Page 147 of Homecoming

“What do we know?” she asked, tone sliding into more serious territory, approval shifting into readiness.

He finished rinsing, shut off the tap, and reached for a towel. He turned to her as he dried his hands, hip leaned up against the edge of the counter. Someone else might have read his expression as concerned – Ava saw instead a quiet sort of regret. Things hadn’t played out as he’d wanted; he was doubting his approach in this particular instance. “He’s asleep, and we won’t know more until he wakes up.”

“Too scared? Or too much blood loss?”

“Eh. Little bit of both, I think. I went for the teeth.” He made a face.

She nodded.

“But what we know so far is that this is the one who was calling himself Fred. A local boy. Peter Weston.”

“Why do I know that name?”

“Ratchet already looked him up, said he has a younger sister your age. She probably went to school with you.”

Ava had a sudden, stark mental image of a pug nose, and piled-up blonde hair, and the practiced, disapproving flick of eyelashes accompanied by a littletskof disgust. “Let’s just say we ran in different circles.”

“God, I hope so.” He chuckled, once, and then sobered. “Apparently he works for the mayor’s office, and this whole drug thing was Mayor Cunningham’s idea.”

“Oh, great. A mayor who’s after the Dogs. That’s original.”

“That’s what Walsh said.”

She sighed, exhausted suddenly. “God. Talk about déjà vu.” It was all too easy to trip and fall backward into the past. To remember newspaper headlines, and Littlejohn following her around campus, and living with a ball of stress lodged constantly at the base of her throat. To remember the shiny gleam of Ronnie’s loafers. And Mercy, home again, the frenetic, harrowing fear and lust of those first few weeks back together again. Hating him almost as much as she loved him – but never really. Hate was just an outgrowth of love; the after-effect of love lost.

He set the towel down and reached for her. She unwound her arms, and let him take them in his big, strong hands, and tow her up against the solid wall of his body; readily slipped her hands beneath his cut to grip the back of his shirt in both fists, his body heat an immediate comfort. It was hard to be afraid of anything when she was touching him. When he was stroking her arms, and tucking her hair behind her ears, and looking at her with a loving softness that managed, in all the ways that he was multi-faceted, to be heated and fractious at the edges, too. He was her Great Wall, and her incendiary device, too.

“It won’t be like it was, then,” he said, voice going low, purring, his accent thickening.

“Not to doubt you, baby.But. A city against us. Amayoragainst us. Sounds like old times.”

“Yeah, but see, this time, we’re different.” He held up his left hand, his wedding band catching the light.”

Even as she felt her insides softening, she had to say, “Because marriage conquers all evil?”

“Nah, but we do. We’ve got our heads on straight this time.” He laid his hand on top of hers, warm and grounding. “And your dad’s a better president now. The club’s bigger; it’s stronger. Got more money, and more allies. We’re ready,fillette. We can handle this.”

She rested her chin on his chest, head tipped back to look up at him. “I do admire your confidence.”

“You should. It’s pretty spectacular.”

She laughed.

“Among other things.”

“Now you’re fishing.”

“Damn straight. I’m good at fishing – and not just fish, either. I hook me some gators, baby.”

She laughed until her face ached, in a good way.

“Hey, did I ever tell you that story about the time we hooked the one that got stuck on that old boat propeller?”

At least seven times. But she said, “No, I don’t think you did,” just to hear his voice come to life, rumbling and colorful, dripping all the algae tang of the swamp he’d loved and then left.

“Well, Daddy got the boat all turned in the wrong way, and then…”

~*~

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