Page 114 of Price of Angels

He wanted her proficient with it.

A chill slid down his spine like the touch of a finger. For a little while, amid the snow, and the lulling drowsy beat of the holidays, he’d allowed himself to stop thinking so much about the fact that she was a hunted woman. He couldn’t afford to be so lax. Not when she was the third person in his life that he’d loved.

Nineteen

Michael took New Year ’s Day for the two of them. They went riding, the cold nipping at their faces, funneling up their sleeves and chilling their arms. He liked the soft shape of her pressed against his back. The way even her slight extra weight sent the Dyna dipping deeper into the sharp turns. Her hands were relaxed against his stomach, her chin tucked over his shoulder. She loved it. He heard her laughing in his ear.

They went back to the cattle property for target practice, and stayed until the shadows were long across the grass, and she could knock each soda can off a hitching rail with precise aim.

She fried him chicken for dinner, at her loft.

It was well after midnight, when, both exhausted and gleaming with sweat, he clicked off the lamp and they sought sleep beneath her piles of quilts.

All that day, he wasn’t a Dog, and she wasn’t someone who’d tried to hire him. They were just them, and it was glorious in its own quiet, simple way.

But there was a rock in his stomach the next morning as he approached the clubhouse. Before he clocked in at the garage, he knew he had to see Ghost, and take whatever punishment was given to him.

The president was talking to Ratchet in the common room when Michael entered. Ghost looked up at the sound of the door, pinned Michael with a glance, and turned back to Ratchet.

“Yeah, print it out for me,” he said, squeezing the secretary’s shoulder where he sat in front of his computer. Then he came to Michael. “Outside.” He gestured to the door and Michael followed him that way.

It was an unseasonably warm morning, the sky packed with clouds, the humidity piling up in stagnant pockets on the lot. The news was predicting more snow soon.

Ghost put his back to the same steel support pole Holly had been clinging to on New Year’s and folded his arms, brows lifted in expectation. “The guys ended up taking RJ to the ER for an X-ray. Docs said he had a concussion.”

Michael met his president’s stare unflinching and said, “We’ve all had one. He’ll live.”

Ghost’s nostrils flared at the edges, as he pulled in a breath. “That’s what I said. It happens: guys have arguments; guys throw punches.” He twitched a humorless smirk. “Mags says it’s suicide, surrounding ourselves with more testosterone.” He sobered. “If that had been Aidan or Merc or even Briscoe, I woudn’t have thought much about it. But you? You don’t get drunk and brawl at parties.”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

Ghost frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Who’s the girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if she’s making my most dependable guy act like a fucking moron. That’s not you, Michael. You don’t go off half-cocked like that.”

Inwardly, Michael was tight with anxiety. No, it wasn’t like him…in Ghost’s eyes. Because Ghost hadn’t ever been around him when he gave a damn about something. He was the best sergeant at arms this chapter had ever seen, because he didn’t care to be anything else.

Outwardly, he held his icy composure and said, “So I hit someone. You just said it happens. Guys throw punches.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “It’s one thing to hit a brother in anger. You make up later, have a beer, things are all good again. But you don’t even like your brothers. You start getting pissed off at them – then where does that leave us?”

“It doesn’t change anything with us.” Michael frowned and gestured between the two of them. “RJ crossed a line, and he got knocked back across it. End of story.” But Ghost had struck home – he wasn’t close with any of his brothers. If he started showing outright animosity, his loyalty to the club as an entity would come into question.

He couldn’t afford to let that happen, not when he had no other options.

Ghost gave him a measuring look. “I don’t expect it to happen again.”

“It won’t.”

A beat passed. Then Ghost finally said, “Good. Saddle up, then. We’ve got the children’s hospital run today.”

In his state of total preoccupation with Holly, Michael had completely forgotten the annual trip to children’s cancer ward, where their year’s worth of collected donations and club member contributions were handed over to the head oncologist, and gifts were taken to the children. Photos were always snapped for the paper: Ghost shaking hands with doctors while he flew his Dogs patches. It was great PR for the club, a tradition continued after Ghost’s uncle Duane had stepped down years before.

“That’s today?” he asked.

Ghost gave him another of those narrow glances. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

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