“What?” Ava asked.
Maggie wrapped her hands around the cool glass in front of her and tipped her head, her body language an apology before she spoke. “You and Mercy sitting on the steps…”
Ava gripped the back of her chair hard. She felt her jaw clench and tried to keep her breathing regular. Just the suggestion that her mother knew sent her into immediate fight-or-flight mode, and since she was a Teague, fight was winning out. “Mom–”
“I understand,” Maggie said. “Trust me, baby, I understand more than anyone else in the world.” Her little smile said,Pregnant at your age, remember?“There’s pain there, Ava. It would be so messy and it would hurt you so bad.”
Ava swallowed and stared down at her white knuckles. “You think I don’t know that?”
Maggie’s voice was all sympathy. “That’s why you went with Carter tonight, wasn’t it?”
“And look how well that turned out.”
Maggie exhaled in a tired-sounding rush. “Yeah. Sit down and drink your wine.”
Mercy saw the car turn in at the main clubhouse gate via the closed circuit monitor behind the bar. The black and white security camera feed showed a low-slung Mercedes glide up to the clubhouse and park alongside the tidy row of bikes.
“Company,” he announced, turning to face his VP.
They were a skeleton crew tonight, because this was family business, and not club business. James was there, and Aidan, and Mercy, because Ghost had enfolded him into his family after all these years of loyal, personal service.
Aidan lounged in a recliner with a magazine, and eased to his feet, a subtle tension stealing over him. He was a little more graceful these days, a little less overexcited, though he was still kind of a lovable douchebag.
James was at the bar, nondescript and relaxed, always the soft-spoken patriarch.
Ghost had the air of an emperor about him in the center of the common room, hands on his hips, as the front door squealed open and their guest of the evening entered without knocking.
As the rap of expensive dress shoes came down the corridor, Ghost called out: “That’s a good way to get shot, Mason, walking in unannounced.”
The footsteps paused a second, then came on, Mason Stephens Sr. making his finely-groomed, perfectly posh entrance. Mercy spotted the cufflinks, the Rolex, the breeding in the lines of his face. This was old school, Old South money. His was a family that could trace its roots back to landing at Plymouth Rock.
Stephens cast a glance around the room, searching all of them out, counting how many he stood up against. Mercy saw his nerves. The hunter in him detected the other man’s cold, ruthless interior – and the hidden deposits of fear. Stephens was full to the gills with fear, just like every man. In one glance, Mercy knew where to find that fear, and how to exploit, should it come to that.
“Not that I care,” Ghost said, “but how’s your boy?”
Stephens charged two steps forward, and his face flushed with anger. “He’s almost dead! I swear to God, Teague–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ghost said, hands raised. “You swear to whoever the hell you want to, but your kid, he didn’t get that shit from us.”
Stephens fumed silently a moment, veins popping along his temples and forehead. Then he gathered himself visibly, tugging on his fancy cuffs, forcing a professional calm across his surface. “No, and how convenient for you,” he said, tone brisk and furious. “But don’t feed me that shit you told the police before.” Some of his shaken confidence returned; he pulled on his superiority, like a mantle.
“Dartmoor,” he sneered. “Yourlegitimatebusiness.” He spat the word. “Did you tell the police the names of the side companies Dartmoor funnels money into? Did you explain to them that your very legitimate money funds the man who sold that shit to my son?”
Mercy swallowed the bitter taste of that truth. That was what Ava didn’t know, what he’d never tell her. The Dogs used their real businesses as a way to fund riskier, more profitable illegitimate businesses. To the outside world, the Dogs had gone legit, but they’d never been more outlaw.
“ ‘Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghost said.
Stephens’ anger boiled over again. “Bullshit!” He stepped in closer to Ghost, close enough that Aidan edged in alongside them.
“James,” Ghost said mildly over his shoulder, “do we sell designer drugs to stupid punks who OD on them?”
“That’d be a no, brother,” James said with a helpful smile. “We’re just a bunch of entrepreneurs and Harley aficionados, Mr. Stephens,” he told Mason. “I guess people’ve seen too many movies; they think we’re some kinda devils or something,” he said with an easy laugh. “Imagine that, Merc,” he added.
“I just can’t,” Mercy said, shrugging. “How could anybody get such a wrong idea about us?”
Stephens’ eyes darted between the four of them, his jaw clenching tight. “This is how you do it, isn’t it? Plausible deniability. I ought to bring my financial advisor by; you could teach him a thing or two about immaculate bookkeeping.”
“Great. Have your people call my people,” Ghost said, “and we’ll set up a consultation. ‘Cause this meeting’s over, Mason.”
