Dogs, she knew, weren’t able to vote, thanks to a criminal record.
Mason’s words, so unexpected, had ripped across her skin, leaving a physical pain behind. She gasped. St
ammering, feeling incapable, she said, “They’re – they’re not dirty.”
“Yeah they are. And you are too. Biker whore. That’s what Mom says – all you women who run with those Dogs are biker whores.”
At age eight, she was called a whore for the first time in her life. She would learn the hard way that it was far from the last time. It was also the first time the club caused her pain. Again, not the last.
By the time the end of year party arrived, Mason, a good politician like his father, had amassed a contingent of followers who joined together in chanting “no more biker whore” on her last day of school. Sobbing, she’d sought refuge in the girls’ room. Her mother had been called, and when Maggie arrived, Ava had heard her shouting all the way down the hall. With a volley of curses and threats, Maggie had let the principal and vice principal, and anyone else in hearing, know that she would sue “all their asses” if they allowed her “sweet girl” to be taunted and humiliated. A photo of the chief of police escorting Maggie to her car had made the next morning’s paper.
On the patio at Stella’s, Ava said, “Do I have to go, Mom? Can’t you home school me?”
Maggie’s smile was sad, and full of regret. “I wish I could, baby, but I’m not as smart as you. I don’t think I could teach you anything.”
“But they have manuals,” Ava said. “And work books. You could learn. Mom, you could–”
Maggie shook her head. “The world is a mean, scary place most of the time. Trust me, I know that. But if I let you hide from it…that’s not helping you. You’ll have to learn to live with bastards like Mason.”
Ava loved the way her parents didn’t baby talk her; they cursed and looked her straight in the eye and treated her like an adult. But in this moment, she wanted to be bundled up like the child she was and told she could seek shelter at home, away from the mean, scary world she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a part of anymore.
“It isn’t just Mason,” she said. “It’s everyone.”
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