Fearless

by Lauren Gilley

  “Was that your plan all along? When you had me…” Bite you?

  A warmth came into his tone. “Yeah. Why, you don’t like it?”

  “No. No…I like it.”

  His fingers knotted through her hair, the tips stroking the back of her neck. “I…” Slight catch to his voice, little breathy show of nerves. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  As strong as he was, he’d never been the silent type, but the emotion in his voice now did things to her insides, made her almost nauseas with regret. Why did we lose five years? she wanted to ask him. Why, if you were afraid I wouldn’t come, did you ever turn me loose? The waste of it all, the ridiculous loss, made her want to scream.

  She slid off his lap and put her back to him. He clung to her shirt, pulling backward gently at the fabric of her tank, urging her back, but she shook him off and went to the overnight bag, found the paper sack inside it.

  “I’ve gotta dress your neck,” she said, her own voice full of little cracks. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Or did you want that backrub first?”

  She didn’t trust him anymore, and he knew it, and he looked devastated about it. But he said, “Rub first, if I get to choose.”

  She pulled a bottle of lavender massage oil from the bag and turned to face him, her stomach quivering. This was different from their fast crashing together yesterday. This was deliberate, slow, and therefore more intimate. This was stilted movements and hesitant questions.

  “Come sit here,” she suggested, turning the chair away from the desk so its back was to her. “To start with. Then you can lie down while I do your lower back.”

  He moved to comply, his shoulder blotting out the lamplight for a moment, and he stepped over to lock the door before he dropped down into the chair before her. Ava’s heart leapt at the soft sound of the tumblers clicking.

  She flicked open the bottle with her thumb, and the lavender scent unfurled beneath her nose, strengthening as she poured a healthy dollop into her palm.

  “What’s that?” Mercy twisted to see, and she didn’t miss his grimace as the movement pulled at his wound.

  “Lavender. For relaxation.”

  His blade-edged nose wrinkled. “It smells like flowers.”

  “That’s what it’s made from.”

  “Oh no. Don’t go rubbing some hippy flower bullshit all over me.”

  “Shut up,” she said, sweetly, setting the bottle aside and working her hands together. “It’ll feel good.”

  The first touch sent a jolt up her arms, pressed at her chest, caused her heart to falter a beat. She had always loved the idea of loving him, taking care of him, treating him like her very own beloved pet and making him feel special. A girlish dream, one she hadn’t allowed herself for five years – not until now. Now, all the old elation returned to her, the heady fantasy of exercising her rights as his woman.

  She placed her hands on the knob of his spine between the tops of his shoulder blades and dug her fingers in. He tensed for just a moment, and then his head bowed as he arched up into her touch like a cat.

  “Christ,” he murmured.

  She saw the tremors under his skin, the way the pain and stiffness fought against the pleasure of her searching fingers. The lavender oil glistened in the lamplight, gilding his taut skin as she smoothed it outward, across the wide expanse of his shoulders.

  “Feels alright?” she asked, voice deeper than she’d expected it to be.

  He grunted and leaned into the heel of her hand as she dug it into his deltoid.

  Not like a cat, she decided with a smile; like a dog, a great beastly dog who breathed heavy and wanted more and encouraged her with low, deeply satisfied murmurs.

  She worked slowly up the back of his neck, long, firm strokes with her fingertips, up into his damp hair, working his scalp with her fingertips. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, so she could get his temples, along his hairline at his forehead.

  “Don’t you get the Bitches to do this for you?” she asked without rancor, just genuinely curious. His hair slid like heavy silk between her fingers. The lavender smell was thick now; she felt her eyelids grow heavier.

  “Never,” he said, and she knew it was true.

  Down the side of his neck again, skimming around the raw red edges of his gunshot wound, pressing gently at the trapezius, pattering at the stiffness there.

  He made an unhappy sound, but he moved his head to the side, giving her full access to the spot.

  Ava felt the tears returning, building behind her eyes. “Poor man,” she cooed, circling the wound. “Poor sweet man. Oh, Merc, you could have…” She bit hard on her lip, unable to finish. He could have been hurt worse. He could have been killed.

  Mercy stood, and before she could protest, he’d gathered her close and picked her up into his arms.

  “Don’t–”

  “Your turn to shut up,” he said, not unkindly. And he laid her down on the bed, climbed over her, kissed her.

  “Your massage–”

  His tongue filled her mouth, cutting her off. He spread the halves of her jacket, worked his hand beneath her tank top, passed it across the bare skin of her stomach.

  Ava tangled her hands in his wet hair and gave herself up to him.

  Maggie was pouring the heavily peppered cream sauce over their noodles and chicken when Ghost came in the back door, kicking off his boots in the direction of the shoe rack and sighing like it was an effort just to exist. That President patch weighed heavy on his chest, she knew, dragging at him, pressing at the sides of his skull like a vise.

  She gave the pasta a quick toss and moved toward the fridge, snagging him two beers and setting them beside his already-set place at the table.

  “Hey, baby. You okay?”

  He grunted a response as she kissed him and then moved away, back to the pasta, more stirring in order.

  “Your boyfriend was there today, kicking over rocks,” he said.

  She snorted. “Don’t you dare call that man my boyfriend. You’ll ruin my appetite.” She turned and set the big serving bowl on the table. “What’s he looking for?”

  Ghost sank down into his chair, shaking his head. “PD’s not even looking into Andre – which is a good thing in and of itself – but Stephens is using the cops as his personal attack dogs. Fielding is looking for any and all dirt, on any of us. The city’s got its marching orders: get rid of the Dogs.”

  She chewed at her lip. “It’s not just the cops.”

  When he lifted his brows, she told him about her visit to Daisy with Jackie that afternoon, and he swore.

  “He’s gonna sic the villagers with pitchforks after us.”

  Maggie nodded as she served him and then went back for her glass of wine on the counter. “It’s looking that way.”

  “We’ve survived worse,” he said, without real conviction. It was different now; as president, the burden rested entirely on his shoulders.

  “We have,” she said, because it was what she had to say as the president’s wife.

  Ghost shook himself, refocused visibly, picked up his fork. “Where’s Ava?”

  Maggie felt a beat of guilt. “With Ronnie. Oh, shit, the salad.”

  “What? I don’t need salad.”

  But she was already up and going to the fridge for a head of romaine. “It won’t take but a sec.”

  “Ronnie’s?” Ghost asked behind her. “God, I hate that little puss. Did Littlejohn follow her like he’s supposed to? I don’t like her being off like that with him. She’d have to be the one protecting him.”

  She passed the knife through the lettuce in hard, sure slices. “Littlejohn’s got it covered. You know, I like him. Harry, too. They’re respectful, focused–”

  “And what do you mean she’s ‘at Ronnie’s’? What are they doing there they can’t do here?”

  “Don’t be that dad.” Maggie clucked her tongue as she scooped the lettuce curls into a bowl. “She’s twenty-two. You know why they want some priv
acy.”

  “Fuck me,” he grumbled. “I don’t like it. She shouldn’t be…doing that. It’s not right.”

  “It’s normal.”

  “Well she isn’t!”

  Maggie glanced at him over her shoulder, brows lifted. Care to explain?

  He speared a chunk of chicken and aimed it at her with his fork. “She’s too good for that shithead. He doesn’t understand her, doesn’t appreciate her, and he damn sure can’t look after her while all this shit’s going on.”

  Maggie debated a long moment, feeling traitorous, cringing inwardly. “I agree,” she said, finally. “He’s not good enough for her. Mainly because he doesn’t care about her. Not the way she deserves.”

  “That’s my point.”

  “I want you to keep that in mind, then, baby, Kenny, love of my life–”

  His eyes narrowed. “Mags.”

  “ – when I tell you that Ava isn’t actually with Ronnie tonight.”

  He was out of his chair in an instant. “Mercy. She’s with him? Jesus Christ, I’m going to–”

  “Going to what?” Maggie shouted, to catch his attention. “Honestly, Ghost, what are you going to do? Lock her up in the attic? Geld Mercy? Send him away again?”

  Before he could interrupt, she said, “My God, think about what you just said. You want her appreciated, you want her loved, you want her understood and protected and sheltered – are you so stubborn you can’t see that’s exactly what she has with Mercy? They can’t keep away from each other because they can’t help it. The thing between them is bigger than your orders or the club’s judgment, or any kind of threat you can make to them.”

  “It’s disgusting,” he said.

  “No. No, it’s not. If you’d open your eyes and look at them, you’d see how much he loves her. It is heartbreaking, how much they miss each other. You can’t…” She threw up her hands, sighing, tears pricking at her eyes. “I was sixteen,” she said in a choked voice. “And I loved you, and you gave me your eight-year-old son, and I graduated high school with a baby bump.” She blinked furiously. “How is Mercy loving Ava any more disgusting than that?”

  He put his hands on his hips and stared at the grout line in the tile. “Because he is–”

  “Your guy.” She came around the table, to get close to him, to plead with her presence, her body, and not just her words. “He’s your club brother, and Aidan’s brother. He’s your go-to killer, and he’s done violent, unspeakable things. Trust me, I know, because a lot of those unspeakable things he’s done for me, and for Ava. Mercy’s the reason I had to pull up the carpet in Ava’s room fourteen years ago. He’s also” – her voice caught – “the only reason I have Ava alive and whole today.

  “And when she went to him tonight, you know what I thought? I didn’t think about him defying you, or breaking your trust, or doing something sick. I thought about him taking the skin off any motherfucker who dared to look at her funny. Because I don’t ever, for a second, worry about my little girl when she’s with him.

  “Who in this whole world would you trust more with her wellbeing? Him, Ghost. Him and only him, or you wouldn’t have charged him with her when she was eight.”

  It felt like forever that she stared at the spiked tips of his dark hair while he studied the floor. When his head lifted, his expression was a rare, tortured mask of regret. It melted her instantly; she laid hands on his chest, pressed in close to him.

  “Baby…”

  “I did wrong by you,” he said, quietly.

  She flashed back to a breezy autumn afternoon, the rough brick of the back of the liquor store digging into her shoulder blades through her denim jacket, the air cool against her stomach as his hands slid up under her shirt and lifted. He moved faster, surer than the clumsy boys her age. She’d gasped and arched, and he’d put his tongue in her mouth and asked her if she liked the feel of his hand going down inside her jeans, finding her panties damp.

  “I wanted better for her,” he admitted. “I wanted to make up for…what I was.”

  Maggie took his face in her hands. “What you were,” she said, fiercely, “was everything I’d ever wanted in a man.” She tapped his temples with her thumbs. “Even if you’re still a stubborn ass.”

  He grinned.

  “Don’t take that away from our girl,” she said. “That’s not doing better.”

  His arms went around her waist. “Nobody’s ever taken advantage of you for a second, have they?”

  “You wanna try?” She made her brows jump.

  “You’re just distracting me.”

  “Is it working?”

  He grinned again, a shark smile this time. “You’ll have to microwave dinner.”

  “I need to clean this.” Ava ran her fingernail around the outer edges of Mercy’s GSW, touch feather-light.

  “Later.” He made a dismissive, waving gesture that she swatted away.

  “Do you want it to get infected? You won’t be able to do what we just did if your arm rots off.”

  In answer, his hand slid down from its place at her hip, around to cup her bottom and squeeze. She lay snugged against his side, her head pillowed on his chest, her arm draped across his waist, one leg hitched over his thigh. They were both damp with sweat and glowing in the aftermath. He’d been thorough, slow; she was still pulsing all over, the warmth still shifting under her skin.

  “Baby, I don’t need an arm to do what we just did.”

  “I like your arm, though.” She stroked the soft inside of his wrist where it lay against her hip.

  “Should other parts of my anatomy be offended by that?”

  She grinned. Patted the back of his hand. “Let me up. I gotta go get the alcohol and stuff.”

  He let her sit up, but his arm tightened around her waist, holding her beside him. With his other hand, he reached for the half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker on the nightstand. “You don’t gotta get up for that.” He pressed the bottle toward her and she rolled her eyes, still smiling.

  “You know what I meant.”

  “But choosing to ignore it.”

  She made a show of looking disgruntled as she took the Scotch and raised it to her lips. “I don’t know why you drink this rancid shit.” The mouth of the bottle was slightly sticky with residue, tasted faintly of cigarettes; he always smoked when he drank.

  The red Scotch burned as it flooded across her tongue and assaulted the back of her throat. She managed to swallow it down without making too much of a face, gasping a little as she pulled the bottle back.

  “It gets better the further you go,” Mercy said with a grin that was downright leering.

  “You’re French Canadian. Shouldn’t you drink Crown?”

  “A quarter Canadian,” he corrected, taking the bottle back from her, taking a slug of it himself. “And I ain’t drinking anything out of a bottle that pretty.”

  She snorted. “How broad-minded of you.”

  He took another pull, and then lifted it to her again, putting the rim right up against her lips. She pursed them around the mouth and tipped her head back, let him pour three long swallows down her throat. If spontaneous human combustion was really a thing, she was in danger of immolating.

  She sucked in a huge breath, turning her head away. “Are you trying to get me drunk? You’ve already got me naked.”

  “Yeah, but I want to keep you that way.”

  Flushed, self-conscious suddenly and aware that the covers were down around her waist, she plucked the sheet up over her breasts.

  Mercy pulled it back down, one hard tug that dragged the scratchy fabric across her nipples and left them hard little buttons.

  “Don’t keep covering up,” he said; it was a plea more than anything, his voice soft, confused.

  “You’ve already seen me. Why do you need to keep ‘looking at’ me?” she asked, using his words of yesterday.

  He gave her a sideways non-smile. “Because you’re ten in the only picture I’ve got of you, and I’ve got five years
’ worth of looking to make up for.”

  The Scotch was getting to her, hitting her harder and faster than she would have thought. She felt burning hot on the inside, shivery cold on the outside, her skin prickling, desire quickening in her belly.

  “Are you ever going to explain it to me?” she asked, voice just a whisper. “Was it just…too messed up? Us together? Or was it because the baby–”

  He sat up in a sudden rush, caught her head in his hands and kissed her hard.

  They were both breathing like racehorses when he finally pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, his fists clenched tight in her hair.

  “Explaining it won’t make it better,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do with all this anger?” She pressed both hands to his chest, the right one covering his tattoo. “Because I am so angry with you, all the time.”

  “I know, fillette.”

  She shouldn’t have had that much to drink; she could feel herself unraveling, and that wasn’t what she’d wanted to do tonight, not in front him like this.

  “I needed you,” she said. “I needed you more than I needed anyone, and you left.” She closed her eyes. “It’s not…it’s not unfair to want to know why.”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said. “It’ll only make things worse; trust me.”

  “Trust you? Trust you.” She laughed, the sound a little deranged. “How can I trust you?” But the Scotch had hold of her and he was so warm and so right in front of her. Even as she laughed, she pressed her face into his neck, the stubble rough against her face, caught his skin in her teeth, bit him and kissed him and wondered, fleetingly, if she could tear his throat out like a wild dog. “I can’t trust you,” she whispered against his pounding carotid.

  His hands migrated, down to her waist, pulled her in closer to him. His voice turned rough around the edges. “You can use me, though.”

  In a rush, the covers were flipped back and he was pulling her astride him, up into his lap. Ava pressed at his sternum, her strength laughable, but he yielded to her, lay back on the pillows, his hands sliding down her thighs and back up, subtle, gentle encouragement.