Page 37 of Price of Angels

They didn’t speak on the drive back to Bell Bar. Holly wasn’t pouting, Michael sensed, but she had drawn deep into herself. It was like she’d forgotten he was in the car with her, as she drove them back into town.

The parking spot at the curb in front of his bike was taken, so she braked to a halt in the street, turning to look at him for the first time. Her face was a careful mask, twitching at the corners of her mouth, as she struggled to maintain the appearance of calm.

“Thank you again,” she said. “I appreciate you taking time out of your day for me.”

There were a dozen things he wanted to say to her. Starting with how pretty she looked in the late afternoon sun that streaked through the windshield. But he nodded. “You’re welcome. We’ll set up a knife lesson.”

“Sure.” Her voice was thin, unconvinced.

“So…yeah.” He opened his door and shoved out, before it could get even more awkward. The wind slapped at his face, the slap Holly should have given him instead.

He stood beside his bike and watched her turn in at the alley, heading for the parking lot in back.

Only then did he think to check his phone. He had two missed calls and one text from Ghost.

Church in five. Sent fifteen minutes ago.

“Shit.”

Michael had never been late to church. When he turned onto the lot, his heart started to hammer in his chest, audible to him above the roar of the bike. It throbbed in his ears, the pulse of the guilty.

He parked at the end of the line of Harleys, beside Hound’s Fat Bob, and tore his helmet off, crammed his sunglasses in his pocket. How undignified. Not at all like a sergeant at arms should act.

He’d left his cut on a peg in the clubhouse entryway, and he yanked it down, shoved his arms through it.

Ares the German shepherd came to greet him with a curious sniff. He gave the dog an absent pat on the head and kept moving.

The three prospects were in the common room, playing at the bar with paper footballs they were flicking through uprights made of their fingers. All three glanced up, startled at his entrance, caught goofing off while the adults were in church. Redhead Harry, lanky Littlejohn, and former football stud Carter, whom RJ had taken to calling Jockstrap.

“Mop something,” Michael instructed, on his way through the room.

“Yes, sir,” they all said in unison.

As he moved down the hall, he heard the low din of masculine voices coming from the chapel. A fine sweat misted across his shoulders, gluing his shirt to his skin. Damn, he was late.

The double doors stood open and through them, Michael watched his president glance out into the hall, see him, acknowledge him with a lifted chin and an expectant expression. He wouldn’t make a scene – that wasn’t his style – but like any kingly father, he had a way of making those beneath him feel shame at their indiscretions.

Michael stepped into the sacred room – heavy, ornate dining room table, velvet-cushioned chairs, paneling, framed photos and memorabilia, swirl of cigarette smoke – without looking at anyone. He caught brief glimpses of faces and cuts, but only made eye contact with Ghost, bowing his head in silent, brief apology before he closed the doors and took his seat on the president’s right.

Ghost gave him one brief glance, a welcome and a reprimand all in one.

Directly across from Michael, in the VP spot, blonde-haired blue-eyed Walsh was giving him a steady look, the Englishman, as always, difficult to read.

Ghost said, “I saw Collier this morning,” and silence reigned, all eyes on the president as they honed in on the news he had to share.

Michael allowed his guilt and stress to fade, white noise in the back of his head as he listened.

“Andre and Jace were cooperating with Fielding,” Ghost continued, “because they were deep in debt with some dealer. Shaman. For all we know, they were in tight with him before they ever prospected. They could have come into the club with the intention of infiltrating it. Shaman was betting on the Carpathians pushing us out of town, and he musta been putting some kinda pressure on Andre and Jace for them to turn stool pigeon to the cops.”

“They couldn’t tell us that this dealer was after them,” Rottie said, grim-faced, “because that would have been admitting they were betraying the club.”

“Figured we’d…” Walsh drew an elegant finger across his own throat.

Hound made an old man’s deep-throatedharrumphsound. “Yeah, and look how that turned out for ‘em.”

“What I don’t understand,” Mercy said down at the foot of the table, “is how no one around here knew anything about the little shits’ personal lives.” He lifted his brows expectantly, inviting one of them to explain.

Ghost sighed and shook his head. “I dunno. I never spent any time with them.”

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