Price of Angels (9 page)

Holly’s left hand shook too violently to manage the roll of gauze tape that Steph had handed her with an aggravated huff before storming back out of the locker room. Holly stood with her injured hand held over the sink, the blood drip, drip, dripping down into the basin, a red splash for every thump of her pulse. In the mirror, her reflection stared back, white as a sheet, skin so clammy little baby fine hairs at her hairline were clinging to her forehead and temples. She looked like the proverbial girl who’d seen a ghost, because she had. The ghost of her childhood…and her ruined womanhood. She heard the breath whistling through her lips and felt the drain of blood from her face, like she might faint, but she couldn’t get the panic under control, not this time. In some way, breaking free had weakened her, because now she knew how frightened she always should have been.

              She jerked when she heard the door swing open and footfalls started across the floor. It was only Matt, his reflection rearing up behind hers in the mirror.

              “Hey, you okay?” he called, and then he drew close enough to see her hand. “Do you need help?.”

              Holly dampened her lips and forced her throat to work. “I – I can’t manage the tape with one hand.” Not when she was shaking like this.

              “Let me see it,” Matt offered, and she put the gauze in his outstretched hand. “Hold this on it.” He secured the square sanitary pad over the slice. “You already washed it?”

              “Yeah.”

              With quick, sure movements, he began to wind the tape around and around; the pad soaked through with blood almost instantly, and he kept wrapping.

              “I’ve never seen you drop a tray before,” he commented, his dark head bent over her upturned palm.

              “I’ve never dropped one,” she said, realizing the words were true. Back home, the penalty for screwing anything up was so severe that she’d learned to never screw up. She didn’t drop things, didn’t trip, didn’t burn the bacon, didn’t even cough out of turn.

              Matt’s eyes flicked up to her, sympathetic, worried, curious. “What happened out there?”

              She shrugged. She couldn’t afford to tell him anything. “I thought I saw someone I knew and it startled me. Jeff can take the cost of the broken plates out of my paycheck.”

              Matt snorted, breath rushing across her forearm. “Jeff doesn’t care about a couple of plates.”

              She took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry about Carly, too. If I’d stayed, she never would have–”

              Matt cut her off with a firm headshake, securing the bandage and stepping back so he could meet her gaze. “That was just a freak thing. If it hadn’t been Carly, then it would have been you. The guy, whoever the sick freak is, he woulda killed whoever came out that door.”

              “Maybe. But it would have been better for everyone if it had been me.”

              “Holly.” He swallowed, and his brows tucked together, his frown troubled. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

              That she was more deserving of death than some other innocent girl? Yes, she thought that.

“You don’t like them,” Ratchet observed as Abraham and Dewey were pushing out the front door of Bell Bar, bright winter sun streaming in around them and making them look grimy and countrified.

              “No shit.” Mercy took a hard slug of his water – if anyone was capable of such a thing with water. “They set my creep meter to twitching.” He wagged his index finger back and forth through the air to demonstrate.

              Ratchet gave him a polite frown. “I think that comes with the territory.”

              “Well, they’re all no-good shitheads, I’ll give you that. But Fisher doesn’t make my skin crawl, not like these guys.”

              Ratchet gave him a level, openly curious look. “There’s things that can make your skin crawl?”

              “Fuck you,” Mercy said, good-naturedly, reaching for his water again. “And where’s our food?”

From the dark hallway, tucked into the alcove where the payphone was hung, Holly watched unseen as Abraham and Dewey left the bar. She let out a deep breath, the adrenaline washing out of her in a big rush that left her dizzy and faint. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk, and clutched at the pointed edge of the wall in her little hiding spot.

              She had no idea what those two had wanted with Mercy and Ratchet, but she felt a desperate, clawing sort of dread. If Abraham and Dewey got on friendly terms with the club, then she had no hope of ever turning a member – one member in particular – to her cause. No way would some waitress merit more consideration than friends of the club. If she wanted Michael’s help, it would have to be soon. Tonight. She’d have to tell him tonight.

              “No” wasn’t such a risk in the bitter cold light of today.

There’d been a time in his life when working late hadn’t been an imposition. When there’d been nothing but his books waiting on him at home. Not that he hadn’t loved reading by the lamplight, but these days, there was a lot more incentive to get his ass home when he punched out every day. And this day, Ghost hadn’t made him work OT, so at five, Mercy headed straight for the apartment, a bright warmth filling his chest that blotted out the lingering pain in his bad leg, and the sour remnants of that afternoon’s business meeting.

              The light was fading as he made his way up the iron staircase to his door, and his knee grabbed and fussed at him for the strain of all those steps. He pushed the sensations down, drawing out his keys while he hummed to himself. Last week, he’d come home to cooking smells and cheery greetings and warm kisses, all before he could take his jacket off. Ava had been using this break before she started back to class in January to tackle cookbook after cookbook, succeeding more than she failed these days, even if the noodles were a little crunchy and the bread a little too brown on the bottom. That’s what it was supposed to be like with a new, young wife, wasn’t it? Slightly bad dinners and exuberant, newlywed conversation traded over them.

              Tonight, though, there was no smell save the soft floral notes of their laundry detergent. The living room, when he stepped in, was soft with lamplight, and warm as a hearth fire, the TV mumbling at a low volume. He smiled when he saw Ava – curled up in a corner of the sofa, head propped on its arm, asleep with a pair of socks in her lap and the laundry basket at her feet – and closed and latched the door without making a sound.

              He stepped out of his boots and went to her quietly, crouched down in front of her and smoothed her hair back off her face. His knee pained him; he ignored it. She looked very young and very sweet, her face soft in sleep.

              At his touch, her eyes fluttered open and she snatched in a fast breath. “What?” The momentary tension left her when she spotted him. “Hi.”

              “Hi.” He smoothed his thumb down the silken skin of her cheek because he liked the feel of it. “Did you get sleepy?”

              “Mm.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “It’s the baby. I just can’t fight the naps.”

              He laughed, because he couldn’t help it. He loved when she talked about the baby. He loved the idea of some secret communication between mother and child as it grew inside her. His own mother had hated him from conception. To see Ava loving and wanting the baby he’d given her, already, when it was so tiny, restored some of his lost faith in humanity. He had faith in her, anyway, in her ability to be the kind of mother he’d never had.

              “You want me to make dinner?” he offered, still touching her face, because they were married now, and he could do that.

              She sat up straighter, looking startled. “Dinner, shit. What times is it? I was going to have it ready when you got home.” She tossed the socks into the laundry basket and tried to get to her feet.

              Mercy stayed in the way, not letting her up, smiling as his hand fell to her knee. “Relax. I didn’t have to stay late. It’s only five-fifteen.”

              She slumped again, eyelids heavy, clearly exhausted. “Oh.” Then she rallied. “I’m gonna cook, though. I have stuff to make chicken parm.”

              His stomach growled at the idea. “Yeah?”

              She nodded and made a little shooing gesture. “Yeah. Pasta actually sounds good to me right now. Let me up, and I can go make it.”

              “Okay.” But he didn’t move right away, thumb brushing over the inside seam of her leggings where they covered her knee.

              Ava propped her elbows on her thighs and leaned forward, so her face was right in his face, her smile sleepy, and stirring things in him, the way her hair was all a mess. “What are you doing?” she asked, smile widening, little flash of white teeth showing.

              “Looking at you.”

              “Uh-huh. Why?”

              “A girl got killed at Bell Bar last night after we left. One of the waitresses.”

              Her smile faded. “Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “I heard it on the news. And then Mom called to tell me about it.”

              “That was right down the street from us,” Mercy said, a trace of panic tickling at his gut. “And you’re here all day by yourself. And there’s a murderer out there somewhere…”

              She reached out and stroked a fingertip down the length of his nose. “And I have lots of locks on the door and guns in the closet. And I know how to use them,” she added, brows lifting.

              “I know you do,” he consented. “Doesn’t much help with the worry, though.”

              She smiled again, heaving a little sigh that was cute and sweet. “Alright.” She kissed his forehead. “Let me up so I can cook.”

              He stood, finally, reaching down a hand for her. “I’ll help you.”

              Together they went into the fifties-era kitchen, clean and white, as he’d left it just over five years ago. Mercy pulled the heavy cast iron skillet and the large pasta pot from the overhead rack, while Ava cracked eggs into an empty casserole dish to use for the egg wash. When his phone rang, he braced a hip against the counter and answered it, watching – pleased, delighted, a touch surprised – as Ava carried on without him, filling another casserole with seasoned flour and crumbled parmesan cheese, defrosting the chicken breasts.

              “ ‘Lo?” he said, without checking the screen first.

              It was Ghost, his brusque voice unmistakable, even over the phone like this. “You got home alright?” he asked without preamble.

              “Making dinner right now,” Mercy assured. When Ava cast him a quick glance over her shoulder, he said, “Helping make dinner, actually. Chef Little Missus wants me to be clear about that.”

              Ava smiled and turned back to her work, slicing into the chicken package with a knife.

              “Everything was in order?” Ghost said, not amused by the joke.

              “It was fine.”

              “How’s Ava?”

              Mercy rolled his eyes. The show of concern was nice, but he knew what this was really about for Ghost. He’d had the same thought Mercy had: Ava alone in the rented room above the bakery, no one to cry out to for help if the waitress-murderer showed up at the door. “She’s a little tired,” Mercy said, “but yeah, she’s fine.” Then, to ease the man further, he added: “I leave an arsenal with her every day, and she’s a smart girl. She’s not gonna go opening doors and letting people in.”

              Ghost made a muffled sound. “Yeah, well, you make sure she knows to be careful. Scare her real good, if you have to, so she’s more alert.”

              Mercy grinned. “There’s the sweet dad coming through. How do you manage all that sugar you dole out, Papa T?”

              Ghost said, “Shithead,” and hung up, knowing full well, on his end, that he didn’t need to worry about Ava while she was in Mercy’s care, but unable, except on rare occasions, to ever say anything that came close to a compliment.

              “Papa T?” Ava asked, as she poured oil into the skillet.

              Mercy stepped up alongside her at the counter, and picked up the first chicken breast, dredging it in flour, then egg wash, then the crumbled parm. “I’ve been testing out grandpa names for him. Whatdya think?”

              She made a considering face. “I like the Papa part. Not sure about the T.”

              He shrugged. “Not like the kid’ll have two sets of grandparents to distinguish from, so it won’t matter.”

              Ava gave him a sideways look, part-reprimand, part-anguish on his behalf. “We’ll tell him about Remy, though, sweetheart. He’ll know he has two grandfathers.”

              “He?”

              “I’m just guessing. I don’t like saying ‘it’ if I don’t have to.”

              “Hmm.”

              The oil had to be warm, so he passed over the chicken and she laid it in the skillet. Then he washed his hands, moved around her to dump the pasta in.