American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  “Your son?” Her lips pressed together until they were was white as the rest of her face. He could see a fine tremor in one cheek; she was a hairsbreadth from exploding completely. Maybe in a figurative way, but he wouldn’t put it past her to literally fly apart and splatter all over the sidewalk.

  Ghost had no idea where he was drawing his patience. He squeezed Maggie’s shoulder and said, “Yes, ma’am. He’s in the truck.” He tipped his head to indicate the direction. “We picked her up, and now we’re dropping her off. She was perfectly safe the whole time.” Except, not really, considering his sketchy apartment complex.

  Maggie’s father looked down at the toes of his slippers.

  Her mother sucked in an audible breath through her nose, which strained the tendons in her neck and made her look almost skeletal. “You didn’t pick her up in front of the house? Drop her off in front of it?” Her voice had gone quiet – scary quiet.

  “Get out while you can,” Greaves hissed behind him. Then, to Maggie’s parents: “Let us know if you have any more trouble, folks. Have a good night.” Sound of their shoes scraping over the asphalt. Thump of doors. The lights went off, and in their absence, Maggie’s mother was a ghost – an actual one.

  “She…” Ghost took a breath. “She asked me to…”

  “God, Mom,” Maggie burst out, “I didn’t let him drive up to the house because I knew you’d do this exact thing! I didn’t tell you who I was sitting for because you would’ve done this!” She gestured to her mother’s robe-wearing, lawn-fit-pitching state.

  “As well I should!” her mom snapped back, hands starting to flail again. “The second I give you so much as an inch of leeway you start screwing around with white trash thugs like this!” She jabbed an accusatory finger through the air toward Ghost.

  It was no worse than anything else that had ever been said about him, but it still stung. More than he would have thought.

  “Ugh!” Maggie shoved her hands back through her hair in a show of frustration, and despite the tenseness of the situation, Ghost got lost in its thick gold waves a moment. “I’m not screwing around with him. I was just babysitting.”

  Her mother’s head tipped, like her neck was having a spasm. “Babysitting. Babysitting his son.” Uh-oh: she was at the point of berserk anger that overcame rational English. “His son,” she repeated. And then her eyes – dark, flat, furious, nothing like Maggie’s pretty hazel ones – snapped to Ghost. “How old is your son, Kenny?”

  He felt like he needed to swallow, so he did. “Eight.”

  “Oh. How nice. Half as old as my daughter. My underage daughter.”

  “Mom!” Maggie said.

  The patrol cars pulled away from the curb.

  Maggie’s mom glared at Ghost with a blend of fury and satisfaction.

  “God,” Maggie said, turning around to fully face him. “I’m so sorry, she shouldn’t be talking to you like this. Just walk away, please.”

  All these sounds seemed to come toward him down a long tunnel. Like he was listening in to the moment rather than experiencing it. His mind latched onto one word: underage. Time slowed between one moment and the next. Underage. Spread slow and thin, like pulled taffy. Nothing else that had been said so far during this conversation mattered at all after underage. It meant only one thing: Maggie wasn’t eighteen. Maggie wasn’t an adult. She was a child. Twice as old as Aidan, which meant sixteen.

  Sixteen, and Ghost had kissed her.

  Had thought about doing a lot more than that.

  Maggie was standing right in front of him, head tipped back so the moon shone on her face, turned it cream, and porcelain, and every pretty pale thing he could think of.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Please–” Her hand landed on his forearm, and it burned.

  He shrugged her touch away.

  Her eyes widened.

  His heart was thumping so hard he could no longer hear the ambient noise of the neighborhood. His pulse was deafening in his ears: sixteen, sixteen, sixteen.

  “Ghost–” she started.

  “You’re sixteen?” he hissed.

  Somehow, her face went paler, chalky-white.

  “I–”

  Ghost tore his gaze away from her; it felt like a physical effort. “Ma’am,” he addressed the mother. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.” And he spun around and marched for his truck, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.

  ~*~

  Denise didn’t start truly yelling until they got inside, behind locked doors and windows, so none of the neighbors could hear. Maggie thought they could probably hear anyway.

  The thing about her mother’s yelling fits was they were impossible to pay attention to. All the words – all the claims to morals and values and family pride – ran together after a certain point, and it was just white noise. The yapping of a neurotic dog.

  She sat on the couch with her hands linked together in her lap, nodding at intervals, eyes glazed over. Her mind wasn’t here, in yet another denigrating moment, while her father sat in the next room and did nothing. No, it was with Ghost somewhere, back at his tiny apartment where he’d returned with Aidan. Where he probably didn’t want her to ever be again.

  The way he’d looked at her. Like he hated her. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  “…are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Honey,” Arthur said, easing his way into the threshold. “Maybe–”

  “No!” Denise rounded on him, hair flying at crazy angles. “Did you see that man? The cops knew him by name!” She turned back to Maggie, eyes flashing like something out of a horror movie. “That is not some-some…some bad boy from school, Margaret. He’s a criminal!”

  Maggie strove to keep her face neutral. Technically, yes, Ghost was breaking the law, what with the drug-selling and whatnot. But she couldn’t make herself call him a criminal, not even in her head.

  “Do you understand that?” her mom demanded.

  She let out a deep, shaky breath. “Yes, Mom, I understand.”

  Eleven

  Now

  “Do we still have his credit card on file?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Holly said from the doorway, bright autumn sun highlighting her hourglass shape.

  Maggie nodded. At the moment, nausea wasn’t crippling her and she was cramming in as much office time as she could muster. “Go ahead and charge him, then, and we’ll–”

  A hand landed on Holly’s waist, just as a shadow blotted out the sun. And judging by the terror that overwhelmed Holly’s expression, it wasn’t Michael.

  “Hey there, darlin’,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Mind if I slip through?” The shadow shifted, crowded a petrified Holly against the jamb, and stepped into the office. That was when Maggie realized the voice wasn’t so unfamiliar after all.

  Roman was older – they all were – but his hair was still that shaggy, sandy lion’s mane, and he still had those sharp, coin-worthy features. Where Ghost had been dark and dangerous, Roman had always been charming; he could smile the panties off a girl in five minutes flat.

  Not that it had ever worked on Maggie, though.

  Her stomach tightened, and she wondered if it was her morning sickness rallying, or just nerves. Guess she’d find out if she had to heave over the wastebasket.

  “Roman,” she said, coolly, giving him the look that sent prospects scrambling to open doors and carry groceries for her.

  Roman propped a shoulder against a filing cabinet, folded his arms, and got comfy. His grin was still lazy and cutely crooked. “Well, Miss Maggie. Look at you. All grown up finally.”

  In the doorway, Holly lingered, a white-knuckled hand gripping the doorframe, eyes darting between the two of them. She made no move to leave, though, concerned about this stranger’s intentions. Maggie almost told her to go – almost. And decided at the last second that a witness wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  She sent him a tight, unfriendly smile. “
I’ve always been grown up, Roman. I’ve just got a few more crow’s feet now.”

  Roman snorted. “Just the same, huh?” He cast a glance around the office. “’Cept your man’s built you quite the little empire here, hasn’t he?”

  The back of her neck prickled. Roman had always been able to get Ghost’s hackles up, but she’d always managed to keep cool and aloof. Outwardly. “He built it for the club,” she corrected. “For his brothers. Their future.”

  “Right, right. The future.” He scuffed the toe of his boot across the tile. “It never turns out like you think it will, does it?” He flipped her a hooded look, his eyes bright in the fall of afternoon sunlight.

  She suppressed a shudder.

  Roman turned, then, and glanced over his shoulder at Holly, lazy, predatory smile spreading across his face. “Nice to see some things never change. You still got all the prettiest groupies around here.”

  Holly’s eyes flipped wide.

  “She’s an old lady,” Maggie snapped. “Show some damn respect.”

  “Ooh-hoo, my mistake,” he chuckled. He held up both hands, palms toward Holly. “Apologies, ma’am. Mrs. Old Lady.”

  “What do you want, Roman?” Maggie asked.

  “I wanna talk to your man.” He turned back to face her. “I come bearing gifts.”

  ~*~

  How many times, Ghost wondered, was some idiot with a death wish going to go bother his old lady at the office? “For the sake of your pretty little nose,” he told Roman, sneering, “you’re damn lucky I got to you before Michael did.”

  Roman, looking pleased and amused, slumped down with his elbows on the bar and lifted his brows in question. “Michael?”

  “Married to the old lady you were hitting on.”

  “Ah.”

  “He doesn’t have my way with words.”

  “Noted.”

  Ghost, standing behind the bar, added a splash of whiskey to his coffee and didn’t offer any to Roman. He thought it fitting symbolism: the bar – the club – between them. Both on either side of something they’d both once had, now opposed.

  “What gifts?” Ghost ask, impatient.

  “Hmm?” Roman trailed his fingertips down the polished wood of the bar top, not making eye contact.

  “You told Mags you came ‘bearing gifts.’ Hand ‘em over already and get your ass outta here.”

  He grinned. “Charming as ever.”

  “Five seconds, Roman.”

  The man heaved a dramatic sigh. It was a shame he was straight, Ghost thought, because he would have been a perfect match for Ian.

  “Fine,” he said, head lifting. “I got you a parlay with the prez of the Saints.”

  Ghost blinked. “A parlay?”

  “You know, like–”

  “I know what it means. What I don’t get is why you think I’ll believe you.”

  For the first time this afternoon, Roman grew serious. His voice lowered; he leaned forward on his stool. “Look. Kenny. I know there’s bad blood. A lot of it. I’m not an idiot.”

  Ghost lifted an eyebrow.

  “I’m not. I know, alright. I know you got no reason to trust me, or listen to me, or anything. We’ve got a shit past, you and me. But it’s just that – the past. I want to be a Lean Dog again. And I’m trying to show you that I’m looking out for the club. So I got the Saints president to agree to a meeting.”

  Ghost took a long swallow of his coffee. And another. Added more whiskey. “You understand there’s no precedent for that. Taking back an excommunicated member.”

  Roman shrugged. “The Lean Dogs are the most powerful outlaw MC in the world. And this is the mother chapter in the U.S. You don’t need precedent. You can do whatever you want.”

  “Why would I want to bring you back into the fold?”

  Roman leaned in even closer. “You’re not your uncle. You care about your brothers.”

  “You’re not my brother.”

  Roman’s grin tugged to the side, wry and unhappy. “Do you know how hard it was back then? To be the best, the fastest, the strongest, and know that none of it mattered because I wasn’t blood?”

  “So hard you betrayed your own club, apparently.” Ghost felt a stirring of long-buried rage in his gut, the rusty, poisonous anger he’d never been able to purge. His current club brothers knew that Duane had been his uncle and president – but they didn’t know how much he’d hated the man. How much he still did.

  “I made a mistake,” Roman said. “And I’m trying to make amends.”

  Slanted amber sunlight fell in through the gaps in the blinds, and it lit up Roman’s eyes like jewels. His eyes had always been his tell; it was why he liked to avoid gazes and smirk down at the floorboards. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was trying to hide, a little sunlight in his eyes and you could see straight through him, into the dark, twisted inner coils of his mind.

  Ghost looked at him now, the blue and green and hazel striations of his irises, and though he didn’t know what Roman was being honest about, he could see an honesty there. This whole scenario might be an elaborate trap, but he wanted something. Badly. He wanted the club back.

  And Ghost, damn him, had always had a soft spot for someone caught up in the wicked gears of his uncle’s outlaw machine. Roman was an asshole and a traitor, but who was to say Duane hadn’t made him that way?

  Shit.

  He said, “Remember that night you got shot?”

  Roman nodded. “The drug drop out in the sticks.” He had the good grace to look sheepish. “Um…”

  “Call your contact. I’ll take that parlay, but we do it today, and we do it on my turf.” Ghost felt a smile threaten. “And I’m bringing my boys.”

  ~*~

  Michael piloted the boat with an expert hand. It was a recent acquisition: a MasterCraft with an inboard motor and a diving platform off the back. It cut through the dark river water like a blade, its wake a tumble of froth. Late afternoon sun glinted off the water, unbearable without sunglasses. The dock that was their destination lay just ahead, the pontoon boat tied up at the end already populated with bodies.

  Ghost smiled to himself as he faced into the wind.

  So far, taking Roman’s hair-brained plan by the horns and redirecting it was the second most satisfying moment of his day, the first being witnessing Roman meet Mercy for the first time.

  Back at the clubhouse, Ghost had fired off a group text to Mercy, Walsh, and Michael, telling them to finish up for the day and come over ready to ride. Roman had looked at Walsh with dismissal, and then a grudging respect when scrutiny proved he wasn’t to be mocked. Michael had earned yet more reluctant respect – and then…Mercy.

  “Jesus. Supersize Geronimo,” Roman had said, and then looked like he wanted to take the words back.

  “Meet my son-in-law,” Ghost had said, smug. “Mercy.”

  Mercy had extended one of his giant, bear-paw hands for a shake, smiling in that way that made neighborhood kids scared to trick-or-treat at his house. “Geronimo. I like that.”

  Roman hadn’t accepted the shake. Smart man.

  Michael slowed the boat when they neared the dock, sending it into a slow turn that brought them up to the edge. Water slopped and the motor growled low and deep.

  Rob Goodwin of Goodwin’s Boat Rentals, and the owner of this particular dock, stood waiting for them, and tossed a length of rope that Ghost caught and used to tie up the MasterCraft.

  “Ghost!” Rob greeted the second the motor cut out, in his jovial, booming voice. He had a twist of tobacco in his lower lip and his forehead was red and leathery from a lifetime on the water. “What’re you boys up to this evening?”

  “Oh, you know.” Ghost stepped out of the boat and onto the dock, clapping the old man on the shoulder. “Just boring old club business.”

  Rob laughed. “Yeah, yeah. It’s always boring with you.”

  The others climbed out of the boat, crowding together on the end of the dock, Mercy’s shadow swallowing al
l of them. Ghost thought Roman looked edgy, though he hid it well. Good, he thought, with some satisfaction.

  Rob tossed a look toward the pontoon boat and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what you want with that lot, but I’ve explained everything to them. Y’all are just gonna have a nice little chat, and then all go on your way. They know the boys in blue will be all over ‘em if they so much as blink funny.”

  Ghost squeezed his shoulder before he let him go. “I appreciate it.”

  Rob nodded. “I’m just gonna go on down here a ways and inspect my other boats.” Which meant he’d be out of whisper range, but close enough to hear and see anything untoward, and he’d be watching them like a hawk.

  Ghost turned to Roman. “That them?”

  Roman shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted toward the boat and the three men waiting for them on it. His throat jumped as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

  Mercy shoved him between the shoulder blades and he stumbled forward a step. “Thanks for volunteering.”

  “I can’t believe you let your kid marry this nightmare,” Roman whispered as he passed Ghost and led the way up the dock to the pontoon boat.

  From behind, Ghost watched Roman lifted his shoulders, align his spine, and then skew the whole picture with a practiced slump. Pretend-casualness. The transformation occurred between one heartbeat and the next, from nervous captive to swaggering leader. That was the problem with him, the thing he’d never understood about himself. He could pretend to be anyone or anything he needed to be, depending on the situation, but that wasn’t how leadership worked.

  “Roman? What the hell is this?” A wiry young guy in a denim cut stepped up to the edge of the boat, squinting at their group with his lips pulled back off his teeth. It was too cold out on the water for his tattered shirt with the sleeves cut out, and all the fine blonde hairs on his arms stood on end, his skin pebbled with goosebumps.