Page 21 of Price of Angels

“Well, they’re all no-good shitheads, I’ll give you that. But Fisher doesn’t make my skin crawl, not like these guys.”

Ratchet gave him a level, openly curious look. “There’s things that can make your skin crawl?”

“Fuck you,” Mercy said, good-naturedly, reaching for his water again. “And where’s our food?”

From the dark hallway, tucked into the alcove where the payphone was hung, Holly watched unseen as Abraham and Dewey left the bar. She let out a deep breath, the adrenaline washing out of her in a big rush that left her dizzy and faint. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk, and clutched at the pointed edge of the wall in her little hiding spot.

She had no idea what those two had wanted with Mercy and Ratchet, but she felt a desperate, clawing sort of dread. If Abraham and Dewey got on friendly terms with the club, then she had no hope of ever turning a member – one member in particular – to her cause. No way would some waitress merit more consideration than friends of the club. If she wanted Michael’s help, it would have to be soon. Tonight. She’d have to tell him tonight.

“No” wasn’t such a risk in the bitter cold light of today.

There’d been a time in his life when working late hadn’t been an imposition. When there’d been nothing but his books waiting on him at home. Not that he hadn’t loved reading by the lamplight, but these days, there was a lot more incentive to get his ass home when he punched out every day. And this day, Ghost hadn’t made him work OT, so at five, Mercy headed straight for the apartment, a bright warmth filling his chest that blotted out the lingering pain in his bad leg, and the sour remnants of that afternoon’s business meeting.

The light was fading as he made his way up the iron staircase to his door, and his knee grabbed and fussed at him for the strain of all those steps. He pushed the sensations down, drawing out his keys while he hummed to himself. Last week, he’d come home to cooking smells and cheery greetings and warm kisses, all before he could take his jacket off. Ava had been using this break before she started back to class in January to tackle cookbook after cookbook, succeeding more than she failed these days, even if the noodles were a little crunchy and the bread a little too brown on the bottom. That’s what it was supposed to be like with a new, young wife, wasn’t it? Slightly bad dinners and exuberant, newlywed conversation traded over them.

Tonight, though, there was no smell save the soft floral notes of their laundry detergent. The living room, when he stepped in, was soft with lamplight, and warm as a hearth fire, the TV mumbling at a low volume. He smiled when he saw Ava – curled up in a corner of the sofa, head propped on its arm, asleep with a pair of socks in her lap and the laundry basket at her feet – and closed and latched the door without making a sound.

He stepped out of his boots and went to her quietly, crouched down in front of her and smoothed her hair back off her face. His knee pained him; he ignored it. She looked very young and very sweet, her face soft in sleep.

At his touch, her eyes fluttered open and she snatched in a fast breath. “What?” The momentary tension left her when she spotted him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He smoothed his thumb down the silken skin of her cheek because he liked the feel of it. “Did you get sleepy?”

“Mm.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “It’s the baby. I just can’t fight the naps.”

He laughed, because he couldn’t help it. He loved when she talked about the baby. He loved the idea of some secret communication between mother and child as it grew inside her. His own mother had hated him from conception. To see Ava loving and wanting the baby he’d given her, already, when it was so tiny, restored some of his lost faith in humanity. He had faith in her, anyway, in her ability to be the kind of mother he’d never had.

“You want me to make dinner?” he offered, still touching her face, because they were married now, and he could do that.

She sat up straighter, looking startled. “Dinner, shit. What times is it? I was going to have it ready when you got home.” She tossed the socks into the laundry basket and tried to get to her feet.

Mercy stayed in the way, not letting her up, smiling as his hand fell to her knee. “Relax. I didn’t have to stay late. It’s only five-fifteen.”

She slumped again, eyelids heavy, clearly exhausted. “Oh.” Then she rallied. “I’m gonna cook, though. I have stuff to make chicken parm.”

His stomach growled at the idea. “Yeah?”

She nodded and made a little shooing gesture. “Yeah. Pasta actually sounds good to me right now. Let me up, and I can go make it.”

“Okay.” But he didn’t move right away, thumb brushing over the inside seam of her leggings where they covered her knee.

Ava propped her elbows on her thighs and leaned forward, so her face was right in his face, her smile sleepy, and stirring things in him, the way her hair was all a mess. “What are you doing?” she asked, smile widening, little flash of white teeth showing.

“Looking at you.”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

“A girl got killed at Bell Bar last night after we left. One of the waitresses.”

Her smile faded. “Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “I heard it on the news. And then Mom called to tell me about it.”

“That was right down the street from us,” Mercy said, a trace of panic tickling at his gut. “And you’re here all day by yourself. And there’s a murderer out there somewhere…”

She reached out and stroked a fingertip down the length of his nose. “And I have lots of locks on the door and guns in the closet. And I know how to use them,” she added, brows lifting.

“I know you do,” he consented. “Doesn’t much help with the worry, though.”

She smiled again, heaving a little sigh that was cute and sweet. “Alright.” She kissed his forehead. “Let me up so I can cook.”

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