From
Price of Angels
Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Gilley
**
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.
“Dad let you go from the shop on
time today because of the girl who got murdered,” Ava said, not a question.
“He might have.”
“You guys were that worried?”
He gave her an oh, honey, please look. “Girl gets murdered a hundred feet from our
door, and I’m not supposed to come home a little early?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m glad you
did.” She bumped his thigh with her hip as they stood together at the stove.
“It’s just…” Her brows plucked together. “It hasn’t frightened me, not the way
it has you two. I think because we’ve lived through so many threats that were
directed toward us, this random one can’t get under my skin. I have to draw the
line on the worrying at some point, or I’ll go nuts.” She turned a suddenly
serious, appealing look up to him.
Mercy picked up on all the little
unspoken cues, and felt his stomach clench. “What else are you worried about?”
Her hand, coated with flour,
fluttered toward her stomach. “The doctor says everything’s fine–”
“Do you feel alright? Does something
seem off?” His hands lifted and he was prepared to scoop her up, carry her
straight to the hospital.
But she shook her head. “I feel
fine. Normal for a pregnant woman, anyway. It’s just…after what happened last
time. I’m afraid to make too many plans, you know?” Her eyes grew shiny, bright
under the overhead light. “I get scared when we talk about what we’ll do after
he’s born. Because what if…” She didn’t finish, and he was glad for it.
Mercy glanced at the stove; the food
could sit for a moment. Then he gathered his wife into his arms, hugged her
close, tucked her head into his chest. “It’s going to be fine,” he said,
stroking a hand down the slender ridge of her backbone, though inside, he felt
the tiny tremors of anxiety. “It’s different this time.”
Her flour-dusted hands latched onto
his shirt. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, fillette.” Because this time, he knew about the tiny life, and he
loved it fiercely already, and he’d lop the head off any son of a bitch who
dared to threaten the things that were his.
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