Page 152 of Price of Angels

A girl, a little older than she was, with the most brilliant head of dark blonde hair, restrained in a tidy plait over one shoulder. She wore black, rectangular-framed glasses, and very little makeup, but was pretty, in a way that needed to be studied, rather than glanced at on the fly. She looked every inch the grad student in her chunky gray sweater, tights and ballet flats.

She offered Ava a small smile. “Last week, when Pitts handed out the papers – did you say your name was Ava Teague?”

Ava nodded, wondering if this was about to turn into one ofthoseconversations – the ones in which people realized her club connections and starting laying judgment. “Used to be. I got married last year, but I take it Pitts still has ‘Teague’ on his roster.”

The girl nodded. “I thought you looked familiar. I went to school with your brother.”

Ava raised her brows. “One of Aidan’s old conquests?” she asked with a rude snort, too tired to care at this point.

The girl blushed. “No. Oh no. He never knew I existed. But everyone in town knows him and…” Twinge of something flickering across her face. Regret, maybe? “You look like him. In the eyes.” She gestured to her own. “And I was just…”

“Surprised Aidan sister knows how to read, let alone get into grad school?” Ava chuckled. “We’ve got some DNA in common, and that’s about it. The big idiot,” she said, with an affectionate smile, so the girl knew she was teasing.

The blonde gave an uncertain laugh of her own. “I liked what you said the other day, about Salinger, and I’d been meaning to introduce myself.” She adjusted her bag and stepped into the middle of the hallway, hand extending for Ava to shake.

“I’m Sam,” she said. “Samantha Walton.”

Ava took her hand. “Ava Lécuyer.”

**

“Have you ever done any bookkeeping?” Maggie Teague asked, her hand resting on top of the computer monitor perched on the desk of the Dartmoor Trucking office.

Holly tried not to grimace. “No, ma’am. But,” she rushed to say, “I’m a real hard worker and I can learn most anything, if someone can teach me.”

The MC queen studied her a moment, expression unreadable. “If nothing else, you’ve got the right attitude,” she said. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

Holly went around the desk and sat in the indicated chair, watching the computer screen with dutiful attention as Maggie clicked through the spreadsheets, showing her the programs, instructing her how to plug in payments and print receipts. It seemed simple enough.

“You know, we can’t keep a trucking manager around here,” Maggie said when she stepped back, sitting on the edge of the desk. “They either get scared of Ghost, or some club drama happens and they bail, or they’re too incompetent to keep around and get fired.”

Holly nodded. “Well, I’ve got the scared and the bailing covered; that’s not going to happen.”

Maggie gave her a small smile. “Tough cookie, huh?”

“And I don’t think I’ll get fired around here if Michael whips out a knife and starts chasing people.”

Maggie laughed. “Definitely not.”

She sobered, regarding Holly with a critical eye. She was no dummy, this woman, no blind maternal sort. She was a beautiful, golden-haired shark. “After all the people we’ve hired on, it’s not exactly a risk giving you a shot.”

It was an insult, one Holly felt was deserved, given that she was a newcomer, and this was a culture in which hierarchy was everything.

She nodded. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

Maggie gave her a small, secretive smile.

It would be fun to prove to the woman – to the club – that she was someone who could be trusted. A true old lady, and not just an empty-headed piece of arm candy.

“Alright.” Maggie stood and fetched a sheaf of papers from the top of the file cabinet. She spread them before Holly on the desk. “Sign here, and here, and I’ll get this filed. I’ll need your bank info for direct deposit…”

Holly plucked a pen from the cup beside the computer, and began laying her signature on the appropriate lines.

Holly Marie McCall.

The gentle gray touch of dawn’s light brushed her eyes and urged them open. She lay on her side, in the warm soft bed of the old Craftsman home that had been Michal’s, and now was her home, too, the loft left empty and awaiting the next tenant. She wore a soft cotton nightgown, short, with narrow straps, something she’d thought might entice her husband. But so far, he hadn’t touched her with anything but friendliness and comfort since her surgery.

He sat on the side of the bed, his back to her. The inked wings were beautiful, detailed and feathered in the early light, taking up all of his back.

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