Brat. At some point in the last five years, Ava had grown herself a sturdier backbone. There was a coldness in her now, down deep under her skin, one that he’d created, if he was honest. He didn’t like it. He wanted his adoring, worshipful girl back. Instead, he had this mostly-grown little woman who could spend all night clawing him up and then turn him away the next morning. It pissed him off; it was hot as hell. And it was just a phase, he was convinced. He had some making up for lost time to do, but then she’d come back around.
Halfway to the clubhouse, he ran across Michael’s statue-still frame throwing a long shadow across the asphalt. He drew up to a halt beside him, only a little curious what had stopped the man in his tracks this time.
Without being asked, Michael gestured toward the clubhouse portico.
In its shade, Ghost stood with Fielding, his posture more threatening than defensive. “…no one in the world is as stupid as they’re claiming I am,” Ghost was saying, one hand on his hip, the other gesticulating aggressively.
“You know what it looks like,” Fielding said, voice patient. “I have to enquire…”
“And there’s that,” Michael said, pointing across the lot toward the perimeter fence, and Industrial Road. A small knot of people holding signs were pacing back and forth along the fence. Mercy caught the wordsNo Moreand felt a heaviness in his gut.
“Protesters?”
Michael nodded.
“People bothered to make signs and come protest us? Jesus Christ, get a life.”
“They could be plants,” Michael said. “Either way: bad press.”
Mercy sighed. “When are you and me going hunting?” He didn’t relish the idea, but he wanted to do something. Sitting around was lethal for him.
“Dunno. When the boss tells us,” Michael said, voice laced with patience.
Fielding walked out from under the portico, shaking his head, and Ghost came toward them, face a thunderhead.
“Motherfucker,” he said when he was in earshot, not to either of them specifically, just to vent. “I give it three days,” he said, “before we’ve got every soccer mom in the county camped out on our street.”
“So push back. Get the Lean Bitches out washing cars in bikinis,” Mercy suggested. “Soccer moms won’t stand around and watch that.”
Ghost shook his head, frowning toward the small gathering of protesters. “I figured things would get worse ‘fore they got better. But this? I can’t fight the city.” He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion taking hold of his face, making it look drawn and lined. “I don’t have the resources for that.”
Michael spoke up, his voice almost soothing, though businesslike as always. It surprised Mercy, to hear him offer something like consolation to their president – to anyone. “We have the charity event next week. That’ll help. And we’ll handle the Carpathians.”
“Speaking of which,” Mercy said. “Where do you want us, boss? What can we do?”
Ghost sent him a stern look. “Youcan take my girls home for me. That’s what I need right now.”
Maybe it shouldn’t have - just like old times, after all – but the order surprised him. “Me?”
Ghost smirked. “Did I stutter? Yeah, you. Littlejohn does a good job, but I take it you’re moreinvested.”
“True.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay that way.”
Mercy grinned. “Do I smell a shotgun wedding? I’ve wanted to call you Daddy for so long now.”
“Fuck you,” Ghost said, turning. “And stay with them till I get there.”
At first, she thought it was a ploy, Mercy coming back into the office, all official and removed, telling them that it was time to go home for the day, and that he’d escort them.Sure, she thought.But your plan sucks. Just you and me alone in the house together…with my mom.
But then she saw the protesters. She counted about ten, as they were driving out, and a minivan parked on the shoulder was letting off more. All held double-sided poster-board signs on sticks. Ava was able to read the marker-drawn message on one:Send the Gang to Gangland. This Is Not California. As they passed, she read another:Knoxville Moms Against Violence. Send the Dogs to the Pound.
Her hands grew clammy on the wheel. She checked her rearview and saw Mercy on his Dyna close behind her, and the sight of him quelled the leaping pulse in her stomach.
As she followed her mom’s Caddy through the heart of the city, past the Main and Market shops and restaurants, she saw the heads turn their way, eyes and ears drawn by the black bike and the man flying Dogs’ colors. So many of the proprietors knew Maggie’s black Cadillac, and probably Ava’s black truck. She saw the expressions on the faces: curiosity, doubt, fright, even hostility.
A sign, in the window of As A Daisy:Knoxville Moms Against Violence.
