Ghost seemed to shake off thoughts of his old nemesis and regroup. “I looked for you in the kitchen, but Ava said you felt sick.”
“Better now.”
He eyed her ginger ale.
“I am. Just…” She made a vague gesture toward her throat rather than explain about the stuffiness, and the kitchen smells, and…her general anxiety.
He braced a hand on the wall and stared down at her pensively, gaze a little distant; she didn’t think he was thinking about her, or them, or anything domestic – club business, of course – but he surprised her by saying, “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”
She’d just taken a sip of ginger ale and it fizzed dangerously in her throat as she fought to swallow it down. Her voice was a croak. “What made you think of that?”
He looked hurt by the question, in that unexpectedly vulnerable way he’d always had with her. “It’s my kid. I can’t be curious?”
She bit back a smile. Mostly. The corners of her mouth curled and he doubled down on his own expression. “You hoping for anything in particular?”
“Girl,” he said, immediately.
“Really? After that whole Ava/Mercy situation? You wanna go through that again?”
He winced. “Shit.” But: “Yeah, though, I do. Boys are…complicated.”
It saddened her to hear that. “You won’t be going through a divorce this time, though.” She thought of Aidan, his Spider-Man PJs, and the lonely desperation in his smiles.
Ghost shrugged and glanced away from her. “I’m a shit dad. It fucks up the boys worse, I think.”
“You’re not a shit dad,” she said, automatically.
He gave her a look.
“You…” Shit. “You were busy with the club, sometimes, sure. And you’re a hardass. You know that about yourself, and I don’t see you changing anytime soon. But you’re not shit, Kenny. Don’t say that.”
He snorted. “If it wasn’t for you, both our kids would be dead or on crack.”
She pretended to consider. “Well, Aidan might.” She was glad to see the flash of protest in his eyes; she knew how much he loved Aidan, but it was nice to see him show it every once in a while. “Kidding, kidding,” she said, smoothing a hand across his chest. “He was always better behaved than you gave him credit for.”
“He got somebody pregnant.”
“Well look at that, so did you. Like father, like son.”
He made a face. Not one of his usual scowls or frowns, but an honest-to-goodness face, like he was in his twenties again.
Maggie laughed. “You walked right into that one, baby. Sorry.”
He took a deep breath and let himself relax visibly when he exhaled, shoulders slumping. He got tension headaches sometimes from holding himself so stiff and upright, trying to look in-control and presidential at all times. She rubbed his neck and shoulders most nights, sometimes with him sitting at the kitchen table, elbows braced on its surface. She’d work at the knots with her fingers until she finally found the one that unlocked all the rest, and he went limp as a rag doll, groaning, head falling forward into his hands.
She hadn’t done that in a while, not since this whole mess started.
So many things were falling by the wayside in the wake of club trouble. New baby included.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, unguarded. His at-home voice, reserved for dark nights and soft sheets. His eyes softened when he used that voice, became fresh coffee instead of onyx. “I keep asking if you’re okay. But…are you happy about this?” His hand moved to her belly, cupping an as-of-yet imaginary roundness there. “Do you want it?”
“Kenny,” she chastised.
“No, I mean it. Do you want this? Are you happy about it? We’re – shit, we’re not young anymore, Mags.” His smile was sideways, a little desperate. Scared. “I mean…diapers, and puke, and toys all over the house, and not getting any sleep…”
There was an ache starting up in her chest, a deep phantom pain that had nothing to do with sickness and everything to do with the terror in her man’s eyes. “Ghost.”
“This life? It doesn’t guarantee retirement. The only reason James got to step down is because he was a pussy who didn’t do any of the heavy lifting – no, he was. He was a figurehead. I’m grateful he was there, when I wasn’t ready to take the chair yet, but shit, you know me. You think I’m gonna get to be old and gray and have to hang up my cut ‘cause of, what, arthritis or some shit?”
“Fifty-two isn’t old.”
“When this kid’s twenty, I’ll be seventy-two. Jesus Christ, Mags. And that’s if I live that long.”
“Stop.” Her heart fluttered. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down, told herself that just because he was panicking, didn’t mean she needed to as well. “You aren’t old. I’m not old. Nobody’s dying early, alright? I forbid it.”
His head kicked back. “You forbid it?”
“You’re damn right I do. This is our second baby. Your third. And we’ve got more money and a better house than we did last time around. Why should this be scary?”
The answer hung unsaid between them: because it just is.
Maggie sighed. “Guess you answered your own question. You’re not happy about it.”
“What? No. I am.”
“Sure.”
“Mags, I am. I’m stressed out. Obviously.” He made a gesture that was somehow self-deprecating. “But.” He hooked two fingers in the front of her jeans and tugged her in close, so she had to tip her head back to look up at him, stomach flipping in a positive way this time. “Having a baby with you is always gonna make me happy.”
He still, after all these years, had the ability to make her melt. Not because he was a poetic man, if anything, because he wasn’t. Because, plainspoken and graceless as he was, when he told her sweet things, they carried weight, and she believed him.
He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You just gotta make sure I do a good job, okay?”
She slipped her arms around his waist. “Okay. I can do that.”
~*~
The call came in to the clubhouse landline. They were almost done with breakfast, the kids squirming to get down and play, conversation beginning to eclipse the scrape of cutlery on plates. On the first ring, everyone went silent, save Millie, who continued to fuss quietly in Ava’s arms. By the second ring, Ratchet was already halfway across the room, snatching the cordless handset up and answering with a polite, “Hello?”
They’d talked about this before; Ghost didn’t need to answer the phone himself. A subtle show of power.
Gazes darted around the table.
Ghost pushed his chair back.
“Yeah,” Ratchet said into the phone. “Yeah, hold on.”
Ghost met him part way and carried the phone back into the hallway. “Yeah?”
Badger’s voice was tight. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Yep. I sure am. Only, it’s not so much ‘fucking’ as making a statement. A pointed one.”
“I thought we were gonna come to an agreement.”
“I thought so too. And then I met Kristin and Reese.”
A long, tense silence followed. Ghost thought he could hear Badger grinding his teeth on the other end of the line before he finally said, “You’re gonna regret this.”
“Just like your crew over on Wright Road regrets dealing, huh? Have you talked to any of them since they got picked up? Got ‘em a lawyer yet?”
“I want those kids back.”
“I bet you do. Let’s set up a meet.”
“Fuck you.”
“Clearly, you’ve figured out by now that I’ve got the PD in my pocket. So I’ll phrase it this way: Let’s set up a meet, or you’ll be in cuffs within the hour.”
Another silence. Then: “Fine.”
Ghost gave him the address of the marina and Badger hung up without a response.
~*~
Kris’s most vivid memories of her brother were snapshots from their childhood, when he
’d been a fat toddler with flyaway blond hair and rosy cheeks. When he’d been happy. When he’d been alive.
She saw him so seldom in the years after they were taken that it was hard to remember what he looked like, and then she’d finally see him, stolen glimpses when he was brought before her and she was used as a threat to force his behavior, and he was unrecognizable.
When Roman stole them, she hadn’t laid eyes on Reese in almost a year. And now, when he was around, when he chose to be near her, she stared unrepentantly, trying to memorize his features lest he disappear – for good this time, all on his own, a true ghost at last.
They stood together in a corner of the Lean Dogs’ clubhouse main room. The Dogs were all preparing to leave, bringing out guns, checking magazines, strapping on flak vests. It was a militaristic kind of preparation she was familiar with, thanks to the Saints. Old hat. But the difference was, this time, she wanted the men going out in the field to be safe – whereas she’d always hoped the Saints never returned. She would have preferred starving to death on the end of her chain to having to endure their attentions anymore.
“Are you going with them?” she asked Reese.
He wouldn’t look at her. He never did. His head was angled down and away, watching the men get ready from beneath his brows.
She ached. His hair was too-long, and dirty. Dry, dead skin flaked on his lips. Before Badger, with Holden, Reese had been groomed: shaved head, clipped nails, washed face. But Badger wasn’t someone who took care of his weapons, not even human ones.
“Reese.”
“Yes,” he said. His voice was all wrong, like he didn’t quite know how to wield it.
“You don’t have to go,” she said, and wished he’d stay here with her. Maybe meet her eyes. Talk to her a little.
“I wanna make sure…make sure they do it right.” He nodded toward the Dogs milling around the common room. “That they don’t hurt you.”
“Reese,” she sighed. “I’m not afraid for me.” Even though she was scared to death. She was the big sister, after all. She had to put on a brave face for him. “Don’t you trust Roman?”
His lashes flickered as he blinked. He lifted his hand to his mouth and bit at a hangnail on his thumb; his knuckles were scraped and scarred. “I don’t trust anyone.”
~*~
“He won’t try anything now,” Roman assured when Ghost asked if he thought Badger might try to sabotage the parlay.
Oh, the irony of Roman saying that, after he’d been the one to orchestrate the last parlay – total sham that it had been.
Still, logic dictated that Badger, with five of his crew in prison, wasn’t going to do something completely dramatic and pull guns on them at the marina. No one was that stupid.
Ghost wanted to arrive early, though, earlier than even Badger might.
Rob intercepted them when they were halfway down the dock where they’d agreed to meet. He was bundled up in a beanie and windbreaker against the chill, wad of chaw in his lower lip. He stood with hands on hips, squinting into the sun.
“That fella you said you was meeting, that Shaman? He ain’t what I was expecting,” he told Ghost with a meaningful lift of his tufty gray brows.
Ghost clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t worry: everyone thinks that.”
“If you say so. He’s down on the Clementine. I got her all set up for y’all. When’s the rest of the party showin’ up?”
“Soon. Send ‘em down, will you?”
“Yeah, you bet.”
“Thanks, Rob.”
The Clementine was the kind of big party yacht that anchored outside Neyland on game days. The rental fee was well above all their pay grades.
Well, almost all of them.
When they stepped up into the boat, they found Ian sitting on the deck, gray suit, open-throated lavender shirt, panama hat with a lavender band, a glass of Scotch at the table beside him, cigar in-hand. He glanced up at them through black shades and said, “Ah, gentlemen.”
Ghost glanced over his shoulder as his boys followed him aboard, one quick check on Tango. The kid was smiling, a small, amused, eye-rolling sort of smile. Good. Turning back to Ian, he said, “Really?”
“What?” He blew an elaborate smoke ring. “You didn’t expect me to get on one of those, did you?” His lip curled back as he waved toward the pontoon boats tied to the other side of the dock. “Honestly, Kenneth. I have taste. And besides, don’t you want this heathen to think you have real money behind you? Which you do, by the way.”
“I regret this friendship every day of my life,” Ghost muttered, without heat.
Ian grinned, teeth flashing like a shark’s.
Michael prowled around the edge of the deck, no doubt looking for a good defensive position.
Mercy had his sledgehammer and propped it on his massive shoulder, whistling as he surveyed the upper deck, hand shading his eyes. “I’ve been on a lot of boats in my life, but this…Damn.” He turned a shit-eating grin on Ghost. “Can we get one, boss?”
“No.”
Reese, all in black, his hair a sunny shock, went up the ladder to the upper deck without being told to, disappearing from view.
Ian gestured with his cigar. “Who is that?”
Ghost sighed. “Long story.”
“Well.” He rose to his feet, an elegant, dancer-like movement. “Come let me fix you a drink and you can tell me.”
“I don’t need a drink.”
“Come,” Ian insisted.
“Fuck you,” Ghost said, but followed.
The yacht’s cabin was, as expected, luxurious in the extreme. White leather, Carrera marble countertops, huge live flower arrangements in white urns. The kitchen boasted stainless appliances and not one, but three coffee machines; Ghost thought one was for making cappuccino, but wasn’t sure. There was a wine fridge, fully-stocked. Wall-to-wall windows looked out over the water beyond.
Bruce, Ian’s bodyguard/manservant stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him by the bolted-down dining table, awaiting instructions. Ghost thought it very telling that the giant man hadn’t been awaiting their arrival on the deck: Ian trusted them that much, at least.
“We’ll do it in here, I think,” Ian said, waving an arm to indicate the glamorous space as he walked to the wine fridge and pulled out an already-open bottle of something chilled and white. He turned to face Ghost and popped the cork. “Chardonnay?”
“No,” Ghost said with a snort. “You’re just running this thing, then? That’s how it’s gonna be?”
“Darling, I supply you with all your narcotics these days. I’m already running things.” He pulled a glass from the rack and poured himself a generous portion; Ghost could smell it ten steps away, the crisp fruit scent of the same wine Maggie always drank.
Shit. Mags. He couldn’t even fathom how she could still want him, still want to have kids with him. The miracle of his life, that’s what she was.
“Look at that,” Ian said. “I got the last word.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Walsh said, “Jesus,” as he entered, surveying the cabin.
“Like you don’t live in a mansion,” Ghost said.
“Hey,” Walsh said, and then shrugged. “It didn’t come furnished.” Then, growing serious: “My girl deserved that house.”
“Yeah, she did,” Ghost agreed.
Ian tilted the wine bottle toward Walsh in offering. He shook his head.
Quiet descended, broken by the murmur of voices out on the deck.
Ian took a long swallow of wine and said, voice low, suddenly hesitant, “How’s Kevin?”
Walsh, to Ghost’s surprise, said, “None of your damn business,” tone unusually harsh.
Ghost felt his brows go up. Though Tango had relayed his dark life story to the club, he hadn’t gone into any detail about Ian. Walsh was sharp, though, and somehow he knew. There was true anger in his gaze. Ghost had the unsettling feeling that, if not for his insistence, the club wou
ld have rejected any and all offers of assistance from the English drug dealer.
For a moment, Ian looked devastated by the response. Then he shook himself off and assumed his mocking little smirk again.
“He’s good,” Ghost said, taking pity on the guy. Most of the time, he wanted to knock the bastard’s teeth out, but he felt some sympathy as well. Anyone snatched as a child and turned into a sex toy deserved some consideration.
“He got married,” Ian said, and the statement seemed carefully void of emotion, like he’d been practicing.
“Yeah. You met Whitney.”
“Lovely girl,” he said, without emotion, then shuddered and moved on. “Your guest is late.”
“We’re early,” Ghost countered.
Mercy stuck his head inside the cabin. “He’s here.”
Ghost nodded. “Show him in.”
Mercy ducked back out, and a moment later Badger entered, looking like he’d been frisked rather roughly, his shirt rumpled beneath his cut. He had dark bags beneath eyes red from sleeplessness. The past forty-eight hours had obviously been stressful for him.
“Welcome,” Ghost said, voice flat. “I take it you found the place okay.”
“This is bullshit,” Badger said, but without energy. “What’s going on, Ghost? Where are they?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“Hello.” Ian strolled forward, glass in-hand. Bruce made a subtle shift closer to his boss, ready to act as human shield if necessary. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. You must be Badger.” His grin was the stuff of Maggie’s gossip set: sugar and acid and almost-professional aplomb.
Badger looked at him – from the long, sleek hair to the shiny toes of his shoes – and then to Ghost, dumbstruck. “Who the hell is this?”
“You may call me Shaman,” Ian said primly. “I provide the Lean Dogs with all of the product they sell. In every state. You, so I’ve been told, are the competition.” He smiled again. “Or so you think.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Badger’s face darkened, going red with anger. “Ghost,” he said, aiming a finger at him. “We were gonna work something out. I came to you in good faith–”
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