Page 30 of Price of Angels

Collier held up a finger.Getting to that. “Jace and Andre were in deep debt to him, apparently. They’d bought a little dope off Fisher, which we knew about, but apparently, they’d been buying coke off Shaman. They were in talks, if I believe the gossip, to deal some meth for him, for a pretty cut of the profits. And they owed him bigtime, so he had them by the short hairs.”

“Turn on us, become dealers, erase their debt and fill their pockets. Christ, why did we ever patch those assholes?”

Collier made a helpless gesture. None of them had known how shakable their loyalty had been. Not until it was too late.

“So this Shaman,” Ghost said. “What’s his next move?”

“He wants to get on your good side. According to Justin” – one of their longtime inside members – “he’s sending an envoy. One of his dealers wants to sell as part of your ring.”

“Abraham Jessup?” Ghost guessed, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach. The dealer Ratchet had met with. The one he was supposed to meet himself this afternoon.

“I didn’t get a name.”

Ghost scratched at his jaw, feeling the bristle that shaving didn’t quite take care of anymore. Maggie liked it; would scuff her knuckles across it and say she liked him rough.

Okay, focus. Mags had no bearing on this conversation.

Didn’t she, though? Weren’t the women in his life the root of his beating heart? The reason the club decisions he made were so much more than club decisions. The reason he hesitated to send Mercy into a dangerous situation, now, because Ava’s whole happiness depended upon him.

Being president sucked.

“Well, keep an ear to the ground. See if you can find anything else out for me,” Ghost said.

“Always.”

Ghost’s chest felt tight. Never had he anticipated this moment, as a boy, as a young man, as a Dog striving for president – that his best friend would wind up so suddenly on the other side of glass like this. “We’ll look after Jackie,” he said.

Collier smiled, wistfully. “I know.”

Ghost sighed. “I love Walsh, but I wish it was you sitting on my left.”

“I know,” Collier repeated. “But you need me here, more than you need me there. Go get ‘em, prez, and you lead our boys where they need to go.”

Holly didn’t know what a person was supposed to wear on her first ever shooting lesson, but she figured her work uniform wasn’t it. Dressed in jeans, her favorite tall cowboy boots, a thick cream turtleneck sweater she’d splurged on just that morning, and her usual jacket, she leaned against the side of the Chevelle, enjoying the weak touch of the December sun on her face, breathing in cold, crisp air and waiting on Michael to show up.

She hadn’t slept the night before, restless and nervous, dreaming, in the snatches of half-sleep, about Abraham and Dewey, and Jacob, whom no one had mentioned having seen in town yet, but who doubtless was still stuck like glue to his brother. She had ugly dark circles under her eyes, because of the nightmares, but hadn’t been able to do anything about them. Michael wouldn’t care; he didn’t want her anyway.

The street was all decked out for Christmas, garlands and lighted holiday tokens on every lamppost: bells, reindeer, sleighs, Santas, angels. At night, they glowed with colored light; the bells even seemed to swing back and forth. All the shop windows were done up with greenery, ornaments, shoe polish murals on the glass. The air smelled like snow, that up-high sharp note of moisture. She loved the idea of a white Christmas, tucked away in her loft window, the streets too slippery for anyone to be out on the prowl, coming after her.

When she heard the grumble of the motorcycle, she turned toward it automatically, and found herself smiling. It was a relief, if she was honest, to know that he wouldn’t take advantage. She could relax a little – with him, anyway.

Michael rode a Harley. All the Lean Dogs did; only American made bikes for them, Matt had told her. His was black, not flashy, the handlebars and pipes the only chrome. She could feel the vibration through the pavement, moving up into the soles of her boots, up her legs, and she liked it. The same way she liked his retro black shades, the way the plain black helmet made his face look harsher, the unadorned leather jacket that framed his lean waist and wider shoulders in a classic, masculine silhouette. He wasn’t wearing his cut. He wore a beat-up Jansport backpack, dark blue, and it should have made him look ridiculous, but didn’t. Nobody with that kind of tension in his jaw could look like a dork.

He parked in front of her car at the curb, killed the engine, pulled off his gloves. “You ready?” he greeted.

She nodded. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

He swung off the bike with a fluid movement, graceful, long-practiced. He ran one hand through his hair after the helmet came off, one fast show of self-awareness. Then he reached toward her. “Where are your keys? I’ll drive.”

She kept her arms folded, smiling at him. “Oh, because I’m a girl, and you can’t let me drive?”

“Because you don’t know where we’re going.”

“You could tell me.”

He held his hand in front of her, fingers flexing in silent demand for the keys.

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