“You might want to mainline that,” Ava said, gesturing to the coffee.
“Oh, I missed you,” he grumbled.
Maggie swatted him hard on the side of the head without taking her eyes off Ava, smiling. “Well, don’t you look…” Her smile, brittle already, began to crack around the edges.
“Like a yuppie,” Ava said. “Yeah, I know. Bye, Mom, I’ll call you in a bit.”
“I didn’t say yuppie,” Maggie called as she was walking toward the front door.
“You were thinking it, though.” Ava snagged the keys to Maggie’s CTS from the bowl in the entryway. “Love you.”
“Drive safe.”
It all felt very much like being back in high school, down to the bummed ride. Ronnie had scheduled several apartment showings for the morning while she was at her appointment, and she’d lent him her truck. It had been Maggie’s truck, once. It had been nearly totaled once; Ava still smelled the stink of gas and motor oil, still heard the hiss of steam in her nightmares sometimes.
She hit the unlock button on the black Caddy’s fob and then came to a startled halt. Jace wasn’t in the kitchen to sober up, she realized. He was there as sentry, because there was one waiting for her behind the car, lounging against his parked bike.
A young man she didn’t recognize snapped to alert at her appearance. He was in a cut, but without the usual accoutrements. She caught a clean white Prospect patch over one breast pocket. He was very tall and very thin, his hair a mop of unruly mud-brown twists. He had faint acne scars along his chin, and washed-out blue eyes.
“Ma’am,” he greeted as he dialed a number on his cellphone and then pressed it to his ear. Into the phone, he said, “Yes, sir, she’s here.” Then he extended the phone toward her. “Your dad,” he explained. “So you know I am who I say I am.”
Ava eyed him with impatient curiosity as she took the cell. “Dad, is this necessary?”
Ghost’s voice was never less imposing over the phone. “Absolutely it is.”
Ava sighed. Other girls could wheedle cars and gifts and larger allowances from their fathers. Hers was immovable in all things. “I’m on my way to the college. I don’t want to roll up with an armed guard.”
“Tough. Say hi to Littlejohn; he’s your new shadow until further notice.”
The line disconnected.
Anger boiled inside her, an anger that hadn’t existed during her childhood and teenage years. For five years, Ghost had been content to leave her in Athens, Georgia, without any MC protection or support, convinced it was the best way to keep her away from Mercy’s influence. All those nights she’d walked to her truck in the dark, gone to restaurants and bars, sat in movie and drama theaters, perused the shelves of bookstores until they shoved her out the door at closing time – where had Ghost’s orders and bodyguards been then? She’d learned to watch out for herself. She had a concealed weapons carry permit. She had a family heirloom knife she kept on her at all times and a .38 she carried when she could. For five years, she’d governed herself, and now here was Ghost, archaic and unstoppable in his paternal domination.
It was an impotent anger, though. What could she do? This lackey would follow her regardless.
She handed his phone back. “I didn’t see any prospects last night.”
“I’m new, ma’am. They gave me this first thing this morning,” he said, plucking at the side of his new leather cut. “Me and Harry.” He held his head at a deferential tilt, glancing up at her though he stood so much taller. “We were the ones who went with you down to see Andre.”
“Oh.” Her face warmed; in her haste last night, she’d never noticed what either of those hangarounds had looked like.
“We’ve been wanting to prospect for a long time now. Your dad got voted in as president this morning, and then he told us to come into the chapel, and made us prospects.”
“That’s how it tends to work,” she said. “Alright, well, I’m Ava.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She reached for his limp hand at his side and gave it a shake. “No ‘ma’am,’ please. I’m so not a ma’am.” She turned to the Caddy, opened the backseat and set her briefcase inside. It was with mixed amusement and resignation that she accepted his escort. “Try and keep up,” she told him, sliding behind the wheel. “I don’t want to be late.”
Ten
Ava bought a bag of chips and a Mountain Dew for Littlejohn the prospect and left him leaning against a campus vending machine with instructions to “look casual” and “not wander.” He called her ma’am again and she rolled her eyes before she made her way inside to her appointment.
Her advisor was a round, motherly woman with a cozy office papered in Shakespeare playbills and a bowl with two calico goldfish perched on a file cabinet. Mrs. Waltham. She welcomed Ava, shook her hand and sprinkled flakes to the goldfish with her free hand. In her red short-sleeved sweater and white crop pants, she reminded Ava of a little red mushroom. Her office was cluttered and disorganized in the way of all literary-minded people.
Ava had learned, during undergrad, that mapping out her schedule with her advisors earned their favor, and guaranteed she navigated the wild waters of Course Offering without missing a single credit. Her friend Sierra had thrown a huge graduation bash…only to be notified that she was missing three math credits, and would be forced to hold off graduation for another semester. So with Mrs. Waltham, she plotted her grad school schedule, talked about policy and tuition and all the dirty details she felt were better discussed in person. In the process, she established herself in her advisor’s mind – no longer a name on a list, but a face and a smile and a sickeningly tasteful outfit.
“Ava,” Mrs. Waltham said, sitting back in her chair once they were done sorting classes. “The story that was published inThe Scene– ‘Falling’ – it was a really smart piece.”
