Page 51 of Price of Angels

“Nothing. Tell you later.”

“Good morning,” Abraham said as he approached. He wore a cheap shirt buttoned up to his throat and a canvas duct jacket over it. His jeans were badly out of fashion, belted too high on his waist.

Beside him, Dewey was similarly awkward, in stiff clothes that looked two sizes too big. His hair was still wet from his morning shower and plastered down tight on his head, which only served to emphasize his big ears.

“Morning,” Ghost said in a cold voice. “You’re Abraham Jessup?”

The man nodded. “And my son-in-law, Dewey.”

“Hello,” Dewey said, hands curling with obvious nerves.

Ghost didn’t glance at the boy. “You brought the product?”

Looking slightly taken aback, Abraham nodded.

The white plastic-wrapped brick that Abraham put into Ghost’s hands turned out to be coke, and not cheap shit cut with baking soda.

“You’ll distribute yourself?” Ghost asked. He sounded grudging, like he liked these two about as much as Mercy did, but the coke was legit.

“Us and my brother,” Abraham said. “And sometimes some of the fellas from my church.”

“Your church?” Mercy asked.

He hated Abraham’s smile when he said, “All paths are righteous, if they lead a man to the lord.”

**

Ava didn’t think she’d ever stop finding wonder in the acres of asphalt and corrugated steel that composed Dartmoor. Her father’s shining emblem of MC enterprise would always stir nostalgia and pride in her, the simple act of driving through the main gates a salute to the Lean Dogs’ savvy and ingenuity. With Ghost’s passion and Walsh’s money know-how, this generation of Dogs had elevated the club business from a sad Harley memorabilia shop to a robust string of shops that occupied club-owned land right along the Tennessee River. Dartmoor, named for the mist-shrouded English landscapes that had fostered the black dog legends their club was named for.

Even if she felt a little green around the gills this afternoon, she smiled to herself, because when she pulled up to the clubhouse these days, it was as an old lady, and not a daughter. She’d become one of those admired, mythical women within the club, the beloved wives who kept the men running, so they could keep the MC running.

Maggie and Jackie were already parked before the portico, and Ava took a moment leaning against the side of her truck, deep-breathing the cold air in through her nose, convincing her stomach that it didn’t need to make any sudden moves. Then she went in.

Maggie had insisted on a girl’s afternoon out, a lunch at which they could discuss their plan of attack for Christmas dinner and the New Year’s party that would inevitably follow. Ava knew her mother could plan a dinner like this in her sleep; today was about including Jackie, and making her feel like she was still part of the club family, even though her man would spend the holiday behind bars.

Ava shuddered; she didn’t want to imagine. She didn’t know what she’d do, at this point, without Mercy’s warm arms around her when she woke, and his French singing as he shaved, and the barefoot breakfast conversations sitting cross-legged on the floor because it was too much trouble to clear her laptop and books off the tiny kitchen table.

Ares was there to greet her when she stepped into the entryway. His thick tail beat a rhythm against the floor as he waited to be scratched.

“Hi, buddy.”

There were voices coming from the small sitting room just to the right, and as Ava passed, she glimpsed Jackie seated on one of the chairs the boys kept for formal visitors, talking to a lean, dark-headed man in a suit. She recognized Ethan Briscoe, Briscoe’s son and the club’s attorney.

Quickly turning away, Ava pressed on into the common room, where Maggie sat at the bar with several open magazines spread before her.

“Hi, baby,” she greeted, and with one look at Ava’s face, she wrinkled her nose. “Stomach still not good?”

“It’s just touchy.” Ava climbed onto the stool beside her. “What are you looking at?”

Maggie took a fast second to press a hand against the far side of Ava’s head, pull her in close so she could leave a motherly kiss against her temple. There was that now-familiar smile as she pulled back, the one that was mingled pride, joy, and maternal grace. She’d expressed so many times how thrilled she was for Ava’s happiness, how right this expansion of their family felt. Mercy at the dinner table, one of them in an official sense, now, felt preordained, a realization of what was always meant to be.

Then she turned back to her magazines.Southern Living,Garden & Gun,Good Housekeeping. “I’m thinking about centerpieces.”

“Uh-huh,” Ava said, and knew from her mother’s glance that she’d failed to sound interested.

Footsteps rapped on the boards behind them, and they both turned.

Ethan and Jackie had come into the room, Jackie to join them, and Ethan because he was the kind of guy who made sure to tip his hat to any ladies present before he took his leave.

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