Page 139 of American Hellhound
“Yes, ma’am, just a precaution.”
The gates slid open and she ducked her head back against the blowing rain. “Thanks. Sorry you guys are getting wet.”
He gave her a little salute and went back to his post.
Her mom’s Caddy was parked in front of the clubhouse beside all the bikes, and she was glad she’d bought enough food for a crowd. She couldn’t even carry it all, in fact. She hefted one of the bags and jogged through the rain to get under the portico, grateful for the warm, butter-bright interior when she let herself in.
“Food’s here,” she called. “There’s a bunch more in the car.”
Carter and Tango jumped up to go get it; Tango almost looked relieved to get out of the room.
“Hi, baby,” Mercy called.
“Hi,” she called back, surprised he wasn’t already up and across the floor and taking the bag from her.
“Here, let me help,” Maggie said, appearing instead.
“Mom, I got it.”
She set her things down on the first table she came to and cast a glance toward Mercy, sitting at the end of the sofa. “Hey…” she started.
There was someone sitting cross-legged on the ground at Mercy’s feet.
Mercy sent her a pained smile. “I’d come give you a kiss, but I’ve kinda got a shadow.”
“I can see that,” she said, carefully, pulse accelerating a notch. It was just instinct – the clubhouse was her home away from home, and seeing strangers inside it, near her husband – made her naturally uneasy.
As for the stranger…
The writerly part of her brain took over, cataloguing details. He was young, average size, and his face had a starved quality about it: sharp cheekbones, hollow eyes, chapped lips. His hair hung limp and greasy, a strawberry-blonde color women spent thousands of dollars to acquire. He would have been pretty if he wasn’t so unsettling, so eerily still and withdrawn.
“This is Reese,” Mercy said. “Reese, this is my old lady, Ava.”
The boy nodded, once, eyes flicking over her with complete disinterest.
“Um,” Ava said, elegantly.
Mercy stood up, and Reese stood up too, a seamless, graceful movement that reminded her of Tango, back in the early days, when he was hungry, and fearful, and the ballet training was fresh. Upright, she could see that he was almost six feet, painfully skinny, and dressed head-to-toe in ratty black, a hoodie and jeans with blown knees.
“Stay right here,” Mercy told him, and came to Ava.
Reese twitched, but nodded, and stayed put, gaze fixed forward until Mercy stepped in front of her and blocked him from view.
“What is going on?” she whispered as he leaned down to kiss her.
His lips tasted like coffee. “Roman’s stolen hitman,” he explained. “And he’s…not all there. Or something.”
“Or something,” she echoed. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. “You can’t leave him here and come home?”
Mercy looked pained. “He tried to follow me when I went to the bathroom. He’s like a baby duck that imprinted.”
“Seriously?”
“Not all there,” he repeated. “Somebody did some messed up shit to this kid.”
Again, she thought of Tango, of sending Mercy off with covered plates of cookies and brownies for their therapy sessions. She sighed; if anyone could help someone who’d been “messed up,” it was Mercy.
“Well, is he hungry?” she asked.
