“And your knack for ass-kissing,” Rottie said.
Tango grinned, proud of himself, and lit a smoke with a deft flick of his lean, tatted thumb.
Everyone was present. Party-hearty Jace had had a woman’s fingers through his hair; there was a lipstick smudge on his jaw and he stank of sex. RJ and Collier were in the middle of an intense discussion about the merits of their respective bike models. Hound and his former apprentice – soon to be successor – Rottie, were still thick as thieves, sitting beside one another, dark-headed Rottie leaning into gray-haired Hound to hear what his mentor had to say. Ratchet, his shaved head shiny under the chandelier, settled with an air of comical stateliness, given the size of his biceps and the squareness of his face. He looked like a nightclub bouncer, in black muscle shirt and his Dogs cut, but was the club secretary, a role he took with the utmost seriousness. Michael took his seat without speaking to anyone, as flat-faced as ever. Walsh was smoking and cleaning the dirt from under his nails with a switchblade. Dublin examined the way Briscoe’s stitches were closing over, nodding in satisfaction at the way the red skin on the other man’s arm was knitting together.
Then Ghost entered, and side conversation stopped.
Behind him, Ernest James, president of the Tennessee chapter of the Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club for over thirty years, stepped up to his seat at the head of the table for the last time.
A sudden hush fell over the room. The reverence was a tangible thing, a pulse through all their veins.
Mercy took his seat beside Hound and felt lucky to be included amongst these men on this night. The other out of town members partied on down the hall, not privy to this moment.
Ghost took his chair to the left of the head, but James lingered a moment, hands on the carved back of his chair, his eyes moving around the table with a telltale sheen glossing their aged blue depths.
“Boys,” he greeted with a shaky grin.
“Boss,” they all chorused, slapping the tabletop.
He bowed his head a moment; Mercy saw the tiny tremors in his shoulders. When he lifted his face, his eyes came to Mercy, and he smiled, a stronger smile. “Merc. Glad you’re back, kid.”
“Me too.”
The room was so silent as the president pulled back his chair and sat, arranging his new hip carefully, wincing. “Alright.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve got two things to vote on tonight.” His gaze went around the room again. “And…wait, where’s Andre?”
Six
Fourteen Years Ago
Before she’d ever been old enough to question the idea, Ava had grown used to the random member asleep on the couch when she walked through the house to breakfast. On an autumn Saturday, she found the newest member of the Tennessee chapter sprawled across the sofa, under the Picasso print, his impossibly long legs hanging off one end, his face mashed into one of Maggie’s red pillows.
Mercy, she remembered his name with a bright note of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Mercy, who was so tall and who possessed such massive hands that needed growing into, and who had intriguing eyebrows she wanted trace with her fingertips.
Maggie was in the kitchen – the scents of bacon, hash browns and eggs rolled in thick waves through the house, the hissing of the skillet riding along the tides of smell – but Ava lingered a moment, her child’s attention captured by this big new stranger taking up the entire sofa. She moved closer to him without being conscious of it; she leaned toward him and then realized her feet were taking her even closer, until she stood right in front of his face.
What rich skin he had, sun kissed and resilient, gleaming in the incoming shafts of morning sunlight. His stubble and brows and hair, so dark by contrast, brought a sinister structure to his face. Even sleeping, he looked fierce and dangerous. Like Mr. Hogan’s long-tailed, pointed-eared dog that slept in the shade of his butcher shop awning. “Come away from him,” Maggie always said, taking Ava’s hand, pulling her in close and out of reach of the dog’s sleeping jaws. In this moment, staring at Mercy, Ava would not have been surprised to see her mother appear beside her. “Come away from him,” and then the gentle towing away.
Instead, Mercy inhaled sharply, and his eyes opened.
Ava waited for the startle to hit her – to jump back and gasp and flail behind her for the edge of the coffee table. But it didn’t come, and she didn’t shrink from him.
She smiled. “Hi.”
Surprise showed itself in his features. Without lifting his head, his eyes searched the room to either side of her. He took a big breath and let it out. Then he looked straight at her. “Hi.”
With all the curious, bald honesty of a child, she said, “Did you come here because you were really tired? Or because you were drunk?”
There was surprise again, as a rich, dark chuckle broke from his throat.
Ava kicked her chin up, not sure if she should feel embarrassed. “I know what drunk is.”
“I’m sure you do, sweetheart.”
“So which are you?”
He pushed up on his elbows, and then sat, swinging up to his full, impressive height. “A little bit of both, actually.”
Maggie’s bare feet whispered across the carpet. “Oh, you’re awake. You want something to eat? Is she bothering you?”
