Page 70 of Fearless

“We’ll need to get your quilt in the wash ASAP,” he said as he picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head. “It’s white, so you can use bleach. Come on, I’ll help you.”

She dressed, feeling slightly dizzy, and more than a little puzzled by his growing sense of urgency. Mercy stripped off her stained comforter and walked it across the hall, stuffed it down into the washing machine.

“Where’s the detergent?”

“Here.” She shooed him away and added the Tide and a cap of bleach herself, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Mercy–”

“You should shower.” He was bouncy, anxious-like, looking everywhere but at her.

“Merc.”

“Wash your hair, too. Your mom’s smart. I wouldn’t put it past her to smell me on you.”

“Mercy.”

He finally looked at her, and she saw the naked regret in his face before he hid it behind his collected club mask. “What?” he asked. He had his jacket and cut in one hand, the other braced on the door to the laundry closet. “I should get going. You need help with anything? You’ve got this covered?” A gesture to the washing machine.

Ava felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She started to shake, and tried desperately to hide it. “Yeah.” She lifted her chin. “I do.”

Regret – he regretted sleeping with her. And now, all he could think about was getting caught.

She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying; didn’t want him to see her crumble. So she turned her head away as her eyes clouded with tears.

“Take a shower,” he reminded. “And some aspirin…if you’re hurting.” The air stirred as he leaned in close to her. The touch of his lips to her hair was devastating. “Come lock the door after I leave,” and then he was walking away from her, his heavy tread carrying him to the kitchen.

She listened to the door open and close. Listened to the birds twittering beyond her window in the trees. Listened to the wind sighing in the eaves and the traffic rumbling past on their sleepy street. She listened to Mercy’s Dyna start with a growl and back from the drive, and then she curled over the open washing machine, put her face in her hands and cried.

“Knock-knock,” Maggie called as she rapped against the open patio door and stepped out onto the flagstones.

Carina Stephens sat at a wrought iron table, in a cushioned chair, her head hanging limp from her neck, so low her nose was in danger of plunging into her artichoke dip, hand wrapped loosely around a stemless glass full to the brim with white wine. The bottle of imported Sauvignon Blanc stood at her elbow, uncorked. Her cream sheathe dress was what Bonita would have described asmuy elegante.

At Maggie’s knock, Carina lifted her head with a startled jerk, blinking wildly as she swiveled around, searching for the intruder. Her sleek blonde bob had been mussed with her almost-dive into the dip and her beauty queen makeup would have sent Maggie’s mother into orgasmic fits of delight: pageant-grade cosmetics at their finest.

“Sorry,” Maggie said in her faux-sunny voice, striding out onto the patio. “The housekeeper said you were back here and that I should just come on back.”

The housekeeper, a poor beleaguered Latina woman with stress grooves around her mouth, had tried to bar Maggie from the front door with a broom. It was amazing what the words “Lean Dogs” could do for a gal in a pinch. Broom down, welcome mat rolled out.

The patio was a manmade feat of flagstone brilliance, with outdoor fireplace, waterfall-topped koi pond to one side, and a border of gardener-maintained flowers and crepe myrtles. From this vantage point, you could see the grand sweep of the back yard, the pool, the putting green. Wind played in several sets of big bell chimes and ruffled the edges of outdoor pillows on the furniture.

Carina squinted at Maggie a long moment, her painted mouth pulled back at the corners in a truly ugly grimace.

“Maggie,” she offered with a fake smile as she pulled out the chair beside Carina and sat. “Maggie Teague. From Dartmoor over on Industrial. Our kids go to school together.”

Carina, never a brainchild, fought the wine a moment, and then her eyes locked onto Maggie. “Dartmoor…You’re married to one of those bikers…” Her eyes flipped wide. “Your daughter…” And then the animal anger crashed through her.

She pushed her chair back. “Your daughter was there when my Mason was–”

“Your Mason,” Maggie said sweetly, “had a bit of a bad reaction, didn’t he?” As Carina tried to rise, Maggie reached over and patted the back of her manicured hand. “I don’t think you’re steady enough for that. Here.” She fished in her purse for a travel packet of Bayer. “Aspirin?”

Carina narrowed her mascara-heavy eyes.

“How’s Mason doing?” Maggie asked, the picture of concern. “I went by the hospital and they said they’d moved him to a private room, and that you’d come home to get some rest.”

Carina glanced at her wine, and then back. “I’m very tired.”

“I’m sure.” Maggie could imagine Ghost rolling his eyes at her cheerful tone. “God, I just hate it when one of my babies is in the hospital. It’s exhausting.”

Carina gave her head a little shake, and then scowled, like she was upset that she’d let the wine get the best of her. Maggie could see her refocusing, throwing her meager brain cells into this moment with wild abandon. “Your daughter–”

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