Page 67 of Price of Angels

Ghost’s hands went to his hips, his chest lifting, jaw grinding as he struggled internally. He looked as stern and commanding as always, but Ava could see the helpless frustration in his dark eyes, so much like her own and Aidan’s. He was at all times consumed by the authority his presidency afforded him. But here, in their house, he didn’t have that MC reach. He didn’t know what to think about that.

“Mags has a spare. In case of emergency.”

“And the emergency is…”

“I got a call from Abraham Jessup this morning,” Ghost said, settling some, more comfortable talking club business than anything personal. His eyes flicked over to Ava, a pointed glance.

She nodded and got to her feet, trailing a hand affectionately across Mercy’s chest as she moved toward the kitchen.

Behind her, she heard Ghost say, “His son-in-law’s gone missing. He wants to see us.”

“You don’t have guests over very often, do you?” Holly sat across from him at the round wooden table in the kitchen, knees drawn up so her feet perched on the edge of the chair, coffee mug held in both hands.

“Never,” he admitted, shocked that he’d done so. Looking at her face just made his mouth open up and his tongue start moving.

She wasn’t like other women, though. There was no censure or laughter in her eyes as she nodded. She wasn’t judging him for being a recluse. After all, she didn’t have friends or guests either.

“Why do you want to know?” he pressed.

Her expression became sad, wistful. “Because I’m afraid you’re going to spend Christmas alone.”

“Christmas?”

“It’s the day after tomorrow.”

“I know.” And usually he was on the road by now, headed out to the farm. Usually, he’d already checked in with Uncle Wynn, about when he’d be arriving, and how long he’d be staying; they would have had the usual small talk about the dogs, distinctly not talking about the Dogs, leaving that conversation for the last day, before he left, when Uncle Wynn cautioned him yet again about the way a lonely life on the road was unhealthy for a man, as if he had any room to talk.

“Weren’t you going to spend it alone?” he asked Holly.

“Yes.”

He held her eyes a moment, held them a beat too long, until it couldn’t be written off as a natural pause.

Holly unfolded her legs and stood, collected their empty plates. “I should get these in the dishwasher,” she said in a voice he knew was falsely cheerful. Her back looked tense, inside the borrowed shirt, as she rinsed the dishes at the sink.

Michael felt a stab of regret. She felt bad now, and that made him feel bad, but he didn’t know how to fix it. The girl needed friends. She needed a family – a real one, that had no relation to the filth that had raised her. So what did he do, invite her to have Christmas with him?

In truth, he was feeling in desperate need of seeing her again, and again.

“I guess I should get going,” she said, still facing away from him, loading the dishwasher. “I have to work this afternoon, and I should go by the store first, and–”

“Holly.”

She closed the dishwasher and turned to face him, eyes wide with sudden nerves.

“Have you ever had Christmas?”

She glanced down at her bare toes, peeping from the hems of the pants, and he saw the tiny shudder move through her.

“Hol.”

Her eyes came up to his face, and her mouth was very small and bow-shaped, pressed tight with the revulsion of her memories.

“What I meant was, have you ever had a nice dinner, and a drink, and a fire to sit in front of on Christmas?”

She shook her head.

Michael swallowed and felt the dry sides of his throat sticking together. His mother hadn’t had those things either, because her husband had killed her before they could start a new life at Uncle Wynn’s.

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