American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  The cig was good. The nicotine was the first in many steps of getting rid of his hangover.

  “Prospect,” he called, cig clenched in his teeth as he did up his belt. “Why are you still there?”

  “Um…” The kid sounded nervous.

  Ghost’s shirt was tangled up in the sheets at the end of the bed. He extricated it, gave it an experimental sniff, and tugged it on. “Prospect.”

  “He’d like to know the name of your blonde…lady friend.”

  Ghost snorted. “Can’t get his own pussy, huh?”

  “I was told to ask, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine, grunt. Hold on.” Ghost leaned forward and snagged the blonde’s foot, gave it a shake.

  She startled awake, eyes flipping open, jacking upright. She had a hickey on her collarbone that Ghost didn’t remember giving her, and in the daylight he saw she was younger than he’d originally thought. Hopefully she was legal.

  “Hey.” He squeezed her ankle. “What’s your name?”

  She blinked a few times, gaze darting around the room, proving he hadn’t been the only drunk one last night. “Um…” She licked her dry lips and frowned. “Jasmine.”

  “Thanks.” He patted her foot and stepped away from the bed. His cut was hanging off the back of the desk chair and he shrugged into it, stepped into his boots and left them unlaced.

  The prospect was leaning against the door and almost fell inside when Ghost opened it.

  “Her name’s Jasmine,” he said, starting down the hall as the prospect scrambled to follow. “Tell my uncle to ask her himself next time.”

  The prospect looked stricken. “I can’t tell him that.”

  “I told you to, didn’t I?”

  His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “Y-yes, sir.”

  The hallway smelled like a bar after last call: cigarette smoke, spilled beer, sex, and sweat. It was a smell that intensified as he neared the common room, and then slapped him in the face.

  Early morning sunlight tilted through the gaps in the window blinds, and the scene that lay before him was no less revolting for being familiar. Furniture askew, chairs tipped over, beer glasses and tumblers on every surface, lingering warm inches of forgotten beverages. The floor was littered with crumpled napkins, peanut shells, bits of broken tortilla chip, plastic cups…and things Ghost didn’t care to identify. The boards were matte and sticky with grime. The top of the bar a cluttered mess of bottles and glassware. Justin was passed out on the couch with a groupie. Meat slept on a pile of coats on the floor. A scattering of glass shards proved that someone had broken one of the windows.

  “Good morning to the world,” Ghost muttered. He stepped carefully over a discarded pink thong and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar. Dug out a fresh one and lit it.

  “Late night?” a voice asked behind him, and Ghost felt a prickling down the back of his neck. Despite the headache and the uneasy stomach, his mind snapped to immediate awareness. You had to be on your toes around Roman.

  “Nah.” Ghost turned slowly, because he never wanted this bastard to think he had any sway over him. Like it was his idea to turn around, and not that he’d felt compelled. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He flashed a tight, mean smile.

  Roman’s too-long sandy hair clung to the back of his neck, damp from the shower. His eyes were bright and his skin smooth; no shadows beneath his eyes. He’d kept hydrated and slept well.

  Ghost hated him for that. Among other things.

  “You’re up nice and early,” Ghost said. “Lots of ass to kiss this morning?”

  Roman’s smile held none of Ghost’s projected anger; it was all delight and mischief. “How’s the kid?”

  Well if that wasn’t the exact wrong thing to say.

  Ghost had to check his initial reaction, the low growl building in the back of his throat. He took a deep breath and said, “Well, he’s not looking at your ugly mug right now, so I’d say he’s doing better than me.”

  Roman’s grin widened. “You’re so sensitive, Kenny. You gotta learn to loosen up.”

  “Call me Kenny again and see how loose I get.”

  Roman didn’t get a chance at another maddening deflection. “Where’s my ghostly nephew?” Duane shouted, coming into the room with his usual tornadic energy. He was a big, solid, fit man for his age, lantern-jawed and iron-haired and wind-scraped, all leather and road dust and charisma. But it was his energy that drew people to him; like there were updrafts in his immediate radius, sucking in groupies, and members, and rivals alike. No one was immune to the powerful hold he had on everyone he ever met.

  “Right here,” Ghost said, sighing, tapping ash down onto the floor because…why not? The place was an absolute sty anyway. “What’d you need?”

  “Ah.” Duane gave him a close-lipped smile and stepped in close, heel of his boot crushing the lace of the thong on the floor. He clapped a hand onto Ghost’s shoulder and squeezed harder that was comfortable. “I got a call on the main line. Rita.”

  His babysitter.

  His stomach gave an unhappy rumble. “What’d she want?”

  Duane’s smile widened, but not in a good way. “The kid’s sick. Puking his guts up. She says she don’t get paid enough to deal with that.”

  “So I’ll pay her more,” Ghost grumbled.

  “Apparently, you were supposed to be back at midnight last night. She’s got work; she already left your place, got the neighbor to watch Aidan.”

  “What? Which neighbor?”

  “Didn’t ask, don’t know. Now.” His hand tightened again. Ghost felt the ball of his shoulder shift in the socket. “The problem here is this: Rita called the club phone. Called my office phone. About your kid.” His smile flashed teeth. “At eight in the goddamn morning. Does that strike you as something I might want to happen?”

  “No, sir.” Ghost dropped his smoke and ground it out beneath his boot; it made a gritting sound against the hardwood. “I guess I should go check on him.”

  “Now there’s a thought.” Any more pressure, and Duane might just dislocate his shoulder with his thick, callused fingers. “And here’s another: when you talk to Rita, you tell that bitch not to disturb me on that line unless it’s a motherfucking emergency. You understand?”

  Ghost swallowed hard. Over Duane’s shoulder, he caught Roman smirking at him. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Duane released him and blood rushed back to his shoulder, the joint full of needles. “Also, what’s the name of that blonde piece you had last night?”

  Ghost smiled at him, and it felt false, feral, sharp as nails. “Jasmine.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Might wanna check her ID first.”

  Duane snorted. “Maybe you shoulda.”

  It was a great way to start the morning.

  Ideally, he would have sat around the clubhouse awhile, nursed some coffee, and headed out once his hangover was well in-hand. But without that choice, he dug his shades out of his cut pocket and put them on as he left the building.

  They weren’t enough protection. It was like coming up to the surface after a deep-sea dive. Like walking out of a cave. The daylight was brutal. He hissed like a vampire and shaded his eyes with his hand. The pain stabbed through his temples, wrapped around the back of his head. He stood beside his bike – his gorgeous, refurbished FXR – for a full minute, breathing through his mouth, willing his abused body to overcome the sunlight.

  If Olivia could see him now…well, she wouldn’t be surprised. No, she’d probably smile. He was proving her point, after all, that he was an impossible, irresponsible man-child with no hope for the future.

  He almost sat down on the curb and put his head in his hands, so great was the sweeping sense of loss. He couldn’t say he still loved her, not after what she’d done to him. But he felt like a failure. He was proud by nature – by blood – and the divorce was a low blow; it cut him right in half.

  And the worst part – the part he hated
himself for thinking – was that Olivia had left Aidan behind. So complete was her rejection of him that she couldn’t even bear to raise the son he’d given her. How did a woman do that? How did anyone? How had he misjudged her so greatly, as to think she might be someone capable of loving her own offspring?

  Ghost put his helmet on, careful of his tender scalp, and swung onto the bike. His equilibrium was still off-kilter, the parking lot on a slant around him, but he started the engine and pulled out anyway. He’d driven in worse condition before. He’d become a master of the hangover these last six months.

  He rode so seldom these days – stuck in a cage carting Aidan to school and to doctor’s appointments and to various babysitters who all looked at him like he was a terrible, hopeless father – that he tended to forget that this, his Harley, and all it represented, was the basis of the club. It wasn’t about fear and subjugation, about divorce and the ruin of families, or about one-upping each other in a quest for power. The club was about freedom, first and foremost. Freedom from society, from government, from the stifling constraints of the life you were born with…and that you had the power to change.

  The wind teased his face, fresh-smelling, still crusted with frost. The bike ate up the pavement, Knoxville flashing past him, a Southern city that couldn’t hope to push back against the outlaws that called it home.

  This. He had to remember this.

  His apartment was in a seedy section of town, two bedrooms and a tiny cramped bathroom, windows in serious need of reglazing. He wasn’t sure the building’s furnaces could keep out the chill when winter finally set in, and he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

  He left his bike in the parking space next to his truck and jogged up the stairs. His hangover was lifting – he felt more alert – but the headache was here for the duration. There were two ways to get rid of it: sleep it off, or imbibe in a little hair of the dog. He’d decide which after he saw what sort of shape Aidan was in.

  His neighbor, Mrs. Simms, opened the door before he could fit his key in the lock. She wore a pink terry bathrobe cinched tight around her ample waist, her hair tied back in a sloppy bun. Like she’d been dragged out of bed – which she probably had. There were bags beneath her eyes, but her gaze was sharp. And very angry.

  “Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Simms. You been here long?” He shouldered past her and stepped into the apartment. If possible, it looked messier than when he left yesterday.

  “Long enough,” she huffed, following him. “I have a job, Ghost.” She said his name with contempt; she clearly didn’t approve of it as a name at all. “Unlike you, I have to get up and go to work every morning.”

  “It’s Saturday,” he reminded, gaze falling on the sofa where Aidan was curled up, sleeping fitfully.

  “I work on Saturday! And I can’t have your ne’r do well babysitter dragging me out of my apartment just because you can’t–”

  He whirled to face her, startling her silent. “Thanks, Mrs. Simms. I got it. You go to work.” He gave her the same smile he’d given Roman earlier.

  She drew herself up with an indignant mutter and spun away from him. “Get your shit together, Teague,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.

  The sound woke Aidan, and he stirred with a groan, shifting onto his side and clutching at his stomach. His eyes opened a fraction. “Daddy?”

  “Yeah, bud, I’m here.” Ghost crossed the room and dropped down to his knees beside the sofa, pushing the too-long dark curls off Aidan’s forehead and feeling for his temperature. He was burning up.

  “Shit.” Ghost wasn’t a natural at this – he didn’t have that maternal magic thermometer in his palm – but this fever was bad enough it left no doubt. “Hold on. I’ll get you some…” Could kids have aspirin? “Something,” he muttered, and got to his feet.

  In the bathroom, he found splotches of vomit on the floor leading up to the toilet. He wiped them up with toilet paper and looked into the medicine cabinet above the sink. He had Advil, aspirin, and ibuprofen. None of it was labeled as being child-suitable, so he scanned the labels. Aidan could have one ibuprofen tablet, he decided, and shook one out.

  Aidan had fallen into a fitful sleep, legs twitching, face screwed up with pain, small hands clenched over his stomach. “Here. Hey, wake up,” Ghost said, nudging a glass of water into his hand. “You’ve got to take this.”

  Aidan opened his eyes slowly, propped up on his elbow, and frowned at the oblong pill in Ghost’s hand. “Wha’s that?”

  “It’ll get rid of your fever. Come on, take it.”

  “I can’t take pills.”

  “What?”

  “No pills.” Aidan shook his head. “I need the red stuff.”

  “Red stuff?”

  “Mommy always gives me the red stuff.”

  Ghost ground his teeth together. “Yeah, well, Mommy ran off to be with another dude. So. There’s no red stuff.”

  Aidan looked like he’d been slapped, bloodshot eyes wide and mouth trembling.

  “Just take it,” Ghost said, getting frustrated. “Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t know that for sure until you try.” Inwardly, he was panicking. He hadn’t even considered that Aidan, freshly eight, might not be able to swallow a pill. And if he couldn’t get his fever down, how could he get him feeling better? “Try,” he urged. “It’s easy. You just put it in your mouth with some water, and swallow.”

  Aidan tried. But he sputtered, and coughed, and the ibuprofen tablet went flying across the room. Ghost got showered with water.

  “Ugh,” he groaned. “Shit. What are we supposed to do now?”

  Exhausted from the effort of trying to choke down a pill, Aidan lay limp on the pillow and stared at him, blinking.

  “We’re gonna have to get some red stuff, aren’t we?”

  Aidan nodded, weakly.

  “Shit, hold on.” One day, he was going to feel bad about all the cussing he did in front of his kid, but today wasn’t that day.

  He walked down the short hallway to his bedroom, heart knocking unhappily against his ribs, and dialed Olivia.

  She picked up in the middle of the fourth ring. “What, Kenneth?”

  He took a deep breath, bit the inside of his cheek, and told himself to be calm. “What’s the red stuff?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “What?”

  “The red stuff. Aidan’s got a fever and he says he needs the red stuff.”

  “Oh. Children’s Tylenol. The liquid kind.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it, then?” Ghost took a deep breath, heart knocking. “You don’t care how he is? That he’s sick?”

  “He’s your son, Kenny,” she said, and hung up.

  Ghost stared at his phone a moment, its grimy white mouthpiece. Then he jammed it back onto its base. Fuck that bitch. Fuck her for real.

  When he returned to the living room, Aidan was staring at the TV, which wasn’t on, still curled up like a shrimp. “We don’t have any red stuff,” Ghost told him. “Can’t you try the pill again?”

  In answer, Aidan squeezed his eyes shut and tears slipped down his face.

  “Fuck,” Ghost whispered. “Alright. Okay…”

  His only course of action, he decided, was to call the clubhouse and get one of the prospects or groupies to run get some Children’s Tylenol and bring it to the apartment.

  He dismissed the idea as soon as he thought it. Prospects and groupies were designed for running errands, doing members’ bidding, but Duane would know that Ghost had used one of them to fetch medicine for his kid, and Duane was nothing if not perpetually disappointed.

  He hadn’t always been. Once upon a time, he’d thought Ghost was the most promising young member, headed for an officer position on an advanced track. But then he’d married Olivia. Joined the Army…Duane hadn’t stopped being disappointed since. No, Ghost
decided, he had to deal with this himself.

  The phone rang, and he was glad for the distraction, going into the kitchen to answer the second landline.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me,” Collier’s familiar voice greeted, and Ghost felt some of the tension leave his body. “Duane said you left early. Aidan’s sick.”

  “Yeah. And I don’t even have the medicine he needs.”

  “Ah shit. Hey. Jackie and I could–”

  “I’d hate to–”

  “What do you need?”

  “Someone to sit with him while I run to the pharmacy?” he asked, wincing.

  “Done. We’ll be there in five.”

  “Christ, you’re a life saver. Thank you.”

  “You can always pay me in whiskey,” Collier joked, and hung up.

  Ghost sighed and slumped sideways against the wall. One of these days…one of these days, things had to turn around. Right?

  ~*~

  Once upon a time, a princess named Denise Camden Lowe birthed a daughter who was destined for an elegant life.

  Once upon a time, said daughter, Maggie Lowe, decided she favored rebellion.

  “Margaret,” Denise called. “Where are you?”

  Maggie didn’t answer right away, turning one way and then the other in the floor-length mirror inside her room. Her outfit was cobbled together, but she didn’t think anyone would be able to tell. The jeans were her own, but the rest was borrowed, mostly from her friend Rachel. The black boots were scuffed, the white tank top frayed at the hem, and the jacket had belonged to Rachel’s ex-boyfriend: black leather that swallowed her whole.

  It would have to do.

  She zipped the jacket up to her chin, tucked her lipstick and a twenty into her back pocket, and gave herself a stern look in the mirror.

  “I’m going out,” she practiced. “I’ll be back before dark. Yes, I have money, and yes, you know who I’ll be with. Rachel’s mom’s number is on the fridge.”

  Like the outfit, it would have to do.

  This was the first Saturday in over a month that she didn’t have a commitment. When she wasn’t doing charity work for Future Business Leaders of America, she was tutoring elementary school children, or attending dreaded cotillion classes. Her calendar was a carefully crafted whirlwind of social (and therefore political) ladder-climbing. From the moment of her birth, her entire future had been planned out. Denise would accept nothing less than a surgeon, a lawyer, or a banker for a son-in-law. Her vision for Maggie included a mini-mansion, a new set of pearls each Christmas, and an unimpeachable reputation amongst the city’s elite.