Authors: Lauren Gilley
She nodded, but she was feeling last night’s hurt, the bruise of his refusal, and the desperation of being alone.
It killed him, just a little. She was small and brunette and helpless…like his mother had been, all those years ago. It was stirring up long-buried emotions in him.
“Holly, you’ll be alright,” he told her.
The look she gave him was faraway, and impossibly sad. “No I won’t,” she said, softly. “But I never expected to be. Thank you for the lesson, and the gun.” She took a step back. “I…I won’t bother you again.” And before he could come up with something else stupid to say, she was striding back toward the car, the winter wind plastering her sweater to the curves of her body, hair snatching over her shoulder, a mahogany banner.
Michael exhaled, realizing that he was tired, sore and restless thanks to the underlying frustration she inspired in him. Telling himself he was making the right call, he packed away the rest of the guns.
With this confidence boost, Holly would stop being so frightened, and she’d get over her infatuation, her crush, whatever it was, and she wouldn’t make any more requests that he kill anyone for her.
That was his hope. Otherwise, he was in danger of doing something regrettable.
Seven
They didn’t speak on the drive back to Bell Bar. Holly wasn’t pouting, Michael sensed, but she had drawn deep into herself. It was like she’d forgotten he was in the car with her, as she drove them back into town.
The parking spot at the curb in front of his bike was taken, so she braked to a halt in the street, turning to look at him for the first time. Her face was a careful mask, twitching at the corners of her mouth, as she struggled to maintain the appearance of calm.
“Thank you again,” she said. “I appreciate you taking time out of your day for me.”
There were a dozen things he wanted to say to her. Starting with how pretty she looked in the late afternoon sun that streaked through the windshield. But he nodded. “You’re welcome. We’ll set up a knife lesson.”
“Sure.” Her voice was thin, unconvinced.
“So…yeah.” He opened his door and shoved out, before it could get even more awkward. The wind slapped at his face, the slap Holly should have given him instead.
He stood beside his bike and watched her turn in at the alley, heading for the parking lot in back.
Only then did he think to check his phone. He had two missed calls and one text from Ghost.
Church in five
. Sent fifteen minutes ago.
“Shit.”
Michael had never been late to church. When he turned onto the lot, his heart started to hammer in his chest, audible to him above the roar of the bike. It throbbed in his ears, the pulse of the guilty.
He parked at the end of the line of Harleys, beside Hound’s Fat Bob, and tore his helmet off, crammed his sunglasses in his pocket. How undignified. Not at all like a sergeant at arms should act.
He’d left his cut on a peg in the clubhouse entryway, and he yanked it down, shoved his arms through it.
Ares the German shepherd came to greet him with a curious sniff. He gave the dog an absent pat on the head and kept moving.
The three prospects were in the common room, playing at the bar with paper footballs they were flicking through uprights made of their fingers. All three glanced up, startled at his entrance, caught goofing off while the adults were in church. Redhead Harry, lanky Littlejohn, and former football stud Carter, whom RJ had taken to calling Jockstrap.
“Mop something,” Michael instructed, on his way through the room.
“Yes, sir,” they all said in unison.
As he moved down the hall, he heard the low din of masculine voices coming from the chapel. A fine sweat misted across his shoulders, gluing his shirt to his skin. Damn, he was late.
The double doors stood open and through them, Michael watched his president glance out into the hall, see him, acknowledge him with a lifted chin and an expectant expression. He wouldn’t make a scene – that wasn’t his style – but like any kingly father, he had a way of making those beneath him feel shame at their indiscretions.
Michael stepped into the sacred room – heavy, ornate dining room table, velvet-cushioned chairs, paneling, framed photos and memorabilia, swirl of cigarette smoke – without looking at anyone. He caught brief glimpses of faces and cuts, but only made eye contact with Ghost, bowing his head in silent, brief apology before he closed the doors and took his seat on the president’s right.
Ghost gave him one brief glance, a welcome and a reprimand all in one.
Directly across from Michael, in the VP spot, blonde-haired blue-eyed Walsh was giving him a steady look, the Englishman, as always, difficult to read.
Ghost said, “I saw Collier this morning,” and silence reigned, all eyes on the president as they honed in on the news he had to share.
Michael allowed his guilt and stress to fade, white noise in the back of his head as he listened.
“Andre and Jace were cooperating with Fielding,” Ghost continued, “because they were deep in debt with some dealer. Shaman. For all we know, they were in tight with him before they ever prospected. They could have come into the club with the intention of infiltrating it. Shaman was betting on the Carpathians pushing us out of town, and he musta been putting some kinda pressure on Andre and Jace for them to turn stool pigeon to the cops.”
“They couldn’t tell us that this dealer was after them,” Rottie said, grim-faced, “because that would have been admitting they were betraying the club.”
“Figured we’d…” Walsh drew an elegant finger across his own throat.
Hound made an old man’s deep-throated
harrumph
sound. “Yeah, and look how that turned out for ‘em.”
“What I don’t understand,” Mercy said down at the foot of the table, “is how no one around here knew anything about the little shits’ personal lives.” He lifted his brows expectantly, inviting one of them to explain.
Ghost sighed and shook his head. “I dunno. I never spent any time with them.”
“They were only friends with each other,” RJ said. “They did club stuff, but they were always together, and they didn’t hang out after hours with anyone else.” He winced. “Except for the time Andre was with Collier.”
And Collier had noticed something off, had realized the betrayal, and handled it himself, putting both the traitors in the ground.
“I was Jace’s sponsor,” Dublin said, hanging his head. “I shoulda known.”
“We all shoulda known,” Ghost said, addressing Mercy. “We were busy, and we needed new members to beef up the ranks, and we all got careless. Those two were assholes, but so’s everyone in their generation. None of us put the time in to investigate them like we should have.” He gave his son-in-law a glance that said
are you happy? We fucked up, and we admitted it.
Mercy didn’t look happy, but there was a flash of pain and anger in his eyes. He’d been banished, and in his absence, disloyal members had been patched. That didn’t sit well with him.
It didn’t sit well with Michael either, but he was loath to agree with the man.
“What do you mean everyone in their generation is an asshole?” Aidan asked, indignant and young and stupid as always. “We’re in their generation.” He gestured between himself and Tango.
Tango had the grace to duck his head, spiky blonde lock of the middle part of his hair falling onto his forehead, earrings glimmering dully in the lamplight.
Aidan stared indignantly at his father.
“Right,” Ghost said. “You are.”
Not another father/son fight at the table. None of them needed that right now.
Michael interrupted, dispelling the sudden tension. “The real problem here is that Collier went rogue. He should have come to us, told us what he suspected. Now we can’t question Andre and Jace, and we’ve got no way to get the answers we need, save from prison gossip.” The more he spoke about it, the more disgusted he became. He’d always respected the previous VP; he’d been fair, competent, focused. What he’d done went against everything Michael had ever been taught about the MC. “Collier knew better.”
“He did,” Ghost agreed. “But now it’s spilt milk, and all that.”
“That’s three members who went off grid.”
Ghost gave him a surprised glance. He’d never argued in church before. Or anywhere, really.
If he was honest, Michael wasn’t sure where this was coming from, only that it was boiling up inside him.
“So Andre and Jace were traitorous pricks who never loved the club. Yeah. Okay. But Collier? He had a duty to bring their transgressions to this table.” He thumped his hand down onto it.
Ghost, to his surprise, said, “He was doing what he thought was right.” They’d been childhood friends, after all, and he would defend the man.
“That’s not how a motorcycle club works,” Michael said. “If we all went around doing whatever the hell we wanted, because it was ‘right,’ then it’d be chaos. What’s the point of the MC if no one respects it?”
And then understanding dawned, in a moment of sheer horror.
This was about Holly. This was about his own wants, his own code of right and wrong. Collier had overridden the protocol, and he’d been forgiven for it. Michael felt sure he wouldn’t be allowed that same grace, and he was wall-punching, teeth-gnashing angry about it.
He needed to get a grip.
He needed to get some air.
No, wait, couldn’t get air. Church still in session. Sit very still then, get quiet, don’t say anything else.
He took a deep breath and stared down at his hands. They were knotted together in a pose that should have looked relaxed; he could see the veins standing out in his fingers and wrists.
The truth hurt: he wanted to kill three men for a pretty little waitress who’d spent four months talking to him. Who’d said she wanted to be friends. Who’d invited him into her bed, her body, because she couldn’t afford to pay him, and she had no idea how much more valuable her offer was than cash.
He wanted, for once, to use his gifts of speed and silence and deadly force to do something that felt good and right, rather than just necessary.
He didn’t want to see Holly’s face in the paper and know she’d been killed, and that he could have done something to prevent it.
He’d zoned out, and the meeting had continued on around him. He refocused. Ghost had switched topics, was talking about the new dealers who wanted to be a part of their district.
The men who’d met Ratchet and Mercy at Bell Bar and frightened Holly. The men he’d been propositioned with executing.
“We’re meeting tomorrow morning to sample the product,” Ratchet was saying. “If it’s decent, you wanna walk them through the rulebook?” he asked Ghost.
“I want to meet them personally,” Ghost said. “We can’t afford another fuckup right now.”
“I’ll come,” Michael offered. As sergeant at arms, his presence would be expected at something like this, there to protect his president.
But Ghost shook his head. “Merc can tag along. He’s already met the guys. And” – he sent a smirk down the table at his son-in-law – “if anybody’s gonna put the fear of God in them, it’ll be him.”
Mercy gave an elaborate mock bow over the table.
“Shithead,” Ghost said, affectionately.
“Gramps,” Mercy shot back.
Several of the guys chuckled.
Michael studied the dirt under his fingernails. Dark, rich dirt, from the farm, from scraping the sticky-backed targets off the plywood.
When the meeting was adjourned, Ghost said, “Michael, hold back a second.”
Michael complied, dread pooling in his belly. He stood with his arms folded behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, soldier-alert and ready for his general’s instructions as his brothers emptied out of the chapel behind him.
Tango was the last out, and closed the doors with a tactful, respectful gesture of bowed head and silent hands against the knobs.
Then they were alone, as chatter erupted down the hall, and spilled into the common room.
Ghost lifted his abandoned cigarette from the ash tray and took an absent drag, leaning a hip against the table and fixing Michael with a pointed look.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael frowned. “Nothing.”
Ghost shook his head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say so many words at one time before. You wanna tell me what’s up? You tired? Things were crazy for a while.” He gestured absently toward the air, smoke swirling off the end of the cig. “I was serious about you taking some time off, if you need to. Dublin’s got plenty of help at the garage, and I’m hoping I won’t need anybody six-feet-under for a little while, at least.” He grinned, a thin, emotionless gesture. Ghost was never truly casual and happy save with his old lady.
Michael wasn’t causal and happy ever.
He said, “I don’t need time off, sir. I’m fine.”
Ghost studied him a moment, his dark eyes – so much like those of his children – fathomless. “Do me a favor, though. Take the time anyway. Don’t you usually go see your uncle at Christmas anyway?”
Michael nodded. He had turkey and stuffing at the big dining room table at the farm with his Uncle Wynn, while the Great Danes and hounds looked on.
Ghost said, “You know you’re welcome at the house if you don’t have other plans” –