American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  “You,” Ghost interrupted, “brought your entire crew onto my property, right up to my front door. And that was after you’d already started trucking coke into my city and packing it into every goddamn abandoned house and barn you could find. And you’re already selling it, too.” He pulled the envelope Aidan and Tango had intercepted from a customer from his cut pocket and flicked it down to the floor. “Look at that. And before we came to any kind of agreement.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Badger said. “I can explain everything.”

  “Here’s the thing, though. I don’t want you to explain.”

  “You know how it works,” Walsh said in his “now, children” voice. “If you plan to ask a favor of a man, you don’t go ahead and do what you please before he agrees to it. You’ve forfeited all courtesy.”

  “I…” Badger started, and his face fell. He knew he’d been backed into a corner with no way out.

  “Knoxville belongs to us,” Ghost said, and Ian cleared his throat meaningfully. “I meant you too,” he hissed as an aside. “To us,” he repeated. There’s no future between the Dogs and the Saints – not one that isn’t bloody, at least. You fucked up, Badger, but I don’t want another war in my city. I’ll let you walk away with your tail between your legs.

  “I would,” he amended. “If it was just the drugs and just you being an asshole. But–”

  The sash creaked as one of the windows behind him was pushed open. A sequence of conflicting emotions passed across Badger’s face, and Ghost turned to catch a quick glimpse of Reese over his shoulder, the pale wraith gliding in through the window, eerie in all black, face blank.

  “It’s the human trafficking I can’t forgive,” Ghost said. From the corner of his eye, he watched Ian’s already-pale face go white; he downed his wine in one swallow. “Keeping kids as pets? Yeah, no.”

  “Ken?” a tired-sounding voice called from outside.

  “In here.” To Badger: “We don’t tolerate that shit around here.”

  Fielding ducked into the cabin, harassed-looking and droopy-eyed, cuffs in one hand. He surveyed the lot of them. Sighed.

  “This is the one,” Ghost said, pointing to Badger.

  Reese stared, unblinking, as the cuffs were clipped into place.

  “Well,” Ian said, mildly, pouring more wine, “isn’t that terrifying?”

  Thirty

  Now

  The clubhouse was in full celebration mode. Someone had cranked the music, and some else – RJ, Ghost had a feeling – had opened one of the bottles of champagne wedged in the back of the fridge.

  He couldn’t begrudge them a party, though. They’d stopped a war without spilling a single drop of blood.

  “You look pretty proud of yourself,” Maggie said, sliding into the chair beside his.

  “Does it make me a shit if I am?”

  “A little bit. But a cute shit, so it works out.”

  He grinned, intent on flicking his cigarette into the ashtray and pulling her into his lap.

  But Roman thumped down across from him, face serious. Fuck him. “Can we talk?”

  “Don’t you wanna drink your champagne while it’s bubbly?”

  “No.”

  Ghost sighed and sent an apologetic glance to Maggie. “I’ll be right back.”

  She had a glass of ginger ale and took a sip. “Take your time.” The sly grin she shot him elevated his blood pressure in a good way.

  Fuck Roman, seriously.

  They went into the kitchen, vacant for the moment, warm from the central heat and the still-cooling ovens. Ghost leaned back against the big industrial fridge, unbothered now. He wasn’t sure he could stir up any worry if he wanted to right now, how sweet was the knowledge of a recent victory.

  Roman, though, seemed on edge, bracing both hands on the island, leaning over it. “What about my boys and me?”

  “What about you?”

  Roman sighed. “What I said before, about wanting back in – I really do. And I want my boys to have a chance to prospect.”

  He gave it a minute. “Oh. You’re serious.”

  “I don’t joke around about those kids, man.”

  Ghost clenched his jaw to keep from saying what he wanted to – an oh so eloquent fuck you – and tried to hold onto his presidential mantle just a little longer. “We’ve had this conversation, Roman. You were kicked out. You don’t get to come back.”

  “And I said–”

  “I remember what you said.”

  Roman glanced away, a muscle jumping in his throat. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, Ghost,” he said, quietly.

  “Sure you do. You could go anywhere. Tend bar. Work in a garage. Whatever. This isn’t your only, or even your best, option.”

  When he looked back, his eyes held a sheen Ghost had never seen in them before. Being a parent had a way of changing people, always for the better. “I want a better life for Boomer and the boys. I’ll do anything.”

  “Including lie to me and try to pull one over on my entire club just to get out of a jam.”

  “Ghost,” he pleaded.

  Ghost sighed. “I feel bad for the kids, alright?” And he did. They made him think of Aidan, perpetually directionless, and Ava, strong when she shouldn’t have had to be. He’d screwed over both his kids, denied them the lives they wanted through his own bullheadedness. They’d worked things out for themselves…but other kids weren’t so lucky. Weren’t so strong.

  Shit.

  “I’ll put it to a vote,” he relented. “For the kids. If the guys are okay with it, they can start as hangarounds. They’ll have to work their way up the ladder the normal way, no special treatment.”

  “That’s fair,” Roman breathed, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

  “And you’re not back in, Roman,” Ghost said. “That’s the deal. The kids, but not you.”

  His face fell, crumpling in a way that highlighted all the lines and freckles he’d collected over the years. He looked fifty-three then, tired and gray-faced, worn out from the kind of life that killed you slowly…and then all at once.

  “That’s fair too,” he said, tone dull now.

  “You’re welcome to stay in town,” Ghost said, almost apologetic. “But you can’t wear the colors again, Roman. I just can’t trust you.”

  His mouth twitched in a sideways, humorless smile. “Yeah. I get it.”

  Thirty-One

  Then

  The scariest part, Ghost decided, was that nothing was happening.

  Yet.

  The day he took Maggie shooting, they stayed up at the cattle property until it was time to get Aidan from school. They’d packed sandwiches for lunch, and spent long hours in the hay loft, surveying the land, talking. Worrying. After they got Aidan, they grabbed a bucket of KFC and took him to the park. Ghost sat on his butt in the grass, awkward and bad at parenting, while Maggie worked with Aidan on his kite, until they finally got it up in the air to the sound of their triumphant laughter.

  They were more like siblings than a parent and child – Maggie was a child herself. He felt a pang of deep sadness, like always. Maybe one day he’d stop feeling guilty for stealing her youth, but he didn’t think it would be anytime soon.

  They took a whole day away from the club, but the next morning, he’d known his reprieve was over. He’d gone to the clubhouse, knees weak, stomach churning, to face the wrath of Duane.

  Only Duane hadn’t been wrathful. He’d been oddly placid, if anything. “We’ll need to set a meeting with the Ryders,” he’d said, and that had been it.

  Ghost didn’t trust it for a second. But he was always scared shitless that if he pushed the issue, his tiny little family would suffer somehow.

  That’s what he realized in Duane’s office that day: his concern was for Mags and Aidan, for the three of them. And any other worry was distant and unimportant.

  Everything was…fine. It shouldn’t have been, but it somehow was.

  Roman was gone.

&n
bsp; Maggie went to school (so did Aidan).

  The construction company broke ground on the garage project. He was going to call it Dartmoor, he decided, thinking fondly of campfire tales of the original Lean Dog, the terrorizing hellhound of the English moors.

  Ghost made drops, and watched his business go up.

  Pages flew off the calendar.

  And everything was fine…

  Until it wasn’t.

  ~*~

  There was frost on the windows, but it was warm here, in bed, with Ghost above her. It had started innocently enough, waking to a kiss against the back of her neck, his low, sleepy rumble of “good morning” pressed to her skin. She was the one who’d rolled over, smoothed her hand up his arm, but he’d taken over from there, kissing her without regard for their morning breath, easing her onto her back. He’d pushed her t-shirt up to her shoulders, cold air chasing across her naked skin, and he’d touched her everywhere, until she shifted restlessly, begging.

  She clung to him now, fingertips digging into his shoulders, hips lifting to meet each thrust. She liked when he teased and played with her, drawing the pleasure out for long minutes, turning it into a game. But there was something necessary about moments like these, stripped down and basic. The sheen of sweat on his skin, the slide of their bodies together. The way she felt connected to him, his breath hot and rough against her mouth, his shoulders bunching beneath her hands, her nails digging in like claws.

  “Almost,” she whispered, tightening her legs around his waist. “Almost – oh – there – God.”

  “There you go,” he growled against her throat. “Good girl.”

  The sharp crest came, and then the honey-sweet, champagne-fizz spill of pleasure through her blood. She loved feeling him above her, strong, and hot, and savage, sweetly restrained as he filled her. She loved that perfect moment of blissful clarity, when everything in the world ceased to exist except Ghost, the way he made her feel like the most powerful, important thing in the universe.

  He leaned down and kissed her. “Damn, baby.”

  “I know.” Her voice sounded dreamy and faraway.

  Ghost settled down beside her, arm flung across her waist though they were both sweaty; their skin stuck in an unpleasant way, but neither made a move to shift apart.

  Body thrumming with pleasure, she closed her eyes and pretended they could stay like this all day. No school, no club, no mundane household chores. No worry.

  The worry was the worst part.

  Maggie rolled her head on the pillow, gaze searching for his through the gloom. “What are you doing today?”

  He looked halfway back to sleep, eyes shut, expression serene. “Gotta go check on the shop. It’ll be ready to open in another week.”

  “A week?” It didn’t seem possible. She forgot sometimes how much time had passed.

  “They’re putting in the floor in the office today,” he confirmed. “I just gotta get a sign made.”

  “Wow.”

  He cracked one eye, smiling. “I know.”

  It was not a lavish life they led together, and so the smallest of things brought joy. The garage almost finished. Aidan’s good report card. The pizza place throwing in free garlic knots because they took longer than fifteen minutes to deliver. Their quiet Christmas of coffee and cinnamon toast, Aidan tearing into a modest pile of toys on the living room floor, the two of them looking on giftless, because it was more important for the kid to have a presents than it was to spend anything on themselves.

  Ghost had pulled her aside late that afternoon, after Aidan had passed out amid his Transformers and Hot Wheels. “You’re still a kid too,” he said, almost bashful, color on his high cheekbones. The amethyst ring had been his mother’s. It was just a little too big, and Maggie wore it on her middle finger…of her right hand. He hadn’t proposed, and she hadn’t asked him to. She was content, and he was still scared of being left; she could read it in the almost desperate way he looked at her sometimes, like she was already out the door.

  “We should get up,” Maggie said with a sigh, but made no move to do so.

  “Yeah.”

  “Five more minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  But eventually, her internal clock reminded her that she needed to pack Aidan’s lunch, and her own, and put a load in the washing machine…

  She flipped the covers back and climbed, shivering, into the late February morning.

  Her new routine, she reflected as she smeared peanut butter over Wonder Bread, didn’t feel all that new anymore. In fact, it was hard to remember what she’d done before Ghost and Aidan came into her life.

  Or maybe it was more like her coming into theirs.

  It was so normal now: Aidan clomping in – “Shoes tied, sweetie” – and Ghost kissing her cheek on his way through. She’d been the child of the household her whole life, but she wasn’t anymore, was instead a parental figure: carpool line, and “have a good day,” and all.

  She got to school with fifteen minutes to spare and managed to find a parking place up close by the street. She was locking up the Monte Carlo when someone hissed, “Maggie!”

  Startled, she glanced up to find a face pressed to the chain link perimeter fence, a man crouched between the barrier and the high hedges that circled it.

  A scream lodged in her throat when she realized she recognized him. “Roman?”

  It was him. Scruffier, his clothes dirty and battered, but there was no mistaking his identity. Seeing him like that, hair dirty and too-long, Maggie wondered where he’d been staying. Then she wondered what the hell he was doing outside her school, hiding in the bushes like a fugitive.

  “What are you doing?”

  He stuck his fingers through the fence and motioned her closer. He looked wild-eyed, like maybe he was high, or just that frightened.

  “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Answer the question.”

  He made a face. “You’re turning into a real–”

  “A real what now?”

  “Old lady. A real old lady. Giving orders and shit.”

  But from what Maggie had seen, none of the old ladies around this chapter of the Dogs gave orders to anyone besides their husbands. There was a notable lack of female influence in the club. She guessed she was just too naturally pushy to keep her mouth shut and eyes down.

  “What do you want?” she snapped, eyes flicking up to scan the road. She didn’t want one of the Dogs to happen past and see her talking to him. It was a slim possibility, but still. He was persona non-grata around here these days; she wouldn’t be accused of conspiring with him. She might be pushy, but she didn’t have a death wish.

  He surveyed the parking lot around her. “I need your help.”

  “Right.”

  His gaze returned to her face, pleading. “I do. Really. Christ, I just…I need to talk to Ghost. I was afraid to go by the apartment.”

  “Good call.”

  “Maggie, please.”

  “I have school. And I can’t stress how much you are not my problem.”

  He stared at her, pouting, baleful as a shelter dog.

  “Fuck this club,” she muttered under her breath. “Wait here. I’ll go call Ghost.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  “Shut up.”

  ~*~

  It took a lot of smiling and wheedling to convince the front office secretary to let her use the phone. At this point, everyone from the principal to the janitor knew she was affiliated with “one of those damn Dogs.” But she was still listed, officially, as living with her parents and somehow, miraculously – Maggie suspected it was because the Dogs inspired no small amount of fear in the locals – she’d been allowed to go about her business without any interference from the law. The emancipation paperwork had been put in back in November, and every adult in her life seemed content to let her wait out the four months unhindered. In one month, she’d be an “adult” on paper. In light of that, everyone treated her as such – which meant no favors, no coddling, n
o kindness.

  Finally, though, she was able to call Ghost, and she went outside to wait for him.

  At this rate, she’d never get her diploma.

  She leaned against the grill of her car, arms folded. The morning had been sharp and frosty, but now that the sun was up, it was rapidly warming. “You’re just gonna squat in the bushes?” she asked Roman.

  He was smoking a cigarette, and looking like some sort of goblin hunkered down in the foliage. “Yup.”

  “Suuuper attractive.”

  He rubbed at one of his knees and made a face. No doubt his legs were going numb.

  “Arthritis acting up?” she asked sweetly.

  He grumbled something that sounded like “bite me.”

  Ghost pulled up with a low growl of bike engine, joining them a moment later. “Jesus Christ,” he said on a sigh, leaning over to kiss the top of Maggie’s head. “You’re some kinda stupid showing your face, man.”

  “Just let me explain,” Roman said, again with the pleading eyes, fingers hooked in the fence.

  “Jesus,” Ghost said again, closing his eyes like he was in pain. “Shit. Alright. Get in the car.”

  ~*~

  He should have known. That’s what he kept thinking the entire ride out to the country. He watched the shapes of Roman and Maggie’s head through the back window of the Monte Carlo and kicked himself mentally, over and over, for not preparing for this eventuality.

  Roman was human herpes: just when you thought everything was okay, he turned back up, ill-timed, annoying, unseemly. Caught up in the garage, lulled by the false sense of peace, Ghost had allowed himself to forget about the man. And now he was turning up at his old lady’s school, harassing her.

  Not that Maggie had looked all that harassed, he’d noticed with pleasure. While losing none of her softness with Ghost, she was hardening externally every day, adding new layers to her solid candy shell, as stalwart as an older, more experienced woman. Ghost already thought she had a leg-up on Bonita, who’d always struck him as frivolous and unbothered. Maggie had all the makings of a club wife, the kind the Knoxville chapter hadn’t seen in a long, long time.