Page 64 of Fearless

The poor little guy had an honorable streak. “She wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Is she here? I wanted to apologize.”

Mercy gave him his nastiest smile. “I’ll tell her you said that. Alright? Now get lost.”

Carter took a step back, his expression fretful, but he didn’t retreat. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Mercy sighed. “What are you talking about?” But inwardly, he felt the first stirrings of panic. People knew. People were noticing. He was too obvious and he didn’t know how to stop it.

“Ava’s crazy about someone,” Carter said, voice growing wistful. “She’s too distracted and she daydreams in class. She’s into someone, big time. And it’s you.”

“You have five seconds,” Mercy said sweetly, “to get the fuck outta my sight.”

“Tell her, please. That I’m sorry.”

“Four…”

Carter’s eyes widened and he turned away, heading for his car.

“Three…”

He slid behind the wheel, slammed the door and the engine turned over with a snarl.

Mercy stood there a long moment after he’d driven off, long enough that someone came to look for him; he heard the boots on the pavement and didn’t turn, judging by the pace of the stride that it was Ghost.

The VP drew up alongside him, joining in his stare toward the street. He dug a pack of smokes from his front cut pocket and lit up with a certain dramatic purpose of movement. He was magnetic, Ghost. Mercy had never had any trouble wondering how a sixteen-year-old Maggie Lowe had been captivated.

“Kid’s been bitten,” he finally said, speaking of Carter. “I knew that would happen – eventually – that she’d catch someone’s eye. But I’m not ready for it, ya know?” His glance was sharp and sideways. “Nobody likes to watch his little girl grow up.”

“No,” Mercy agreed.

“This just doesn’t seem like Ava, though.” Ghost turned fully, his attention on the side of Mercy’s face. “Did she say anything to you? About this kid, I mean.”

“Nah. Why would she?”

“She likes you.” Ghost made a sound in his throat that could have been contemptuous. “She likes you better than she likes me.”

“No she doesn’t,” Mercy said, because it was what he had to say. He couldn’t say that “like” wasn’t a part of the equation anymore.

“She trusts you,” Ghost continued. “She talks to you – tells you shit a daughter wouldn’t tell her old man.”

If only he knew how terrible that truth was.

“Do me a favor,” Ghost said, and Mercy was ready for the request; there’d been an air of favor-asking about this little moment staring off toward the street. If Ghost was going to grow contemplative and start unraveling the inner workings of his soul, he wasn’t ever going to do it with Mercy. No, it was only ever about the club, about work, with Mercy.

“Go by the house a little later,” Ghost went on. “Mags sent Ava home with her books. I’m worried about her. This thing with the Stephens has got my hackles up. I don’t trust that something else won’t happen.

“And while you’re there, see if you can get her to talk about last night. I just don’t understand how she got herself in that spot.”

Mercy affected a bored expression and said, “Sure thing, boss. Will do.”

Mercy’s bike was a 1995 Dyna Super Glide, with padded leather backrest on the bitch seat, matte black finish on the tank, and aftermarket black wheel spokes. He’d bought it from an old man who’d babied it, and then replaced the handlebars and wrapped the pipes himself. Like the rest of the boys, he was a decent mechanic, and did all the work on his personal ride. It was the single most valuable thing he’d ever owned; he paid to rent a garage in back of his apartment and covered it with a drop cloth every night.

It was fast – Jesus, was it fast – and it was beautiful in a dull, nondescript sort of way. The goal was not to get noticed by the law: no flashy colors, no logos, no speeding, no traffic violations. No one in Knoxville was ever going to catch a Dog disturbing the peace – they had too much at stake to get caught up in petty, punk kid bullshit.

Mercy spent the short ride to the Teague home enjoying the hell out of the wind in his face. Loving the sound of the engine. He’d ridden the bike all up and down the east coast, more times than he could count, and it was an extension of his body, a part of him in every sense. He rode without thought, giving his anxiety over to the pavement, letting the Dyna replace every worry with sensation.

Too soon, he was swooping into the driveway and killing the engine.

Ava’s truck was parked in front of the garage, the repainted Ford four-door that Maggie had wrecked some eight years before, black and shiny and still relevant, a nice chunk of safe vehicle that was appropriate for a kid like Ava to be driving.

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