Twisted Mercy (Red Team Book 4) (17 page)

He smiled slowly, humorlessly. “You’re a quick study.”

“I don’t like learning things the hard way.”

“No one does. But don’t worry. This is a freebie.”

She eyed him for a moment, then decided to take his word for it. Better take a chance than lose the opportunity. Her heart started a rapid beating. What if Lion was there? What would she say to him?
“Hey, I’m the sister you never knew you had. Ready to blow this joint?”

Inside the house, she washed her hands and face, then let her hair down and combed through it with her fingers. She contemplated leaving it down, but decided to put it back in a ponytail. She wished she had her makeup here with her, but it was all back at Mad Dog’s house, which was probably for the better. If she came out with her face on, Mad Dog would become even more suspicious. She switched shirts, pulling a fresh tee from a small pile of clothes she’d brought over in case she needed to change her work clothes for any reason during the day.

When she walked out front, Mad Dog was leaning against the side of the open bay door, his sunglasses on his forehead. He looked her over leisurely then straightened. He dropped his sunglasses over his eyes, then took her hand and started across the ground. Hope lost herself in the feel of his hand over hers. Though his hand was large, his grip wasn’t punishing.
 

She lifted their joined hands and looked at them. He bent his head to watch her. “Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever hit a woman?”

He looked down at her. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

He looked forward again, his jaw set. “I have.”

“Have you hit a kid?”

“Yeah—when I was a kid.” He looked at her again, frowning. “Where are you goin’ with this?”

She stopped walking and drew free of his hold, crossing her arms in front of herself, leaving silence as her answer.
 

He faced her. “How about I make it easy on you? Everything you fear, everything you hate, everything you’d condemn, I’ve done. I
am
that guy.”
 

She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses, but the tightness of the muscles in his face let her know he was scowling. “I don’t care what you are.” She didn’t. It was true. She wasn’t planning on being here long.
“He likes pain. Needs it to get off.”
Feral’s bland announcement flitted through her mind, a quiet, persistent warning.

“Of course you don’t.” His lips thinned as he pressed them in a straight line.

They resumed walking. They were nearing the boys’ quarters, sparing them from more of that awkward exchange. Her heart began a nervous patter inside her chest. She wanted to see her brother as much as she feared meeting him.
 

Mad Dog opened the door and held it for her. This wasn’t the building she’d tried to sneak into a few nights ago, but it was next to it. The boys were bent over papers and books on the small desks next to their bunks. One of them spied Mad Dog and shouted a call to attention. Immediately, they jumped to their feet, held their shoulders back, and stared blankly into space. Her gaze bounced from boy to boy. How would she know her brother? Did he look anything like her? These boys looked younger than her brother’s twenty-one years. Some of them weren’t even shaving yet.

Mad Dog was studying her as they slowly walked down the central aisle between the rows of cots. She met his gaze, trying to keep her face void of any expression. She probably failed miserably; she couldn’t hide her crushing disappointment.
 

“Where’s the boss?” Mad Dog asked one of the boys.

“He’s out, sir.”

Mad Dog nodded. He glanced over to the books the boys were studying. “Schoolwork?”

“Yes, sir. The younger boys are studying algebra. The older boys are working on engineering assignments.”

“Is everyone here?” Hope asked.

“No, ma’am. Lion and Mouse are out scouting a location for the battlement.”

Hope’s chest tightened at the mention of her brother’s name. She’d missed him. But at least she knew he was here. She could come back—without Mad Dog.

“Battlement? Why?” the biker asked, making her refocus on their conversation.

“For our field day. In October. We’ll be building siege busters.” The boy grinned as he said this.

Mad Dog walked over to one of the desks and sifted through a handful of sketches. “Why study ancient military arts? Castles have been out of vogue for seven hundred years.”

“In preparation.”

“For what?” Mad Dog asked. The boy looked over toward another kid, who shrugged and nodded as if to encourage him.

“For End Days.”

Mad Dog lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the rest. The kid sent another look at the older boys. He straightened his shoulders a bit more. “You know. After Armageddon.”

Hope frowned, trying to make sense of what they were saying. What Armageddon? If that was for real and not just an intellectual exercise, then it was Hope’s worst fear: this was indeed a cult. How was she going to get Randall out of a real cult?

Mad Dog relaxed his stance. “Interesting theory.”

“It’s not a theory, sir,” yet another boy said. “It’s a mission. And it’s happening now. The field games teach us the things we’ll need to know when the collapse happens.”

“Well then, carry on,” Mad Dog said to the boys who’d spoken to him. He took Hope’s elbow and turned her back to the door. They stepped out of the over-warm Quonset hut into the blazing July sun. He dropped her arm as soon as they were outside. She could tell he was lost in thought, for his long strides quickly outpaced hers.

She stopped at her shop, which was about a football field from the boys’ quarters. “Thanks, Mad Dog.”

He walked back to her, frowning. “We’ll try again when Lion’s there.”

Hope lifted her eyes to his. “What did they mean by ‘Armageddon’?”

“Don’t attach too much meaning to that. They’re just kids. It’s probably some game or field day they have.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Don’t go over there without me, okay?”

She nodded. He shook his head, watching her with eyes that weren’t fooled. When he walked away, she pulled a long, relieved breath. In the shadowy cavern of her shop, an Ironhead she’d been working on leaned on its kickstand. Until just a few weeks ago, the bland concerns of bikes, mechanics, and the irritating posturing of male wrenches had been her world.
 

Strange how fast the edges of one’s reality could melt away. She didn’t care much for the new world she was seeing.
 

* * *

The door to Hope’s house was open later that afternoon. Max stepped inside. She was there, by the stove. The room was like a sweatbox. She had a fan sitting in the far window, drawing out the hot air. The kitchen was only marginally cooler than outside, simply because it was out of the direct sunlight.
 

Over the last week, she’d brought the place back to life. Every time he’d stopped by, it was a little more squared away. Now, it had new paint inside and out. Shutters, in matching pairs but mismatching sets, graced the windows up front and on the side.
 

The bikers she’d done work for had patched things up, provided bits of furniture and linens. Nothing matched, not in colors or patterns or even eras, but they were clean and functional.
 

And that seemed enough for Hope. She’d be a helluva lot more comfortable here than sleeping on the ground outside his house.
 

As he watched, she opened the oven door and used a pair of tongs to turn something over on an aluminum tray. The scent of barbecue chicken and baked potatoes wafted up to him. She still hadn’t noticed him. She pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and poured the amber liquid over a Mason jar of ice.
 

She lifted the glass and pressed it to her forehead and cheek. Eyes closed, she turned around and leaned against the counter, drawing the cool glass down her face, down the side of her neck. Little fine hairs at her temple were curling. She bit her bottom lip as the cold glass cooled her flesh. She looked steamy and spent.
 

He remembered the way she felt in his arms. The way she’d smelled. The way she’d held his face and kissed his mouth.

He must have hissed a sharp intake of air, for her eyes flew open and alarm tightened her features. Seeing him, a wariness settled in her eyes and the tightness of her face. He ached to take the glass and draw it down her chest, over her ribs, up again to her face, over her lips.
 

Maybe he goddamn would. His nostrils flared with the silent battle that waged inside himself.

“Mad Dog.” He didn’t so much hear her—she’d whispered and the fan was loud. Rather, he’d watched her lips move as they formed his name.

“Busy day?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“S’goin’ on?”

“I’m all moved in.” She seemed to remember her manners, and straightened. “Want something to drink?”

Yeah, but not just anything.
He wanted that drink, the one she’d rubbed over her skin. He walked over to her and took her glass, then downed its bitter contents. She liked it unsweetened. One more no-frills thing about her.
 

He handed the glass back to her. “Fill it again.”

She met his eyes, resistance dancing with shadows in their chocolate depths. She took the pitcher from the ancient refrigerator. Ice clinked as she filled the glass. She put the pitcher back, then handed him the glass.
 

He held it up to her lips. “Drink.”

She sipped once, twice. He looked at her as he pressed the glass against her lips, her chin. He drew a long breath, seeking to cool the hunger coiling within him. The hot air of the room did nothing to settle the heat pooling in his groin. He bent close to her, felt her gaze move from his eyes down to his mouth. He set the glass on the counter behind her, then braced his hands on the ancient laminate.
 

She pressed nearer to him, lifted her face to his. His mouth parted near hers, and he said, “You left the compound today.”
 

It took a second for her mind to catch up to his. She pushed against his chest and stepped away. His jaw tightened at her withdrawal. It was for the best, he reminded himself.
 

“You had me followed?”

He didn’t answer her. His silence made her circle about the tight space of the kitchen like a caged dog. “What of it?” she asked at last, facing him. Her shoulders were back, her arms on her hips, her chin up. Her fur all ridgy. Jesus, he wanted to fuck her. “Yeah. I went out.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I went to the thrift store in town for some things. Then I went to the market. Then I got my stuff from your place.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? ‘Okay’?”

“That’s it.” He kept himself from smiling.
 

“Why are you having me followed?”

“Curious. About what kind of scam you’re running.” She looked up at him, unable, for the space of a breath, to school her features. Oh yeah. She was up to her neck in something. Maybe the market was a cover.
 

She turned to the oven, breaking the connection between them. She removed a tray of barbecued chicken tenders and halved potatoes baked facedown in butter and spices.
 

“Expecting company?” he asked. His stomach grumbled. Had she made dinner for them? In some crazy corner of his mind, that made him feel special.

She pulled a salad from the fridge. “I invited Feral over.”

He huffed a laugh, amused that he’d cared for a minute. “Why?”

“’Cause he could use a few good meals.” She gave him a dark look. “And maybe it’s a peace offering. There’s plenty, if you want to join us.”

He didn’t like the idea of Feral buddying up to Hope. His hang-around was too easily manipulated. And fuck it all, he didn’t want her first dinner here in the house to be with anyone but him.

The front screen door slammed shut as someone entered. Max looked over to see his squirrelly tweaker stride into Hope’s kitchen like he had a key to the place. Catching Max’s glare, he came to a full stop, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. He swiped a finger beneath his nose and sniffled.

“Hey, Feral,” Hope greeted him with a smile, like she was actually happy to see the kid.

Fuck. Me.
Max ground his teeth.

“Hey.” Feral nodded at her, then at him. “Mads. We cool?”

Max’s glare was unrelenting. Took him a minute to answer. “Yeah. We’re cool.” He sent Hope a look, then straightened and walked out of the kitchen, out of Hope’s house. He’d be goddamned if he was gonna square off with a tweaker over a girl.

Outside, the blazing evening sun cloaked him like a heating blanket. Unlike Hope’s little kitchen, where the fan pulled air through the room, the air outside was utterly still. It smelled of dying weeds and hot rubber from the pile of tires nearby.
 

He crossed the compound to the clubhouse to blow some time while his hang-around and Hope had a friendly little dinner together. He didn’t want to go back to his house. Her tent and all her stuff would be gone. There’d be no more sweet smells waking him in the morning or sending him to sleep at night.
 

He thought of her disappointment that morning when they hadn’t met up with Lion. Kit was wrong about her. She wasn’t Jafaar’s operative. She was here for her brother and nothing else.
 

Max turned in the booth, leaning against the wall. He braced one foot on the seat cushion and kept the other on the floor. His beer was cold, but the clubhouse was hot.
 

Whenever the heat got to him, he remembered what it felt like to be cold all the time, which brought back all kinds of joyful memories about his stay at Callum. Some of the guys sitting around the clubhouse were men he’d met there. They looked the same now as they had in their orange jumpsuits. Of course, he hadn’t seen any of them his last year there; he’d spent it in the penitentiary’s special housing unit. Such a fancy name for the fucking hole they’d stuck him in.