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Only one percent had the right to wear three-piece patches on their backs. The Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club was one of the largest in the world – a counterculture giant of business, both legal and illegal. An international force to be reckoned with.
“You can add new parts, baby,” she imagined Maggie saying. “But you can’t lose the parts of you that were already there.”
Heartbreak was never cured; it just went into remission. And here it came roaring back, leaving her feverish and weak and unable to move in the bright afternoon sun.
“Then take a good look, fillette.” Mercy’s eyes lifted to hers, and their intensity was unfathomable. “Because this is what it looks like when a man wants to be inside you.”
Sin, Mercy reflected, came packaged according to severity, to color, to regret. There were those deep, red sins, all bloody and irretrievable, tasting of murder and betrayal, a hint of the satanic on the back of the tongue, tickling the throat with fire. His usual brand of sin, if he was honest. Then there were the sinuous curves and loops of silvered, uncertain sin; the kind whose consequences were a dim shadow against the bright backdrop of the here-and-now. The kind with slow-eating jaws. A malignant sickness of a sin.
“People say women are complicated – no, it’s the men. They’re the ones that always make things difficult.”
“If you’re old enough to claw him up” – his voice was a harsh, contained roar – “then you’re by God old enough to clean him up when he gets shot.”
“What a good little girl,” he murmured breathlessly. “Taking it all like that. Bonne fillette, mon amour.”
“It’s not about what a house looks like, but how much the people who live in it love each other,” she said, and watched his face twitch with acknowledgement.
