She didn’t want to think it was a trap; it didn’t feel like one. He’d been too raw, too hurt, too honest with her last night for it to feel like manipulation.
But then again, he refused to give her the answers she needed.
And Ronnie wanted to talk.
And the Carpathians wanted blood.
And she wanted to throw up.
With a sigh, she fixed her gaze on Miss Coleridge and picked up her pen again. Back to the new MLA rules. When in doubt, always turn to writing. The world could be explained away as the ink rolled off the tip of a pen.
Ghost had been pawing around on her desk again. The orderly cup of pens had been spilled; pens and pencils had rolled everywhere. The stapler was on the floor. The tidy stacks of invoices on her blotter had been pushed around, stacked again loosely and out of order.
“Military precision my ass,” she muttered, plucking up the paperclips from the tipped-over plastic bin that held them. It looked like a whole herd of cattle had run across the desk, disturbing everything, even if just by a hair.
So distracted, she didn’t hear the footfalls approach the open central office door and was surprised to hear someone say, “Maggie?”
When she glanced up, her pasta breakfast turned to lead in her gut. In the open threshold, framed by morning sunlight, stood Olivia Donaldson, Ghost’s ex-wife.
The sight of the woman always sent her into a full-tilt rage, but she said, “Liv,” coolly, without interest or emotion, and continued to sort her desk, only half-watching. “What’s the matter? Civilian life get too boring? You needed a taste of what you left behind?”
Olivia folded her arms. “Hardly. I’m here because Kenny called me and asked for a favor.”
Kenny. The sound of his name on Olivia’s tongue made her absolutely murderous. It wasn’t rational – at least, not mostly – her hatred of this woman, but that didn’t mean she could control the rage that bubbled up inside her.
“Oh, honey.” Maggie gave her the worst grin she could conjure. “I’m handing out more favors than you ever did.”
Snort. “I’m sure. But not that kind of favor. The club wants to help with a charity fundraiser.” Little shrug. “I said I could come by and talk options with you. But if that won’t work…” Small lift to her plucked brows, to make Maggie feel petty and small.
Maggie took a deep breath, scraped together all her composure, and nodded, gesturing to the chair across the desk.
Ghost’s ex settled into it and smoothed her hands down the legs of her slacks, smoothing away each and every tiny wrinkle. Spotless as always, she plucked invisible lint from her blazer and flicked it away into an incoming sunbeam.
Born Olivia Stacey, she’d become Olivia Teague at eighteen, when she’d married her high school sweetheart Ghost. She’d lasted only a few years, pulling back as Ghost entrenched himself deeper and deeper into his uncle’s club. She’d given birth to Aidan, promptly dumped him into Ghost’s lap – “He’ll end up just like you, and I can’t handle that,” she’d said, according to Ghost – and run off. She’d been gone almost a year before she returned to Knoxville married to an investment banker with deep ties to the University. She’d started a new family, the family she’d always wanted. She and her husband had three children, an all-brick two-story in Alcoa, white picket fence, champagne-colored crossover SUVs, and everything else on the suburban checklist. She’d made only the most minimal efforts with Aidan through the years, believing him to be a lost cause.
She was fifty, Ghost’s age, and though the years had not been kind, she dressed immaculately in all designer labels, and wore her hair in a sleek short cut that could have looked mannish if she hadn’t styled it just so and accessorized with flashy, feminine earrings. Her makeup was expert, her lipstick a tasteful mauve.
Aidan looked nothing like her, for which Maggie had always been grateful.
“You know my boys,” Maggie said, “always trying to help the community.”
Olivia’s lips pursed in graceful distaste. “Yes. They’re pillars, really.” She had a briefcase and drew a file folder from inside it. “Kenny said he wanted to do something visible, boost the goodwill of the club. There’s really only one event that’s suitable.” She opened the folder and set it on the desk, turned so Maggie could read the fliers. “The KHS Yard Sale.”
Maggie scanned the paperwork, brows lifting. “A yard sale? Not exactly high profile.”
“This one is.” One manicured French-tipped nail tapped at the top line of the flier where it read Tenth Annual. “This function has been running for ten years, and in that time, has earned over two-hundred thousand dollars for the children’s hospital. The money goes to research childhood cancer, fund special activities for the children, provide medical care of families in financial need. It’s a very worthwhile cause, and it’s coming up soon. Next week. It’s held at the high school, hence the name.”
Maggie sat back in her chair. “Hence the name,” she echoed, with no small amount of mockery.
Olivia made a noise in the back of her throat. “Hate me all you want, Maggie, but you don’t have the connections to make this happen. I do.”
And didn’t that just suck? Olivia was involved in all things city-related: the Ladies’ Luncheon Club, the Historical and Garden Committees, in addition to organizing and requesting permits for almost all the charitable events. She was part of a board, the name of which Maggie never could keep straight. Ruling at her husband’s side within the MC had never been good enough for Olivia; but now, in her pantsuit and gold earrings, she was queen of a castle she could be proud of.
Maggie seethed inwardly. Outwardly, she smiled. “ ‘Hate.’ Now there’s an awful strong word to use for someone I don’t give a damn about.”
Olivia gave her a frosty, scant half-smile in return. “Sign here and here” – she indicated on the sign-up sheet – “and I’ll need an estimate of the amount of junk you’ll be bringing to sell.”
“Junk?”
“It’s a yard sale, after all. Setup begins at seven sharp. Tents will not be provided. The signs will direct you where to go in the parking lot at the school. Any questions?”
“Just one.” Maggie held up a finger. “Are you actually going to say ‘hello’ to your son this time?”
Olivia gathered the folder up, slipped it back in her case with fast, practiced movements, and tugged her blazer into place as she stood. “I’ll call you to confirm in a few days.”
“He grew up handsome,” Maggie called to her back. “Looks just like his daddy.”
Olivia paused.
“Then again, that’d be why you can’t stand the sight of him, huh?”
She left without looking back, sliding her sunglasses into place.
“Bitch,” Maggie said to the empty office.
Ava had only two classes to attend that day, thank God, and when she came squinting and grimacing from Miss Coleridge’s class, Littlejohn was waiting for her propped against the building with a twenty-ounce Coke, greasy hamburger from the student center, and a travel packet of aspirin.
“Oh, I love you,” she said, collapsing onto the bench beside him.
He handed her the Coke first, then the aspirin. She swallowed them down and sipped slowly at the soda, pressing the cool bottle to her forehead. She felt almost feverish.
Students passed in lazy droves, voices overlapping, the occasional giggle or exclamation cutting above the dull chattering. The sun was beaming and a breeze was scooping up handfuls of premature fallen leaves and tossing them against the brick sides of buildings. It smelled like cut grass and that faint, ever-present tang of the Tennessee River. Picturesque on-campus day, orange everywhere, football excitement rippling through the students in waves.
Ava unwrapped the burger and took a tentative bite, finding that her urge to gag lessened as she chewed.
“They had mac & cheese,” Littlejohn said. “That’s what gets me through a hangover, but I didn’t know what your food was, so I just went fo
r the meat.”
“Meat is good.” She waved the burger at him before she risked another bite. “You guessed right.”
He nodded, a pleased smile crossing his boyish face.
Another bite quelled the churning in her stomach and she washed it down with more Coke. If she worked slow enough, and sat here long enough, she might be able to eat the whole thing.
Her phone chimed with a text alert, and she frowned when she read it, holding the phone in one hand, burger in the other. It was Ronnie again: Ava, I really want to talk to you. Please call me.
“Boyfriend?” Littlejohn guessed.
She gave him the side-eye.
“You just made this face,” he explained, “and considering last night, I’m guessing the person you want to hear from least right now is your boyfriend.”
She turned the side-eye into a flat, forward look that her mom would have been proud of. “So many lines crossed, prospect. So many.”
He pressed his lips together and his face began to redden in an expression she was beginning to read as oh damn I got in trouble again.
“But anyway,” she continued, “he’s not my boyfriend anymore. I broke up with him.” Mostly, she added to herself.
“Bet Mercy was glad to hear that.”
She laughed. “You really don’t stay on your side of the boundaries, do you?”
“Isn’t that kind of the point of being an outlaw?”
She laughed again, took another bite of her burger, licked ketchup off her thumb. “Yeah, I guess,” she said as she swallowed. “Gimme five more minutes and I’ll be in driving shape.”
She ate three-quarters of the burger and drank half the Coke. She needed water, more than anything, but this quick fix had perked her up. She pointed out buildings to Littlejohn as they walked to the truck, because he seemed interested in knowing more about the school. He confided, as they passed the library, that he’d always wanted to go to college. “You could take night classes,” she offered, but they both knew that he’d signed away that possibility the day he’d prospected with the Lean Dogs.
Her headache flared back up full-force when they reached her truck and she saw that the left rear tire was flat.
“Shit.”
Littlejohn crawled up under the bed to get down her spare, but crawled back out and declared it to be flat too, undercarriage dust clinging to the ends of his hair.
Ava chewed at the inside of her lip and stared at the flat a long time, a tingling sensation prickling up and down the back of her neck. It was a normal, everyday occurrence, a flat tire. Inconvenient as shit, commonplace as hell.
But there’d been nothing commonplace about her rearing, and so she found reasons to suspect foul play where no other girl would have. Had this happened at UGA, she would have brushed it off. Happening here, given the state of club relations, she felt the uneasiness steal over her.
“I’ll call your dad,” Littlejohn said, pulling out his phone. “Or Mercy, maybe? Let them know what’s up.”
She shook her head vigorously and then regretted it. Holding her temples, she said, “Call the auto garage. Dublin’s running it; get him and one of his guys to come out with the flatbed. Trust me: neither of us wants Dad or Mercy making a big show of this in the middle of campus.”
He hesitated a moment.
“Just do it, prospect.”
He nodded and dialed.
The Moorland Auto flatbed pulled in fifteen minutes later, Dublin behind the wheel, Walsh riding shotgun.
“Sir, are you sure you’re a mechanic?” Ava asked him with a grin as he walked around the back of the truck.
“I’m certified to do a lot of things; I choose to do one,” he replied in what amounted to a snarky comeback in Walshworld. He drew up beside her and bumped her shoulder with his in greeting. “Dublin said someone slashed your tires?” Little lift of his pale brows.
“It’s just flat. I don’t know about the slashing part.”
“We’ll see,” Dublin said, getting down on his knees beside the tire. “Prospect, grab me the jack off the truck.”
Dublin – gone paunchy as he aged, hair thinning on the sides these days – had not a drop of Irish blood in him, but had played for Notre Dame for one year before a broken collarbone had sidelined him long enough to strip him of his scholarship. After a series of odd jobs, a couple of bad turns, he’d found himself in Tennessee, offering to work part time for the Dogs. He’d been a hangaround, then a prospect, then a member, and the club had been the central figure in his life for the past twenty years.
“You didn’t call your man?” Walsh asked as he and Ava stood back against the flatbed and watched Dublin and Littlejohn wrestle the tire.
Ava didn’t fall into the trap. She shot him a rueful grin. “You thought you’d just slip that one past me?”
He shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
Ava studied his profile; he had only faint lines on his face. His constant lack of expression had prevented the deep grooves that age always brought, the laugh and frown lines, the roadmaps of emotion. Maybe he was a vampire. At the very least immortal. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” she asked, quietly.
His face didn’t change. “No. I think, the way you grew up, you never had a prayer.”
She shivered.
“Look at this,” Dublin said, drawing her attention. He’d found a clean slice in the rubber. “Slashed,” he said, looking first at her, and then at Walsh.
She shivered again, clasping her arms across her middle this time.
“We’ll have to tell Ghost,” Dublin said, tone gentle, like he knew she didn’t want that. “He needs to know.”
She nodded, and pulled her phone from her sweatshirt pocket as it started to ring.
It was Ronnie, and she almost stowed it away again. But if he was going to be this persistent, she’d have to deal with him at some point. She put her back to the men and walked a few steps away, around the front of the neighboring car.
Her voice felt heavy in her throat as she answered. “Hello?”
There was a beat of silence, then: “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“Yes. That’s called ‘ignoring’ when people do that. I’m ignoring you, Ronnie.”
“Don’t be like that.”
She felt too bad to take hold of any patience. “That’s a running theme with you, isn’t it? Always worried about how I’m behaving. ‘Don’t be like that.’ You’ve been saying that since the moment we got to Knoxville.”
“Ava–”
“Shut up. You got to say your piece yesterday, well here’s mine. You’ve made it perfectly clear that your affection is conditional. And you can’t love me unless I behave a certain way. Unless I am a certain thing. Well I can’t love someone who has those sorts of expectations. I’m looking for a man, Ronnie, not a country club invite or arm candy or someone to challenge me. I want to get married; I want children. I want a quiet, happy life, and I don’t want to be given those things on your terms.”
She sucked in a deep breath, shocked at her own admission, shocked that he hadn’t interrupted. It had all come pouring out, before she could collect the scattered bits: she did want a family, a home that she’d built for it. She wanted all the stable things that made life in the club livable.
“Are you at the school?” he finally asked over the heaving of her breath. “I’ll come by and see you. We can work things out.”
“Yesterday, you were done with me, and now you want to ‘work things out,’ ” she said. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“I just…” He sighed. “Will you give me a chance to explain myself?”
“You did that yesterday.”
“No, but–”
“Shut up,” she repeated. It was a sigh, an exhausted breath. She tipped her head back and let the sun pour over her face, warm her skin. “You’re trying to save a sinking ship. I’m sorry I dragged you up here, I really am. But there’s nothing left for us to hold onto. We’re done, Ronnie. You had it righ
t yesterday.”
When he didn’t respond, she disconnected.
Back at the truck, there was a new rear tire in place and Dublin was taking the Ford down off the jack. “The spare was slashed too,” he informed her. “Someone wanted to keep you put.”
“Or just screw up my day,” she said. “Either way, thanks for coming to save me.”
“No sweat, sweetheart.” He secured the two flats to the back of the garage truck with a length of chain. “You better follow us back to the shop, though, and I’ll set you up with a new spare.”
She smiled thinly. “And because my dad won’t believe I’m okay until he lays eyes on me?”
“Yep, that too.”
When they arrived at Dartmoor, Ava left her truck at Moorland for Dublin’s boys to fit with a new spare tire, and she walked down to the central office, enjoying the sun on her skin, the breeze against her face. She still felt hungover, so she sipped the last half of her Coke and let the soft currents of river air soothe her pounding head.
The door to the office was propped wide with a loose cinderblock, as was always the case on pretty afternoons, and Maggie was glued to the computer, fingers clacking across the keys.
“Hi,” Ava greeted, dropping into the chair across from the desk. She hooked her legs over the arm and let her head fall back.
“Hi, sweetie,” Maggie said, frowning at the computer screen. “How was your day?”
“Aside from the slashed tires, not too bad.”
That got her attention. Maggie’s head snapped up, hazel eyes bugging. “Excuse me?”
Ava recounted the tire story, thinking all the while that it had been a smart call to leave Ghost out of things thus far. He would have been demanding to see security tapes at the school, pounding on the dean’s office door.
Maggie was almost as bad. “We need to see those tapes,” she said, the moment Ava stopped talking.
“Mom, we can’t do that.”
“Oh yes we can. You call up the UT police and you tell them someone slashed your tires and that you want to see the footage. College campuses don’t like that shit going on. You should have filed an incident report the second you saw it.”
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