Page 94 of Pay the Price

I contemplated taking my bike, knowing it would be the fastest way to get to the outbuilding near the river, then decided to walk. The bike’s engine gave off its own heat, and extra heat was the last fucking thing I needed.

At least the woods were shady, and I felt some of the heat leave my body as I wound my way down the path toward the storage building. It used to be a garage for the vehicles used by the rich-kid summer camp (what had they used them for? taking the kids to champagne brunch? transporting them to yacht parties?). We used it to store tools and bikes, extra supplies and old financial records.

I wondered if the club was in trouble with the IRS. Mac was pretty careful about that stuff — most illegal enterprises went down because of tax fraud, not the illegal shit they did, as evidenced by all of the mobsters who ended up in prison because they got in trouble with the IRS — but you never knew.

The outbuilding was quiet, from the outside at least. Tucked away in the woods not far from the river, it was almost as big as the old dorm buildings where the single club members lived near the main hall.

There were two roll-up doors in the front, plus a set of double doors on the left. The garage doors were closed, probably because it was too fucking hot for any of the Blades to be working on their bikes. I tested one of the double doors and found itopen, then stepped into the vestibule leading to the rest of the building.

It was cooler indoors, thank fuck, although the old buildings had a tendency to retain the outdoor temperature, making them cool during the first half of the day and hotter than hell in the evenings. The place would be like the Ninth Circle of Hell by six p.m. when the heat of the day finally worked its way through the concrete walls.

On my right stood the door leading to the garage. I moved past it and a narrow staircase — bathed in shadows and leading to the second floor — and started down the first-floor hall.

“Mac?” I called out, my boots echoing on the old linoleum floor.

The place felt like a mausoleum as I passed the closed doors of the offices, but on my way back to the front of the building I heard shuffling from the second floor, followed by a thud and a curse.

I headed up the stairs. “Mac?”

“Up here,” he grunted.

I hit the second-floor landing and followed the sound of slamming file cabinet drawers and shuffled papers to the third door on the left. Mac was inside near the window, his head bent to an open file in his hands.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked over, surprise lighting his blue eyes, and I felt a wash of guilt. I’d been avoiding him since I’d gotten out of prison, and I didn’t even know why. Maybe I was afraid he wouldn’t be happy I was back. Or maybe I was afraid to see the disappointment in his eyes, a mirror of my own, because trust me when I say no one could be more fucking disappointed in myself than I was. Somehow I doubted Mac had planned to have a convicted felon as a foster son when he’d taken me in all those years ago.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

I didn’t know if he meanthereas in the compound orhereas in the supply building, but I decided to assume he meant the supply building because that was easier to explain than addressing why I’d been avoiding the Blades’ compound since I’d gotten out of prison. “Pinky said you were out here."

I’d only been at the compound twice since moving into Daisy’s house — once for Summer Shit and once for the Fourth of July, both times when I knew there would be enough noise and chaos to prevent me from having to have anything like a serious conversation with Mac. Or anyone.

He nodded and returned his attention to the folder in his hand. “Accountants need some information for the IRS.”

“Everything okay?” I asked. Mac was getting older too, but he wore it well. His hair was still blond, but he had the weathered face of a guy who spent most of his time outdoors on his bike. He was still built, still in good shape, and I could see why he never had any problem with the ladies even though he was in his fifties now.

“All good,” he said. “Just financial bullshit. You here to pick up Fat Boy?”

“Nah.” Fat Boy had been my dad’s bike, a Harley Cruiser I pretty much only drove when I was riding with the guys. Honestly I preferred the S1000 — it was faster and sleeker — but the Fat Boy was a nostalgia bike. It made me feel connected to my dad and the MC. “I had a question for you actually.”

He looked up again. “For me?”

I nodded. “Doc mentioned to Daisy that her mom used to hang around here back in the day. Is that right?”

A stone wall dropped over Mac’s features. It was something I’d only ever seen happen when someone touched on the illegal aspects of MC business, because Mac didnothave loose lips about that shit.

But it had happened now because I’d asked about Daisy’s mom.

“Is this you asking or Daisy?” Mac asked.

“Both. I never heard you mention her mom, and I don’t remember her either.” I’d have remembered Daisy’s mom because I knew from pictures that Daisy was her mirror image: same glossy brown hair, same violet eyes.

And I won’t say anything about Daisy’s mom’s body because that would be weird.

“She was gone by the time you were out of diapers,” Mac said.

“So it’s true? She hung around the club?”

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