Page 9 of Fearless

Without asking him how he knew about the Lean Dogs’ comings and goings, she said, “I’m back for grad school. The timing just worked out with the party.”

“Oh.” The scanner beeped as he ran her purchases through. “So you got your undergrad degree, then.”

“English at UGA.” She winced. Crap, why was she rubbing it in?

He nodded. “That’s great.”

“So…” What to say, what to say. “You work here at Leroy’s now.”

“Yeah.” He punched buttons on the register. “That’ll be forty-oh-seven.”

She fished for the cash in her purse, hardly able to tear her eyes from him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Kids with shining stars and bright futures, kids totally unattached to the MC, weren’t supposed to end up selling deli sandwiches for a living. She’d expected to see Carter on ESPN one day, but never back here, back home.

“Um…” she began, and Carter cut her off.

“You don’t have to pretend you care.” He slipped the fifty dollars she’d handed him into the register and fished out her change, eyes still downcast.

“But…”

“Nine-ninety-three’s your change.” He slid it across the counter to her. “Have a nice day and come back to Leroy’s,” he said in a flat monotone.

“Carter–”

“It’s fine, Ava.” He gave her a tight, insincere smile across the counter. “Have fun at the party tonight.”

“You can come, if you want to.” She gathered her bags. “I think Leah…”

But he was shaking his head. “It was nice seeing you again.”

He looked so defeated and weary, she hated to walk away. But Ronnie was waiting, done pumping gas and leaning against the tailgate of her truck, fiddling with his phone.

“Nice to see you, too,” she echoed, pushing back through the door.

Ronnie straightened as she approached the truck, phone going back in his pocket. “All set?”

“Yeah. I got us dinner.” She shook the bag. “Let’s head back to Casa de Teague.”

Ronnie kept his thoughts to himself until she was sliding her key into the back door of the brick ranch house where she’d grown up. They stood on a narrow concrete patio, surrounded by blooming magenta crape myrtles that danced in the afternoon breeze, the light lacy across her hands as she turned the lock and then then knob, leading the way into the Teague residence.

“Ava,” he said, and his tone made her stop and turn to face him. He was frowning, his handsome face creased in odd places; she’d never seen him this perplexed before. “What’s wrong with you? You were fine, and then you just weren’t.” His head dipped, his eyes bright and knowing. “When your brother mentioned whoever that Mercy person is – that is a person, right? And not the dog? I honest to God can’t tell.”

She felt her lips form a smile, but she was deep inside her own head, somewhere back behind her face and whatever mannequin expression it managed to propel toward him. “I’m just tired,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Okay, clearly, I don’t know jack shit about all this biker nonsense” – a part of her recoiled against that phrasing – “but I know you well enough to know that something’s up. It was like someone flipped a switch back there at the…the…”

“Clubhouse.”

“Yeah.” He reached for a lock of her dark brown hair and gave it a little tug. “You’re not yourself.”

Maybe, she thought bitterly,you don’t know when I’m being “myself.” You wouldn’t like me if you ever saw the real me.

“It’s just nostalgia kicking in,” she lied. “Being back home again.” And she slipped out of his grasp before he could say anything else.

The back door of the house led straight into the eat-in kitchen, the largest room in the house. Maggie had trimmed it in white cabinets and black granite; she’d finally, Ava saw, replaced the linoleum with wide Mexican tile. The table was a rectangular farm-style relic Ghost had brought home from an antique shop, an anniversary present for Maggie. The counters were cluttered with appliances, potted succulents; African violets in painted ceramic pots stood in the windowsill above the sink. Maggie’s wood recipe box was open and recipe cards remained scattered across the counter where she’d left them. Beside the door, a spare pair of Ghost’s boots and Maggie’s garden clogs occupied the wire shoe rack. A eucalyptus wreath graced the wall above the cordless phone, topped with a placard that read “God Bless This Kitchen.” The heady scent of bacon lingered in the air currents, remnant of breakfast.

“This is home,” Ava said as she passed through. “We’ll put our bags in my room.”

“It’s nice.”

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