American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  He shrugged. “I’m a happily married man, and I want my guys to be happy too.”

  “You’re the vice president,” she guessed.

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t seem very much like Duane.”

  “Most people agree with you on that.”

  She looked at Ghost’s face; she could envision the way the bruises would darken, purple, black, yellow. “I’m worried about him.”

  “He’s not always happy about the things the club is doing. That makes it hard for him.”

  “I want to help him,” she admitted, lifting her head.

  James’s smile was sympathetic. “All you can do is love him. That’s the only way you can help.”

  ~*~

  Ghost dreamed of dark, crowded warehouses, the dust up past his ankles, thick in the air, choking him. Dreamed of Duane sitting on the picnic table, cigarette cherry reflected in his eyes. Then he shifted – eyes glowing red, teeth growing into fangs. He broke apart and reworked himself into a real dog, its black ruff standing on end, growling deep and low as he leapt off the table and toward Ghost. He dreamed of fangs sinking into his side, bright pain, and Roman’s laughter.

  Then he woke up. It was a slow, foggy process, his vision gummy, the pain in his side real and insistent.

  He became aware that it was morning, pale light filtering through the blinds, and that there was a warm body pressed up against his good side. He tried to move his feet and found they were weighted down.

  He blinked away the last haze of sleep and lifted his head. Aidan lay lengthwise across the foot of the bed, snoring like a little chainsaw. Maggie was folded into Ghost’s side, hands curled beneath her chin, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

  He noted the dark circles under her eyes, the way her lids twitched. The days were wearing her down – he was, this stupid biker life of his.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, and her eyes snapped open. “Shit, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.” She pushed up on an elbow, concerned gaze flicking across his face, darting to the bandages that peeked from beneath his t-shirt. “How are you feeling?”

  “What time is it?” he countered. The inside of his mouth felt and tasted like cotton. “Is there any water?”

  “Yeah.” She rolled over and plucked a half-full glass off the nightstand. “How are you feeling?” she repeated when she rolled back, and attempted to press the glass to his lips.

  He reached to take it from her, hissing as his side grabbed. “Worse off for the oxy, I think. I’ll be alright.”

  She raked her nails through his hair as he drank, a gentle smile in her voice. “Not what I asked, but okay.” Answering his question: “It’s a little after nine.”

  “Did…did James carry me out to the truck?”

  “No, you woke up for that. Sort of. You walked and we steered you.”

  He snorted. “Jesus.” He didn’t want to know how they’d gotten him up the stairs and into his own bed.

  “Bonita gave me another pill if you need it.”

  “Nah, I hate the way that shit makes me feel. I’ll just drink.”

  “Yeah, that’s doctor recommended,” she said with an eye roll. Then she sobered. “Do you need to go to the ER? We could tell them it was a shop accident or something.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Ghost.”

  “You’re gonna wake up the kid.” He was being an asshole, but didn’t seem able to stop. He ground his jaw and realized that hurt too. “Why’s he in here anyway?” He could count on one hand the number of times Aidan had climbed into bed with him. Before Olivia left, the bedroom was a place of angry shouts and resentment. And after, of quiet misery. Aidan hadn’t sought comfort with his father through any of it.

  “He was worried about you.” Maggie pinned him to the bed with a stern look. “We both were.”

  He looked away from her, and the unrelenting care in her gaze. The kind of care that gave his stubborn man-pride the finger. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

  “Ghost,” she said, low. When he looked at her, his breath hitched. “What happened last night?”

  He stared at her – her eyes looked green in the morning light – and he couldn’t give her a bullshit story. Some lie that he could take care of himself and that she shouldn’t worry.

  It hurt to swallow. “I think Duane tried to have one of us killed.”

  “Shit,” she breathed.

  “And I think it was me.”

  ~*~

  Aidan woke up after that, asking about breakfast, and they had to drop it for the time being. Maggie sent him out to watch TV – damn, the kid watched so much TV, as a means of distracting him from Serious Adult Topics, it was a miracle his brain wasn’t leaking out his ears – and she cleaned his wound and changed his bandages with brisk, but gentle, efficiency. She left him to get dressed and went to start breakfast.

  It was a Tuesday, and he didn’t ask her why she was staying home – he knew he was the reason. Just like he didn’t insist on Aidan going.

  His girlfriend and his son were both in school. Jesus. His poor mother was rolling in her grave.

  After toast and bacon, Maggie gave him a careful scrutiny and said, “You doing alright?”

  “Fine.”

  They walked down to the parking lot and Aidan took off on his skateboard, back and forth tirelessly across the pavement, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he attempted, and failed over and over, to jump a stick he’d found earlier in the week.

  Ghost eased down onto the curb in front of the truck and Maggie sat down beside him, their shoulders pressed together.

  “I’m pretty sure my mom hates me,” she said. “But I can’t imagine she’d want me dead.”

  “Your mom’s a bitch, but she doesn’t sell coke to schoolkids either. We ain’t exactly dealing with normal here.”

  “Yeah, but you’re his family. That means something, no matter what somebody does to earn a living.”

  “Family don’t mean shit to him.”

  “Why do you think he tried to have you killed?” she asked, changing tactics.

  He sighed. “Just trust me, okay?” When he risked a glance, she was frowning at him. “Fine. Look, the guy said it. That Duane promised ‘blood for blood’ or some shit. That they had his blessing to kill one of us.”

  Her frown deepened. “Us? Who was with you?”

  He shouldn’t tell her. He really shouldn’t. “Roman.”

  “Shit.”

  “And Justin, but he was drunk. So.”

  She chewed her lip a moment. “Promise not to freak out when I tell you this.”

  “I’m never gonna make that promise.”

  “Ghost.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “I ran into Roman on Friday. I was coming out of the bathroom, and he was there–”

  “Where the fuck was Jackie?” he snapped, feeling betrayed.

  “I don’t know. But listen. He said something to me. He said he wanted me to keep you at home. Distracted. He said ‘they’ wanted that.”

  He shut his eyes a moment, which intensified the throbbing pain in his side. He reached blindly for the tumbler of Jack he’d brought outside – it slid into his hand and he knew Maggie had helped – and drained it, willing the burn to dull this intense new spike of hatred for Roman.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked when he could.

  “Ugh, you’re missing the point.”

  “You were alone with him.”

  “For less than a minute. In which he suggested I keep you away from the club because they, quote, didn’t need you around. Ghost, they’re trying to push you out! How do you know Duane set the deal up?”

  “He sent us there.”

  “Yeah, but how do you know he was the one who wanted you dead? Maybe it was Roman.”

  His increasingly-rabid thoughts screeched to a halt. Shuffled and laid themselves out like cards.

/>   “Crap,” Aidan muttered as he failed to make the jump again.

  It made sense. In a twisted way. Roman had long worked to best Ghost in everything from bike maintenance to coffee-fetching. The brown-noser lived to please Duane, and his efforts had worked: he far outshone Ghost as a Lean Dog. But murder? He hadn’t considered it before now. But they were outlaws. And not very loyal ones at that. What was one more crime?

  “Shit,” he breathed, and regretted that his glass was empty.

  “I know it’s not my place,” Maggie said. “But I think it’s time for you to take some control over this club. That or…”

  “There’s no way out,” he said, answering the unasked question. “You’re in for life, until you’re dead or excommunicated, and those are two things you don’t want to be.”

  “Okay. Well.” She tucked her hair back and fixed him with a determined look. “Then you can’t let the club keep hurting you.”

  He wasn’t sure which scared him more: the prospect of demanding a larger role, or the look in her eyes, the loyalty he hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve.

  “You think you could help me with one of those business plan things?”

  Her smile was approving. “Absolutely.”

  Twenty-Three

  Then

  It was almost midnight, and she was cross-eyed, the words swimming on the page before her. She shut her eyes and rubbed them, white flowers bursting behind her lids.

  They’d started before dinner, completely engrossed, long enough that Aidan had started complaining, and that Ghost had ordered pizza so she didn’t have to clear the table and cook. They sat on the floor now, across from each other, linoleum cluttered with loose leaf paper, and grease-stained paper plates. Aidan had been asleep for hours.

  Ghost stretched his arms up over his head until both shoulders popped. He gave a satisfied grunt and let his hands fall into his lap. “Damn.” It was a pleased, tired, disbelieving kind of “damn” – the best kind. He surveyed the business plan spread out between them, touching the corner of a page. “You think he’ll go for it?” He looked a lot like Aidan when he was doubtful.

  “I don’t know.” She didn’t think he would. “But you have to get the others to go for it. If everyone thinks this is a good idea, he can’t dismiss it out of hand.”

  He blew out a breath that ruffled the paper. “I dunno.”

  “You have to try.”

  “I know.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

  She shrugged and the muscles at the base of her neck spasmed. “I might as well put all that studying to good use. Besides, I want to help.”

  He blushed, just a little, adorable color on his cheeks, and ducked his head. “Yeah. Thanks.” He was bashful, looking up at her through his lashes.

  She was exhausted, and sore from sitting, but she felt a tease of heat in the pit of her belly.

  He held her gaze a long beat, until she felt breathless, like they’d never…like they weren’t already…

  “You tired?” he asked, voice low and throaty.

  Her body responded, a rush of wetness between her legs. She was tired, but now she was turned-on, too, so she shook her head.

  “C’mere.”

  She climbed into his lap, legs going around his waist, hands finding his shoulders. Her lips were poised just above his when the phone in the kitchen started to ring.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his. “Ugh.”

  “Let the machine get it,” he said, and kissed her. Kissed her mouth, long and sweet, his tongue sliding against hers. Kissed her jaw, her throat, lingering over her pulse point until her neck was weak.

  The phone rang out to the machine – Ghost’s voice, curt and uninterested: “Leave a message” – and then…

  “Margaret,” her mother’s voice said, and her heart stopped.

  She pulled back from Ghost with a horrified gasp. Cold chills, shaking hands, racing heart.

  “I went to a lot of trouble to obtain this number,” Denise continued through the answering machine, voice tinny and wavering, “so I hope you’ll call me back. It would be the polite thing to do.”

  “Is she fucking serious?” Ghost whispered against her temple.

  “We need to talk, Margaret,” Denise said with a sigh. “You can’t go on like this. Call me. Please.” The “please” sounded like it pained her.

  The call disconnected and it was silent again, just them, her erratic breathing, and the hum of the fridge.

  Ghost jostled her lightly on his lap. “Mags.”

  She went limp against him, arms around his neck, his solid strength and warmth holding her up. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “Just when I start to forget that she exists…I’m so sorry she called here.” She turned her face into his shoulder, pressed her nose into the worn cotton of his shirt. “I don’t know who she had to bribe to get your number, but I’ll make her tear it up. I–”

  “Baby.” He rubbed a soothing hand down her back, over the quivering muscles that framed her spine. “I’m in the book. All she had to know was my name. She’s trying to guilt you into thinking it took a lotta effort.”

  “Really?” She groaned again. “Story of my life.”

  He bundled her in close, hand slipping inside her shirt, and the skin-on-skin contact was immeasurably comforting. No one hugged in her family; physical comfort was a rare, and often awkward thing. She didn’t think she’d ever tire of touching Ghost.

  “We should introduce her to my ex,” he said. “They’d get on great.”

  “I dunno. Your ex was married to you, after all.”

  He snorted. “Liv hated my guts. She liked fancy things, rich men, foreign cars. Shit knows why she ever married me, but she’s cold as ice. All about manners and fake shit. She’d love your mom.”

  “Are you serious?” She tipped her head back far enough to read his expression. He never talked about his ex-wife; there was zero evidence that a woman – and a picky, snobbish one at that – had ever lived in the apartment. If it wasn’t for Aidan, Maggie wouldn’t believe she’d ever existed.

  He gave a facial shrug. “Yeah. She’s living with some guy who owns a bank or something now. They have a housekeeper.”

  “Are you serious?” she repeated, and he fidgeted under her.

  “She really traded up, huh?”

  “No.” When he gave her a skeptical look, she said, “Ghost, no. Absolutely not. My mom is the kind of bitch who doesn’t love her own family if their table manners aren’t up to snuff. She cares more about what the neighbors think of her than her own immortal soul. If the house caught on fire, and we were all inside it, she’d save her jewelry and then politely request that the fireman bring out her husband. If they could. She berates the waitstaff of every restaurant she ever goes to. My mom is awful. And if your ex is like her, then damn, you don’t need that in your life. I feel sorry for the poor asshole banker she’s haunting now.”

  It wasn’t until she finished her rant that she realized she was way out of line. But Ghost was smiling, so she didn’t care.

  “I think maybe I traded up too,” he said, chuckling.

  She made a face.

  “The bitch couldn’t cook, didn’t clean, was a shit mom.” He leaned forward and bumped her nose with his own. “I’m serious.”

  It was amazing, she thought, how she could go from despondent to joyous in just moments. That was because of Ghost – she wasn’t sure she’d known what joy felt like before he came into her life. Or maybe it was a case of her coming into his life; she was the original instigator, after all.

  She smiled; their faces were so close his features were blurred. “Me too. So don’t go trash-talking the man I love.”

  It hit them both at the same moment: what she’d said. Love. They slept in the same bed, and she was playing mommy with his son, but the L-word was still a big, big deal.

  Ghost pulled back another fraction, so they could really see each other with
clear eyes. His were dilated.

  It felt like she waited forever, poised on the edge of embarrassed panic.

  His throat jumped as he swallowed. “Me too. You know that, right?”

  She did. She nodded.

  “I do,” he said, for emphasis, hand sliding up the back of her neck, cupping her nape. He pulled her in for a kiss that was different from every one that had come before it. When their lips met, she thought I love him, and he loves me, and it wasn’t just a meeting of lips, but a pledge. An acknowledgement of what they felt for one another, and what it meant: that they had each others’ backs, that they would defend, and support, and protect one another.

  Maggie had never experienced anything like it in her short life. Something mutual. Something that meant so much to both parties. Sealed with a kiss.

  She speared her fingers through his hair – silky-slick, the curls looping around her knuckles – and opened her mouth, invited him in.

  His tongue licked between her teeth, hot velvet, heavy and whiskey-flavored.

  He loved her. The knowledge was better than acing a test, better than winning an award, better than her early college acceptance letters. There was nothing fake about him kissing her, nothing stiff, or formal, or forced. She didn’t have to pretend, here in his arms. It was easy. Good. Right.

  She didn’t realize she bit his lip until he pulled back with a hiss, tonguing away a flash of blood. His eyes were black, heavy-lidded. “Shit,” he murmured, and dove back in.

  Taste of copper, bright and thrilling. Messy kisses, now, sting of teeth and rasp of tongue. He put his hand on her face, angling her head, urging her jaw to open wider.

  She melted. Each time they did this, it was better than the last, more familiar, easier to find the spots that made him growl and lean into her. Easier for him to touch her just so, and get her wet and panting.

  He eased her down onto her back, paper crackling beneath her.

  “Not the plan!” she laughed against his mouth, and he lifted her effortlessly, twisted and laid her back on the carpet of the living room floor, well away from their hours of hard work.

  He crawled over her, braced up on his hands, his blown-black eyes staring down into her face. “You’re beautiful.”