Price of Angels (33 page)

              So then why was there this hot ball of anger clawing its way up Michael’s throat?

              He was challenging his president; he’d never done that before.

              He met Ghost’s gaze again. “I’m sorry. You’ll do whatever you think is best.”

              Ghost nodded. “An enemy in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he said, sounding almost cheerful, and headed for the door, thinking about lunch and not at all about the two sick fucks they’d left standing in Fisher’s living room.

              Walsh lingered, studying Michael in that unnerving way of his. “Something’s got under your skin.” Not a question.

              “Yeah, well…”

              It was a five-foot-two something, and damn if she wasn’t already grafted on.

“I need you to do something for me.”

              Ratchet startled hard, sending a full can of Red Bull to the floor off the edge of his desk, sticky energy drink showering across the floorboards, spattering Ratchet’s boots and jeans. “Jesus!” He grabbed at the paperwork that had gone flying in his sudden scrambling panic, snatching the sheets that drifted like autumn leaves and managing to save them from the Red Bull catastrophe.

              Michael stood on the other side of his open laptop, watching the spaz attack. “Did I scare you?”

              “No.” Ratchet shook his head, but his face was flushed. He slapped the gathered paper back onto the desk. “I just didn’t hear you coming is all. You need to wear a bell, man. Anybody ever tell you you’re quiet as a cat?”

              “Loads,” Michael said. He repeated, “I need you to do something for me.”

              “Yeah, you said that.” Ratchet sighed, glanced down at his splashed boots, made a face. “Man, these are pretty new, too…”

              “Have a prospect polish them. Ratchet.” He levered some authority into his voice. “Can you run a license plate for me?”

              The club secretary could do just about anything you asked him to, given the right time frame and the right snack inducement. He nodded. “Yeah, what for?”

              “It’s just for me, personally. Ghost doesn’t need to know about it.” Meaningful eye contact, driving home the point.

              Ratchet sat back in his chair. “Oh.”

              Michael imagined none of them had ever heard him do anything that wasn’t an express command from the president.

              First time for everything.

              “Yeah, ‘oh.’ This needs to stay between us. Just get the vehicle info for me, and if anyone ever asks, I’ll say I looked it up myself. No one ever has to know you were involved.”

              Ratchet frowned.

              “I’m not asking this for the club. It’s personal.” From his cut pocket, Michael withdrew the plate number of the rusted Buick, a Snickers bar, and a crisp new twenty that he placed on the desk beside the laptop. “Please,” he said, swallowing and hating the way the word got stuck in his throat.

              Ratchet thought about it another second, then nodded. “Done. I’ll call you when I know something.”

              Michael nodded. “Thanks.”

Seventeen

“Be at work an hour early tomorrow,” Michael said one night, in the hot and pulsing afterglow.

              Too exhausted to speak or form a rational question as to why, Holly had agreed, nodding before she’d nodded off.

              But now it was an hour and fifteen minutes before her shift started and she was standing on the sidewalk outside Bell Bar, hands in her pockets, nibbling at her lip in quiet worry, wondering why he hadn’t told her the reason. This was probably another shooting lesson – he’d told her she would need practice – and she’d dressed accordingly: tall cowboy boots with jeans tucked inside, Vols sweatshirt with fraying cuffs she’d been picking at her with nails, her jacket zipped over it.

              She heard Michael coming before he pulled into sight, the roar of his Harley traveling through the pavement and up the soles of her boots. It hit her in the stomach and she smiled to herself. The sound of the bike triggered a sensation a lot like the pass of his hand, a subtle tightening in the pit of her belly.

              He was in his cut today, very Lean Dogs official in all his black leather and his chunky boots with the spur straps. He parked at the curb in front of her, took off his helmet, set it on the handlebars; a small, routine gesture for him that was attractive to her in a way she didn’t understand. Something about his fingers, their assuredness of movement.

              “Hi.” She wished she had a pet name for him suddenly, a sweet word to offer that was just his in her vocabulary. She wanted to step off the curb and kiss him, too, but she wasn’t sure if he’d go for that.

              Turned out, she shouldn’t have worried. He joined her on the sidewalk, put a hand at her waist, dropped his head to press a fast, sure kiss against her mouth. He smelled soap-and-sunshine clean. His lips were soft on hers.

              Holly wanted to clutch at the front of his cut and hold him to her, but instead she said, “So what are we doing? More gun practice?”

              As he stepped back from her, he gave her one of his small smiles. “No, not today.”

              He took another step back, and over his shoulder, Holly saw a black truck leave the flow of traffic and pull up at the curb behind Michael’s bike. The driver door opened, and a dark-haired woman climbed down, folding the long halves of a wool coat around her middle.

              Ava Lécuyer.

              Holly felt the first stirrings of panic. “Michael, why is she here?”

              And she was walking toward them.

              “I asked her to come,” he said. “I thought–”

              “You
asked her
–” She grabbed his hand and dug her nails into the back of it. “Michael,” she hissed, “why would you do that?”

              He gave her a blank look. “So you can have lunch with her. So you can have a friend.”

              “Oh my God!” Holly groaned. She clapped her free hand over her eyes, hoping that when she pulled it away, Ava Lécuyer wouldn’t be approaching them, and this would all be a bad dream. “You can’t ask someone to be my friend!”

              When she peeked between her fingers, he was frowning at her. “You asked me to be your friend.”

              “That was a joke! That was my bad flirting! That was…well that was me asking you. You can’t go ask one of my customers to have lunch with me. Oh my God,” she repeated, “Michael, why? Why would you do this?”

              He kept frowning, but it was past the point of further argument, because there was Ava, standing beside Michael, in tall black boots and black coat, hints of makeup on her pale face, looking much more the writer than the biker wife.

              She smiled at Holly, a twinkle of amusement in her dark eyes. “Holly, I just happened to be driving by, and I had this crazy idea that you might like to walk up the block and have lunch with me at Stella’s.” A quick wink. She must have heard her exchange with Michael, and was going to forge ahead anyway.

              Holly was bombarded with shame, embarrassment, nervousness, but she nodded. Had Michael asked her about this before, she would have staunchly refused. But she couldn’t bear to be rude when Ava was waiting in front of her.

              She managed a weak smile. “That sounds nice.”

              “Let’s go get out of this cold,” Ava said, waving with her fingertips and turning to head up the sidewalk. “I’m sure Michael’s got cars to work on back at the shop anyway.” She shot a pointed look at him that Holly didn’t miss.
Leave us
, it said.
I’ve got this. Don’t worry
.

              Michael nodded. “I’ll come by later.”

              Then there was nothing else to do but fall into step beside Ava and walk with her to Stella’s Café on Market Square.

              Holly watched the toes of her boots, stepping over the cracks. She tugged her hands into her sleeves, felt the breath shuddering in her lungs, and sought desperately for some inane nicety to say. She was always so good at this: polite small talk with strangers, all smiles and charm and goodwill. But this was different, because Michael had asked this woman to come on her behalf. Ava was here out of obligation. And so Holly’s tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.

              When she heard Michael’s bike start up again, and knew he couldn’t hear them, she blurted, “I’m so sorry he asked you to do this. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. I think he thinks he’s being sweet, and helpful, but he doesn’t understand women, or social manners, or anything like that, and he’s really stepped in it. I’m so sorry, Ava.” She turned a pleading glance on the brunette beside her. “You don’t have to do this.”

              Ava frowned. “Do what? Eat lunch? Trust me, I do have to do that. When the morning sickness isn’t turning me inside out, I’m starving.”

              Holly took a deep breath, flustered and near tears. “You don’t have to spend time with me.”

              Ava came to a halt, forcing Holly to do the same, her long coat swinging dramatically around her calves. Her frown was thoughtful. “Do you know how many times Michael’s spoken to me?”

              Not sure where this was going, Holly shook her head.

              “Twice.” Ava held up two fingers. “The first time probably doesn’t count, because I think he was trying to ask me the same thing he did the second time he spoke to me.” Small smile. “The man doesn’t talk. He isn’t friendly – not even out of basic politeness. I think he even hates me. But he came to me and asked me to reach out to you. That’s how much he cares and worries about you.” Her smile became more serious. “I think, even if we never talk to each other again, that we ought to at least honor the fact that he’s so madly in love with you that he’s trying to find friends for you, just so you’ll be happy.”

              Holly opened her mouth – and could say nothing. For a moment, she couldn’t even breathe.

              Madly in love with her?

              She shook her head.

              Ava’s grin widened. “Oh yes. You grow up with this bunch, you learn how to speak Biker.” She leaned forward, preparing to take a step. “So, lunch? Stella’s the best cook in the city.”

              Holly finally swallowed. “Sure. I could eat.”

“The car’s registered to Abraham Jessup.” Ratchet glanced up at him, brows tucked together. A silent question about what the hell Michael was doing investigating Jessup on his own, since Ghost had said the club would maintain relations with him, for now.

              Michael ignored the look. “Address?”

              On his laptop, Ratchet pulled up a second browser window where he’d already tracked down Jessup’s house on Google Maps, and switched it to Earth mode, so they could see the street.

              “According to this, he’s in Pinewood, which is west of Nashville. Middle of nowhere,” Ratchet said. He zoomed in on the property with the cursor and Michael saw the white shape of a house, empty fields, a building he guessed was the barn, and lots and lots of woods.

              The place where Holly had been a prisoner for all of her life.

              “That’s not where he is now,” Michael said, frustrated. “Where’s he living around here?”

              Ratchet shrugged. “I know what you know. This is the address the vehicle registration gives me. I don’t have anything else to go on.”

              Michael nodded. “Thanks.”

              Another dead end.

“I’m gonna have the Greek salad, and the fettuccini,” Ava said, handing her unopened menu to the waiter.

              Holly took one last glance at the menu. “Bruschetta chicken, please.” She handed her menu over. “And the garden salad.”

              “That chicken’s fantastic,” Ava said as the waiter unclicked his pen and whisked away. “Stella has the sun dried tomatoes shipped in from Italy.”

              “Wow.” Holly took another glance around the small café.

              Part of a standard strip of retail space, the interior had been carefully crafted to look Old World and authentic, with golden frescoed walls, heavy ceiling timbers, bronze pendant lighting, wide floor tiles. There was a ventless gas heater inside the faux stone fireplace, and the bright flames gave off a fair amount of heat. Above, the mantel was heaped with jars of tomatoes, olives, and rich oil that fragmented the light. From where she sat, Holly could see the desserts in the bakery case, and was wondering how much the chocolate-dipped biscotti in the paper sleeves would cost, because she was probably going to have to have one as she left.

              “I’ve never been in here,” she confessed.

              Ava’s brows lifted. “You haven’t?”

              “I cook most of the time. Or eat at the bar, if there’s not time.”

              “You cook? I try. And fail a lot.” She laughed. “Poor Merc has been my guinea pig. I think I only gave him food poisoning once.”

              Holly grinned. “Did you really?”

              Ava nodded and made a face. “Undercooked chicken. It wasn’t pretty.”

              Holly winced. “Oops.”

              “He cooked dinner for a whole week after that,” Ava said with a laugh. “So it turned out for the best.”

              Holly grinned. “He cooks?”

              “Oh, yes. He’s French, you know.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “Never question a Frenchman’s prowess in the kitchen or the bedroom.”

              “Good to know.”

              “And if you do question it, be prepared for an earful and a demonstration.” Ava’s cheeks looked tinged with pink in the afternoon sunlight as she reached for her Sprite and took a sip.

              Holly sighed and couldn’t seem to help it. One of those sighs that always left her lips when she watched an old romantic movie. “You guys are so sweet together,” she said, before she could stop herself, then cringed with regret.

              Ava looked curious, but not offended.

              Blushing, Holly said, “I didn’t mean…well, it’s the way anyone who saw you could tell that you like being together. You’re friends. I don’t guess I expected to see that…”

              “Coming from a biker?” Ava guessed. “They do get a bit of a reputation, don’t they? It’s the bikes, and the cuts, and the leather.” She dropped her voice a notch. “And that whole ‘outlaw’ thing. Which” – she leaned across the table – “I gotta tell ya, that part’s not made up. They’re outlaws. Don’t get me wrong.”

              Holly nodded. So she’d learned. “That doesn’t bother me.”

              Ava studied her a moment, expression contemplative. “How much has Michael told you about the club?”

              “Not much. I didn’t ask, either. That’s not the reason I’m…with him.”

              Ava nodded, her smile approving. “There’s only two things you really have to know about it. One: the boys owe it their allegiance, their time, their livelihoods. And two: women are kept out of any and all club business. Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?”

              Holly nodded.

              “But most women can’t hack it. That’s not an insult to them – God knows they’re better off not aligning themselves with a massive international outlaw organization. But it’s that they don’t ever understand what the club is. It isn’t like a college fraternity. It isn’t like one of those riding clubs that dentists join when they buy Honda cruising bikes. It’s for damn sure not the biker crap they tried to pass off on
CSI
that time.”

              Holly grinned.

              “The club” – Ava pressed her lips together, thinking how she wanted to phrase it – “the club is outside of normal culture. The men who started it were returning war veterans, and when they felt ostracized and unappreciated by the people they’d fought to protect, they decided to start their own civilization, outside all the cultural norms of regular society. A counterculture. Their culture, their rules.” She lifted her brows in silent question.