“Great,” Tango said. “I bet we went to school with half of them.” Gesture between himself and Aidan.
“The boy and me,” Hound said of himself and Rottie, “went past their clubhouse today. Lot full of brand new bikes, looked like everyone was there. It’s a full house, boys.” He glanced around their loose circle. “I don’t relish the thought of charging in there.”
Ghost shook his head.Obviously, I’d never do that, his posture said, as he folded his arms. Then, with deliberate speculation, he turned to Aidan. “Did you actually go to school with any of them?”
Aidan perked up a fraction, like he couldn’t believe he’d been handed the spotlight. His voice became careful. “Yeah.” Fast glance to Tango. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Get in touch with them,” Ghost said. “We’ll go from there.”
Mercy didn’t like being idle, even after all these years. He hated sleeping in the dorms, without his books and his lamps and his privacy. He had plenty of bikes to work on in the shop, but he didn’t feel like working beyond his shift. He was too restless for the detail work of Harley engines.
Aidan had a breakfast meeting with one of Larsen’s boys the next day, someone he’d gone to school with named Greg, and until then, Ratchet and the tracker boys were digging for intel covertly.
“No sudden moves,” Ghost had said. “They’re expecting a big reaction after Andre. I won’t play right into their hands.”
So Mercy was homeless and without anything to do for the night. When RJ asked him to come along to Bell Bar for a pitcher and a look at the new bartenders, he jumped on the chance.
The bar hadn’t changed a bit on the inside, still old dark wood and oiled leather. It still smelled like hops and floor polish and the light was still the perfect blend of dim and cozy. There was the Muhammad Ali-autographed bell, in its place of honor above the bar. The TVs had been upgraded, but a mix of AC/DC and Skynyrd still dominated the sound system.
They got one of the high-top tables out in the middle of things. That had always felt like a statement, like the Dogs refusing to go hide in the corner. It also gave them the best view of the girls.
“So get this,” RJ said, leaning in closer to Mercy at their small round table. “This one, the brunette? Sweet as sugar, and she’s given every-damn-body the brush-off. Sweetly-like, but still.”
The brunette in question, in black tank top and purple silk boxing shorts, was coming toward them with a tray balanced deftly on her slight shoulder, their pitcher and mugs level and in no danger of falling. She wasn’t much taller than five feet, her hair a brilliant dark mane full of auburn shimmers; and built in that old Hollywood way, big tits and ample hips and a waist small enough to put her own hands around. Her face was all peaches and cream, little bow mouth, and as RJ had promised, there was an obvious sort of sweetness to her, a certain innocence about her as she drew up to the table and flashed them a smile.
Mercy wondered how much convincing it would take to get her out the back door into the alley.
“First pitcher’s on the house, boys,” she said cheerfully, setting the tray down and passing out their three mugs.
Walsh took his silently, but RJ flashed her a wide grin and said, “You’re a doll, Holly.”
Her mouth gave a self-deprecating little twist and she rolled her eyes, the move sincere and becoming on her. “Don’t thank me, thank Jeff,” she said of the bar’s owner. “He says you guys are a great tourist attraction.” Quick smile with dimples, sparkle in the eyes. They were green, Mercy noted. Bright, glittering green.
She turned them up to him, her expression friendly, polite, good-natured…and without a hint of invitation. There wasn’t a thing flirtatious about her as she said, “You’re new.” It was a bold statement, and could have been punctuated by a saucy hip swivel and lowered lashes. But from her, it was just a statement, this bright punch of words off her tongue. And Mercy had been on the receiving end of enough lasciviousness to know that this girl had not a scrap of sexual intent in her. In fact…maybe…yeah, there was a touch of nervousness there, a little raw scab of fear she was good at hiding. You couldn’t change the smell of fear, though, and beneath her gardenia perfume, Mercy could smell the fear. That was his job, after all.
Huh.
“Yeah,” he said. “Mercy.”
“Holly,” she said, with a little dip that was almost a curtsy, flashing her dimples. “Lemme know if you need anything else.” She looked at all three of them then. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few.” And off she went with a swish of silky shorts to another table, tray tucked under one small arm.
“See?” RJ said. “She’s just…something’s off.” He shook his head and poured the beer, frowning as he tried to puzzle it out.
“She’s scared,” Walsh said. A quick glance to the Englishman’s ever-present flat expression proved that he’d detected the fear, too. His blue eyes touched Mercy’s and they acknowledged each other’s perception. “Of what, who knows. But she ain’t interested in letting any of us help her figure it out.”
RJ snorted. “Not us, no. But she’s got her sights on somebody for sure.” He motioned across the bar with his mug, and Mercy was surprised to see that Michael had a corner booth all to himself.
The guy was reading, some thick hardback book open on the table in front of him, hand stroking idly through the condensation on his beer mug. His usual lack of expression seemed appropriate for once, given what he was doing. If it weren’t for the cut, and the hard bulges of muscle visible beneath the long, thin sleeves of his shirt, he would have looked like a professor. As it was, the benign, emotionless picture was set off by a certain terrifying aura of calculated violence.
And Holly made a beeline for him, sliding into the booth across from him, letting her tray rest against the seat, propping an elbow on the table and saying something to him with a smile that set her whole face to glowing.
“Michael?” Mercy asked. “She likes him?”
RJ nodded. “Asks about him when he isn’t here. Always trying to get us to give her details about him. Poor girl’s got it bad. And he doesn’t even know she exists.”
As if to prove the point, Michael’s head lifted from the book slowly, his gaze impassive as it moved over the girl’s face. He gave a fractional nod in response to something she’d said. Then lifted the left side of the book, showing her the cover. Holly grinned again and launched into a happy burst of chatter. Michael watched her with the detached scrutiny of some woodland predator. And there were all the signals Holly hadn’t given the rest of them: the curve of her body, the way she squeezed her breasts together, the soft tilt to her chin, the way her hand kept creeping across the table like she wanted to take hold of him.
Mercy glanced away. “The world’s a fucked up place.”
