Page 129 of Price of Angels

“Morning. Do you want help? I like to cook.”

“Michael says you oughta be a chef,” he said, still smiling, and gestured toward the rectangular table with his fork. Two glasses of juice were already set out. “But right now, all you need to do is sit.”

“Are you sure?”

“You bet. Sit down, darlin’, and I’ll have it ready in a jiff.”

She complied, settling in one of the distressed green and white kitchen chairs, taking the chance to survey the room more completely.

It was a large kitchen, with French doors at the far end, letting in lots of light. The appliances were outdated, probably as old as she was. The lower cabinets were painted a soft, mossy green. Row after row of open shelves took the place of upper cabinets, stacked with dishes, bowls, glasses, pots and cast iron pans. The sink was an old porcelain farmhouse number, with a gingham curtain hiding what was underneath. It looked more like the kitchen of a hunting cabin than anyone’s home, but it suited the man working in it, as he heaped plates with bacon, hash browns, and the largest pancakes Holly had ever seen.

“These are famous, you know,” he said, setting a steaming plate before her and reaching back on the butcher block counter for the syrup. “I sold a dog to a cookbook author once, and she asked me for the recipe, said she’d put it in her next book.” He sat down across from her with his own plate and saluted her with his juice glass. “Famous.”

His smile was infectious. “I can’t wait to try them.”

“I still don’t see why I had to be here,” Troy grumbled as he shuffled around the table to get to his seat.

Ghost stood behind his presidential chair, hands resting on its back, frowning as he watched the oldest, crankiest member of the club wince and groan and finally sit down with a dramatic sigh. “You still ride, don’t you?”

Troy shot him a petulant look. He’d reached that age when maturity slid backward. It would be no noble decline for him, no. He’d be a ninety-year-old toddler before he met his maker. “Barely.”

“Then you still vote. When it counts,” Ghost amended. “And believe me this counts.” His eyes came to Michael, again, another of those unreadable glances that Michael knew held unspoken blame.

Fuck it. He didn’t care.

God, look at him. He’d become an outlaw among his outlaw brethren, an insolent brat with his own agenda.

He shot a glance down the table to Mercy, who was crammed into his usual space at the foot thanks to the addition of an extra chair – Candyman was still in town with his four prospects, and had decided to sit in, wanting to take news back to Texas when he went.

It had been such a short time ago that Michael had held Mercy in contempt for jeopardizing the fabric of the club for the sake of a woman. And here he was doing the same thing. He wanted to argue that his case was different, because Holly’s past was so devastating, and because she had no family support system the way Ava always had. But his sentiment was the same, and that was what counted, didn’t it? The disregard for the rules on account of his own needs.

Rules. This anarchistic society of rebels was based, at its core, on a codex of rules and inflexible laws.

The irony.

“Prospects are on watchdog duty,” Walsh said as he entered the chapel and took his chair.

Ghost nodded.

Hound and Rottie had their heads together, talking in muffled whispers.

Michael ignored the way Aidan and Tango kept looking at him.

For the first time, he was the subject of the entire table, and he didn’t like it, but it was too late to do anything about it.

RJ, his face still dark and blotchy with bruising, one eye socket still swollen, was the last to enter, and he shut the doors with a click of the latch. He kept his head down as he took his seat; he didn’t make eye contact with Michael.

The scrape of Ghost’s chair signaled the beginning of church, and everyone fell silent at once. The hiss and click of lighters; deep breaths as cigarettes were puffed.

Ghost said, “In case nobody noticed, Michael’s got a girlfriend these days.”

Dark chuckles.

“And she – Holly” – hearing her name come out of someone else’s mouth, someone who didn’t care about her, tightened Michael’s nerves, cramped his stomach – “happens to be Abraham Jessup’s daughter.”

Collective awed inhales. Huffs of surprise.

“Who the hell’s Abraham Jessup?” Troy asked, and Tango leaned over to whisper the answer.

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