I will say that I got the shirt on sale. I can’t claim the same for the Louboutin boots. They were my first real indulgence since leaving my parents’ home, and I wasn’t going to regret it. Besides, they looked killer with the jeans.

When I walked into the living room, Ricky’s look agreed one hundred percent. He checked his watch.

“No time,” I said.

He laughed and kissed my cheek. “I’m that transparent, huh?”

“Yep. I’ll claim my bouquet later.”

“Bouquet?”

“In recognition of an acting job well done, delivered after the performance. Now let’s go so I can earn it.”

I started to walk away. He caught my hand. When I looked at him, the smile had vanished and he looked as nervous as a boy about to meet his girlfriend’s parents.

“Speaking of bouquets,” he said. “I mentioned before that I’m not very good at romantic gifts.”

“You got me a switchblade. I think that was very romantic.”

“Yeah, I’m much better at giving weapons than . . .” He took a box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a silver chain. He swore. “See? I can’t even manage the presentation properly. Damn thing slid . . .” He fished the chain out, pendant popping from inside the box. He caught it, hand closing around the necklace before I could see what it was. “I wanted to say thanks for tonight.”

He held out the necklace. It was white gold. The pendant was a crescent moon, filigreed and inlaid with clear, sparkling gemstones that I was damn sure weren’t cubic zirconia.

As I stared, he pulled his hand back. “I overdid it, didn’t I? Shit, shit, shit—”

My arms went around his neck, kissing away that doubt; then I disentangled myself and opened his hand to look at the necklace.

“It’s gorgeous. If you think you don’t have great taste in jewelry, you could not be more wrong.”

I turned around and lifted my hair. He put the chain on and kissed the back of my neck.

“I’ll model it properly for you later,” I said. “With less clothing in the way.”

“And by moonlight?”

“Of course.” I fingered the pendant. “That’s only fitting.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The clubhouse was a half mile down a dirt road and surrounded by woods. That might look as if the Saints are hiding. They aren’t, because the clubhouse is exactly what it purports to be—a private social club for motorcycle enthusiasts. They might talk business in the back room, but they aren’t stupid enough to keep drugs, guns, or any other product on the property.

The secluded location is an aspect of being a good neighbor, and not the only one they try to fulfill. If one of their neighbors is putting up a fence or hauling a tractor out of the mud, Don sends a few guys to help out. An elderly couple lives down the road, the old woman caring for her Alzheimer’s-stricken husband. Don has someone check in with them twice a week to bring hot food and see if they need anything done around the house. That’s not because he’s a misunderstood nice guy—it’s because he knows the wisdom of being a good neighbor.

At eight on a Tuesday evening, the place wasn’t exactly hopping. Don, Wallace, and a few others were drinking beer, talking “shop”—for the auto shops they run, that is. Ricky joined in as I nursed my beer and listened.

As the clock closed in on nine, more guys began trickling in. Some girls, too. Well, women more than girls. The only one under thirty was Lily, whom I’d met the first time I was here.

The women, including Lily’s mother, were hard, passed from guy to guy, desperate for attention or protection or something life hadn’t otherwise given them. I wanted to take nineteen-year-old Lily aside and have a chat about life choices. But I’ve worked long enough in shelters to know that impulse was wasted on someone like her. At least it was if it came from someone like me.

The fact she had the hots for Ricky really didn’t help. He knew it and had made it very, very clear that she didn’t have a hope in hell of climbing on his bike. It was the same attitude he extended to all the women: respectful and polite but distant. Don was that way, too, and Wallace from the interactions I saw. It was a subtle hint for the women to take their hopes and dreams elsewhere, with the knowledge that “elsewhere” probably only meant a gang that wouldn’t treat them as well, and in light of that, maybe it was best not to make them feel too unwelcome.

CJ showed up right before nine. When Ricky had said he’d be leaving me with CJ and Wallace, I’d thought he meant informally. But no, there was an actual handoff. He made it as casual as possible—“You guys keep Liv entertained while I’m gone?”—but it was a clear message for everyone to hear. Then Ricky took my beer can and murmured to CJ, “Get her something from the cabinet, and don’t let her tell you she’s fine with beer.”

“What’ll you have?” CJ asked when Ricky was gone.

“Tequila?”

“Got it. How about entertainment? You’re not going to want to spend the next hour talking to two old coots, so pick your poison. Darts, poker, pool . . .”

“I’m okay at poker. Better at darts. I think I’ve played pool twice in my life, and both times I was drunk. It didn’t help my aim. I would love to learn someday, but I won’t make you give lessons.”

“Happy to. Your choice, then.” He motioned at the dartboard. “Play to your strengths. Or learn something new and risk making a fool of yourself.”