Page 76 of Fearless

Electric shivers went up Ava’s arms.

He made a face. “It’s another love story, I think.”

“It’s so much more than that,” she assured, grinning ear-to-ear. “It’s amazing.”

The Bell Bar had been named for one prize artifact: a boxing ring bell that supposedly bore Muhammad Ali’s signature. It was framed and mounted high on the wall above a TV, too far for anyone to catch the signature. It was irrelevant, mostly, just something to tell new customers. The bar survived on its atmosphere, drink prices, and cute waitresses.

Dark wood floors, dark wood walls, festive amounts of neon, lots of old spotted brass and red leather on the booths. Tall tables with tall stools and an elevated bar three steps up and illuminated softly from beneath, with a dazzle of liquor bottles, glasses of all shapes, colorful and intricate tap pulls. Games on all the TVs, framed boxer memorabilia on the walls, silky shorts and halter tops on the waitresses. The place smelled like hops, old leather, and wood polish.

Mercy was splitting a pitcher of Michelob with Walsh, one of the money man’s rare forays into the social scene. There was always beer at the clubhouse, but sometimes it was nice to unplug and go somewhere different. Most of the Dogs haunted the Bell Bar. They were always welcome.

Walsh sat sideways in his chair, facing…God knew what…and sipped his beer, a mostly silent drinking buddy. Which was fine by Mercy, considering he was still disturbingly pissed off about what he’d seen earlier.

“So the pills,” Mercy said, just to have something to say. “What do you make of that?”

Ratchet’s cousin Jesse had said that, best he could tell based on the tests he’d run, they contained a blend of Ecstasy, two prescription drugs – one for epilepsy, one for bipolar disorder – and arsenic. That was all that he knew of. There were traces of other things, he’d said, that he couldn’t identify yet. Basically, a big poison cocktail. And it hadn’t been, as he explained, cheap to put together. The scripts had been expensive – that, or stolen.

Walsh quirked an eyebrow. “I think we’ve got a major problem on our hands,” he said in a flat voice. “What else is new?”

Their waitress – cute, busty blonde thing in white top and blue shorts – sashayed up to their table with an easy smile. “You boys doing okay?”

Her lean-and-squeeze move was practiced and subtle, plumping her breasts just the right amount and drawing Mercy’s eyes.

He let himself entertain the notion a second: smile back, toss her a compliment, wait for the wink, for the hand on his knee. Meet her out back in a few, press her up against the wall, shove his hand inside her halter top, get a gasp out of her. Ask her back to his place. Fuck her until she begged for seconds. She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t be hurt, wouldn’t love him and cloud his mind and complicate his life.

Instead, he said, “Yeah. In fact, you can bring my check, sweetheart, and I’ll settle up.”

There was a small twitch of disappointment in her smile. “Okay. Be right back.”

Walsh didn’t question his leaving. Outside, a rain storm was settling in, the first misty sweeps brushing down toward the pavement, little cold flecks against his skin as he walked to his bike.

By the time he got home, it was full-on raining, silver flashes in the Dyna’s headlamp. He pulled his hood up and climbed the stairs to his apartment two at a time.

He loved his place. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and it held a certain charm. It was a set of rooms above a bakery on Market Street, with a view of Market Square’s quirky alley lineup of shops. It had original hardwoods, rough and in need of new varnish in spots, with heavy natural wood-tone crown molding and baseboards, and a kitchen from the fifties that had been maintained, and never updated. The main room was his living area: old bachelor sofas, floor lamps, TV more modest than most single dudes owned, low built-in shelves full of paperbacks under the window, rope rug, cozy threadbare chair with an ottoman. The kitchen was cramped and narrow, with a table for two pressed against one wall that usually just held his spare magazines. The bathroom – claw foot tub, medicine cabinet, subway tile – was wedged between the living room and the bedroom. His bedroom – barely wide enough for the double bed – was nothing but a closet, a nightstand, ceiling fan, and a gun safe.

He’d left a lamp on, and when he ducked in from the downpour, he stepped into a warm puddle of lamplight, the homey smell of the fresh-baked bread from the bakery below reminding him he’d skipped dinner. He probably had some bacon in the fridge, some tomatoes, brown mustard, that half loaf of ciabatta he’d bought downstairs two days ago. He could make a sandwich –

There was a knock at the door.

Through the peephole, he saw a slight, female shape, hooded against the rain.

He didn’t wonder who it was. His chest tightened and he fought down the leftover sour feelings from the nursery before, opening the door and ushering her in with one quick gesture. He knew it was Ava, but the scent of her pushed the point home. Linen, gardenias, cherries, clean dirt leftover on her shoes: oh yeah, that was his Ava.

As he closed and locked the door – it was tempting to shove her back out before he did so – he gathered his internal tension in-hand and said, “I think you took a wrong turn on your way home.”

There was amusement threaded through her voice, a sound he hadn’t expected to hear. “Oh, we’re gonna play that game?”

He turned – and stopped short.

She’d pushed her hood back, and under the sweatshirt and leather jacket, she wore a plain white tank top with a visible black bra beneath. Jeans – familiar, worn, hugging her in a comfortable way that wasn’t trying too hard. Her black Durango boots with the spur straps. It wasn’t anything special, wasn’t stockings and garter belt, was the sort of thing she wore all the time. But her hair was down and there was rain all in it, shimmering in the light. Her makeup was delicate, pretty. A thin wedge of shadow slid down into her shirt, between the curves of her breasts. There was something so very green and untried about the way she cocked her hips and stuck her hands in her back pockets.

“Game?”

Her smile was shy, but there was bravery in her eyes, a twinkle that made her look so young. “I saw you today, at Green Hills. I saw yousee meand walk away.”

Mercy folded his arms and leaned back against the door. “So?”

Ava took a step forward, slowly, hips rolling a little in a way that told him she hadn’t meant to, those long legs just put the rest of her body to work, was all. “Well,” she considered the floor as she took another step, closing in on him, “I was worried I’d be the one who couldn’t keep her cool, after” – fast, direct moment of piercing eye contact, and his mental image ofyoungvanished – “yesterday. But then” – slow smile – “you walked away.”

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