Authors: Lauren Gilley
Sixteen
The city of Knoxville ground to a halt, shut down beneath a blanket of snow. Black ice glazed the streets. The South did not bustle and plow and struggle against the snow; it slept beneath it, the silence broken only by the chatter of hungry birds and the exuberant shouts of children using trash can lids as makeshift sleds.
They were snowed in, and Holly wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced this kind of happiness. There was nothing to do but watch movies, and Michael didn’t seem to care that she leaned against him, or slipped her arms around his waist. They talked in unhurried bursts of words, lapsing back into comfortable silence afterward. He wasn’t chatty, but he didn’t mind the way that she sometimes was. She could sense him listening, even if he didn’t respond.
Holly cooked, and she wore his clothes, and they ate in front of the fire while they watched all the
Lethal Weapon
s.
He opened up the gun safe and took out his impressive collection of handguns and rifles, showing her how they worked, letting her heft their weight in her hands, talking of the shooting lessons they would have.
And they were in his bed, and he was gentle and rough, and patient and raw, and Holly didn’t want this time together to come to a close. There were words building in her, pressing behind her lips as she watched him sleep beside her, and felt the strong thumping of his heart beneath her hand. She wanted to express to him how much it meant to her that he’d brought her into his home, and into his bed, and that he’d showed her what it was supposed to feel when a man was inside a woman. She wanted to describe the prettiness of his eyes to him; wanted to tease him for the way scowls or frowns were his favorite facial expressions. But mostly she wanted to thank him until she was out of breath, for the nights he’d given her.
She didn’t say any of it though, only closed her eyes and slept beside him.
And the time did come to a close, because it had to. Two days after Christmas, they woke to a morning of forty degrees, and the snow was melting in thick globs from the trees, collecting in puddles on the asphalt. It was time for Knoxville to wake again, and time for them to go back to work.
“I’ll drive you home,” Michael said, collecting her keys off the kitchen counter.
She studied the casual, assertive set of his shoulders as she flipped her hair over her jacket collar. “How will you get back?”
“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”
She didn’t protest. It was in her nature to tell him not to bother, that she could make it home alone. But she knew now that he would ignore her; better to have his company without arguing and making him extra surly.
The streets were clear, but the sidewalks were not, and people bundled in coats were slip-sliding in snowy patches and clutching at brick building facades to keep their footing.
“What will you do today?” Holly asked, enjoying the sun coming through the windows and the quiet warmth of his company.
He shrugged as he drove. “Go into Dartmoor I guess. See if there’s any work for me.”
“Okay, two questions.” She put her back against the door so she could face him fully. “What is Dartmoor?”
“You came to town looking for a Dog and you don’t know what Dartmoor is?”
“Well I’ve
heard
of it. It’s you guy’s headquarters, right?”
He nodded. “It’s where our clubhouse is. And it’s the corporate entity that owns all the club businesses.”
“Corporate entity,” she said, smiling. “I’m impressed.”
He snorted. “Second question.”
“Well, now it’s three. But okay, number two: what sort of work do you mean? Like…murder and stuff?”
He gave her a dry, sideways glance. “You’re all about the murder.”
“Well I don’t know what being a sergeant at arms means.”
“I’m a mechanic,” he said. “I work on cars. The sergeant title is just my role in the club.”
“So you guys all have day jobs.”
“How else do you think I pay for all those Salisbury steak dinners?”
She felt her cheeks color, a bit embarrassed at her own assumptions. “I didn’t know,” she defended, “so that’s why I asked.”
“Question three?” he prodded.
“Why is Dartmoor called Dartmoor?”
He studied the road a moment, as they pulled to a slow stop at an intersection built up in the corners with snow. “There’s legends all over the UK of black dogs,” he said, not looking at her, his voice taking on a reflective quality. “Hell hounds. Crossroads demons. Dartmoor, in England, is where the stories of ghost hounds are the strongest. The Lean Dog is a specific legend,” he continued. “The vengeful ghost of a chimney sweep, hanged in Hertfordshire. The club’s founding fathers were English – based outta London. They named us for that legend. The Lean Dogs.”
Holly envisioned the mist-shrouded green landscapes of Sherlock Holmes movies; felt the tradition of lasting English lore. “Wow,” she murmured.
Michael glanced over at her. “You don’t have to make fun of it.”
“I’m not. I think it’s–”
“Beautiful?” he mocked.
“I happen to like beautiful,” she said. “Now who’s making fun?”
He shook his head and accelerated as the light changed. “It’s an old club,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Way older than me. I owe it my respect.”
And killing men who did business with the club wasn’t doing so. The sudden resurgence of the outside world – the real world, beyond their bubble of snowbound sex and movie-watching – was an unpleasant shock.
Holly frowned. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your brothers – that’s the word for them, right? Your brothers? I don’t want you to get in hot water with them because of me.”
“Might as well get in hot water for something.” The words were flippant, but the lines bracketing his mouth were grave.
“I’m serious, Michael,” she said. “What you’ve already done for me is so much. If you can’t–”
“I said I’d do it, didn’t I? Don’t you worry about it.”
Holly held back the tender smile that threatened. He wasn’t gracious in his sweetness; at his most earnest, he was either locked in the throes of passion, or grumbling like an old grouch.
“Yes, you did,” she said. “And you have no idea how grateful I am.”
“Don’t be grateful. Just be alive.”
She left him alone the rest of the short drive, resisting comment as he walked her up both flights of steps to her loft and ensured the door locks were still in place.
He caught her around the waist before she slipped inside, kissed her hard, and pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “You call me if you get scared,” he said, like it was a dire warning.
The paper was his phone number, written out in his bold, strong hand.
Holly went to the window and watched him walk off down the street, his shoulders set in a way that would repel rather than attract attention.
“Michael, Michael,” she murmured to herself, and typed his number into her phone.
In wake of the snow shutdown, Dartmoor was teeming with business. The bad press from back in the fall had, as Ghost had predicted, blown over. Quality had always been heavily emphasized at all the Dartmoor shops, and the reputation of good work had finally overridden the reputation of violence. People had short memories, and busy lives. Dublin’s crew ran a tight ship at the auto garage, and it was raucous with air wrenches and shouted instructions as Michael approached the open roll top doors.
One of the prospects, Harry, was trying to roll two tires into the first bay, and he paused and ducked his head in reference as Michael passed.
Stupid kid
, he thought, but approved of the respect. This new crop of prospects, if nothing else, were reverent in their address of all the patched members. Good little squires tending to the knights’ every need.
Dublin was under the hood of a Chevy, an old Nova that immediately brought to mind Holly’s Chevelle. The thing had a bad Maaco paint job, one which Michael intended to correct in the near future. No sense letting a classic like that roll around in shitty paint.
He pushed thoughts of her aside and said, “I’m here.”
Dublin paused, greasy hands wrapped around a bad battery, and gave Michael a look of mild frustration. “Good for you.”
Michael frowned. He wasn’t sure he could claim any of his club brothers felt like actual brothers. “You got anything for me to do?”
“Nah. Actually, Ghost’s looking for you. He’s been by twice to see if you’re in yet.”
Michael took a step back. “He’s at the clubhouse?”
“Yeah.”
He shoved his hands in his cut pockets and walked that direction. Probably later he’d regret that his bike wasn’t close at hand, but he anticipated walking back, taking on an oil change or something. He at least wanted to check the work order board and see if there was a good time in the coming weeks to work Holly’s car into the rotation. It really did need that new paint job.
As so often happened after an aggressive snow, the morning was mild, the sky blue and brushed with wisps of high clouds. Everything was wet and gleaming as the snow continued to melt with ever-increasing speed. The water was evaporating, making the lot humid, shot through at moments by a cold breeze coming off the river with that usual taint of muck.
He was almost at the clubhouse, was walking past the small central office building where Maggie Teague ran this entire battleship, when he spotted Ava Teague climbing out of her truck. Ava Lécuyer, he had to remind himself. Here to visit with her mother, most like.
He paused.
He’d approached her before, and almost put a question to her the day she’d brought brownies to the boys after church. It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask her, but he’d been less certain then, still struggling with his own understanding of what was happening in his personal life. And Mercy had been there, glaring at him. So he’d backed off.
But now here she was again, alone, with no one around to disapprove. And the question was a solid, certain weight in his mind now. It was something he felt he had to ask someone. And he didn’t know anyone besides Ava to ask.
“Ava,” he said, as he walked toward her, and she froze, spun to face him, her dark eyes large with surprise.
He’d never said her name before. The sound of it leaving his mouth was more of a shock to him, he thought, than it obviously was to her.
He hung back a few steps, not wanting to crowd her. The way she clutched the halves of her jacket together told him she was nervous and uncertain. Maybe even frightened. How she could marry the likes of Mercy and be afraid of anyone, he didn’t know.
The irony: Holly wasn’t afraid of Michael, even if other women were. They had that in common at least, Holly and Ava – a total lack of fear when it came the men they let into their beds.
“Michael,” she said, her voice polite but careful. “Hi.”
“I…” He held up a hand in a helpless gesture. He didn’t want to scare her worse, and wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. Hell. Nothing to do but ask, he guessed. “Can I ask you something? A favor. It would be a favor to me. You can say no,” he rushed to assure her. “I just…was wondering.”
Her eyes narrowed, expression shifting, growing curious. She edged a half-step back, though. “What sort of favor?”
Shit. She was thinking… “It’s not…” Oh, hell, this wasn’t going the way he’d wanted it to. He took a breath and forced on. “There’s this girl.”
Ava blinked, and he watched her face relax, the wariness giving way to something gentler. He didn’t know her well enough to read her properly, and she was a strange girl, which made it even more difficult.
“Holly,” she said. “From Bell Bar.”
His turn to blink. “Yeah. Holly.”
Ava nodded and offered him a small smile. “She’s your girlfriend?”
“She’s lonely.” God, he was being awkward, and he couldn’t seem to stop. “She doesn’t have any friends and she’s been spending time with me, but I’m…” He gestured to himself, at a loss as to how to explain how ineffectual he was as anyone’s friend.
Ava nodded like she understood.
“I think she ought to have a girl friend. A friend who’s a girl,” he amended.