“So’s being married to one,” Maggie added, cheerfully, and he grinned.
A cellphone trilled, somewhere in the house.
“Mine,” Ghost said, standing.
As he left the room, the news caught Maggie’s attention.
“…breaking story coming to us live from Walter Brantwell in the field.” The camera cut to an image of leaping flames against the black, predawn sky. Not a campfire, no. It was a building that burned like a torch.
Another cut, this time to the reporter in his light wool jacket, serious face, mike in hand, gloved fingers pressed to the piece in his ear as he struggled to hear the crew back at the studio.
“Walter, what can you tell us?” the desk anchor said.
Walter nodded. “I’m standing in front of Milford Mattress…”
Ghost reappeared, expression grim, and Maggie knew their morning was over. “Get dressed and I’ll follow you in.” Kenny her husband was gone, replaced by Ghost the MC president. “Shit just blew up. Literally.”
**
“If it gets infected, it’s your fault.”
“Hmph.”
At six-fifteen, the first brush of gold had passed along the tops of the trees. The incoming light had paled to a deep gray in the high window above the bed. The lamps were back on, and by their glow, Ava cleaned and repacked Mercy’s wound. His hair was tied back in a neat queue, out of her way; she missed passing her fingers through it already.
“And then what are you going to tell the doctor when you’re finally forced to go to the ER? ‘Ya see, doc, first I got shot, then I refused to have the wound cleaned because I was too busy trying to get it all night.’ ”
“Trying?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Getting it,” she amended. “To excess.” The last edge of tape went down. “There. All done.” She set the gauze and tape roll on the desk, and was pulled off her feet, into Mercy’s lap, the breath knocking out of her when she landed.
“Oh no,” she said with a mock groan. “Evenyoucan’t go again. Not possible.”
He pulled an affronted face. “I want my girl to sit with me, and suddenly I’m asking for something? Am I really that disgusting?”
She opened her mouth to respond –
And someone knocked on the door.
Thirty-Five
“Who in the hell in this place is awake before seven?” Ava asked. She bolted off Mercy’s lap, hands going to the long hem of his t-shirt that she wore and tugging it down on impulse.
The look he threw toward the door was hateful. His voice was easy when he told her, “The door’s locked, remember? Just calm down.” He made a waving motion toward the bathroom. “Stand over there.” He stood, like an adult unfolding himself from a tiny child’s chair. She would have grinned if her heart hadn’t been knocking at the base of her throat.
In nothing but his jeans, he opened the door a crack, put on a fierce scowl, and said, “What the fuck?” to whoever waited on the other side. “It’s six in the goddamn morning.”
Ava pressed her knuckles to her mouth when she recognized her brother’s voice. “There was a fire during the night,” Aidan said. “Sorry the carnage couldn’t wait till you’d grabbed a few more hours’ sleep.”
She watched Mercy stiffen, his frame tightening. He didn’t get frightened in these sorts of situations, but excited. Kid-on-Christmas excited. “A fire here?”
“Nah. It’s worse than that.” There was a sound like his knuckles rapping against the doorframe. “Dad’s on his way in. He wants us all at table by seven.”
Mercy nodded, sighed. “Yeah.”
“Oh,” Aidan said, voice rising. “Ava, did you think nobody would recognize your truck?”
She bit the backs of her fingers and felt her face go scarlet. It was an easy thing to say she didn’t care in the dark, behind a locked door, with Mercy’s hands on her. But at dawn, in front of an all-too-knowing audience of his brothers – one of which was her own brother – she didn’t know how to assert herself. She didn’t have a leg to stand on in the daylight.
