Fearless

by Lauren Gilley

  Maggie didn’t falter, but pressed on, relentless. “You have a boyfriend! What about poor Ronnie? Are you going to tell him? Or are you just going to hope he doesn’t notice the next time you come to bed smelling like someone else?”

  “Why do you care?” It was another little stab of pain, on top of what the day had already dealt her, to hear that her mom held no empathy for her situation. “You didn’t care when I was seventeen, when I was getting pregnant, but you care now?!”

  “You’re fucking up,” Maggie accused. “You know you are.”

  “Gee, I wonder why, when I’ve got such stellar role models around me to learn from.”

  “That’s no excuse–”

  “Oh, I know, do as you say, not as you do, huh?” She shoved the cookie box, just to have an outlet, satisfied by the way it skidded across the counter and slammed into the microwave.

  Maggie didn’t look like herself; she looked lined and weathered and stern in a way that was nothing like her usual force-of-nature turbulence. She looked like a typical, angry parent, and nothing like the champion who’d held Ava and rocked her while she sobbed, in Mercy’s abandoned apartment five years before.

  She said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have come home, if you were going to throw everything you’ve worked for away on the promise of a casual fuck.”

  Ava stared at her toes and felt the tears building, the painful burn in the back of her throat.

  What in the world was happening?

  Maggie’s boot heels struck the tile loud as gunshots as she left the room.

  Thirty-Two

  The Carpathians’ compound had an air of something…wrong about it. That was the only way Mercy could think to describe it. The old Milford pool hall was standard issue corrugated steel, with chain link fence, cracked pavement yard, security lights on high power poles.

  But the club’s top and bottom rockers and center emblem had been rendered in colored neon signage along the side wall. It was bright, obscene really. And classless. All those identical, airbrushed bikes stacked up like dominos at the front doors, the shiny new fleet vehicles: white panel vans, construction-grade Chevy pickups. A vulgar display of money, contrasting the weeds sprouting through the cracks, the built-up crud on the steel siding.

  No one from this crew came from privileged backgrounds. None of them had jobs to speak of, save those working the stolen mattress store across the street. Who’d bankrolled the bikes, the cars, the neon? This place contrasted so strongly with the humble, tidy splendor of Dartmoor that it was difficult to rectify its existence. The Lean Dogs were working class and proud and didn’t put on airs. The Carpathians were some mongrelized blend of pure trash and hauteur. They might have patches now, they might call themselves a true MC, but they were pretenders.

  The fact that they posed a threat of any kind was disgusting.

  The three of them stood on the roof of a wrecked Pontiac in the scrap yard next door, peering over the fence through the holes in their ski masks. All in black, no colors. LDMC S.W.A.T. team.

  Rottie pushed a button on his watch and the face glowed green. “Tell me when you see the red light on the camera. Then we book like hell up against the wall.”

  Mercy squinted through the dark. “Now.”

  They vaulted over one a time, Rottie, then Michael, then Mercy. Thump. Boots on the pavement and they were moving, ghosting through the deep shadows and throwing themselves silently up underneath the neon werewolf that looked like something out of a bad 80’s bikers vs. zombies movie.

  Rottie led the way, hustling them through the dark to the side door they’d already talked about. They’d talked the thing to death, over beers back at the clubhouse; at least, Rottie and Mercy had talked. Michael had issued edicts on occasion that made Mercy want to punch him in the damn non-smiling mouth. Mercy had all the supplies they’d need stowed in the inside pockets of the dark Carhartt vest he wore over his hoodie.

  The Carps were a lazy lot; no one patrolled the yard, no one was coming or going. This late, they’d all be inside, parked in front of the tube with a beer in one hand and a girl’s waist in the other. Mercy shuddered to think of the caliber of women who hung out with this crew.

  They stayed flat against the wall, and the shadows were dark enough, the camera shouldn’t pick them up, or so Hound had guessed, given the angle of the camera. It didn’t matter, either way, because Rottie picked the lock in under three seconds. Then they were inside, going down a dark hall on the balls of their feet, noses assaulted by the stench of garbage in bad need of taking out.

  Through a friend of Ratchet’s at the courthouse, they’d managed to get a blueprint of the pool hall, from some real estate record of long ago, when the building had needed to pass city building codes. This hall was a delivery entrance. It fed into a larger hall, where the restrooms and office were located. Then there was the main part of the building, a lobby beyond that.

  Flickering lights illuminated the next hall, the old bulbs hissing. None of the cash, apparently, had gone toward making the inside more hospitable. Proof that it wasn’t the Carpathians’ money: only gift money was ever spent on frivolous shit.

  The office door stood open and Rottie ducked inside. Mercy heard the quiet sounds of rummaging.

  He glanced at Michael, noting that there was no less life to the man when his face was covered versus when he stood bare-faced in the open daylight.

  Rottie emerged tucking a wad of folders into the waistband of his jeans. He tucked his sweatshirt down over it and whispered, “Part two.”

  This was the tricky part. This was where things could go wrong.

  Mercy found the light switch along the wall and turned it off, bathing them in darkness. Then they had to wait.

  It was probably five minutes before they heard shuffling footfalls and the heavy breathing of a man who’d had too much to drink. He moved toward them slowly, lumbering. “Shit,” he said, into the darkness. “Fucking bulb’s burnt out.”

  Mercy waited for the man to move toward the bathroom, but he moved past them instead, out the narrow garbage-smelling hall. The back door opened and closed with a squeal.

  “That makes life easier,” Rottie whispered.

  They followed their target, Mercy first. “You’ll need my size,” he’d told Michael earlier, no small amount of aggression in his voice. “Trust me, if we’re taking someone alive, you need me to hold on to him.” So he was the one that stepped out the door first, as the Carpathian reached for the fly of his jeans, planning to piss right there on the asphalt.

  Mercy had him in a sleeper hold before he had a chance to gasp properly. He was on the thin side, which was a boon, as he went boneless and Mercy caught his weight, swung him up over his shoulder so he could carry him out.

  Without a hitch, all of it, until Mercy tossed his unconscious captive up onto the fence and made a move to follow.

  “Hey!” someone shouted behind them.

  Crack of a gunshot.

  Mercy felt it go in between the base of his neck and the strap of his Kevlar. Like he got punched. The blinding white arrow of pain.

  He grunted, flexed his fingers, knew he could still use the arm, and heaved himself up and over the fence.

  Ava opened her eyes to her dark bedroom and knew there were more people in the house than there should have been. A low murmur of voices, a buzz of energy. She checked the bedside clock: 1:22. This wasn’t her dad sneaking into the kitchen for some ice cream. By the time she’d pulled her robe on over her shorts and tank top, her heart was pounding.

  Maggie nearly ran into her as she stepped out into the hall. Their argument was put on mutual hold as their gazes locked amid the shadows. “Get the first aid kit,” Maggie said, “and come in here.”

  Her hands were slick with sweat as she fumbled the plastic kit from under the bathroom sink.

  She was halfway through the living room when she heard someone say, “Shit,” and recognized Mercy’s voice. She halted, clutching the first aid kit to her
chest, heat rushing to her breasts and between her legs. Nervous energy flooded her, gave her goose bumps. She took a deep breath and pressed on, blinking against the harsh overhead light as the scene in the kitchen took shape.

  The table had been pushed to the side, up against one counter, and Ghost, Maggie, Rottie, and Michael stood half-bent under the chandelier. Maggie was in yoga gear, hair cinched back with an elastic and headband. Ghost had tugged on jeans and a t-shirt. Michael and Rottie were in all black, jeans and hoodies, stocking caps low over their foreheads. In the center of them all, seated in a chair, was Mercy. He was shirtless, and a thick river of blood had spilled down his chest, across his stomach, was trickling down his arm and dripping down onto the floor with little splats.

  Ava made an involuntary mewling sound of distress. It felt like the floor tilted beneath her feet. There was a lot of blood. He was a big man, and he could stand to lose a lot, but…Her eyes were filling with tears and she was wracked with shivers by the time Mercy looked up and spotted her.

  “Christ,” Ghost said, “why the hell did you get her up for this?”

  “I need another set of hands,” Maggie snapped back. “She’s alright. Ava, babe, come on. He’s okay.”

  Their voices sounded like they were coming down a pipe. Her eyes were riveted on Mercy, on all the blood.

  He gave her one of his widest, most disarming smiles, all sharp teeth and sharp eyes. She could see the undercurrent of pain, though, that little line of tension in his lean jaw. “Hey,” he said, voice soothing. “Hey, hey. It’s just a little blood, yeah? You’ve seen way worse than this.” His head tilted, his eyes softening. “I’m alright, fillette. You come here and help your mom.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath, blinked the fat tears from between her lashes. It was too much: the revelations of the day, having him inside her again, seeing him wounded like this. She wanted to sit down on the floor and bawl her eyes out.

  Instead, she handed her mom the first aid kit, pulled the elastic off her wrist and tied her hair back. She took off her robe, folded it up and set it on the counter. “What happened?” she asked, pulling on every scrap of professionalism she could muster as she stepped over the blood spatters and leaned in to inspect the damage.

  “GSW,” Rottie said. “It’s a through-and-through. We would have gone to the ER, but…”

  “They’d call the cops,” she said.

  “We can’t afford that right now,” Ghost said behind her.

  “Here.” Maggie passed her the betadine scrub. “Go wash your hands.”

  She did, scrubbing under the nails like she was prepping for surgery. When she shut off the tap with her elbow, Rottie handed her two clean paper towels so she wouldn’t have to touch anything on her way back to Mercy.

  Ghost, she noted, with a lump forming in her throat, was staring at her murderously, but he folded his arms and kept silent as Maggie urged her closer.

  Michael looked as removed and spooky as ever.

  God knew what any of them were thinking. She tried to shove all of it out of her mind, focusing solely on the task at hand as she leaned in close enough to Mercy’s gunshot wound to smell his shampoo.

  The shot had gone through his trapezius, and it had been a large caliber round; the hole was wide, the edges angry and gory. “Were you wearing your vest?” Ava asked.

  One corner of Maggie’s mouth twitched: amusement or disapproval of the question.

  “Yeah. This was just inside the strap,” Mercy said.

  She wanted to ask where he’d been, and who the shooter was, but she knew he’d never answer those questions, not even if they were alone.

  Maggie did the flushing, Ava the mopping and dabbing. A syringe of rubbing alcohol went deep into the wound, the liquid running pink out the other side as Ava caught it with clean cotton batting. Mercy didn’t make a sound, but she saw the involuntary twitching of the tendons in his neck. It burned like a son of a bitch.

  They packed the bullet hole, and taped it up, Maggie giving stern warnings that the dressing would need changing twice a day, and that he was to come here for that if he couldn’t or wouldn’t do it himself.

  Then, to Ava’s horror, she grabbed Mercy’s wrist and lifted, passing a finger down one of the red gouges along his forearm. They were unmistakable in the lamplight. “How’d you get these?” Sharp, dark look at Ava, then at him.

  Mercy didn’t miss a beat. “I got a cat.”

  Maggie held his gaze a long moment before she finally turned away, going to the sink to wash the blood and ointment off her hands.

  Ava reached to start packing up the first aid kit, and barely managed to catch the hot, damp clean towel Ghost threw at her. She looked up at him, startled.

  His face was awful. He tipped his head toward Mercy, muscle leaping in his throat. “Clean him up.”

  “Dad–”

  “If you’re old enough to claw him up” – his voice was a harsh, contained roar – “then you’re by God old enough to clean him up when he gets shot.”

  “Dad, I didn’t–”

  Soft click of the back door closing; Michael and Rottie had slipped outside. And now it was just the four of them, the family tableau that was history repeating itself.

  “How fucking stupid do you think I am, Ava? Huh? You think you can both be gone in the middle of a tornado warning, and I’ll think you’re playing kickball in the parking lot? Jesus Christ,” he fumed. “Neither of you has been back in town a week, and you can’t even keep your legs closed for that long,” he said, gesturing at Ava. “I didn’t raise you to be a slut.”

  She felt like she’d been slapped. She choked on her next breath.

  And then Mercy said, “No, you didn’t raise her at all.”

  Maggie clapped a hand to her throat, her eyes huge.

  “I did,” Mercy said. His voice had gone soft and Cajun-flavored, scary-calm. “I raised her. Don’t you dare blame her for loving me because of it.”

  “Oh, God,” Maggie muttered.

  Ghost opened his mouth –

  And Ava said, “I don’t love him!” Her voice came out shrill and cracked. If she didn’t say this, there was a good chance her father and her lover would end up battling it out to the death right here on the blood-stained kitchen floor. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I hate…I hate him for what he did to me. I made a mistake today,” she added in a rush. “I was having a bad day – because I found out you” – she pointed at Ghost – “used Mason attacking me as leverage. Stephens wrote me a college recommendation letter, and neither of you ever told me.”

  Maggie glanced away.

  Ghost reared back visibly.

  “And I was weak and upset today,” she continued, “and I made a stupid mistake, one I won’t make again.”

  Ghost studied her face a long moment; Ava had no idea what he found there, how sincere she appeared. She had a feeling she looked like a bundle of unshed tears, because that was what she felt like.

  “Wipe up the blood,” he said, and went out the back door, slamming it behind him.

  Ava clenched the towel tight in her fingers, staring at it, trying to gather the strength to turn around.

  “Here.” Maggie made a reach for it. “I can–”

  Ava spun, keeping her eyes low, her movements quick, almost frenzied. She mopped the blood on Mercy’s stomach, scrubbed upward and cleaned off his chest. She faltered when she saw the tattoo over his heart, as its black shape was revealed beneath the blood. An oval of irregular little marks. Her mind went back, five years ago, plucking up a memory from the gloom: Bonita and James’s yard, up against the house, the silver moonlight, Mercy lifting his shirt. “I want you to draw blood.”

  No. No, it couldn’t be…

  But it looked like a bite mark. Little teeth marks.

  She lifted her gaze and forced it to meet Mercy’s. He was watching her with open tenderness, his eyes wide and gentle. “Yeah,” he said, quietly. “It’s what you think it is.”

 
She let her eyes fall, moving the towel again, slower this time. It was a thin barrier between her hand and the hard padding of muscle, the firm contours of his body. She wanted to fold herself into his lap. She wanted to touch the tattoo – she did, one fast pass of a fingertip over the smooth stretch of his skin.

  Then she remembered that her mom was in the room, and she wanted to step back…but she couldn’t. She wiped every last trace of blood, all the way down his tatted arm, over the large square shapes of his knuckles, his long fingers. Until the towel was soaked and pink.

  Maggie stepped up beside her and took it away; Ava let it go, but didn’t move. It was too much. It was all too much.

  “Merc,” Maggie said, “why don’t you head out, sweetie. Come by tomorrow to have your shoulder looked at.”

  He sighed. “Yeah.”

  When he stood, Ava was both soothed and mortified that he cupped the side of her head in one big hand, pulled her over, and kissed her in the middle of her parted hair. She stood, studying her toes, between her mother and the man she loved most in the world, Maggie’s arm around her shoulders, Mercy’s face in her hair, and for that brief second, all the planets were in perfect alignment.

  And then Mercy pulled away and scooped up his shirts from the floor, leaving the way the others had.

  When he was gone, Maggie pulled her into a tight hug. “Ava Rose,” she said with a groan. “Oh, baby, I wasn’t mad at you before. All of that this afternoon, that was a lie.”

  Ava lifted her head. “What?”

  Maggie smoothed her hair back, like when she’d been a little girl. “I knew your dad would fly off the handle. I had to prepare you. I had to get you thinking defensively so you’d be ready to handle him.” She smiled. “And you did; you handled him fucking fantastically.”

  Ava felt numb. “So you don’t care that Mercy and I…”

  Maggie pulled her in close again, hand on the back of her head. “If Kenneth Teague thinks he can keep the two of you apart, he’s stupid.”

  “…just a small dose. We ought to be able to wake him up,” Rottie was saying as Mercy joined the others down at the mailbox. His neck, shoulder – that whole general area – hurt like hell, a sharp throbbing that radiated up into his skull and down the length of his arm. The pain was good, he decided. It would help keep him awake, keep him sharp and pissed off enough for the night’s task.