“Mouth-guards, boys?” Mercy asked, just to be a shit. “Don’t wanna mess up those pretty teeth.”
“Fuck off,” Ghost told him, and he laughed.
“Alright, then. Let me get out of the way before I get caught in the middle.”
“Mercy, shut up.”
More laughter.
Ghost tuned it out. Tuned out everything except Roman across from him, looking a little more fifty-three than Ghost did. He was still trim-waisted, still had strong arms, but he wasn’t fight-ready. Not like Ghost was.
He seemed to know it, too, flickers of doubt beneath the rage in his eyes.
“Last chance to apologize,” Ghost said.
Roman spat on the ground.
Okay then.
“Gentlemen,” Candy said theatrically. “Begin!”
A whoop went up from the crowd.
Ghost settled into his stance, taped knuckles held up in front of his face, light on his feet and ready for action. And waited.
Opposite, Roman was boiling with energy…some of it alcohol-fueled. “Seriously?” he hissed. “What an asshole.” He began a slow pace, foot over foot, circling. Ghost moved with him and he said, “Come on!”
On the next pass, Ghost side-stepped in closer, closer.
Roman blocked, anticipating a punch that wasn’t there, then flinched away, cursing himself.
It was the flinch, hands up high by his head, that gave Ghost the chance to deliver a strong right to the guy’s solar plexus.
The air went out of Roman’s lungs with a startled oof and he doubled forward, punching out of reaction and not strategy.
It wouldn’t last long now, Ghost thought. But the impact had angered Roman, and he regathered himself and went on the offense. Ghost danced and parried…and grinned. Now they were fighting.
Fresh from weeks of cardio and hitting the bag, his body slid into the old routine like a hand into a well-worn glove. Block, parry, strike, connect. Again. Again. Dance, slide, advance. It was muscle memory, instinct, and training, the rational part of his brain lost to the analytics. Shouts, cheers, and gasps went up around them, but Ghost couldn’t see any faces, couldn’t focus on anything except Roman across from him, wild-eyed. Gasping. Blood on his mouth. Blood on Ghost’s knuckles, warm and wet on his fingertips.
Roman. Fucking Roman. Always wanting to be loved, wanting to be royal, but never wanting to work to get that way. Slinking around in the dark, making under-the-table deals that crossed and double-crossed the people he’d pled loyalty to. Rat. Traitor. Damn him.
Time…slipped. The way it always did when he fought. Became a blur of pain: this time only in his knuckles, because Roman didn’t get a pop in. He fell into a rhythm of punches and parries…more of the former.
And suddenly there were arms around his waist, holding him tight, dragging him backward.
He kicked once, bowed his back, tried to break away.
Mercy’s voice in his ear, “Easy, killer. You’re done, you’re done.” A gentle pat from a giant hand across his stomach. “Switch off, boss.”
And then his vision came back.
Oh.
Roman had slumped to the ground, curled in protectively on himself, hands covering his face. Hands that were bloody; Ghost knew he’d hit his mouth and nose, probably his eyes. Bright pink bruises were already coming up on his ribs.
Ghost drew in a ragged breath and became aware of his own body. He was slick and itchy with sweat, overheated, breathing like a racehorse.
His hair was in his eyes and he brushed it away with his damp forearm, searching the crowd for –
There was his Mags, watching him with round hazel eyes, lip caught between her teeth. Damn. Damn.
“I’m alright.” He patted the back of Mercy’s hand. “Let up, Monster, I’m alright.”
Mercy smacked him once, all affection, and released him.
A cheer went up from his brothers, screams of delight, boots stomping on the concrete.
He only had eyes for his girl, golden and beautiful, smiling at him.
~*~
The second the dorm room door shut, he was on her.
Maggie laughed into the kiss, hands coming up to rest on his sweat-slick biceps as their mouths slammed together.
“Excited?” she teased when he pulled back. She felt the energy flowing between them, from him and into her, through the press of his lips and the weight of his wrapped hands on her hips.
He was panting, damp hair falling onto his forehead, his eyes blown black, skin shining with sweat. He was feral in that moment, an animal high on bloodlust and victory, driven to mate.
And Maggie melted when he looked at her like that. Like he wanted to devour her.
“Yeah,” he growled, and dove back in. Sloppy, uncoordinated kisses, as his hands mapped her hips, and belly, and ass. “Shit,” he said against her throat, his thumbs hooking into her waistband. “Baby…”
She was weak with want, but she understood: so was he. He could take her apart piece-by-piece, tease her until she was squirming, wreck her down to the foundations. But not tonight. Tonight he was feral, and he needed her now.
She unfastened her jeans and shoved them down, awkwardly toed her boots off.
He knelt to help her, deft fingers making quick work of boots, jeans, socks. Sent electric pulses through her as he reached up and skimmed her panties down, the wraps on his knuckles deliciously abrasive against the sensitive skin of her hips and thighs.
Maggie looked down at him, the bunching of his slick shoulders; he seemed bronze-dipped, muscles stark and firm, glazed with sweat. Damn. Oh damn. Tremors ran up her calves, shaky anticipation.
And then he lifted his head and looked up at her, and her mouth went dry.
Holding her gaze, he slid his hands purposefully up her thighs, up beneath the hem of her shirt, between her thighs where she was already wet for him. He made a low, pleased sound in his throat, sat up on his knees, and put his mouth to her.
“God.” She kicked her head back against the wall. Raked her hands through his sweaty hair. “You are so good at that.”
His answer was a sly sweep of his tongue that threatened to take her legs out from under her.
She wanted to protest – push him back and urge him to the bed – but how could she argue with this? What about you, baby? she thought. And then she didn’t think anything, widening her stance, one hand pressed flat to the wall.
He brought her off quickly, relentlessly – and after watching him fight, it didn’t take much, honestly – and she was still coming down when he guided her to the bed, sat down on its edge and pulled her down to straddle his lap. His cock was hard and hot against her leg, even through his jeans.
“You alright?” he asked, voice tight with restraint. “Are you…can you…”
She reached down for his fly, fumbling at his belt.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He made a sound like a dying man when she sank down onto his cock, part-anguish and part-relief, eyes squeezing shut as he was overcome by sensation.
Maggie put a hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back. He went; a feather would have knocked him over at that point.
She braced her hands on his pecs and rolled her hips, languid, easy movements. She was lazy, body humming in the wake of her orgasm, and she took wicked delight in teasing him a little, drawing it out.
He pressed his head back into the mattress, breathing through his mouth, tendons standing out stark in his throat. God, he was beautiful. She felt a tightening in her lower back, pleasure mounting again. He was hot and thick inside her, perfect, just perfect. She wanted to do this for hours.
Not that Ghost had the patience for that.
He lifted his head and reached for the front of her shirt, popped open the snaps down the front. He caressed her belly – her rhythm stuttered – gentle and reverent, and then reached up and pulled down the cups of her bra, freed her breasts, heavy with pregnancy.
Her hips kicked faster, watchi
ng the way he looked at her, a helpless sound catching in her throat.
His hands moved to her hips, holding her steady, and he lifted his own, driving up into her with a powerful thrust. Taking over, setting a stronger, faster pace.
Maggie surrendered to it, hands braced on his skin, overwhelmed by the sight and the feel and the strength of him.
“God,” she chanted. “God, God…”
He sat up, pulling her down hard on his cock, kissed her roughly. It was too much: the friction, the heat. Her belly between them, a reminder of what they’d created together.
They came at the same time, panting into each other’s mouths.
Maggie bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper. “God, I love you.”
His hands smoothed down her quivering sides, tape rough on her skin. Lapped up the blood she’d left on his lip and gave some back to her with a long, thorough kiss. “Love you, too.”
~*~
He must have blacked out, because one moment Roman was lying on the cold concrete with Lean Dogs standing over him, the crowd cheering, and the next he was aware of something soft beneath him. A bed. He smelled detergent and furniture polish. He was in a dorm, then.
His eyes didn’t want to open. At least, one of them didn’t. The right one cracked, his vision blurry, and he squinted against the warm glow of lamplight.
“Roman,” a quiet, female voice said. “Can you hear me? You awake?”
Kris.
“Yeah,” he said, but it came out an indistinct mumble.
The bed dipped and he felt her sit down at his hip, heard the soft sound of her jeans brushing up against his. Something cold touched his face, an ice pack, he figured, going by the way it burned. He hissed and tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go, his head already pressed into the pillow.
“You alright to be alone with him?” someone asked over by the door. It sounded suspiciously like that giant blond Texan who’d been outside earlier.
Roman made a face – which hurt like hell – when he recalled that guy. Tall and broad, and golden-haired, an Adonis. He didn’t like the thought of anyone who looked like that within Kris’s presence. Not that he was currently in a position to do anything about it.
“It’s fine,” Kris said, and he could tell by her voice that she was giving that small, shy smile of hers, the one that was all politeness, but never touched her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Yell if you need anything,” the Texan said, and Roman heard the door shut.
Candy. That was his name. Candyman. He’d been just a kid the last time Roman saw him. Jesus.
The ice pack lifted off his face. “Roman, I know you’re awake,” Kris said.
He made a monumental effort to focus, to blink his vision clear and prop up on an elbow. The room swayed a moment before it settled, and then he saw her worried face just in front of his.
“I think you have a concussion,” she said.
“I think you’re right.”
Her expression was unusually stern. “Lie back down.” When he didn’t, she pushed at his shoulder. “You have a black eye; I need to put ice on it.”
With a sigh, he flopped back and let her put the cold pack on him again, wincing at the sting of the cold. “What happened?”
“Ghost beat the shit out of you,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not a very good boxer.”
It was the boldest thing she’d ever said to him, and he wanted to smile in response. He couldn’t, though, because it hurt to know that she was bold because of these people – because she wasn’t under his care anymore. And because the Lean Dogs were using her. That wasn’t how her happy ending was supposed to go: a vessel passed from Dog to Dog until she grew lined and haggard, a washed-up groupie smoking two packs of day, a litany of stories to tell her illegitimate children.
He ached when he thought of that. She deserved better than that. So much better.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Kris made an exasperated sound. “I was telling the truth before. I get paid to tend bar and clean up. I’m not a slut, Roman.”
The swelling around his eye tugged when he frowned. Impatient, he swatted the ice pack away. “I didn’t say you were a slut. You’re not.”
“And you’re not hearing me.” She leaned in close, her breath clean and minty across his face. She hadn’t been drinking or smoking tonight; she didn’t do vices as a rule. “I’m not sleeping with any of them.”
His muddled, concussed brain struggled to keep up. “But…”
“I’m not.” He’d never seen her face so set, firm and implacable.
“You’re…not?”
“That’s what I just said!”
“Okay, okay. But…”
“What?”
“I thought…”
She sighed. “I know. But you were wrong. No offense.” She pressed the ice to his eye again.
Every second that he was conscious, he grew more alert, his vision cleared a little more. Which meant he was aware of his headache; it felt like a living thing behind his eyes, pounding in his temples. He wanted to shut his eyes and go to sleep.
A knock sounded at the door. It cracked open a moment later and Roman was convinced his concussion had launched him back in time, because it was the old Ghost, young and curly-headed, who stepped into the dorm, the pale-haired boy, Tango, on his heels. His stomach lurched – but then he blinked and realized it wasn’t Ghost, but Ghost’s kid. What was his name? Aidan. He was the spitting image, straight down to the scowl.
“Give us a minute?” he asked Kris, and she stood, nodding.
Roman wanted to ask her to stay…but she wasn’t his old lady. Wasn’t his anything, really. So he watched her go, hand curling around the ice pack where she’d left it on top of the covers. And then he was alone with the little prince and his sidekick.
Aidan folded his arms and propped a shoulder against the side of the room’s dresser. “Dude.” His brows went up. “You knew my dad in his heyday and you still thought it’d be a good idea to take him on?”
“I’m a little bit drunk.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Aidan’s face, in this light, looked eerily like his father’s. The slanted eyebrows, the smirk, the shadow of bristle on his chin. He didn’t have the same edge of cruelty, though. There was a hard-to-pin-down softness about his expression. Traces of forgiveness. “You get that no one’s messing with your girl, right? Nobody’s touched her.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
“She’s–” He tried to sit up and the room tilted sharply.
“You should sit still,” the friend suggested. What was his name? Samba? Some kind of dance. Cha-cha…Tango. It was Tango. Roman had no idea where Ghost had found that one: he looked like he belonged on a runway in Milan modeling androgynous leather jumpsuits. When he came forward to steady Roman with a hand on his shoulder, Roman noted that one of his ears was pink and ragged at the edge with scar tissue, and the other boasted a half-dozen shiny piercings, all the way up to the top of the cartilage.
“I’m fine,” Roman said, waving him off, though he was anything but. He felt like he was coming unglued, like the binding of an old book that had been dropped in a puddle, all his important hinges gummy and pulling apart.
Aidan studied him a long moment, until he wanted to squirm under the scrutiny. Finally, he said, “I wanted to make sure you’re not dead. You’re not. So.” He shifted toward the door, then pulled up. “You can stay here tonight, ‘til you feel good enough to ride.”
Thanks got caught in Roman’s throat, and he didn’t voice it.
“Most people,” Aidan went on, “wouldn’t give you a second chance. Dad is. Don’t be a dick about it.”
~*~
Ghost woke the next morning with his face buried in Maggie’s soft, floral-smelling hair, pale stripes of early sunlight teasing at his closed eyes, heat humming through the vents. He woke to the knowledge that his family was under this roof, that in jus
t another couple hours they’d all be awake and bustling about, pouring coffee, telling the new hangarounds to clean the place up, sipping spiked coffee to take the edge off their hangovers.
He smoothed his hand across the gentle swell of Maggie’s belly and smiled against the back of her neck. She murmured something in her sleep, but didn’t wake.
He slid out of bed without waking her – she slept like the dead when she was pregnant – and pulled on last night’s smoke-smelling clothes. He grabbed his cigs off the dresser and went down the hall, through the common room, outside into the clear, cold morning, pulling in stinging lungfuls of fresh air.
He’d thought to find himself alone with the steaming river and the sunrise, but he wasn’t. Boomer was collecting plastic cups and utensils from the ground, stowing them in a garbage bag.
The kid froze a moment, when he realized Ghost was there, then resumed his chore with self-conscious care.
“Hey.” Ghost lit up a smoke and sat down on top of a picnic table. “Come here a sec.”
Boomer glanced over his shoulder, like there might have been someone else Ghost was talking to.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you. Get over here.” When he was closer, walking with his head down, fingers flicking with nerves: “You gotta quit looking so spooked all the time. Can’t have my crew getting that kind of reputation.”
“No, sir,” Boomer said, drawing himself up straighter as he reached the table, attempting to smooth his features into a blank mask.
Ghost gave him a smile. “You’ll get better at it. Your dad didn’t ever talk you through it much, did he?”
Color bloomed on his cheeks and he glanced away, out toward the water. “Only a little.”
Duane would have called it getting soft, but Ghost knew Maggie would have said it was his paternal instincts – his pulse of empathy for Boomer and his brothers of choice. Maybe he was maturing – finally – because he could distrust Roman, and still want to show some kindness to the guy’s son. It wasn’t Boomer’s fault his old man was an idiot loser.
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