Page 92 of Price of Angels

Holly envisioned the mist-shrouded green landscapes of Sherlock Holmes movies; felt the tradition of lasting English lore. “Wow,” she murmured.

Michael glanced over at her. “You don’t have to make fun of it.”

“I’m not. I think it’s–”

“Beautiful?” he mocked.

“I happen to like beautiful,” she said. “Now who’s making fun?”

He shook his head and accelerated as the light changed. “It’s an old club,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Way older than me. I owe it my respect.”

And killing men who did business with the club wasn’t doing so. The sudden resurgence of the outside world – the real world, beyond their bubble of snowbound sex and movie-watching – was an unpleasant shock.

Holly frowned. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your brothers – that’s the word for them, right? Your brothers? I don’t want you to get in hot water with them because of me.”

“Might as well get in hot water for something.” The words were flippant, but the lines bracketing his mouth were grave.

“I’m serious, Michael,” she said. “What you’ve already done for me is so much. If you can’t–”

“I said I’d do it, didn’t I? Don’t you worry about it.”

Holly held back the tender smile that threatened. He wasn’t gracious in his sweetness; at his most earnest, he was either locked in the throes of passion, or grumbling like an old grouch.

“Yes, you did,” she said. “And you have no idea how grateful I am.”

“Don’t be grateful. Just be alive.”

She left him alone the rest of the short drive, resisting comment as he walked her up both flights of steps to her loft and ensured the door locks were still in place.

He caught her around the waist before she slipped inside, kissed her hard, and pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “You call me if you get scared,” he said, like it was a dire warning.

The paper was his phone number, written out in his bold, strong hand.

Holly went to the window and watched him walk off down the street, his shoulders set in a way that would repel rather than attract attention.

“Michael, Michael,” she murmured to herself, and typed his number into her phone.

In wake of the snow shutdown, Dartmoor was teeming with business. The bad press from back in the fall had, as Ghost had predicted, blown over. Quality had always been heavily emphasized at all the Dartmoor shops, and the reputation of good work had finally overridden the reputation of violence. People had short memories, and busy lives. Dublin’s crew ran a tight ship at the auto garage, and it was raucous with air wrenches and shouted instructions as Michael approached the open roll top doors.

One of the prospects, Harry, was trying to roll two tires into the first bay, and he paused and ducked his head in reference as Michael passed.

Stupid kid, he thought, but approved of the respect. This new crop of prospects, if nothing else, were reverent in their address of all the patched members. Good little squires tending to the knights’ every need.

Dublin was under the hood of a Chevy, an old Nova that immediately brought to mind Holly’s Chevelle. The thing had a bad Maaco paint job, one which Michael intended to correct in the near future. No sense letting a classic like that roll around in shitty paint.

He pushed thoughts of her aside and said, “I’m here.”

Dublin paused, greasy hands wrapped around a bad battery, and gave Michael a look of mild frustration. “Good for you.”

Michael frowned. He wasn’t sure he could claim any of his club brothers felt like actual brothers. “You got anything for me to do?”

“Nah. Actually, Ghost’s looking for you. He’s been by twice to see if you’re in yet.”

Michael took a step back. “He’s at the clubhouse?”

“Yeah.”

He shoved his hands in his cut pockets and walked that direction. Probably later he’d regret that his bike wasn’t close at hand, but he anticipated walking back, taking on an oil change or something. He at least wanted to check the work order board and see if there was a good time in the coming weeks to work Holly’s car into the rotation. It really did need that new paint job.

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