Page 95 of Fearless

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In the mirror, Mercy watched his fingers pluck the tape away and peel the bandage back, uncovering the fresh ink on his chest. It was time for the gauze to come off for good; time for the tat to get some air, breathe and get settled, comfortable under his skin. The flesh was still red and raw, irritated around the edges where the needle had gone in, but the swelling was down, mostly, and the series of black shapes was a more regular, more recognizable imprint. There would be brothers who lifted their brows and wondered silently:what the fuck is that?

But to him, it was glaringly obvious. When he looked at it, he saw Ava’s mouth against his skin in the moonlight, the flicker of her lashes as she pulled back, tip of her tongue licking his blood from her lips. Her bite mark, preserved permanently in ink over his heart. When the boys stopped for lunch on the road, he’d found a tattoo parlor and skipped the chicken and waffles, opting for this instead. The bite had healed by that point, all but the faded pink marks where her teeth had been, and the artist had traced them in black.

He was twice as glad he’d had it done, considering the state of things now.

He pulled the vitamin E ointment from his pocket, smeared a dollop across the tat with his finger, then pocketed the tube and dropped his shirt back down.

Some of the boys – Aidan, for one – were consumed with the need to cover themselves in as much ink as was humanly possible. Mercy didn’t share that sentiment. He had his dog, for the club that had kept him alive, the war paint for his grandmother, and now this, the way Ava had sunk her teeth deep into the beating heart of him.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. Tango’s voice floated through. “Hey, Merc, that kid’s back. I think you’re gonna want to hear this.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shrugged his cut back into order and opened the door faster than Tango expected; he jerked back a step as Mercy brushed past. “Can’t the little dipshit take a hint?”

There was something careful and off-center about Tango’s voice as he followed. “This is different. Just hear what he has to say.”

Carter – and what kind of douchebag name wasCarter? – stood in the center of the common room, eyes traveling between them in nervous skips. Beside him, Aidan was examining something he held in his hands. Something orange.

Ava’s phone. Mercy recognized it with a jolt. Under the new tat, his heart started a slow pounding.

“Are you brain damaged?” Mercy snarled as he bore down on him. “I told you to–”

“Merc,” Aidan said, head lifting. His face was an unusual jumble of worries. “Ava’s missing.”

Twenty-Two

Five Years Ago

It was the pain that brought her back from the dark. The relentless, drumroll pain inside her skull, and outside of it, the awful heaviness of her head that was a different kind of pain. And the pain in her scalp, because there was a hand wrapped up tight in her hair, and dragging her.

Her limbs came back to her, the connections muddled with static, her nerve responses slow. She was on her back, and her arms and legs hung like dead things, and someone had her by the hair and she was being pulled across a dusty rough floor.

The smells of mold and damp filled her lungs as she drew in her next breath. Other little swirls amid the eddies: grass gone to seed, beer, urine, decay, dirt, aged paint, sweat, human nerves.

Her eyes opened one at a time, and through the blur of pain, she saw dim cones of light – flashlights set up on their ends – struggling to reach the highest, darkest corners of the ceiling. She saw faces: blonde hair, flash of white bandage. Ainsley. A boy, dark, messy hair, a nose that was hard to miss. Beau.

The hand in her hair curled and gave a punishing tug. And that was when she realized who had hold of her. Who had clubbed her on the back of the head outside Carter’s house.

Mason.

Adrenaline flooded her system, her frayed circuits struggling to respond. She kicked and reached for Mason’s hand at her head; she heard a high, feminine gasp from Ainsley. They hadn’t expected her to wake up.

She touched the back of Mason’s hand and dug her nails into him, clawing, rewarded with the hot wet streaks of blood down his knuckles.

“Bitch!” He flung her down and the back of her head cracked against the floorboards. Her vision exploded with white, the pain in her already-bruised head so vicious she thought she’d lose consciousness again. She felt the floor tilt, felt herself sliding, and knew she was motionless.

Mason’s face appeared above her as he leaned over her, his sneer truly hideous. “I don’t think you get it,” he said. “I’m the one in control here.”

Power. It always came down to power for people like Mason.

Ava struggled to find her voice inside her dry throat, working her papery tongue against her lips. “Y-you…you idiot.” She gulped in a deep breath, willing her body to come back online and cooperate. “Do you think you can do anything to me and get away with it? You think the Dogs won’t come for you?”

“Mason,” Ainsley said, “I don’t like this anymore. Just stop.”

Mason laughed, the sound high and erratic. He ignored Ainsley. “Come after me for what?” he asked, his face twisted in manic delight. “For just taking a little bit of what you give all those biker boys for free?”

The first hard shudder of fear went through her. Mason hated her; she’d embarrassed him, had trash-talked him, had been witness to his near-death experience. He was going to shame her in return. And there was only one way a boy his age knew how to do that.

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