Fearless Page 2

  The boys backed their Harleys into the row of bikes that flanked one long side of the clubhouse.

  Ava put her F-150 into one of the designated parking spaces between her mother’s black Caddy and Bonita James’s Expedition. By the time she’d killed the engine and disengaged her seatbelt, she realized she was shaking.

  Ronnie was shaking too, she noted, as she watched his hands fumble with his seatbelt latch. “Ava,” he said, voice thick, like his throat was clogged. “Please tell me these guys aren’t going to rape me and throw me in the river.”

  “They’re not,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  And then someone rapped hard on her window and she reached for the door release with a giddy smile.

  Aidan had ditched his helmet and pushed his hands through his hopeless, dark curly hair. Behind his shades, the shapes of his eyes were just visible; Ava knew them to be large and dark and full of haughty mischief, his brows round and prone to lifting one at a time, little wrinkles sprouting in his forehead that she liked to tease him about, because he was thirty now, and the age was starting to show.

  He stepped back as her door opened, his grin wicked and sharp. Her ladykiller brother, with the dimples and the bristled jaw and the physique he carved into shape with rigorous weight-lifting.

  “Hey,” he said as her boots hit the pavement. “I’m looking for my sister. She’s about this tall” – he held his hand a scant three feet off the ground – “and she’s four-eyed and got pimples and–”

  “An asshole brother!” Ava finished, and launched herself into his arms.

  He smelled like leather, and wind, and that cheapass cologne he soaked himself in every morning. He hugged her tight, lifted her feet off the ground and spun her in a circle, like he’d done when she was just a baby. It still felt like flying, the world spinning past over his shoulder where she had her face buried in the soft worn leather of his cut. The edges of his patches were rough against her hands, the threads of the embroidery silky under the pads of her fingers. He’d hand-stitched these patches onto his cut, the night he’d been patched and dropped the moniker of prospect. Ava had been a witness to his first moments as a full-fledged member, a raucous party totally unsuitable for a kid her age. He was solid in her embrace, the infallible beastly brother she’d relied on her entire life.

  She was laughing as he set her back on her feet and stood back, studying her with brows leaping over the frames of his sunglasses.

  His hands settled at his hips, his wallet chain dancing against his thigh, throwing glimmers of light down onto the pavement. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

  Self-conscious now, Ava smoothed her hands down her H&M ensemble. At UGA, she’d fast realized that if she wanted to be taken seriously by her fellow English majors, she needed to dress the part. She’d packed her own wardrobe in bins beneath her bed, and slowly acquired a whole new one. Today, she wore a flouncy yellow skirt that hit just above the knee, sleeveless white blouse, and cropped denim vest over it, brown wedge sandals that gave her feet a pretty, arched shape. The straps just covered the tiny tattoo on the top of her left foot.

  “This is a cute outfit,” she defended, tugging her vest straight.

  “I like it,” Tango said, joining them. “It’s got that whole innocent college girl thing going on.”

  Aidan thumped him in the arm, and he grinned. “Hey, doll,” he said to Ava, and pulled her into a fast, brotherly hug. In her ear, as she pulled back, he whispered, “My question is, what the fuck did you bring with you?”

  Ronnie! She’d forgotten he was with her, for a whole thirty seconds.

  She turned, and saw that he had his door open, but only one foot on the pavement, his other leg, and all the rest of him still inside the truck. The breeze tumbled over the door and stirred his soft dark hair against his forehead. Sunlight caught at the fear in his eyes; if Ava could see it, no doubt Aidan and Tango could too. She hated that; she didn’t want the guys to know he was frightened right off the bat. He wouldn’t stand a chance, then.

  She wasn’t sure how to play this, exactly – she’d never brought a civilian home to meet the family – but she was pretty sure walking over to Ronnie, taking his hand and walking him back would only make the situation worse.

  “Ron, come meet my brother,” she called.

  Ronnie climbed out; his shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath.

  Ava risked a glance toward the two Dogs beside her, and saw them wearing identical smirks. She kicked Aidan in the shin before Ronnie got around the tailgate, then pasted a wide smile to her face. She reached for his hand when he drew up alongside her, pulled him in closer to her.

  “Ronnie” – her voice was artificially sweetened – “this is my brother, Aidan, and his best friend, Tango. Boys” – a sharp glance between the two – “this is my boyfriend” – little squeeze for Ron’s hand – “Ronnie.”

  “Boyfriend,” Aidan repeated. He pushed his shades up into his hair and gave Ronnie a narrow-eyed up/down look. “For how long?”

  “Almost a year.” Ava felt Ronnie’s palm grow damp against hers. She knotted her fingers through his. Be brave, she willed. He’s not that scary.

  Aidan put his tongue against the inside of his cheek, an old childhood gesture he’d never outgrown. His thinking face, she called it. He glanced at her. “Do the folks know?”

  So that’s how he’d play it, then: let Dad be the bad guy and reserve the right to trounce Ronnie if he so much as slipped up. Sneak attack style.

  Sometimes, Ava wondered if that was his true nature, or if he just thought that was how one-percenter big brothers were supposed to act.

  “Mom knows.” She kicked her chin up. “She can’t wait to meet him.”

  Aidan scratched at the stubble on his chin and looked like he hid a smile. “Oh, I bet.”

  She glared at him. Stop being an ass.

  His eyes laughed back at her. Try and make me.

  Tango, deciding to be the buffer, as he’d always been, stepped between them, and extended a hand to Ronnie. “Good to meet you, man.”

  Ronnie, his always smiling mouth tucked down at the corners, regarded Tango’s tattooed fingers a moment too long before he finally accepted the shake. “Yeah. You too.”

  Tango noticed the snub, the reticence. He sent Ava a dancing glance that suggested he’d have plenty to say about all this later.

  But he said, “The girls are inside, getting ready.”

  Ava let out a deep, suddenly-exhausted exhale. “Good. I’m sure they could use my help.”

  Aidan dug a crumpled pack of smokes from his back pocket. “Ronnie, what do you know about hanging crepe streamers?”

  “Later, guys,” Ava said, firmly, one last scowl for her brother. She tugged at Ronnie’s hand, and started for the clubhouse door.

  “I’m sorry about him,” she whispered. “He won’t ever get over the fact that I’m not twelve anymore.”

  Ronnie didn’t respond.

  The line of bikes, she noticed as they walked, had been reinforced. Out of town members had come for tonight’s celebration; by the end of the night, at least four chapters would be in attendance.

  With her free hand, she shaded her eyes against the slanting sunlight, and thought she spotted a familiar bike. One that didn’t belong to any of the Knoxville guys, but one she knew well. One she’d been on the back of more times than she could count…

  “Oh, hey,” Aidan called from behind her.

  She paused and half-turned. “What?”

  Aidan’s expression lost its teasing aggression and became serious, unusually so. “NOLA’s in the house.”

  New Orleans. The city that was the birthplace, former and current home of…

  She sucked in a breath through her teeth, unprepared for the sudden ferocious stab of pain in her belly. The hurt that came spilling out of her heart and began to boil in her insides. Heartbreak was never cured; it just went into remission. And here it came roaring back, leaving her feverish and weak a
nd unable to move in the bright afternoon sun.

  It took her three tries before she wet her lips and said, “So what do I care?”

  “No one else was going to warn you.” Because the club didn’t worry about the hurt feelings of one member’s daughter. No amount of personal bullshit could touch the MC…well, it wasn’t supposed to, anyway. Aidan, as he studied her, became almost sympathetic, his features tight and somber as he gauged her reaction. “But I thought you should know that he’s here.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.” Swallowed hard, her throat dry and sticking together. She felt the pavement shift under her feet; felt her lungs contract and her face grow hot.

  She hadn’t counted on this, not at all. No part of her coming-home fantasies had included this kind of shock.

  Clueless, Ronnie fiddled her with hand and said, “Who’s here?”

  “Mercy,” she whispered, and just saying his name sent the waves of pain heaving through her again.

  “Who?”

  “Just…Mercy.”

  Her ultimate ruination.

  Two

  Here. He was here. How could she have been so stupid as to think he wouldn’t be? Of course he was here. Knoxville had been his home for years. All those ill-fated years when she’d been growing up and he’d been watching out for her, when no one had suspected a thing…until the scandal of it all had erupted, bleeding all over everything, leaving stains behind no amount of bleach had been able to scrub out.

  Bleach, she thought with a maniacal inner laugh. Mercy was always in need of a gallon of bleach.

  “Ouch,” Ronnie said, and she realized she was digging her fingernails into the back of his hand.

  “Sorry.” She let go of him, and used both hands to smooth her hair back, lift it away from her neck so the breeze could cool the skin and help calm her nerves. She needed a drink; she needed ten drinks. How in the hell was she supposed to face everyone in this clubhouse when her wicked lover was just across the room, and every soul between them knew all the sordid details of the past?

  She didn’t know, but she didn’t have a choice at this point. Her mom was waiting, and so were Bonita and Jaclyn, Nell and Mina. Then there would be her dad, and all her surrogate uncles.

  She didn’t have time for Mercy; she’d fall to bits if she allowed herself one more second to dwell on him. Back, down, away – she crammed him and her history with him into a far mental corner. No, not you, not now, not ever again. She gave herself a good shake and dropped her hair, turned a brittle smile up to Ronnie.

  Oh, God, Ronnie. Her poor boyfriend who wasn’t cut out for any of this. She had to get her shit together, for Ronnie if not for herself.

  “You alright?” she asked him.

  His brows knotted together, forehead crinkling. “Yeah. Are you?”

  “I’m great!” She hated how insincere that sounded, but all she could do was reach for his hand again and lead the way into the clubhouse. “Come on, my mom can’t wait to meet you.”

  Inside, the house was cool and smelled liked lemon furniture polish. They stepped into the foyer, which was tricked out to hold the outdoor paraphernalia of a whole pack of men. Long horizontal coatracks bolted into the wall, low bench with plenty of boot storage, a shoe-cleaning brush, umbrella stand – for the intrepid umbrella-wielding biker – and a hand-lettered sign that read “Forget the Dog, Beware of Owner.”

  “Dog?” Ronnie asked. “Do they have a–”

  As if on cue, Ares came barreling around the corner, nails scratching at the linoleum as he sought purchase and then hurtled toward them.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ronnie grabbed her arm, like he was preparing to drag her away to safety.

  Ava shook him off, laughing, and dropped to her knees to greet the exuberant German Shepard.

  He was, in her eyes, the most beautiful dog, his thick coat layered in rich browns and blacks, his black nose gleaming at the end of his long black snout, his eyes bright and sparking with recognition and joy. She loved his pointed ears, the lustrous ruff spilling down his chest, his heavy paws, his swishing furry tail. He was a gorgeous dog, with a gorgeous set of curving ivory teeth that glimmered in the incoming sunlight as he rushed into her arms and swatted her with a playful paw, licking at her face, his tail thumping hard against the floor.

  “Hi, baby!” Ava gave him a rigorous petting, dropping a kiss between his keen black eyes. “How are you, huh? You good? You look good.”

  “Ava? Baby?” A hopeful female voice called from deeper inside. “Is that you?”

  Maggie.

  “Hi, Mom!” she called back, standing with one last pat for Ares. The big dog shook his collar, tag jangling, and headed into the common room, leading the way as always.

  She cast a glance toward Ronnie – his eyes were round and white-rimmed, his complexion stark against his dark brows and hair – then followed Ares.

  The foyer fed into a short hall, two doors branching off on either side. To the right was a small sitting room with tastefully bland furniture and a small round table set between two windows, a chair on either side. The boys called it the “business room” because it was where they entertained clients who weren’t associated with the MC in any sort of official sense. Only members were allowed in the chapel. Everyone else was brought here.

  To the left, a tricked out home gym, with every kind of weight and exercise machine anyone could ever hope to need.

  Beyond, the hall opened up, into a common room that ran the entire width of the house. She’d thought it a wonderland as a child; as an adult, that sense hadn’t dulled. It still brought a smile to her lips.

  The cinderblock walls were an unobtrusive gray, with one accent wall behind the bar that was painted black, a mural of the Lean Dogs’ black running dog on his white field framed on bottom by the rows of liquor bottles, on top by the overhead shelf where the coffee mugs and stemless wineglasses were stored.

  The bar itself was a heavy horseshoe of stained wood, brass footrails, overhead racks, beer taps, beer cooler, and one of those lift-up panels through which to access it all, a feature Ava had adored since her earliest childhood. The upper racks were strung with colored Christmas lights year round. The bottles, shellacked with sunlight, glimmered in candy-colored splendor.

  The rest of the massive common room was dedicated to comfy couches and chairs, little conversation nooks, a foosball table, two pool tables, several round dining tables. Coffee tables and end tables were heaped with bike magazines and old Playboys. Worn rugs bore the dirt of thousands of booted footsteps. Ares had a plush dog bed in a corner, beside his food and water dishes.

  Beyond the common room were storerooms, dorms for crashing, and the chapel, where official MC meetings were held. But this was where the party was, where the cards were played, where the dancing girls did their thing on crazy Friday nights, where everything friendly and social and fraternal happened.

  Today, the room was draped with black and white crepe streamers; helium balloons – also black and white – rustled in the drafts of the AC.

  Ava spotted her mom up on a stepstool, taping one end of a banner that read “Congratulations, James! We Love You!” while Jackie held the other end. Bonita and Mina were on the ground, telling them which end to lift higher so it was straight. Nell was filling more balloons from a helium tank.

  Maggie turned, her long, wavy dark blonde hair shifting against her back, her smile radiant. Her constant beauty hadn’t eroded with time; it had merely been softened, her skin rich with the little lines of time, her eyes hazel and dazzling as ever.

  Maggie Lowe, the girl who’d disgraced her entire family when she’d started one of her own. Her mother had wanted her to compete in beauty pageants as a teen; instead, she’d spent too much time hanging out in front of liquor stores, asking passersby to buy her a six-pack, and falling in love with a much older biker. Ghost kept a picture of her wedged in the frame of his dresser mirror at home, of her at sixteen, all glorious light hair and long legs and curvy hips in
her ripped jeans and leather jacket, while she blew smoke at the camera through painted red lips. “She was jailbait,” Ghost had said. “And I figured there were worse things to get put away for.”

  “Ava Rose!” she called. She slapped a last bit of tape on her corner of the banner and climbed down the stool, rushing forward as fast as Ava rushed toward her. Her hug was strong and warm, textured by the soft buffalo plaid shirt she wore over leggings and boots. “Did you have a nice drive?”

  “It was great.” Ava stepped back, and her mother’s hands stayed on her arms, holding her in place.

  ‘Speaking of great.” Maggie looked her up and down. “Look at you, all girly. My little professional writer.”

  “Mom.” Ava’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not even a little bit professional.”

  “You got published, didn’t you?” Nell asked. “That’s pretty pro in my book.”

  She’d had a short story published in an online magazine, which added up to so much nothing in the eyes of the actual pro writing world. But to her family back home, it was a big accomplishment.

  “Welcome back, hon,” Nell added with a gap-toothed grin. “I expect lots more stories.”

  Ava’s color deepened; she could feel its heat under her skin.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Jackie called.

  “Hi, Ava.” That was Mina.

  Bonita turned, her mane of silver curls cascading over both shoulders, tumbling against her dark, sun-bronzed throat. “Hola, bambina. ¿Cómo estás?” She stepped forward, long black skirt swishing around her ankles, and pulled Ava into another hug, one Maggie could hardly let her go for.

  “Bien. ¿Y usted?” Ava managed to remember some of her Spanish.

  “Wonderful,” the president’s wife answered in her musical, accented English. “Even better now that you’re here.”

  Ava smiled. It was impossible not to love Bonita at first sight. Tall and voluptuous, she’d been stunning as a young woman, and beautiful even now that her hair was all silver and her eyes crinkled to dancing black slits when she laughed. James had met her on a run to Texas; she’d been serving cervezas at the cantina where the crew had stopped for lunch, a local spot the boys would revisit four or five times before their business was concluded and they headed back to Tennessee. When James left, Bonita left with him, arms wrapped around him on the back of his bike. Her real name was Sofia, but James called her beautiful; when he’d learned the Spanish word for it, the nickname had stuck. She’d ruled as biker queen under the name Bonita for twenty-five years.