Mav squinted up at the leaden sky and watched a silent tongue of lightning flicker between the clouds. “It’s gonna rain, boys.” Thunder, distant and rolling, like a bowling ball down a lane. “Scratch that, it’s gonna storm. We gotta hurry this up.”
“We’re hurrying!”
Frankie was, but Stu definitely wasn’t.
“Fuckin’ – lift with your legs!” Frankie shouted at him.
“I’m trying!”
Mav cast another glance at the sky and was rewarded by another flash of lightning.
For the past five years, the headquarters of the New York chapter of the Lean Dogs MC had resided in a two-story brick house in the middle of a subdivision that had grown decidedly more hostile about late night bike start-ups and loud parties as time went by. They’d long since worn out their welcome; what had started as a temporary situation, a place for them to have church – the president, Marco’s, own home – had turned into a semi-permanent occupation. Marco’s wife, April, had grudgingly made room for larger sofas, and even a pool table, and her downstairs had been overrun by bikers and biker memorabilia.
They’d finally secured a new place, though: a proper industrial building with a bike shop in front, and a clubhouse in back, separated by a concrete lot where they could string up lights and a pavilion, and party all night, with drum fires and everything.
Today was moving day.
If these idiots would get a move on.
Frankie and Stu had been trying unsuccessfully for at least fifteen minutes now to navigate one of the long, sectional couches in through the back door of the new clubhouse. Stu almost dropped his end again, and Mav stepped forward with a sigh. It seemed he had to do everything around here. They couldn’t even find a prospect who knew how to use a mop properly.
He stepped in next to the kid and added his own hands to the arm of the sofa. “Here, we’ve gotta get it higher so the angles will work. On three, ready? One, two–”
Later, when his eyes fluttered open at last in the hospital, he would remember what happened in quick, colorful snatches, all of it disjointed, pieced together with unmatched edges as he struggled to come up with the reasonswhy.
He would remember being picked up like a rag doll, being thrown. A terrible force like a wave knocking him back at the beach. Something heavy on top of him: the sofa. A flash of blinding light. And, belatedly, the sound. A roar like a train, like thunder, like his bike when he cranked it.
He caught a glimpse of fire and black smoke in the sky. And then hot wetness ran in his eyes, and the inside of his skull rang like a struck gong, and everything was black.
Forty-Three
Mother’s Day dawned bright and warm. Ghost knew a rare kind of nerves, deep in his belly, and he smoked two cigarettes in quick succession in the kitchen while Maggie showered and did her hair. “Don’t judge me,” he said to Ash, who only blinked at him and continued to shove mushy Cheerios into his mouth.
Maggie sailed into the room a few minutes later, with all the grace and poise of her debutante days – he enjoyed reminding her occasionally that the training had stuck, no matter how hard she’d resisted – and said, “You’ve been smoking.” Not an accusation, but he folded his arms all the same and made a face.
She grinned. “Just admit you’re never gonna quit.”
“No, I’m gonna.”
“Sure, baby.” She patted his cheek, and he leaned into the touch a moment, purely indulgent.
She had her purse on the table, and she checked it before she went to hoist Ash out of his high chair. “You finally gonna tell me what this surprise is?”
“Nope. That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
She turned to him, Ash on her hip, expression delighted – and devious, suddenly. “Kenneth Teague. You’re nervous.”
“No.”
She smiled. “You’re a lying chain-smoker who’s nervous. I love it.”
They took the truck, because they had Ash. He still sometimes marveled that they’djustgotten the house to themselves, and could go out on his bike together, and now they had a kid in diapers again. It felt fitting, though, on Mother’s Day.
They were expected at Ava and Mercy’s for family brunch at eleven, but they’d left a little early. He slowed when they reached Bell Bar, and found a parking spot along the curb.
“Did you want me to look at the tile choices for the bathroom?” Maggie asked, gesturing through the window at the bar, managing to sound almost eager and not as annoyed as he knew she must be.
“No, not now. Come on.”
