Page 9 of Price of Angels

December 19.

He said no. What am I going to do?

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The sound of the siren woke Ava. She was dreaming about New Orleans, about the sanctuary in the swamp that was Saints Hollow, the swarming midges and the relentless heat, wanting an escape from this tight grip of winter, perhaps, when the siren cut through the dream fog and brought her slowly awake, as its whining grew stronger and stronger, right outside on the street.

Mercy was, as usual, taking up most of the bed, and when she opened her eyes, she could see that it was his hair, and not her own, that fell across her eyes. His face was tucked tight against the back of her head, his strong arm tight around her, his hand pressed over her belly. It wasn’t possible for him to hold her any closer than he was doing, and she could hear, and feel, him snoring against her neck.

She reached to brush the silky black hair out of her face and shifted position, easing from beneath his arm, earning a snort for her efforts.

He inhaled deeply, chest swelling, pressing at her back. “Wha…?”

“You could sleep through the apocalypse, couldn’t you?” she asked, managing to sit up, his arm still heavy across her lap.

He was breathing hard, a little disoriented, coming out of a dream of his own. He cleared his throat and sounded more awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Sirens.” Her robe was draped over the bed post and she slipped it on over her naked, chilled skin.

“So? There’s always sirens.”

“They stopped right outside. Close somewhere.”

Mercy and the bed both groaned as she got to her feet.

She smiled to herself in the dark. He was downright clingy these days, wanting to take advantage of every second they had together, wanting to be as close as possible. She woke, sick to her stomach most nights, and found him either tangled with her, arms and legs locked at funny angles, or awake and watching her. He would settle, eventually, once he got used to the idea that they had nothing but time ahead of them, but for now, she thought his overflowing affection was pretty adorable.

As she left their closet-sized bedroom, she heard him curse and climb out of bed to follow her.

“You don’t have to get up,” she said, as she rounded the corner into the bathroom, where she would have the best window view of the street below.

“Neither do you,” he muttered, shuffling loudly after her.

It was a tiny place, the apartment he’d had as a bachelor years before, and that they’d managed to rent again, by perfect chance. The bathroom was all original fixtures – claw tub, pedestal sink, subway tile – and cold as a tomb in the dead of night. Ava shivered as the tiles bit into her bare feet, and walked to the streetlamp-glazed window, peering out toward the commotion.

There were revolving blue and red lights: an ambulance, fire rescue truck, and a police cruiser.

“Damn.”

Mercy stepped up behind her without regard for personal space, his chest pressing into her shoulders. He didn’t have a robe, like she did, and she didn’t know how he stood the cold, naked like he was. “What?”

“Someone’s hurt,” she said, judging by the assortment of vehicles. She frowned to herself, at her ghostly reflection in the window glass. “Someone at Bell Bar.”

It was three-thirty by the time Michael ditched Serena’s car and called it a night, a text fired off to Ghost to assure his president that the job was done, as professional and seamless as always. He didn’t count on a response and didn’t get one; he’d just wanted to clock out, so to speak.

Three-thirty. Tonight’s closing time at Bell Bar.

Holly was getting off at three-thirty; probably closing.

He shouldn’t have cared. On some plane, he didn’t.

But he couldn’t recall a time in his life when a woman had invested any time in him. And Holly sitting across from him every night, asking him about his reading, inquiring after his health, bringing him complimentary pie – that all smacked of investment. She had those big doe eyes, and there was emotion shining in them. She harbored an affection for him. All the groupie girls at the clubhouse, they’d come to him, because they wanted a Dog, and any one would do, but he saw the fear, the caution in their eyes. He didn’t compliment them, flirt with them, play to their insecurities. He wasn’t one to give the full-on outlaw experience. They were always tugging their clothes back in place right after he finished, making excuses, ducking back out into the hall, looking for one of the other boys, the ones who talked shit and fed them meaningless lines.

Holly wasn’t nervous with him. Holly always came, always sat, always squeezed her breasts together, a move that contrasted sharply with the soft, kindhearted wonder etched across her pretty little face. She was drawn to him. Wanted to be with him. He didn’t understand it, but at three-thirty in the morning, after he’d spent the night disposing of a body, it seemed extremely stupid of him to question her motives. And he regretted telling her no flat-out. He should have worked his stiff mouth into more elegant words. Should have explained things to her.

That was all – he was thinking about her now because he felt guilty about leaving her hanging on one syllable. No. And because she wanted to spend time with him, she deserved a complete sentence. He owed her that, because she liked him, and he didn’t understand why.

He’d go by the bar again, he decided. Walk her to her car, make sure she got away safely, and he’d tell her that he appreciated the offer, but that he didn’t sleep with girls who were that scared.

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