Nine
Then
“You ever think about selling it?”
Ghost ground his molars together and refused to take the bait. The late afternoon sun glinted off the wheel he was shining; the chrome reflected the blue autumn sky, his own unhappy countenance, and behind him, Roman lounging back against the picnic table.
“I mean,” the bastard continued, “it’s not like it’s getting much use anymore.”
Ghost said nothing, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from darting over toward his bike, where the FXR was parked beneath the shade of the clubhouse pavilion. It gleamed even without sun. It made his chest hurt to look at it and even contemplate Roman’s words.
“Have a kid sometime and see how often you ride,” he snarled, and kept polishing.
“Hmm…don’t think so. Not really my scene. Besides, I don’t think Duane would like me slacking off ‘cause of some brat.”
Okay, that was it.
Ghost surged to his feet, rag clenched tight in his hand, jaw clenched even tighter as he spun to face his nemesis. “You don’t know shit about Duane,” he said through his teeth. “Back the fuck off.”
“Whoa.” Roman lifted both hands, palms out, and had the gall to look caught off guard. “I wasn’t talking about you. You don’t gotta be all pissed off about it.”
Ghost tried and failed to withhold a growl. Roman’s brows jumped in reaction. “God, you asshole. You think you’re so damn smart, trash-talking me to Duane every damn chance you get, trying to get in good, fucking brown-noser.” In that moment, he’d never been more disgusted with anyone…discounting himself. “What are you trying to do? You think you’re gonna be president some day or something?”
Roman’s disbelieving look faded slowly, replaced by the harsh, angry truth that always lived behind his laid-back mask. His voice changed, from that honeyed, lady-killing tone to something harsh and nasty. “I’m just doing what you won’t. You’ve got an in because you’re blood…which is why you take it for granted. You aren’t here, you don’t pull your weight.” He spat on the ground for emphasis. “Duane needs a progeny, and it damn sure ain’t gonna be you, so I’m stepping up.” He spread his arms wide. “You got a problem with that, let’s hash it out, bro. But don’t expect me to sit back and watch you piss away your chance at being an officer without taking a piece for myself. It’s the law of the jungle, Kenny.”
“Kill or be killed?”
“Yeah.”
Ghost took a deep breath that did nothing to calm him. The worst part? Roman was right.
In theory, the club was built on the pure ideals of brotherhood, loyalty, and freedom. But in reality, the US mother chapter of the Lean Dogs was run by a tyrant who ruled with an iron fist. Duane had no old lady, no children, and no patience with family problems that interfered with club business. In some families, Ghost might have benefited from nepotism. But if anything, their blood relationship made Duane even more demanding. He didn’t hide his disdain for Ghost’s shortcomings in front of the rest of the guys, and it was no surprise some enterprising jackass like Roman was trying to take advantage of the situation. And why wouldn’t Duane love the kid? He was handsome, competent, bold on the back of a bike, handy with a gun, and first off the block when helpful suggestions were in order.
Ghost didn’t have the time, patience, or willingness to worry about rising in the club ranks. But he hated Roman’s guts, and the way the guy egged him on always left him feeling inept.
“It takes a majority vote to make someone an officer,” Ghost said with a sneer. “Maybe you ought to try and win the other guys over before you start gunning for me.”
Roman snorted. “The funny part is you think I haven’t already done that.”
“Fuck you,” Ghost said, because he was too exhausted and stressed to come up with anything better.
Roman grinned. “Back at you, brother.” He slipped his sunglasses down from his tawny hair and over his eyes. “Oh, and Duane wants to talk to you, by the way.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yeah. He sent me out to get you.”
And Roman had wasted a good half-hour of his time needling him.
“Fuck you,” Ghost said again, threw his rag down and stalked into the clubhouse.
He heard Roman chuckling behind him.
A part of him – as he made angry progress through the common room – thought Duane might actually be in the chapel for once. Ready to talk business in a businesslike setting. But no, of course not. Ghost found him in one of the first few dorm rooms, the door wide open.
Duane sat at the end of the bed, legs spread, a topless blonde groupie kneeling between his knees. She had her hands on his thighs, and given the way her head was bobbing – and the blissful expression on Duane’s face – Ghost knew what was happening.
He rapped loudly on the doorjamb as he entered, drawing Duane’s glazed, pleasure-heavy gaze.
“Uncle,” Ghost said, formally. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah,” Duane huffed. “Here, hold on, honey.” He pushed the girl back, but made no move to cover his shiny saliva-coated cock where it thrust from the vee of his unzipped jeans.
The girl shuffled around until Ghost could see her profile. It was the new, possibly-underage groupie he’d spent the night with that once, Jasmine. She wiped delicately at the corners of her mouth with a fingertip, gaze downcast, and stayed on her knees.
Ghost felt his lunch turn over in his stomach.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Duane said, pulling his attention. “You and Roman both, actually.”
Ghost tried not to make a face, but Duane’s chuckle told him he failed.
“Ah, come on. You’re gonna have to learn to get along with him eventually. No time like the present.”
“I work better with Collier,” Ghost said, unnecessarily.
“Yeah, but we’re all a part of the club. You can’t go playing favorites.”
You sure don’t, Ghost thought.
“You and him are gonna make a drop tonight,” Duane continued. “Wildflower Lane. Ten o’clock. I already gave Roman the address.”
“I can’t do ten. Aidan–”
“Get someone to watch the kid,” Duane said with a dismissive wave.
The disquiet in his stomach turned to full-fledged nausea. It was a horrible feeling: the knee-jerk anger and resentment because Aidan complicated his club life; and then the crushing guilt and self-loathing when he realized he resented his own child. He hated Olivia. Hated Duane. Hated feeling like this.
“My babysitter can only stay until five today,” he said, with as much patience as he could muster.
“So find someone else,” Duane said, an edge creeping into his voice. If Ghost was impatient, then it was genetic, because Duane was intolerant of any and all delays. “There’s a dozen bitches around here. Put them to work.”
Ghost bit his lip and didn’t respond, though inwardly he was already in a mad panic to find someone to stay with Aidan.
“Meet Roman here at nine-thirty first,” Duane said. “Then y’all ride over together. Drop the drugs, get your cash, come back here and put it in the safe. Can you handle that?” There was more than a little doubt in his voice.
Shit.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your contact’s name is Jack. Do I need to write that down?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” He nodded a dismissal, and turned his attention to Jasmine. “Alright, back to work, honey.”
Ghost left the room so he didn’t have to watch.
~*~
“Are you dating him or something?” Rachel asked, equal parts shocked and thrilled. “Oh my God, your mom is gonna shit a brick.”
Maggie rolled her eyes though her friend couldn’t see it. She lay on her stomach on her bed, history homework spread out in front of her, phone held between her shoulder and cheek. If she was honest, she actually liked studying WWII, but Rachel would never agree with that, so she kept to the topic at hand: Ghost.
“No, I’m not dating him. We’ve just bumped into each other a couple of times.”
“Girl. He totally sold weed to the Petersons.”
“Some of which you smoked.”
“But I’m not a dealer!” Rachel protested.
“And I’m not dating him, so what does it matter?”
Rachel sighed, like she thought Maggie was stupid. “You can’t just say that. He’s like…like one of those magnet guys. The ones you can’t say no to. You know?”
“No. I really don’t know.”
“Ugh. Come on, Maggie! You know what I’m talking about. A guy like that – a bad boy. With all his experience. He could just look at you right and your panties would slide right off.”
She laughed. “Give me a little more credit than that.”
The call waiting beeped in her ear.
“Oh wait, hold on, there’s a call on the other line.” Probably one of Denise’s garden club friends, calling to complain about another garden club friend behind her back.
“I’ll let you go. Call me later,” Rachel said, and hung up.
Maggie switched over to the other line. “Hello?”
She wasn’t expecting the gruff male voice that filled her ear. “Hey, is this Maggie?”
It took her a moment to respond, shocked. “Uh…yeah. It is. Ghost?”
“Yeah.”
Her heart somersaulted, and she scowled to herself. Rachel wasn’t right about the panty thing – she wasn’t. “What’s up?” she asked, praying she sounded cool. Cooler than she felt, anyway, her skin suddenly warm beneath her sweater.
“Um,” he said, and he sounded hesitant. Uncertain. “Well.”
“Ghost?”
He took a deep breath, and then in a rush: “Does the babysitting offer still stand?”
“Of course.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. But I’ve got a job tonight, and I can’t find anyone to watch him, and–”
“I’ll be happy to.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Don’t be. What’s your address?” She scribbled it onto her history notes when he gave it to her. “What time should I be there?”
“Uh…is nine too late?”
“Nope. I’ll be there.”
Awkward pause.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked.
“I…” She started to say no. But then she thought about asking one of her parents to drive her over to what, now that she looked at the address, wasn’t the best part of town. “Actually, could you pick me up? That might be easier.”
“Yeah. Aidan and I’ll come get you and bring you back here.”
“Great. How’s he feeling?”
“Not back to fighting weight, but better.” Ghost’s voice relaxed a fraction. “No fever today.”
“Hey, that’s awesome,” she said, smiling at her bedroom wall. She hoped he could hear the smile in her voice.
She thought maybe so, because she thought she detected one in his. “Yeah. I hate it when he feels like shit.” It was soft and low, almost like a confession. “Be there at eight-forty-five?”
“Sounds good. I’ll meet you under the pear trees.”
He let out an obviously-relieved breath. “Thanks, Mags. You’re a lifesaver.”
The way he called her “Mags” sent a pleasant buzz through her chest.
~*~
“Hi, Maggie!” Aidan exclaimed when Maggie opened the passenger door of Ghost’s red-and-white truck. He looked better than he had a few days ago, eyes bright and face a normal shade.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said, returning his smile as she climbed in the cab. Ghost had the heat running and the warmth enveloped her the moment she shut the door. “You feeling better?”
“Yeah. I didn’t throw up today!” he said happily.
“That’s wonderful. Throwing up sucks.”
He nodded, expression grave. “Yeah.”
Maggie glanced over the top of his curly head and met Ghost’s smiling look. “Hi,” she said, quieter.
His smile widened a fraction. “Hi.”
~*~
Technically, Maggie hadn’t lied to her mother. Not outright anyway. She’d said she had a babysitting gig “just down the street.” And that she was going to “walk” there. She had walked, and her destination had been just down the street. It was more of an omission, really, the way she left out the part about the outlaw biker and driving off in his battered old truck. She just had to hope Denise didn’t get curious and start calling the neighbors to affirm her story.
They swung by McDonald’s and picked up dinner, then headed for Ghost’s apartment.
It was…
It was sad.
Father and son lived in a two-story brick building that was one of seven in a run-down complex jammed in between a laundromat and a non-denominational church. Even in the dark, she could see the windows needed re-glazing, and the asphalt in the parking lot needed resurfacing. Dim lights burned behind mismatched curtains; bicycles leaned against walls. The lot was full of cars and vans that had seen better days.
Ghost led them up a concrete staircase to a brown-painted door, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking at the toes of his boots as he jangled his keys in his other hand. “I’m not much of a housekeeper,” he confessed, and let them inside.
They entered a living room/kitchen combo cluttered with kid toys, occupied by ratty, mismatched furniture. Maggie spotted a hallway that must have led to bedrooms and a bathroom.
Ghost set the greasy McDonald’s bag on the café table just inside the kitchen and Aidan pulled out his chair, sitting up on his knees to reach for his Happy Meal.
Ghost hung back, still not wanting to make eye contact, shoulders slumped. It was the smallest and least confident Maggie had seen him.
“My ex got all the furniture,” he said, gesturing to the brown sofa. “So.”
Maggie shrugged out of her jacket. “Don’t worry. No one expects men to have any interior decorating taste.” She shot him a smile and he returned it with obvious reluctance, his gaze touching hers only briefly before moving away.
“Sorry,” he said again.
Maggie touched his arm, and she felt him go perfectly still beneath her hand, the muscles drawn up tight. “Hey.” She waited for him to look at her. “It’s okay.”
He took a deep breath and flashed her a humorless grin. “Nah. It’s not.” Then he stepped away and went to tell Aidan to behave himself.
~*~
Roman was late. Ghost stood with a shoulder braced against one of the clubhouse pavilion’s support posts, smoking, a paper bag of coke burning a hole through his cut pocket. Overhead, the stars winked between the tattered shreds of clouds. The air smelled of river water, the tang of algae that always rolled in with the fog. A pleasant night, just cold enough to be cozy, for those who had sweethearts to cuddle up against.
The thing was, Ghost hated the drug business. Not for moral reasons – he wasn’t sure he had any morals anymore, and maybe never had any to begin with – but for practical ones. Every time Ghost went out to make a drop, he increased the odds of being stopped and frisked…and being put away for possession with intent to sell. Dogs were automatically suspicious in the eyes of the law, so he had a high chance of being singled out anyway. Raising a kid on a single income – and a shitty income at that – meant he couldn’t afford to get put away. What would happen to Aidan? His mother didn’t want him; who the hell would she pawn him off on? And Ghost couldn’t even contemplate allowing Duane to take care of his kid. Duane had practically raised him, and that wasn’t a ringing endorsement.
And he didn’t like the idea of personally flooding the streets of his city with narcotics.
So maybe there was a moral reason after all.
He wondered idly if Maggie knew why he’d had to go out tonight. She probably did. And if she disapproved, it hadn’t stopped her from watching Aidan.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of an approaching bike engine.
“You’re late,” he told Roman when he was parked in front of him.
“And you’re early,” Roman shot back. “It’s a miracle.”
Ghost clenched his jaw and counted to ten in his head. “Can we just do this?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to meet Mandi after this.”
Mandi Bishop, who was currently engaged to a doctor.
Ghost swallowed a disgusted sound and swung onto his bike.
Roman’s company was the kind that sucked the joy out of everything. Even riding. What should have been a pleasant ride outside of the city, the cold wind scraping at his face, tunneling up his sleeves and cooling the nervous sweat along his collarbones, was instead spent hating the man who rode beside him. The trip seemed to drag, mile after mile with nothing to look at besides Roman’s loathed silhouette in his peripheral vision.
And then they reached the rendezvous point, and Ghost realized how awful things really were.
It was a small, tumbledown, once-white house with a sagging porch and an overgrown cluster of hollies screening the front windows. Set well back off the road, cypress trees blocked the view of the street. Ghost and Roman stood in a small clearing, bathed in the faint glow of the moon, encircled by darkness and shadows. There were no lights on in the house. Anyone could be watching them. The furtive rustle of leaves could have been a fox…or a person.
“Where the fuck are we?” Ghost paced a tight circle, unsuccessfully scanning their surroundings. “Where’s the buyer?”
Roman, casual and unconcerned, stood with his arms folded, shoulder braced against a leafless crepe myrtle in bad need of reshaping. “What? You got somewhere else to be?” In the moonlight, Ghost could just make his small, infuriating smile.
He thought of Aidan at home, who was supposed to take his antibiotics with dinner, so they didn’t upset his stomach. Thought of Maggie, with her rich-girl clothes and her kind smile. Envisioned the two of them together at his dinky kitchen table, heads bent close as they worked on some project together.
He said, “I got a desire to not get shot out here in the middle of nowhere. And right now, I don’t have a lot of confidence about the situation.”
Roman clucked his tongue. “Gettin’ to be a real asshole in your old age.”
A twig snapped.
“Shut up,” Ghost hissed. Louder, toward the tree line: “If you want your shit, you gotta come out and give us the cash.”
It was silent a beat. A heavy pause in which all the fine hair stood up on the back of Ghost’s neck. There was a deep, instinctive quivering in his belly: away, away, away. Self-preservation.
He threw himself to the ground as another twig snapped…and just before the sound of a gunshot cracked the quiet of the clearing.
“Shit, get down,” Ghost said, as he rolled and grabbed for his gun. Roman, stupidly, was still on his feet, arms held out to either side like the next shot was going to be something large and visible that he could catch. “Get down!” Ghost told him again. He had his Colt in his hands and rolled again, behind his bike, gun held in both hands as he scanned the darkness for a target.
Another shot rang out, and Roman hit the dirt suddenly beside him with a curse and a grunt. Idiot.
Ghost squinted hard, searching, searching…and there it was, a glimmer of moonlight on metal, just under the tree canopy. He took aim and fired off four quick shots.
Silence, afterward.
Ghost eased slowly up, first to his knees behind the bike, and then to his feet; he kept the gun trained on the place where he’d fired. “You alright?” he asked Roman without looking.
There was another grunt. “Yeah.”
Ghost shot once more, just to be sure, took a deep breath, and walked over to see what he could.
What had seemed like a black wall from fifty paces away was actually a shifting gradient of dark-to-light shadows once he stood inside it. Dappled moonlight fell through the mostly-bare branches and illuminated the face of a dead man. He’d been hit with three of Ghost’s rounds and lay face-up, legs crumpled beneath him, eyes wide and sightless.
Ghost catalogued his face away in his memory, and walked back toward the bikes.
Roman sat in the dark, hand clapped over his opposite arm, right in the meaty part of his bicep.
“You got hit?” Ghost asked, and for a moment, just one dark second, entertained the idea of leaving his ass out here alone to bleed and feel sorry for himself.
“Yeah. Through-and-through I think.” Roman hissed as he pulled his hand away and revealed a dark stain against the pale gray of his sweatshirt. There was a lot of blood.
Ghost walked over to his bike and pulled a (mostly) clean bandana from his saddlebags. “Here.” He shoved Roman’s hand out of the way as he knelt beside him and knotted the black fabric over the wound. He’d like to say he was gentle, but he wasn’t, Roman hissing again as it tightened. “Can you ride like this?”
In an unsteady voice: “Yeah.”
“No, I meant it. Can you? ‘Cause I’m gonna be mad as hell if you pass out and smear yourself all over the road. Duane would never believe I didn’t make you crash on purpose.”
Roman huffed a pained laugh. “I can manage.”
~*~
The only person up and awake back at the clubhouse was the prospect whose name Ghost never could seem to remember. He sat at the bar, drinking a beer, turning slowly through a bike magazine. He looked tired, and very young, hollow-eyed.
He startled when they entered, and nearly overturned his beer.
Ghost felt bad for the kid. “Where’s Duane?”
The prospect’s eyes went to the bloody bandana tied around Roman’s arm. “Um…”
“Go get him. And then find someone who can patch him up.” He inclined his head toward Roman.
“Yes, sir.” He scampered away toward the back.
When they were alone again, Roman collapsed onto a bar stool with a groan. “Shit.”
“Hurts?” Ghost asked, and couldn’t bother to sound like he cared about the answer.
“What do you think?”
Ghost went around behind the bar, found the Jack…and not a clean glass in sight. He took a swig straight from the bottle and then slid it across the bar toward Roman, who took three long swallows and nodded his thanks.
The slow thump of footsteps announced someone coming down the hall – but not Duane. Duane was silent as a cat, and had a knack for walking in on his boys slacking or shit-talking or doing any number of things that displeased him.
Hound appeared, scratching a hand through his sandy hair, eyes taking in the scene without any outward interest. A veteran Dog, their tracker, he had long ago learned not to let his thoughts show on his face. He would walk into a scene of mayhem the same way he’d walk into his own kitchen at home.
“Y’all’ve been out late,” he commented as he joined them at the bar. He lit a smoke and reached for the whiskey. Roman took one last sip before he handed it over.
“Business went a little south,” Ghost said. “We needed to check in with Duane.”
Hound snorted. “Last I heard, he was enjoying that new blonde groupie.”
Ghost couldn’t contain his sneer. “She’s young enough to be his kid.”
“Big surprise,” Duane’s voice said from the mouth of the hallway, and Ghost forced himself not to jump. “Kenny doesn’t approve of something. You didn’t seem to give a shit about propriety when you had her in your bed.”
On another night, Ghost would have averted his eyes and kept quiet. Challenging Duane never turned out well for anyone. But Ghost was tired, and he wanted to go home, and a part of him wished (evilly) that Roman’s GSW had been a little less benign. He also didn’t wish that at all, because it would have forced him to call 911.
So he said, “Yeah, well, I’m not an old creeper.”
It was silent a beat, and then Roman hissed a shaky laugh through his teeth that could be blamed on being in pain.
Duane shrugged and stepped deeper into the room, face giving nothing away. His eyes, though, when they flicked up briefly to touch Ghost’s, were murderous. It was the most disconcerting thing about the man, the way he could wear two expressions at once.
Hound cleared his throat, injecting himself into the tense moment as a buffer. “The boys ran into some trouble tonight, it looks like.”
Ghost snorted.
“Looks like,” Duane agreed, gaze going to Roman. “The bullet still in you?”
“Nah. Don’t think so.”
“Call the doc,” Duane told Ghost. “Where’s the stash?”
Ghost patted his pocket. “Still got it. The buyer didn’t show. Or, if he did, he shot at us.”
Duane lifted his brows expectantly.
“He’s dead.”
“Huh. Guess you owe me a customer, then.”