He finally broke the kiss, lifting his head so he could use the strong length of his spine to bear down on her, pinioning her to the mattress, grinding down into her.
Ava put her hands on his chest, to feel his heart and lungs and the heavy bundles of muscle working.
“What a good little girl,” he murmured breathlessly. “Taking it all like that. Bonne fillette, mon amour.”
She loved the way he looked in the dull lamplight above her. The straining tendons, the veins in his neck, the jagged ends of his hair as it fell forward off his shoulders. This was why men liked for the woman to get on top, so they could watch the way the body worked as it brought them such pleasure.
But she had to close her eyes, because she felt the orgasm starting, and all of her being was straining, straining to meet it.
Mercy cursed in French, his fingers dug into her hip, and his next hard thrust was the finish for both of them.
She thought she might faint, the heat sweeping beneath her skin, through her face, making her neck and arms and legs limp. Powerful, sweeping pulses as the orgasm kept coming and coming.
She drifted – probably seconds, but it felt like minutes.
She felt Mercy withdraw, and as he sat back on his heels, he put his arms around her and lifted her up, settling her against his chest, holding her to him, so their sweaty skin glued together.
With one hand, he smoothed her hair back off her face and down her naked back. “Ava,” he said, voice tight. “Ava. Oh God, I got you back. I got you back. I won’t ever leave you again. I swear. Baby, I swear. Not ever again.”
Forty-Two
“Did she tell you where they were staying?”
Ten till six. Not light out yet. Maggie squinted up at the grainy ceiling above their bed. She really hated the old popcorn ceiling. One of these days, she was going to insist on an upgrade, just like she had with the kitchen tile. “I bring home a paycheck, too, you know¸” she’d reasoned. “Not all of that should have to go back into the club.”
It had been just after eight last night that she’d finally heard from Ava, the call coming from a landline with a rural New Orleans area code, because, according to Ava, the cell phones didn’t work “out here.” There’d been no details, because they were a paranoid outlaw family used to the idea of phone taps. Ava had sounded tired – that was a long trip on a bike – but there’d been an unexpected note of pure bliss in her voice.
“How is it?” Maggie had asked, right before they hung up, and she hadn’t been talking about the lodgings, or the ride down, or anything like that.
Ava had known. “It’s wonderful. It…it’s just wonderful, Mom.” Because she was with her Mercy again, and those two had five hungry, heartbroken years to make up for. Fleeing was never fun, but both of them, Maggie knew, were grateful for this chance to be alone together.
Ghost’s hand settled on her shoulder, playing with the strap of her nightgown, reminding her that he was still waiting for an answer.
She smiled at his impatience. “She said it was a house. I think it’s out in the middle of nowhere. She said Mercy promised to take her gator-scouting.”
Ghost snorted, a sound of general fussiness and discontent. “That sounds safe.”
“I have no doubts he’ll jump in and wrestle any gator that disrespects her.”
Another unhappy noise from him.
Maggie turned her head on the pillow. With the streetlamp glowing against the blinds, she could just make out his profile in the dark. It looked as unforgiving as always. “Have you still got your panties in a bunch over Mercy? You do realize, don’t you, that there’ll be no separating them now? You might as well just get used to the idea: he’s going to be our son-in-law. Accept it, and stop wasting stomach acid on it.”
“Well aren’t you just a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“I am, actually. You’re the Oscar the Grouch in this bed, not me, baby.” She grinned. “If you want, I can bring in one of the garbage cans for you to sleep in, if that’ll make you feel more at-home.”
His hand moved up to cover her mouth, lightly, and she laughed against it. “You’re suppressing my first amendment rights,” she said, voice muffled.
“You don’t live in America; you live in the United States of Teague.” There was a smile in his voice; she was wearing down his grumpy mood. “We don’t have any amendments. I woulda thought that would get me more respect.”
She closed her teeth on the inside of his finger, until he pulled his hand away. “Nope. It doesn’t. Wives aren’t subject to tyranny.”
When he didn’t respond, she rolled onto her side toward him, looped an arm around his neck, draped her leg across his hips. She’d always loved the way she fit against him, the complementary planes and hollows of their bodies, the softness of her breasts on his solid chest.
“How bad’s today gonna be?” she asked quietly.
His arm came around behind her shoulders, holding her to his side. “I don’t know yet. Probably bad.”
She traced the still-strong line of his jaw with a fingertip. Sometimes, she frightened herself with the reminder of their age gap, that at some point in the future, he’d be an old man, and he might not be able to hold her and love her and squabble with her like he always had. She was starting to worry about his cholesterol, and his stress level, and all those little things that age brought on.
But right now, he was still her rock-hard husband, the boy who’d bought her beer and felt her up as his reward, all grown up. “No reason you can’t at least have a good start to the day,” she said, and his eyes slid over to her, just a glint of shine in the dark.
“No,” he drawled. “Guess not.”
Aidan had an apartment. He and Tango rented a place together, but it was a dump, in the true sense of the word. Neither of them kept up with laundry, housekeeping, anything, really. And some nights, Aidan preferred crashing at the clubhouse, where the sheets were at least clean and there was booze and food he didn’t have to shop for on hand.
Last night, he’d stayed at the clubhouse out of necessity. Greg, aside from being a little jumpy, seemed serious about becoming a hangaround, in hopes of prospecting the club. But if he grew suspicious, if he started to realize that Ghost’s seeming acceptance was just that – seeming – then he might bolt. He was a liability at this point, and Aidan had waited until he could press his ear to Greg’s dorm and hear him snoring on the other side before he locked the back door with the key and then sought refuge in a recliner in the common room, where someone sneaking across the creaky floor would be sure to wake him. He’d had too much to drink on purpose, getting up three times during the night to piss, checking that Greg was still asleep on every pass.
He was mindlessly watching an infomercial for high-powered blenders when first light crept across the floor, coming in from the windows. He heard the click of a door opening and closing down the hall, and tensed. He was jumpy as hell. He knew what his father expected of him, and he couldn’t seem to calm his ruffled nerves because of it.
It wasn’t Greg, though, who came into the common room, but Jasmine, one of the longtime, undisputed best of the Lean Bitches. She was barefoot and barelegged in nothing but a man’s plaid flannel shirt that came to mid-thigh. It was Tango’s shirt.
“You’re up early,” she said around a yawn, executing an elaborate stretch that lifted the tail of the shirt and revealed that she was totally naked beneath it. She came to sit on the arm of his chair, legs folded, a hand bracing on his shoulder to help her keep her balance. Her tawny hair was tangled and loose down her shoulders, her eyeliner smudged, her expression sleepy, but sultry all the same. Wasn’t it always? She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You need a little something to wear you out?”
Aidan smiled up at her, a real smile.
She had to be almost forty by now – those little lines on her face – but she was still addicted to tanning cream and dark eye shadow, still painted her finger-and toenails and wore too much hair spray. This mo
rning, she smelled like cigarettes, sex, and Tango’s cologne. The shirt was haphazardly buttoned, and the tanned tops of her breasts were put on unself-conscious display.
She liked Tango, she’d told Aidan one night. “Such a sweet boy,” she’d said of him. The guy had finally worked up the nerve, a couple years ago, to tow her back to his dorm room during a party, and she’d been bow-legged and chain smoking the next morning, quiet and contented as a cat. There were times now when she was the one to seek Tango’s company; when she sent a younger groupie running for cover with threats of violence so she could cozy up to her favorite blonde punk rock biker.
Didn’t mean she wasn’t still down for whatever anyone else wanted to do.
But Aidan wasn’t interested in that this morning, not when she still smelled like his best friend. “Actually,” he said, “I think you could help me. Can I pick your brain for a minute?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re getting boring in your old age, honey, but yeah, sure. You got a smoke?”
He lit a Marlboro from his pack on his own lip, then passed it up to her.
She took a long drag, eyes closing a moment while she held the smoke in her lungs; then she exhaled and sighed. “I can’t think straight till I’ve had my first cig of the day.” She rearranged herself on the chair arm, legs crossed at a mocking imitation of chastity, and drew herself up tall, cigarette clenched in two fingers. “Alright. Shoot.”
“The night of James’s stepping-down party.”
She nodded.
“The girl who was with Andre when he got…you know. Do you know her?”
She thought about it a second, taking another drag, blonde brows drawing together. “Yeah,” she said, nodding finally. “Blonde? Miniskirt?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded again, more sure of herself. “That’s Rena.” She made a face.
Aidan chuckled. “Not friends?”
“Definitely not.”
“She one of your Bitches?”
“Ha. No. She’s a wannabe.” She leaned against the back of the chair, one hand finding her hip, all woman-in-charge sass. “She comes around for the parties, wants to shoot up and get roughed up. Total flake.”
Aidan considered. He’d thought the same thing; he hadn’t recognized her the night of the party, when she’d been blubbering on the sofa. “Do you know where I can find her?”
She snorted. “Why? I’ve seen her give head. Trust me, you’re not missing out on anything.”
He grinned. Someone should have snapped Jasmine up for his old lady a long time ago. “It’s not for that. I just wanna talk to her.”
She shrugged, like she couldn’t figure out why. “She lives in that skank-ass complex out toward Moshina Heights. Gimme your phone and I’ll type in the address.”
He handed it over.
Tango’s voice sounded from the mouth of the hallway, still hoarse from sleep. “Morning.”
Aidan touched Jasmine’s knee, knowing how this must look. She handed the phone back, the address typed into an unsent text message, and stood, turning a smile toward her bedmate of last night. “Morning, baby. You want some coffee?”
Tango was shirtless, his jeans hanging off his thin hips, waistband of his boxers poking out of the top. His normally artful hair was flat on top of his head and down the back, falling over the shaved sides of his head. His earrings gleamed in the new sunlight. “Yeah,” he said, voice guarded.
“Okay.” Jasmine went to his side, laid a hand on his stomach and kissed his face, before she headed toward the kitchen, tail of his shirt swirling around her hips. “Be right back.”
Aidan gestured to the sofa across from him. “Come sit down, bro. You look beat.”
Tango wore a stiff, pissed-off expression, but he forced it smooth and nodded, moving to take a seat.
Aidan lifted his hands. “Nothing happened,” he said.
Tango sighed and sagged back against the sofa. “Yeah. I know. Not like it would matter anyway, right?”
Aidan gave him a half-smile. “Dude, you’ve gotta get a real girlfriend.”
Another sigh. “Yeah. I know.” He pushed a hand through his hair, working some of the usual spikes up to attention. “Did you spend all night in that chair?”
“Yeah. And it’s lumpy as shit.”
“This thing with Greg’s getting to you.”
Aidan frowned. “I dunno. Something about ruining some poor loser’s life don’t sit right with me.”
Tango cocked his head. “Greg ruined his own life.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t help.”
Jasmine returned, steaming mugs of coffee for both of them. She handed Aidan his first, then went to sit beside Tango, playing with his hair, kissing him again as he sipped his coffee. She was sweet to him, but because she was smart that way. Maybe she cared about him, but there was no love in her heart. And Tango, yeah, he needed a real girl.
“You boys want breakfast?” she asked. “I saw eggs in the fridge.”
“That’d be awesome, sweetheart,” Aidan said, and that sent her off again.
When she was gone, Tango said, “You heard from Mercy?”
Aidan snorted. “Nah. Ava calls my mom and checks in. What am I gonna talk to Merc about? ‘Hey, how’s it goin’ banging my sister again?’ No. I don’t wanna go there.”
Tango grinned. “Now there’s somebody who’s already got a real girlfriend.”
Sound of the front door opening. Jace entered, looking extra red-eyed and exhausted. He paused as he passed the pool table, looking between the two of them. His expression was strange, but then again, Aidan thought most everything about the guy was strange. It was funny, he often reflected: just because his fellow Dogs were his brothers, it didn’t mean he was friends with all of them (or even that he felt anything fraternal for them).
“Where you been?” Aidan asked. “I can’t remember when I saw you last.”
Jace shrugged. “Ghost had me running around. You know.” He made a vague gesture to the air.
“You haven’t talked to Collier, have you?”
“Nah. Do I smell coffee?”
“Jazz made some,” Tango offered.
“ ‘Kay.” Jace shuffled toward the kitchen, rubbing at his puffy eyes.
Aidan’s phone chimed with a text alert. It was from Maggie. He made a face. “Mags wants to know if we’ve got some junk to add to the tent at the yard sale.”
Tango snorted. “She got a dump truck for it?”
“Oh, and this can go too.” Maggie tapped her nails against the old bureau she’d been wanting to get out of her garage for years now. If nothing else, this upcoming yard sale would be good for de-cluttering. She wasn’t sure it’d be good for much else.
Harry and Carter took the old dresser between them and shuffled out toward the truck. Ava’s truck was loaded down with miscellaneous crap; the bed was stuffed, so the bureau would have to go on the utility trailer hooked up to the back. Maggie was going to consolidate everyone’s contributions, organize them, weed out the junk that was too lame even for a yard sale, and have the prospects load it all up in club vans and trucks. It was important to her, as she’d explained to Ghost, that they not have seventeen vehicles dumping off jumbles of crap the morning of the sale. She wanted the club to appear competent and well-structured. As professional as possible, she’d told him. He’d smirked and asked if she was trying to impress Olivia. He’d paid for that with cold cereal for breakfast.
She surveyed the garage one last time. “I think that’s everything.” Sent the door rattling down with a press of the button. “Carter, you wanna ride with me? You can leave your car here for right now.”
He glanced over at his Mustang, like he didn’t want to abandon it, but nodded. “Sure.”
The poor kid. He of course hadn’t been told what had happened to Ronnie and Mason, but he knew something had. In just a day, he’d gone from store clerk, to club hangaround; he’d watched Ava fall apart and the Dogs close ranks. It had to be such a
heady, overwhelming change for him. He seemed, if not in shock, then at least subdued. Careful, eyes wide, his manner respectful.
Maggie had always liked him. With Ava out of town, her maternal instincts were in overdrive. Sweetie, she wanted to tell him, it’ll get better. Just wait for it. You’ve got all of us now.
Harry climbed on his bike, ready to follow, as Maggie started the truck and began the tricky process of backing out of the drive with the trailer in tow. Once they were on the street, rolling forward, she said, “Carter, how’s it going, baby? The boys being good to you? The grunt work not too hard?” She chanced a glance and saw him watching the mailboxes slide past, expression reflective.
“It’s alright.” His voice was dull.
“They haven’t got you scrubbing toilets yet, have they?”
She saw him nod from the corner of her eye.
“Well, I figure you had to do that at Leroy’s.”
Another nod.
Her voice sounded too-chipper, but she didn’t care, pressing on anyway. “The hangaround and prospect years are tough, I know. Lots of guys don’t last, mostly because they think they’re too important to mop floors and clean up puke. I don’t think they understand the point of the whole prospecting process – it’s like basic training in the military, breaking you down and building you back up. Say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and you’ll do just fine.”
A beat of silence passed, then: “What about when people disappear in the middle of the night?”
Shit, Maggie thought.
“Does anyone ever wash out because of that?”
She wasn’t going to lie to the boy. “Yeah. I figure that’s why some don’t last. The OMC world’s more like the Wild West than anything else.” She glanced over at him as they reached the first stoplight heading into town. “Pledging yourself to this club isn’t like joining a football team,” she said, gently as she could. “The club claims you. You belong to it. What you do in the world outside of it, that’s getting along as best you can; but where you live, that’s the club. That’s the nucleus. You still have your own life,” she added. “It’s your life. Your girlfriend, your wife, your kids, your house, your bank account. But it’s the club that governs you. Does that make sense?”
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