Page 150 of Fearless

Mercy knocked on the Teagues’ back door at five after nine. Harry the prospect had been leaning against his bike in the drive, beside Maggie’s Caddy, playing something on his phone that made little pinging sounds. Mercy had nodded at him in greeting, and as he listened to Maggie’s feet come across the kitchen, he reflected that he should have stopped to slap the phone out of Harry’s hands. He was supposed to be guarding, not killing time.

Maggie was in jeans and boots, a soft old sweatshirt she made look fashionable. “I’m all ready,” she said, leaving the door open for him, going to the kitchen counter where she’d laid out her first aid kit. “Come sit down.”

He shut the door behind him and shed his cut, jacket, shirt, draping them across the table before sitting down. He wished, as he watched Maggie wash her hands, that it was Ava here instead.

“She’s at school?” he asked before he could help himself.

“MmHm.” Maggie picked up her 10cc syringe of alcohol and came to stand behind him. She was beautiful, feminine, warm, she smelled nice, but there was no thrill there, no secret delight in the light scrape of her nails as she peeled up the edges of the bandage tape. He wanted Ava. “She stopped by Ronnie’s new place on her way in,” Maggie said, voice half-focused, her attention on the wound as she exposed it to the air. There was a flicker of deep pain as the tape pulled away from the tender flesh. “Apparently,” she mused, “they’re having some sort of relationship drama.”

“Hmm,” Mercy hummed.

“I for one” – her tone became ironic – “can’timaginewhy.”

He chuckled. “Dude’s uptight.”

“He is that.”

The alcohol flushed through the wound, burning like acid, and he felt the tendons in his neck leap involuntarily.

“Still,” Maggie continued, “I have to give him credit. He came all the way up here. He met us. That’s more than most non-club guys would do.”

Mercy didn’t comment.

“He calls himself her boyfriend, which is more thanmostwould do, seems like.” She swabbed the wound with a firm flick of her wrist, digging in deeper than she needed to, proving a point.

It was the dance, the subtle weapon deployment of all clever women. He’d always despised it. He managed to admire Maggie Teague for it.

He pushed back. “He’s every mother’s dream son-in-law alright. Who wouldn’t want her daughter with that guy?”

“I dunno.” Maggie smeared the bullet hole with antibiotic ointment. “There are some mothers who’d want their daughters to be happy. Want their daughters to be with the men who truly loved them.”

She went to the counter for the fresh gauze and tape. “There’s some mothers,” she said, “who understand that love doesn’t always look normal, and that it doesn’t have to.”

“That’d be a pretty understanding mother,” he said, “to understand something that looked sick.”

Her hair swung forward and brushed the back of his neck as she applied the fresh bandage in a few deft movements. “A pretty smart one, too,” she added.

Mercy grinned.

“All done,” she said. “It looks good. Come get it dressed tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He hadn’t had a chance to stand when she spun around in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, bent at the waist so they were on eye level. All subtlety had left her. Her eyes were wide, earnest, her mouth drawn in a tight line.

“You have to stand up to him this time,” she said, voice emphatic. “I can’t plead for you, and Ava can’t cry and fuss and stomp her feet. It has to be you, Merc. You have to insist, and he’ll bitch for a while, but he’ll respect you for it.”

“I don’t–”

“Felix Lécuyer,” she said in her most maternal voice, “don’t you dare let my baby waste her time on some douchebag who doesn’t love her. If you don’t love her either, then you run as far and as fast as you can away from her. But if you do – like I know you do – then for the love of God, marry her, give her babies,be her man. I’m so damn sick of seeing the two of you circle each other. Don’t repeat five years ago. Don’t treat her like a whore.”

“I haveneverdone that.”

“Prove it,” she challenged, stepping back. “Prove it to her. Because everyone in the world knows you worship Ava…except for Ava.”

Ghost sipped coffee, his expression one of extreme concentration as the audio of last night’s interrogation played on Ratchet’s laptop. Amid the screams, the deep breathing, the cursing, the denials, there was one thing that had stood out: Fred – poor stupid Fred – had admitted that someone was backing the club financially, but he didn’t know who. Mercy had believed him, and he’d shown him, well…mercy, finally, one clean shot through the forehead execution style.

“Turn it off,” Ghost said, and Ratchet shut down the audio browser fast. “What have we got from the files?”

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