Page 205 of Fearless

“It’s done?” Ghost asked.

Visibly exhausted, Rottie fell onto a barstool and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Over where the old septic tank for the house used to be. Ground’s wet; faster decomp.”

Ghost nodded. “Good job. You guys seen Collier?”

They glanced at one another. “Nah,” RJ said. “People don’t generally offer to help with burials.”

Ghost sent him a reprimanding look. “If you see him, tell him I want to talk to him.”

When he was outside, he called Collier’s cell. He expected it to go to voicemail, and he was proven right.

“Damn.”

Maggie had learned, over the years, that in times of club crisis, when bombarded with external threats, it was imperative that they maintain as normal a routine as possible. They had to look untroubled to the outside world. Nothing tipped the cops off worse than erratic, frightened behavior. So even though she was in knots over Ava leaving, she sat at her desk in the central office and waded through the balance sheets from Green Hills, Harry keeping dutiful watch propped against the wall outside.

When Ghost walked in, she said, “You know, if that cute redheaded boy needs a recommendation letter when it comes time to vote him in, I’ll be happy to write it.” She smiled and gestured to Harry through the window with her pen.

Ghost didn’t return her smile. “You talked to Jackie today?”

“No. Why?”

He propped his hands on his hips and frowned to himself. “I’m looking for Collier.”

Like a fingertip passing down her spine, she caught the vibe of something off. Her smile dropped away, this new dread feeding off her existing anxiety. “What?”

He shook his head. “If you talk to Jackie, be real subtle. Don’t freak her out. But see if she’ll tell you where he is.”

“Ghost.”

But he was already walking out.

Cartersville was a small city, its charming aged center surrounded by cattle land and rural churches sprouting like white mushroom caps from the wide green flats of pasture. Their hosts lived on a quiet street of old, but well-maintained homes, all of them low and dark-roofed, tall pines casting shadows like fingers across the pavement. Evening was coming on, the first modest blush of it, rose and gold in the middle of the sky.

Mercy pulled into the driveway of a tidy brick ranch with freshly-painted green shutters and door. There was a black Dodge Challenger and a Harley FXR under the carport. Mercy parked alongside the other bike, under cover, where the Dyna wouldn’t be easily spotted.

“Thank God,” Ava murmured as she stood and stretched her legs, grateful for the chance to be on her feet again. She unbuckled her helmet and turned lifting it off her head into a long, skyward stretch that popped the kink in her lower back.

“You haven’t ridden in a while,” Mercy said knowingly, his smile sympathetic as he set his helmet on the handlebars.

“Not that I don’t like it,” she rushed to say.

“But it’ll kill ya,” he finished. “We’ll stay here a while.” He winked. “Get you all loosened up.”

She smiled back…and then felt it fade. She’d only just now realized: this was their wedding night, and they were guests in someone’s home. Someone’ssmallhome. Crap, she couldn’t have sex feet away from kind strangers who’d offered to put them up for the night. Because Mercy had put his beloved grandmother’s ring on her finger, and the consummation of that would be no quiet, dark of night, secret thing. She didn’t think she could allow herself to do even that much on someone else’s sheets; that just felt wrong.

She didn’t get a chance to explain, because a side door opened at the top of a short flight of steps and a man came out of the house to greet them.

He was about six feet tall, like her father, lean and narrow-hipped and walked with an effortless, contained energy that looked unconscious. He was blonde, that blonde that starts as tow-headed on children and becomes a burnished, platinum-gold on adults, his skin tan, lined heavily around the eyes and mouth, his eyes a very clear, bright blue. He was in jeans and a long-sleeved white tee with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. Classic, she thought. Straight out of an old movie, nondescript rather than handsome, his expression very composed and quiet.

Mercy grinned and stepped ahead of her to shake the man’s hand. “My non-Dog brother,” Mercy greeted with a laugh. The veins stood out in his hand and wrist as he shook hands, but the blonde man didn’t appear concerned that his fingers had just been crushed. “Sly, man, when you gonna come be a real outlaw?”

Sly’s smirk was small. “Soon as the missus comes to her senses and leaves me. And soon as Ray quits paying me so well.”

Mercy laughed. “You keep saying that, but I ain’t seen evidence of this money.” He moved to the side and his hand came back for her.

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