Authors: Lauren Gilley
“Dad let you go from the shop on time today because of the girl who got murdered,” Ava said, not a question.
“He might have.”
“You guys were that worried?”
He gave her an
oh, honey, please
look. “Girl gets murdered a hundred feet from our door, and I’m not supposed to come home a little early?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m glad you did.” She bumped his thigh with her hip as they stood together at the stove. “It’s just…” Her brows plucked together. “It hasn’t frightened me, not the way it has you two. I think because we’ve lived through so many threats that were directed toward us, this random one can’t get under my skin. I have to draw the line on the worrying at some point, or I’ll go nuts.” She turned a suddenly serious, appealing look up to him.
Mercy picked up on all the little unspoken cues, and felt his stomach clench. “What else are you worried about?”
Her hand, coated with flour, fluttered toward her stomach. “The doctor says everything’s fine–”
“Do you feel alright? Does something seem off?” His hands lifted and he was prepared to scoop her up, carry her straight to the hospital.
But she shook her head. “I feel fine. Normal for a pregnant woman, anyway. It’s just…after what happened last time. I’m afraid to make too many plans, you know?” Her eyes grew shiny, bright under the overhead light. “I get scared when we talk about what we’ll do after he’s born. Because what if…” She didn’t finish, and he was glad for it.
Mercy glanced at the stove; the food could sit for a moment. Then he gathered his wife into his arms, hugged her close, tucked her head into his chest. “It’s going to be fine,” he said, stroking a hand down the slender ridge of her backbone, though inside, he felt the tiny tremors of anxiety. “It’s different this time.”
Her flour-dusted hands latched onto his shirt. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,
fillette
.” Because this time, he knew about the tiny life, and he loved it fiercely already, and he’d lop the head off any son of a bitch who dared to threaten the things that were his.
Holly felt the biggest surge of relief when she saw Michael come in. All day, she’d felt like a tightly stretched rubber band, plucked hard by every little sound and shift of the light across the floorboards. Laying eyes on his familiar, impassable face released some of the tension inside her, eased her breathing. There was no question in her now: she would make her offer again, and she’d convince him to accept, no matter how cold he was. After all, he’d come by her place last night. That didn’t constitute indifference on his part.
She went to the bar first, as Michael settled into his favorite booth. Matt poured the double Jack neat while she waited. He was looking at her like he was afraid she’d fall apart, but she was better now. Michael just being in the bar boosted her spirits tenfold.
Drink in hand, she leaned into the kitchen, to tell Hollis-the-three-hundred-pound-cook to fix up a plate of fried chicken tenders and mashed potatoes with brown gravy.
Then she went to Michael.
Holly almost dropped the whiskey when she saw that he hadn’t brought a book tonight. In her memory, he’d never sat down to dinner without some sort of reading material.
His eyes came straight up to her face as she slid into the booth and set his drink before him. Amber, deep, impossible to read, but intense. Fixed to her like there was nothing else in the world to look at. Like she was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
“I put your dinner order in,” she said, voice a little breathless. “Fried chicken and potatoes okay? It’s the special.”
He nodded. “It’s fine.”
Holly inhaled deeply, and exhaled in a fluttering rush.
Michael wrapped a hand around his drink, but didn’t lift it. “You changed your mind,” he said, levelly. “About telling me.”
She nodded. “They were in here today.”
A shift in his face, a faint strike of surprise in one eyebrow.
“And I don’t know what else to do,” she went on, “except tell you.”
“Okay.” He sipped his Jack.
She sighed, feeling small and caved-in, desperate and afraid. Less afraid, with him, but still in fear of rejection. “I’ll get your food, and then I’ll start.”
“You’re the sergeant at arms. It says so on your vest thing.” She gestured to the patch affixed to his chest.
“Yeah.” He stirred the gravy into his potatoes and looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to get to the point. He’d never looked at her so much before, making eye contact for long, lingering moments.
“Well.” She kept taking deep breaths, fighting off her nerves. She leaned low against the table, not suggestively, just keeping low and quiet, so as not to draw attention to them. “I don’t know that much about biker…”
“Clubs,” he supplied.
“Right. Clubs. But from what I do know, there’s guys in the club, like the sergeant at arms, who do…some bad things. For the club.”
She winced and he didn’t twitch as he cut into the chicken tenderloins.
“Guys who…” Her voice was just a breath. “Kill people.”
Michael chewed his bite of food without expression, swallowed, sipped his drink, and then spoke. “The sergeant at arms of an MC is a member who maintains order among his brothers at meetings; he keeps the peace within the club; he protects his president and does what’s asked of him,” he said, as if he were reading a definition from a book.
Holly felt desperation working in her blood, but forced it down, telling herself to be patient. “That sounds like a big responsibility.”
He nodded, one sharp motion of his head.
“Is the sergeant at arms always on the clock?” she asked. “Or does he get time to himself?”
“Think of it like being on call,” Michael said. “Like a doctor who gets paged off-duty.”
In the past four months, she’d watched enough daytime TV to be able to understand that reference. She nodded.
“Holly.” An electric current moved through her at the sound of her name on his lips again. The rigid set of his jaw reflected an obvious aggravation, in this moment, and she was proud of herself for seeing the traces of emotion in him. “I thought we were going to talk about you.”
She took a deep breath. “We are.”
“You gonna finally explain why you’ve been sitting in that spot” – indication of her place on the booth with his fork – “trying to talk to me for four months?”
His words stung. What man would question female attention like she’d been giving him? Only the coldest, most untouchable of creatures would have thought she was weird, rather than take advantage.
And in a strange way, his attitude gave her hope. A hope that, once their transaction was completed, he wouldn’t haunt her. He wouldn’t ask for anything else from her, content to go separate ways without a backward glance.
Leaning even closer to him, her hair swinging forward and brushing at the edge of his plate, she dropped her voice to the tiniest whisper. “You’re right,” she said, the words the barest hiss of sound, “I’m running, and probably someone’s hunting me, too. That’s why I’ve been trying to make friends with you.”
He lowered his voice, not a whisper, but a flat, soft sound that wouldn’t carry. “You’re hoping I’ll protect you.”
“No. I want to hire you. There’s three men after me. I want you to kill them.”
Five
They went back to her place, the rented attic loft in the creaky old converted mansion. When she’d told him, at the bar, what she wanted of him, he’d almost choked on his dinner. Almost. He’d thrown down the rest of his Jack, told her to fetch another, and then told her not to breathe another word about it, until she got off her shift, at which point he’d follow her home, and they’d talk about it in private.
She’d agreed, eyes bright, frightened, hopeful, sliding out of the booth to retrieve his whiskey.
Michael hadn’t glanced at her, the rest of the evening, as he sipped at drinks and studied the wood grain pattern in the table. But he’d known where she was, every second of those two hours. He’d felt her presence, smelled her as she breezed past, acutely aware of her every smile and laugh and gesture. She’d surprised him. Truly, completely shocked him, and that was a rare occurrence these days. Her unexpected boldness made her a fascination, a dangerous one.
Finally, she’d come to the table, once the customers were gone and the chairs were overturned on the tables. The bartender had been giving him dark glances, like he didn’t approve of him waiting around for Holly.
She’d still been wearing her work uniform of silk boxing shorts, wedge sneakers, and tank top, flipping her hair over the collar of a light leather jacket not suitable for the weather outside. “Ready?”
“It’s thirty degrees outside,” he’d said.
She’d shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Meet me on the street out front. I’ll be in the Chevy. You won’t miss it.”
And he hadn’t. As he’d sat astride his bike, waiting at the mouth of the alley, he’d been surprised again, this time by the black ’67 Chevelle that pulled out into the street. A gorgeous year for that car, though the paint needed a re-do. Hardtop, mag wheels, what sounded like the original, downturned pipes, the way the chugging of the Big Block echoed down onto the pavement.
Holly was so small, her silhouette looked like that of a child, as she turned left and passed in front of the greasy light of a street lamp. He couldn’t see her curves, from this angle, just her little head, poked up over the window ledge.
She cruised slowly past, giving him a chance to fall in behind her, and then they headed to the mansion with the big circular drive shaded by trees, and up the two flights of steps to the place she called home.
Michael made no comment on the seven door locks; a frightened girl, he reminded himself. And not a stupid one, either, apparently.
She locked the locks again, with a series of clicks, once he was inside; he took the chance to look his fill.
The old attic had high ceilings in the center, sloping down to points in the eve. Streetlamp glow filtered in through the dormer windows, framing the tiny Christmas tree that stood in the center one. She had a bed, a dresser, a rod of hanging clothes in place of a closet. A couch, a cozy chair, threadbare rugs. The bathroom must have been behind the corrugated tin sliding barn door. The kitchenette was tiny, but there were dishes draining on the rack, along with pots and pans. She used the stove, obviously, for something besides storage. It was small, comfortable, warm, and probably had an impressive view from the windows.
But for some reason, it held a certain sadness. Everything tired, frayed at the edges, the shelves sagging just the tiniest, the old floorboards in need of refinishing. The little tree, without ornaments, its colored lights blazing against the cold fogged window glass, evidenced this girl’s attempt to bring something bright into her frightened life. Just…sad.
“Coffee?” she asked from behind him, as she hung up her jacket. When she stepped around so he could see her, he noted the chill bumps all down her arms and across her chest. She was freezing.
“Sure,” he said, not because he wanted any, but because he thought if he had some, she would too, and it would warm her up before she caught pneumonia.
“It’s dark roast.” She crossed to the kitchenette, the swish of her silk shorts loud in the quiet loft. “Hope that’s alright.”
He hummed a sound that meant he didn’t care.
“I’ll just get it started,” she said in a happy voice, as she pulled a filter from a box on an open shelf and dropped it into the top of the maker. The Folgers canister opened with a popping sound. “Then I’ll change.” Questioning glance over her shoulder as she scooped coffee grounds into the machine. “If that’s okay.”
It hit him then, the absurdity of this moment. Her cheerful tone as she made him coffee…so she could make a formal request that he murder three men for her. As far as taking out a hit went, this was beyond abnormal.
“Fine,” he said, hands going in his jacket pockets.
“You can sit down.” She pressed a button and the maker came on with a hiss. “I’ll be right back.” She went through the sliding door, easing it shut behind her.
Alone, he took a turn around the large, open space. Two matching tables flanked the peach-colored sofa. On one was a tidy stack of magazines:
People
,
Time
,
Cosmo
,
Redbook
,
Entertainment Weekly
,
Southern Living
, and
Shape
. Some were this month’s issue, but some were a few months’ earlier, like the
Redbook
, the one with the promise of teaching sex secrets that would drive men wild on the cover.
On the other table were books: a stack of
New York Times
bestsellers, all released within the last two months, half of them on Oprah’s booklist. They looked like secondhand copies, the hardback edges downturned and browned with use.
None of the books nor the magazines had been available for sale before August.
Five issues of
TV Guide
lay across the coffee table: August, September, October, November, December.
She’d moved into this loft at the end of August – that was the first time he’d seen her at Bell Bar. But none of her print media evidenced a life before that.
He wandered toward the bed. Tidily made up with old quilts and white pillows. The top drawer of the nightstand was slightly ajar, and the lamp above didn’t quite reach inside the gap of dark space.
Michael checked over his shoulder that she was still in the bathroom, then pulled the drawer open a fraction.
Inside was a narrow book bound in plain brown leather. He fingered the cover aside, and saw the lined paper within, with the slanted, steady handwriting filling up the pages. Not a book, but a journal of some sort.
He heard the door sliding back at the bathroom and shut the drawer with a fast, silent movement, turning to face her.
And there was yet another surprise.
Michael expected the sweats and slippers of the night before, that she’d been getting into something warm and comfortable. Instead, Holly walked toward him in skintight denim miniskirt that hit across the tops of her shapely thighs, and a strappy little black shirt that showed the lace edging of the red bra beneath it. She’d brushed her hair out, and it shone, brilliant and chocolate-brown down her shoulders and back. Her lipstick was blood-colored, the same color as the toenail polish on her bare feet.
“Coffee should be done,” she said, going straight to the kitchen without glancing at him.
Michael approached her slowly, moving around the couch toward the counter with deliberate steps, so as not to startle her. She was a dream to look at – the lush curves of breasts and hips, the creamy skin, the way her waist was corset-small – but her attitude was that of a bird who’d gotten indoors, trapped and panicked.
He watched her pull down two mugs and pour the steaming black coffee into them. They were mismatched, one white, and one yellow.
“Cream?” she asked.
“Black’s fine.”
She nodded, and stirred two big spoonfuls of sugar into the yellow one, hers, before she turned to him. Her hand trembled as she passed the white mug into his grip. And her eyes, when they finally came up to his face, were saucer-wide and stricken.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the hot mug by the handle. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She closed her eyes, face pained. “It…has to do with paying you.” Her eyes opened again, studded deep with anguish, though her voice was even. “Let’s sit down and talk about the job first. Okay?”
He nodded, and followed her to the sitting area. When she sat down on the couch, he took the small plaid recliner, on purpose, to give her some space.
She looked at him and nodded, a silent thank you. She sipped her coffee, took a deep breath, and said, “So I want you to kill three people,” like she was commenting on the weather. “I guess I should tell you who they are.”
“That’d be helpful,” he said.
Another sip, and she said, “I escaped at the beginning of August. I assumed they came after me, just because I was paranoid, but now I know, because I saw two of them yesterday, at Bell Bar.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug, as if she were drawing its warmth into her curled, chilled body, and she watched him, waiting for his questions.
The word
escaped
caught his attention, but he wasn’t going to ask about that. Her past had no bearing on this conversation, or his decision.
He studied the wide leather cuffs on her wrists, and then glanced at her face, the soft trembling of her lower lip. She had a very pretty mouth. “Were they looking for you?”
“They were talking to two of your friends, actually.”
He lifted his brows, inviting her to explain. He had club brothers; he didn’t have friends.
“Mercy and Ratchet.”
He nodded, cursing inwardly. The dealer Ghost had sent them to meet.
For a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the “what if” idea of having accepted Holly’s offer last night. He might have eased himself inside her, and then she might have made her request about the hit. He might, even, have killed those two before they could have their sitdown with his brothers.
But now, they’d become involved with the club. What the hell did he do now?
Feeling sure that he would refuse her now, he said, “I don’t normally take on contracts from outside the club.”
She made a face that seemed desperate. “It wouldn’t be a regular thing. I promise. Just the once – well, three times, I guess; the three of them – but then you’d never have to see me again. I could leave town after, if you wanted me to.”
It was all making so much more sense now. She’d never been flirting with him, he hadn’t thought, and now he was proven right. She’d been feeling him out, trying to decide if she could trust him with something like murder. Well, she’d made a good choice, hadn’t she? Of all the Dogs she could have sought, she’d honed in on him as the one most likely to serve her killer purposes.
“You’d go to jail, if we got caught,” he said. “It wouldn’t just be me; you’d go too, for hiring me.”
That tidbit didn’t seem to faze her. She shook her head. “That’s a risk I can take. Not,” she said in a rush, “that I want you to go to jail. That’s not what I meant. But you’d be…professional, I know you would. You wouldn’t get caught.”
That was true.
He said, “How do you know they’re after you? Maybe you’re just being paranoid.”
She flinched; that stung. “Maybe,” she said, voice growing faint. “But…but no. No. They would never let me get away. No matter where I went. They couldn’t afford for me to be loose in the world.”
She withdrew into herself, her mind, some awful memory that left her pale and shaken.
“Holly.”
Her eyes came to him like backlit jewels, huge and wet.
“Who are they?”
She swallowed, her slender throat working. “My father, my uncle, and my husband.”
Father. He knew all too well the horrors of fathers.
“Explain it to me.”
She lifted her chin in a quaking semblance of bravery. “No. You don’t care.”
“You’re asking me to kill three people,” he countered, “and you won’t tell me why you want them dead?”
“I may be behind a little, but I’ve been trying to catch up with movies.” Her chin kicked even higher, daring him to challenge her. “I know enough to know that hit men don’t have to know the reasons why. Just the who and when and how much.”