Authors: Lauren Gilley
The doors to the chapel stood open at the end of the hall, and Ghost waited for him in his chair at the head of the table. “Sit,” he instructed, and Michael closed the doors and did so.
This room had a stale smell. The old, heavy, ornate furniture was polished weekly, and the scent of the wax blended with the musk of the wall paneling, and the accumulated cigarette smoke that never truly dissipated, only found crevices to cling to.
In his usual seat, at the right hand of the president, Michael had a view of the tension in Ghost’s face, the tightening of all the fine lines in the skin around his eyes. There was an ageless quality to the man; he seemed both older and younger than his fifty years. He was so much better-suited for the role as president than his predecessor had been that Ernest James was a laughingstock by comparison. Michael had longed for the day that James would finally step down and Ghost would take the throne.
This was the first time he wished he was sitting beside James instead, because there were no traces of gentleness or understanding in Ghost’s harsh face.
He took a breath and, staring at the table before them, said, “How long have you been banging Jessup’s daughter?”
It was more direct than Michael had expected. The question was vulgar in his ears; his brain recoiled from it.
“She’s been working at Bell Bar since August. She always sits and talks to me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Michael frowned. “Since before Christmas.”
Ghost slanted him a quick, narrow glance. “Did you know who she was?”
“Not at first. But then she told me.”
“When?”
“Right around the time you let them start selling for you.”
“Christ. You didn’t think you ought to mention it?”
“It wasn’t anybody’s business.”
“It’s the
club’s
business,” Ghost said, voice undercut with a violent anger. “We’ve got fifteen of Jasmine’s friends walking around here with their tits out, but no, you had to go after that bastard’s daughter. Do you understand the difficult position this puts me in?”
“No,” Michael said, and meant it. He met Ghost’s glare with a level one of his own. “Tell them to fuck off.”
Ghost twitched a non-smile. “They’ve already called their boss. Now Shaman wants a meeting, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.”
When Michael didn’t respond, Ghost continued: “I need more time to put together some intel on this guy. I don’t want to walk into a sitdown blind. And the Jessups are saying they can put the pin back in the grenade, and things can go back to normal. For a price.”
Michael stiffened. “What price?”
“I hand over the girl, and they keep on quietly selling.”
“You can’t do that,” Michael said, without missing a beat.
Ghost sighed. “I don’t want to do it. But I don’t see what choice I’ve got.”
“Have the meeting with Shaman. I’ll be with you. Walsh will come with us. The whole club can come.”
“And what do the Jessups do in the meantime? Throw more bricks through my daughter’s window?” His eyes flashed, murderous like Mercy’s had been earlier.
“Holly won’t go near Ava again. It won’t happen–”
“The safety of my family isn’t up for discussion.”
“What about the safety of mine?” Michael growled before he could catch himself. “If Holly goes back to them, they’ll kill her. And after what they’ll do to her before that, she’ll be glad for it.”
Ghost frowned. “I know these guys are assholes–”
“You don’t know anything about them. There’s not a word for what they are. What they’ve done to Holly…No. No. I won’t let her go back with them. I would never do that to her.”
Ghost studied him a long, unreadable moment. “What sort of story did that girl spin for you?” he asked.
“What?”
“She cried on your shoulder, didn’t she? Fed you a sob story. What did she want from you?”
Michael ground his molars together.
“Considering you chased them out of Bell Bar wielding a knife, I’m gonna take a wild swing and say she wanted you to kill them, didn’t she? A few tears, a couple of doe-eyed looks, and you bought all of it, didn’t you?” He pulled a disgusted face. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
Michael felt the press of heat beneath his skin, knew his face was flushed. “It wasn’t a story,” he said tightly.
“How would you know? A girl from out of town – you don’t know anything about her. All you have to go on is her word. Have you knocked her up yet?”
Michael couldn’t form a question, could only stare.
“Have you been using rubbers? For all you know, she’s trying to get pregnant to trap you.”
“She wouldn’t–”
“Play the damsel when she’s really helping her father manipulate us? Think again. Remember Ava’s little boyfriend? Remember the Carpathians trying to find a weak link? That’s how people bring down clubs: they rip them apart from the inside out.
“Jessup starts selling for us, meanwhile, his daughter’s spinning tales for you, fucking with your head, pulling you away from us, and then there’s an opening. There’s a weak flank, and Shaman’s got a way to get to us.”
Michael’s breathing had picked up, a shallow rushing through his mouth. “You don’t even know that Shaman wants to ‘get to us.’ ”
“So what? We sit on our hands and wait around to find out?”
“We-”
“The girl is going back to her father,” Ghost said, tone final. “Wherever she is, go and get her, and bring her back here.”
“They raped her,” Michael said, feeling as helpless as he had at age nine, when he’d stood beside Caesar and clutched his collar and listened to his mother’s final screams. “Her father, and her uncle. They beat her, they…” He trailed off, hands wrapping tight around the arms of his chair, his body shaking. Nothing he said mattered. Nothing he wanted was important.
For one quick twitch, Ghost’s face softened. He heaved a deep sigh. “You like her. Hell, maybe you love her. And I don’t want to make this decision. But this is about all of us. Everyone who leans on this club. I can’t put all of us at risk for one girl. That’s what a president does – makes the hard call.”
Michael stared at the old, deep scratches in the table. His head was throbbing, the blood pounding in his temples and ears.
“The son-in-law,” Ghost said. “You killed him?”
Numbly, he nodded.
“Well, he was a fucked up little weirdo.” Another sigh. “Michael, go get her. We’ll wait here.”
Holly had done nothing but pace since Michael left. To the center window, to the sofa, to the fridge, and then back again, an irregular triangle. She was shocked to realize she hadn’t worn a layer of varnish off the floorboards.
When someone knocked on the door, she leapt, banging her shin on the leg of the chair, hissing between her teeth as the bright spot of pain swelled and grew hot and damp; she’d broken the skin.
“Michael?” she called as she limped to the door.
“It’s me.”
She threw the locks in a hurry and ushered him in, re-engaging all of them the moment he was clear of the threshold. Her supercharged anxiety was lessened just by the quick brush of his sleeve as he came through the door, and she took her first deep breath since his departure. Turning, letting the door hold her weight behind her, she started to ask him what had happened…and frowned instead, when she saw him standing in the middle of her loft with a bowed head and a tense hand clamped to the back of his neck.
“What?” she asked, starting toward him.
His eyes snapped up to hers, and the sharpness in them froze her cold.
She halted mid-stride, arms going around her middle on instinct. “Michael, what?”
“Everything you told me – about where you come from and what they did to you. All that. It’s true?”
Holly felt the air leave her lungs like she’d been punched. An invisible weight landed against her chest, dragged at her shoulders. Her voice trembled. “Yes.”
“Is it?” he pressed.
“Yes! I…why would I…don’t you know…” She couldn’t fathom why this was happening, now of all times.
“Did your old man put you up to this? Is this some kind of plan–”
“No!” Tears sprang suddenly to her eyes.
His expression became dark and furious. “Are you pregnant?”
She gasped. “No–”
He stalked across the floor toward her, the energy rippling off him like steam. “Jesus Christ, I wasn’t even careful,” he snarled, catching her by both arms, shaking her gently. “Are you trying to get knocked up?”
“No.” The tears began to spill and she didn’t try to stem them; she knew it was useless. “I’m on the pill, not that you even asked. I’ve been on the pill since I was sixteen, and Abraham started forcing them down my throat.”
Another shake. “Are you lying to me?”
She kicked him in the knee. Hard. As hard as her little leg could kick, and when he let go of her, she whirled for the door.
Just as she reached it, his body closed over hers from behind; she caught herself against the door with her hands, and his arms closed around her, hemming her in, his hands resting on the painted wood beside hers.
His face landed in her hair and she heard him take a deep, ragged breath.
“Why are you asking me this?” she whispered. “You know it’s true. You know. You know
me
.”
“I know,” he said.
They stood for a long moment, as she wrestled with her tears and he struggled for breath. When his hands closed gently on her shoulders and he turned her to face him, she complied, her hands finding his chest, the rapid pulsing of his heart beneath his shirt.
Holly rested her head back against the door. “Your friends think I lied to you.”
“They’re not my friends.”
She pressed her fingertips into his pecs as her hands flexed. It meant so much to her, his sentiment, but her heart broke for him, because he was a member of the club, and it wasn’t as simple as friendship and differing opinions.
“I never wanted to get you in trouble.”
“You didn’t.” He sounded like he meant it.
She took a deep, sniffling breath. “What are you going to do?”
He shook his head. “I’ll figure something out. Right now, I’ve got to get you safe.”
“Michael–”
“Don’t argue with me.”
And she didn’t.
He watched her packing her meager things into a beat-up leather suitcase as he held his cellphone to his ear and listened to the other end ring. He was amazed by the lightness in his chest, just how much he didn’t care about the consequences anymore. There was no threat any of his brothers could lever against him that would change his mind in this case. If they thought he cared about his own safety, his pride, his reputation, then they were woefully mistaken. Let the slings and arrows come. Let there be judgment laid against him. Holly would be safely away, and that was all that mattered. To the club, he was nothing but a knife. To her, he was everything.
Wynn finally picked up. “Hello?”
“Uncle Wynn.”
Some vibrating note in his voice caused his uncle to pause a second, before he carefully said, “Michael, son, what’s wrong?”
Holly glanced up, a sweater in her hands, her eyes huge and wet and brimming with sympathy.
Michael swallowed. “I need a very big favor, and it’s very important. And it has to be now.”
Wynn didn’t hesitate. “Tell me what you need. I’ll be there.”
His phone kept ringing, over and over, and he wouldn’t answer it. It had to be the club, and with each electronic chime, Holly’s tension wound tighter. She made coffee neither of them could drink. She set out a plate of cookies they didn’t touch.
“Maybe you should…” she started, and Michael shook his head.
“They can wait.”