Page 177 of Fearless

The red ribbons, tied on lampposts. Weren’t those usually a part of Red Ribbon Week at the school? The anti-drug campaign.

And there, up high on a billboard as they turned at the next light, Mayor Mason Stephens’ face looming large above them, the caption promising to make the city a safer, more prosperous place to live.

The city was turning against them. It was starting slow, but like a cancer, it would spread and spread, and then consume.

Ava was shaking by the time they pulled up at the house. She sat for a long moment after she’d killed the engine, rubbing the backs of her arms, staring at the closed garage doors, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.

She jumped when someone rapped on her window, then scolded herself when she saw that it was Mercy, and climbed out.

“Where did those people come from?” she asked. “The protesters.”

He was in protection mode, scanning the street, the house, the yard, eyes scouring the shrubs for hidden boogeymen, hands hovering down low, ready to grab for his knife, or the Colt semi-auto he kept in his waistband, hidden by his cut.

“Doesn’t much matter,” he said, eyes touching her briefly before he continued his scan. “The mayor coulda trucked ‘em in, for all we know. It’s a threat either way.”

Maggie walked around the front of the truck and joined them, snorting in delicate disagreement and flipping her hair over the collar of her denim jacket. “If the day ever comes when I’m afraid of Suzie Homemaker coming at me with a sign, it must be Armageddon.”

One corner of Mercy’s mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Yeah. But a crowd of Suzies with signs would make good cover for some dude with a gun.”

The insinuation fell over Ava like ice water; she watched it do the same to her mother, Maggie’s eyes widening.

“Oh.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said in the old, reassuring way of years past. Not the calculating lover, but the stoic, good-natured guard and companion. So many nights, when she was a girl, they’d eaten dinner, the three of them, waiting for Ghost, Mercy admitting that he didn’t follow football and asking Ava about the novels she was reading for school, and for fun.

He gestured up the sidewalk. “Ladies first.”

Inside, Ava went straight to her room, unsure how she felt about Mercy’s presence here again, after all this time. Last night had changed certain aspects of this new relationship they’d tumbled into, but there were still roadblocks she had to navigate. The kitchen of this house was the place where he’d first kissed her. Her bed, where she tossed her hoodie, was where he’d laid her down the first time. To have him here, to have her parents know, to be older, to be repeating the same mistakes, to be thrilled by the feel of it…it was all a tangle. And she felt terrible about what she’d done to Ronnie. He’d never asked for this, for her ugly compass heart spinning toward a north she couldn’t trust.

She changed into black leggings and a long, flowing white t-shirt, went barefoot back down the hall, and found Mercy on the couch with a beer, Maggie visible through the doorway into the kitchen, setting out packets of chicken to defrost.

She lingered partway through the room, beside the arm of the couch. She ought to go help her mother with dinner (or hinder, depending on how she looked at her inadequate cooking abilities). But she wanted to sit down beside Mercy, lean into his side, slide her hand down his thigh, nestle in beneath his arm, feel his warm touch against her arm and have him tell her some mundane story about his day, just to feel like an important piece of his life.

She didn’t get to do either before he spoke to her.

“What’s got you all spooked? Those bitches with the signs? Don’t worry about that. I don’t think anyone’sreallygonna use them as cover.”

She moved to sit beside him; she had to turn sideways to fit between his knees and the coffee table, her thighs brushing against his jeans with a soft sound that tickled the insides of her ears and gave her gooseflesh. She sat a respectable distance from him, faced the TV –Pawn Stars– and folded her hands in her lap.

“It was really awful,” she said, “what I did to Ronnie. I feel guilty about it.”

He studied her with a faint almost-smile, elbow propped on the arm of the couch, bottle halfway to his mouth. “Him you feel guilty about. But me no.”

She turned to him sharply. “Why would I feel any guilt about you?”

He shrugged and glanced away. “You were rude to me.”

Her mouth fell open. “Rudeto you.”

“And you didn’t call me.” His face hardened, less amused, more serious. “We’ve got murderers on the loose. When someone tells you to call, you call.”

“I did call, I just didn’t call you.”

“That’s my point.”

“Why?”

He sighed through his nostrils and gave her a withering look, like he couldn’t believe she was acting this way. “You call me, because I’m your–”

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