Twenty-One
Then
Maggie woke up warm. So very warm. She had a habit from home that had carried over to her stay at Ghost’s apartment – to Ghost’s bed. Sometime during her last, deepest dream – usually some nightmare involving bloody-mouthed girls in cotillion gowns – she rolled over onto her side, curled in on herself, and shivered awake, too-cold and already anxious about the day ahead. She always woke before the alarm, and she was always, always chilled.
But this morning she was warm. And loose, her legs stretched out, toes flexing dreamily in sheets worn down to a pulpy-paper texture.
Ghost’s bed; the warmth was Ghost himself, naked behind her, his arm around her waist.
She was naked too.
They were both naked.
They’d had whiskey last night, but only a little. She couldn’t claim to have been drunk; couldn’t say she hadn’t known what she was doing.
The memories unfolded in her mind, one after the next, each more colorful than the last. She had one horrible, heart-stopping moment of clammy fear – what now, what now, what now?
And then his fingers twitched against her belly, and she knew.
She burrowed deeper into the pillow and pressed back against him.
His arm tightened.
“Hi,” she whispered.
His voice was just as unsteady when he said “hi” back.
She felt her chest expand as his did; her body mimicked the rhythms of his, just as it had last night. Slowly, lightly, the pads of his fingers slid up her belly, up, and touched the underside of her breast. He touched her like a rose petal he was afraid to bruise, like a baby bird. Like jailbait. Something he wanted but couldn’t have.
But Maggie knew.
She curved her hand around the back of his and guided it up to cover her breast. Her nipple hardened against his palm.
Ghost resisted for one tense second, then buried a groan in the back of her neck and squeezed. He curled his hips forward and his erection brushed up against the back of her thigh. “Jesus,” he whispered, tortured-sounding, circling her nipple with his thumb. The sheets rustled as he shifted, rutting against her.
There was electricity under his skin, little shockwaves that traveled through his hand and to her breast, her stomach, her hip when he clamped on there. It felt different from last night, not cataclysmic and careful, a transgression that demanded restraint. No, now, the morning after, rules had already been smashed to pieces. There was nothing left to lose. In the glimmer of first light, it was only wanting, and feeling, and knowing.
He breathed raggedly against her throat, his voice a growl. “You sore, baby?” Right in her ear.
She stretched – his fingers dug into her hipbone – and felt the pull deep, deep in her belly, the dull ache below. “Yeah. A little.”
He breathed just under her ear, a low purr against that ticklish spot, and his hand smoothed down her thigh and back up again. Steady, possessive sweeps, warming her skin, making her squirm. “You okay?” he asked, and she sensed it wasn’t the same as being sore.
“Yeah.” Because she was, because it was a good kind of sore, and she felt her blood warming, a slow simmer as his hand moved, teasing her.
“You sure?” His fingers skipped back up over the ridge of her hip and then skimmed down her belly, feather-light, sliding into the line where her leg joined her pelvis.
Her pulse fluttered, trapped and happy about it. “Y-yeah.”
He pressed a smile into her shoulder; she felt the curve of it, the sly quirk in the corners. “You don’t sound okay.”
She wriggled back against him, worked her ass against his hips, and was rewarded by a quick hiss through his teeth. “Whose fault is that?”
His hand slipped between her legs, bold and expert. “Yeah, well…” He laid a wet kiss against her throbbing pulse and ground his hips against her, hard and ready.
The heat elevated in seconds, from one flick of his finger, from a simmer to a roar, flooding her, leaving her weak, and flushed, and craving. “Ghost,” she said, helpless, and he eased her legs open with his thumb.
“Easy, baby,” he murmured, but she felt the way it wasn’t at all easy for him, his harsh breathing and his pounding heart against her back, trying to beat right out of his chest.
It was an anticipation that belonged to children, the heady rush of waiting tangled up with wanting, like the sleepless, beautiful tension of Christmas Eve. That’s all she could compare it to, the thundering build-up as he touched her and rutted purposefully against her. She was sore, and he wasn’t going to mount her, giving her a break, but his fingers stroked her until she was wet and wishing he would, soreness be damned.
“Ghost,” she said again, just a whisper; his finger circled, and she came. Sparkle and starburst and so, so warm. Her body clenched, and she wished he was inside her after all, even though she knew it would have hurt.
His hand found her hip again and he gripped hard, face buried in her hair. “Shit, shit–” he murmured, and wet heat spilled across her ass and the backs of her legs.
They caught their breath a moment.
Then Maggie laughed and said, “Good morning.”
~*~
Ghost had a problem.
Sure, he’d had a problem before, but this was a dangerous one. Before, he’d spent at least three nights a week at the clubhouse, spending more than he could afford on Rita and other babysitters. On those nights, he’d drink himself blind and stumble into a dorm bed with one, or two, or three groupies. He rarely remembered the debauched things that played out between the unwashed sheets. It wasn’t about pleasure, but about forgetting. The more he abused himself, the less time there was for remembering. And the less he remembered – the cruel line of Olivia’s mouth, cold fleeting touch of her hand; she’d never been warm, never – the better. The easier it was to push himself through the next day, holding on until the next sin.
But Maggie. Maggie. He’d been stone-cold sober with her. And he didn’t have to try to forget when he was with her – what had come before ceased to exist when he laid hands on her. He collected details – bright spill of her hair across the pillow, breathy moan in his ear, soft thighs, soft mouth, and soft, wondrous eyes when he was inside her – and spent his days turning them over in his mind, rubbing them smooth as river stones, using them to weigh down the curling corners of his sanity.
He felt like he’d been scrubbed inside and out with bleach. He felt clean. Purged of all the poison he’d pumped into his veins these past seven months. He imagined her skin emitted light, divine, bacteria-killing, shadow-chasing brightness. He was enthralled, there was no other word for it.
And it was so, so wrong. The way he was tainting her. Sixteen, and a virgin, and he’d ruined her.
But he couldn’t stop.
And bless her heart, she didn’t seem to want him to.
That morning, she’d smiled at him in his kitchen, holding a coffee mug stained with her dark lipstick; a smile that promised him things would sort themselves out, that there was an answer to this problem of his own making. He wanted to believe her, he really did, because right now he thought he’d rather kill someone than lose what he had.
She’d packed him a lunch today. Like his mother had when he was little. Like Olivia never had – like a wife. He’d rolled up the paper bag into a cylinder and crammed it inside his cut for the ride to the clubhouse, jammed it in the back of the fridge, behind a jar of pickles, where no one would find it. He wished now that he hadn’t crumpled it, as he spread the contents across the picnic table. A sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil: roast beef, lettuce, tomato, Swiss cheese, brown mustard. She’d been shopping again. A granny smith apple, a granola bar with chocolate chips in it.
It tasted like she cared about him a lot more than she should.
“Hey,” Collier said, sliding onto the bench across from him. He was in his embroidered garage smock; he worked at Eddie’s during the day, his and Jackie’s living expenses more than the meager dealing-cash the club could provide. If Duane would consent to using this massive, overgrown piece of land for something profitable, Collier could have worked at a Lean Dogs-owned garage. But no. “You make that?”
Ghost smirked and crammed half the sandwich in his mouth on one go. “Wha’ ‘oo you ‘ink?” he mumbled around it.
Collier took a deep breath and looked like he worked hard not to sigh or make a face. “She’s your old lady, then?”
Ghost swallowed with difficulty. “No.”
“Then what is she? Your live-in maid?”
“No.”
This time the sigh slipped out. “Ghost.”
Ghost raised a finger. “No. Don’t ‘Ghost’ me. It’s fine.”
“What’s gonna happen when she has to go back home?”
He took another aggressive bite of sandwich. The idea made him furious. Go home? To her bitch mother and spineless father? Where no one told her how gorgeous and good and wonderful she was? Where he couldn’t pull her down into his lap on the couch, and climb over her in bed? Unthinkable.
But it was logical. And inevitable. Because he knew that what they were doing, playing house and pretending that it was normal, couldn’t last. Something would have to change.
“I don’t–” Collier started, and the door flung open behind them, cutting him off.
“Kenny, get in here.” Duane wasn’t a yeller. He never shouted, red in the face, veins popping in his temples. He didn’t have to.
Years ago, Ghost had watched him confront a prospect about product that he was supposed to sell, and instead smoked. After the kid blubbered his confession in front of everyone, Duane put a hand on his shoulder and forced him down to his knees. “Please,” the prospect said, tears filling his eyes. Duane had unzipped his jeans, pulled his cock out, and pissed all over the boy’s face.
There were so many ways to break a man. Ghost’s father had used his fists; his uncle was more creative.
Ghost crammed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and turned to face the man.
Duane beckoned him with a hand.
There was nothing to do but wave toward his lunch, a silent request for Collier to watch it, and follow.
The clubhouse was cool and dim, sour-smelled, and trashed, like always. Duane seemed unbothered by this, stepping over a mess of spilled peanuts and a flurry of white cocktail napkins. Ghost was shocked they even had napkins, if he was honest.
They bypassed the hall and headed for the office. Ghost’s stomach tightened when he realized what was about to happen.
He lingered in the doorway, hand catching at the jamb, while Duane went around the desk, swung open the framed photo of the original London chapter that hung there, and spun the dial on the wall safe behind it.
It was a big safe, lots of shelf space. Stash on the lower, cash on the upper.
Duane ran a finger along the edge of the top shelf. “I was counting the money,” he said, voice untroubled. “And I came up two-hundred short.” He turned, shooting Ghost a deceptively mild look, finger still hooked on the shelf. Without inflection, he said, “Explain it to me.”
Ghost swallowed. He wanted to lie. A dozen, half-believable fibs built in his throat, crowded together on his tongue. The truth could be a very dangerous thing when it came to Duane.
But he had to tell it.
“I took it. I had to pay Ma–” He caught himself. “It was personal. I’m sorry. I’ll replace it as soon as I can.”
“The girl,” Duane said, and Ghost broke out in cold chills. “The one you gave the car to.” His eyes took on a frightening shine. “Heard she got picked up and you had to bail her out.”
Duane had never met Maggie, and Ghost had been careful to never speak of her in his presence. The Monte Carlo was parked out back, sure, but Duane shouldn’t have known any of the details.
Roman.
Ghost’s hands curled into fists. “Yes,” he said, because the gig was up. And because he might be stupid, but he didn’t have a death wish: “It won’t happen again.”
Duane let his hand fall to his side. He stepped away from the wall, turning back toward Ghost. A slow, nasty grin broke across his face.
Ghost hated that smile; gooseflesh rippled down his arms.
“I heard she’s just a kid,” he said, leering now, enjoying himself. “Still in high school.”
“Yeah, well…”
Duane took another step. The desk was no longer between them. “What was it you called me? An old creeper?” He laughed, low and dark. “And look at you, ya hypocrite, neck-deep in underage pussy.”
He took another step, bringing them eye-to-eye, and the smile abruptly fell off his face. His laughter died while the last chuckle still echoed off the close walls. The gleam in his dark eyes was bloodthirsty; Ghost could see his reflection in them, saw the tension in his own jaw and throat. He didn’t look frightened, exactly, but cornered. Staring into Duane’s eyes was like looking into a pond at night; no ripples, no sense of what lurked beneath. All you could see was yourself.
“The difference between you and me,” Duane said. He had whiskey on his breath. “Is that my piece of ass is just a goddamn groupie.” One of those lost, fatherless, throwaway women without credibility or connections. Groupies knew what they were getting into, old before their time. “And yours is some rich little bitch who’s gonna go running to Daddy, or the cops, and who’s costing me money.”
Maggie, in Duane’s eyes, was a liability.
“I want to meet her,” he said, and Ghost’s stomach knotted up so tight he thought he’d lose his lunch. “Bring her tonight.”
Ghost couldn’t breathe. He tried, unsuccessfully, to drag air into his lungs. “No.” Blame it on the lack of oxygen.
The one-eyebrow lift was a family trait. Duane gave it to him now. “No?”
“I mean.” Ghost scrambled. He felt sweat prickling along his hairline. “She’s busy, and the kid…”
Duane smiled again, sharp canines, sharp edges. “Nah. Bring her.”
And that was that.
~*~
Maggie lost three days to suspension and she spent them throwing herself full-bore into the Teague household, pretending she wouldn’t ever have to go anywhere else. Three glorious days of no dirty looks, no snide comments, no disappointing anyone. Three days of Aidan’s laughter, and Ghost’s possessive touch, and playing house.
And the sex. Oh, the sex. Unlike anything she’d ever imagined.
But then school came back. She almost threw up in the parking lot that first morning, hanging out of Ghost’s truck, staring at the grit of the pavement below her and willing her stomach to settle. When she walked into the building, she held her head high and pretended she wasn’t about to vibrate out of her skin. When people looked at her – and they did – she refused to look away. And then, to her shock, they looked away. Students, teachers, even the janitor, Mr. Grossman, all averted their gazes before she did.
As she went through that first day, her tension slowly bled away, and her incredulity mounted. She wasn’t mocked, laughed at, or scorned. At lunch, Rachel set her tray down beside hers with obvious hesitance. “Hey,” she said carefully.
They were – all of them – afraid, she realized. She’d been accused of being a Lean Bitch, and she’d proven them right. Stephanie’s scabbed-over face served as living testament to her ferocity.
Huh. She should have melted down sooner.
As the days progressed, she caught the rustle of whispers behind her in the hall. The furtive, half-curious, half-appalled glances became commonplace. She was that girl now – the tainted one. Even Vince Fielding wouldn’t approach her, only stared glumly from the far sides of classrooms.
She’d learned to expect all sorts of things from life, but this total rejection hadn’t been one of them up ‘til now.
Her situation felt tenuous, though. It couldn’t hold, and she knew it, but she didn’t expect the next hit to come so soon.
It was Friday, and she’d picked Aidan up from his after school program, stopped at Leroy’s, and was prepping a simple dinner of chicken and rice while he watched cartoons. Rather than disturb her, the domesticity of the scenario was a comfort. It wasn’t very domestic back home.
Her mother could boil water, but that was the extent of her meager cooking skills. Their part-time housekeeper, though, wide and Ked’s-shod, always humming, always placid, had taught Maggie the ways of the kitchen when she was sick to death of dresses, and candy necklaces, and watching ballroom dance videos. The kitchen, with its heat, and delicious scents, and sizzle of the skillet, was the back of the house, the beating pulse behind all the cold, soulless parties she was dragged to up front. There were no fake smiles, or false pretenses, or plastic personalities in the kitchen. Food, and its meticulous preparation, had no room for lies.
Just like there was no room for lies in Ghost’s small apartment. He was all jagged edges, and long-nursed heartache, and his home was tattered and dated, but it was honest, all of it. And she craved honesty liked narcotics.
She smiled to herself when she heard the approaching rumble of his bike. She could almost count it down in her head now, the time it took him to park, walk up the stairs, and kick the mud off his boots. He was faster today, the door opening while she envisioned him halfway up the concrete stairs. He whirled in, shut the door quickly, and his eyes darted across the room, coming right to her face.
Her cheerful greeting morphed into a careful, “Hi…”
“We have a problem,” he said, and her stomach somersaulted.
“O-okay.” She set down the canister of salt she’d been holding. “What kind of problem?”
“Hi, Daddy,” Aidan said, and Ghost detoured, went to ruffle his curly hair on his way to the kitchen.
“Hey, bud. You have a good day?”
Aidan smiled up at him, quick, before he got sucked back into the TV. “Uh-huh.”
Ghost gave him one last pat and came to the small island that separated the two rooms, leaning on it heavily, the can light above casting long shadows down his face. He looked wired and exhausted at the same time, dropping his forehead into his palm, blowing out a breath that sent stray rice grains rolling across the countertop.
“Ghost,” Maggie prompted, pulse thumping in her ears. “Should I be worried?”
In a rush, he said, “My uncle wants to meet you and he says you have to come to the party tonight at the clubhouse.”
She took a breath. “Your uncle the president?”
“My uncle the lecherous, gross, asshole, son of a bitch president, yeah.”
Another breath. “That’s…a lot of adjectives.”
“He deserves them, trust me.”
She picked up the chicken package and put it back in the fridge. She figured it would need to wait until tomorrow. “What happens if we don’t go?” she asked when she turned back.
He gave her a truly miserable look. “Not an option.”
“Thought it was worth an ask.”
~*~
Her suitcase was open on the bed – the made bed, an improvement she’d brought into his life – and she dug through it carefully, laying items out on the bedspread and considering them.
Ghost was positive nothing she owned was outlaw MC party-appropriate. He was also positive they were going to be late enough to draw attention, and he was gritting his teeth to keep from rushing her. He knew she was nervous; her breath shivered between her lips on every exhale, too deep, too long. She was shaking; he could see goosebumps on her arms. This was the reason he’d wanted to show up early, if possible. Wanted to slide her into a dark corner, get a little whiskey in her to settle her nerves, situate himself so he shielded her from his “brothers” – he put quotes around the word in his mind – and block her view of all the depraved things that happened at every party.
But she was taking so long.
“Babe,” he prodded, trying not to sound as jittery as she did, as he felt.
“I know, I know.” She put her hands on her hips and surveyed her possible outfits. She leaned forward and tugged on the hem of a long, blue skirt, the fabric thick but fluid. She’d paired it with a white tank top and sweater. “My jeans are in the wash. What do you think?” She lifted a hopeful look.
Her eyes were always hazel, but looked more blue, or green, or brown sometimes, depending on the light. Now, in his bedroom, they were a dark, rich blue. Summer skies at nightfall, the river at sunrise. Deep, and pure, and soothing. She hadn’t refused this party, hadn’t pointed out the fact that she wasn’t his old lady and wasn’t required to show up at the clubhouse on his arm. They weren’t a team, even though it felt like that now. But she was looking at him for an opinion, wanting to please him, going along with his insane biker bullshit.
He loved her for that.
Or maybe he just loved her, period.
He’d let the guilt needle at him for weeks now, since he first kissed her outside Hiram’s, but it hit him now, slammed into him full force. This thing they were doing – that he was doing – pretending like he was her man, pretending he could keep her, that it would ever be seen as socially acceptable, the two of them together – could get her hurt. Get her killed. The one-percenter lifestyle wasn’t kind to women.
“Mags,” he said, lump in his throat, and heard his voice catch.
She took another of those shivery breaths. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” Because that was a good place to start in this instance.
Her brows went up.
“My uncle wants to meet you because he thinks…thinks I’m…attached to you.” He didn’t tell her about the money. “And if…if I am, and you’re my…um, well, he doesn’t want anyone attached who might not have the best interests of the club at heart.” He winced; of course he wasn’t explaining this right. “The thing is…ah, shit.” He sighed. So much for delicacy. “There’s always lots of girls hanging around the club. A guy doesn’t have to go looking for company.”
She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, but didn’t look away. She was brave like that.
“So when a guy starts spending time with just one girl, it means something. The rule is that you don’t tell old ladies anything about club business. Bitches ride bitch, and that’s the way it’s always been. But Duane doesn’t trust me. So he wants to see you with his own eyes. Take your measure and see if you’re trustworthy.”
He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “What if he takes my measure and doesn’t like what he finds?”
“That won’t happen.”
“But what if it does?”
He was worrying frantically about the same thing. He said, again, “That won’t happen.”
“Ghost.”
“Don’t give him a reason,” he pleaded. “Yes, sir, no, sir, and don’t say shit about your family, or where you come from. Head down, eyes up. Mags.” He was panting a little now. “The Dogs. My brothers.” A curse in his mouth. “This isn’t like the movies. They’re scary, plain and simple. Anyone caught talking about them around town ends up six feet under.”
Her breath caught with a wordless gasp.
He got up from the chair and walked to her, each step heavier than the last. She was scared, and it was his fault. He’d put that wild look in her eyes. He’d put her in danger, simply by association.
He put his hands on her arms – soft, thin, breakable as twigs – and stared into her eyes, blue now, blue. Like storm clouds. He’d made a few big promises in his life. He knew what it felt like when one was building in his chest. Like now.
“They’re scary,” he repeated. “But I promise you. Mags, I swear, I won’t let them touch you. Stay close to me, and I promise nothing bad will happen to you.”
A tremor moved through her, all the way to the tips of her fingers. She could have said any number of things. She said, “I believe you.”
~*~
He cut her skirt in half. Worse than half. Maggie wanted to be angry about it, but he’d asked, and he apologized, and she had the feeling she wouldn’t be needing an ankle-length navy blue skirt soon anyway. She used Scotch tape to fix a temporary hem, which now fell scandalously high against her thighs.
Ghost handed her one of his shirts to wear instead of the sweater, a blue and white plaid flannel that he knotted in front so it showed off the nip of her waist. “Leave it unbuttoned.” So her tank top flashed cleavage. He had an extra leather jacket in the hall closet, too big, but thick and well-made, warm, with lots of zippered pockets. She wore her black pumps.
She didn’t look in the mirror before they left, just a quick glimpse into the side of the toaster so she could apply her lipstick. She didn’t really want to see herself.
Rita showed up, managing to look both disapproving and indifferent. “Whatever,” she said when Ghost thanked her for coming on such short notice.
Then they were outside, getting on the bike; and it was cold, and Maggie really didn’t want to be on this damn Harley while she was wearing a too-short skirt.
Before he started the engine, Ghost twisted to look at her over his shoulder, expression serious in the moonlight. “Whatever happens tonight, just hold onto me and you’ll be okay,” he said.
She wanted to believe him – she’d told him so already – so she did.
~*~
It was a large tract of land off Industrial, right on the river’s edge. Waterfront commercial property with boundless possibilities. The city had offered to buy it a few years ago, and a boat dealership a few years before that. But Duane hadn’t agreed, and so it lay fallow, weed-choked and litter-strewn, nothing but dead cats and untapped potential. There was the clubhouse. That low gray building with too few windows, too large a pavilion, and the strange look of a business masquerading as a residence.
Ghost tried to see it through Maggie’s eyes as they approached, the wind funneling around them, her arms tight around his waist. Did she think there was anything beautiful about the moon-silvered grass, never mown, bowing and rippling? Or was it a ruin?
As they neared the driveway, he saw the blaze of fires burning in the fifty-five gallon drums, swore he could hear shouted laughter over the growl of the bike. It was in full swing.
Maggie’s arms tightened, fingers catching at his shirt when he turned into the lot. The shadows of men stood backlit by the fires, sinister and too-large. Bikes were lined up like wicked dominoes at the curb.
Please, he thought, a formless prayer. And then they were parking, and he was shutting off the bike, and they were here.
He was slow about putting down the kickstand, taking off his helmet. Maggie let out a deep breath, a rush of warm air against the back of his neck. He was so nervous, and he wanted to shake, and fret, and take a few shots of something. But this was his world; he had to keep it together for Maggie. He’d told her to hold on to him, and he’d be damned if he let her down.
He helped her off the bike and stood up, shoulders squared, face the tightest, bravest mask he could conjure. Maggie stood in his shadow, trembling like a new colt. He put his arm around her waist.
“It’s fine,” he told her, grateful his voice came out steady. “We’re gonna walk in the front door, go up to the bar, get drinks, and go sit down. No sweat.” Until he had to introduce her to Duane. “Just lean on me, sweetheart, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
“You make it sound like a medical procedure,” she joked, but it fell flat. And then she said, “Okay,” and smoothed her hair back, gave him a smile that melted his insides. “Lead the way.”
He took her hand, laced their fingers together. Please.
Snippets of conversation floated toward them as they walked to the door, accentuated by the crackle of flames.
“…no fucking way.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“…blood everywhere…”
“…heard he got shot outside of Little Rock…”
“Fuck you, asshole!”
The air smelled of wood smoke, and charcoal, and beer, and sweat. Hints of road dust and unwashed male bodies.
Ghost opened his hand against her hip, cupped it around the bone there, felt the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her skirt. Held her close, felt the frailty of her ribcage against his arm.
Please, please.
When he opened the front door of the clubhouse, the noise from within rolled out and assaulted them. Air heavy with cigarette smoke, clouded with competing layers of perfume and sweat. The place was louder and rowdier than a strip club. Dogs never needed to go to those kinds of places because the strippers always came to them.
Ghost pulled Maggie in even tighter, he was probably suffocating her, and stepped inside.
When he was a little boy, when Duane was just a spitefully cheerful uncle who visited the farm on occasion, resplendent in leather, his bike shiny in the driveway, Ghost hadn’t understood why his mother seemed to hate the man. Her mouth would press into a thin white line and she’d shake her head the second Duane was out the door. “That man.” A curse. To a seven-year-old boy, the sight of bikers riding in formation was a vision, the stuff of fantasies. But then he was a teenager, and he attended his first party, and he understood what his mother had been on about.
Tonight was no different. Music blared – it would be a mix of Southern rock and heavy metal – and the bar was already tacky with spilled drinks, crunchy from spilled peanut and chip bowls. Brothers, more than the usual crew, shot pool, smoked, sat around on couches and chairs, talking too loud in an attempt to be heard over the stereo. A girl in a black bikini danced on a table; another lay across two chairs, this one topless, while Bruno sucked tequila out of her bellybutton. Desi was getting a blowjob. Justin was snorting a line off yet another girl’s thigh. Sampson and Brutus practiced with throwing knives at the dart board, a game they’d invented and creatively dubbed “Knife Darts.”
Hound was tending bar, and that was where Ghost headed, fingers digging into Maggie’s hip as they wended their way between bodies.
“Just don’t look,” he told her. “Stick close.”
If she responded, he couldn’t hear.
~*~
An older man with a kind smile and keen eyes handed two whiskeys across the bar to Ghost and gave her a wink. “Don’t think too badly of us, darlin’.”
It was a little late for that.
Maggie had been here less than three minutes and she’d decided three things about the Lean Dogs.
One: they were a grizzled, sunburned, ill-kempt, unattractive lot. Beards, and greasy bandanas, and beer guts.
Two: they were all going to die young, be it from overdose, liver failure, bike crash, or syphilis.
And three: they were fucking disgusting.
The floor was sticky and crumb-covered; she thought she caught puddles of cat litter, no doubt poured over things she didn’t want to think about. Cobwebs danced up in the corners, fluttered at the edges of decorative signs and mounted deer skulls. The place reeked of pot smoke and BO. And then there was public sex happening. She knew kids in her classes who went on double and triple dates, making out and feeling up together in cars, or darkened living rooms, but it was nothing compared to this flagrant display.
Ghost put his arm around her and steered her toward a shadowy corner, and she went willingly. The farther they were from the fray, the better.
A black leather love seat sat beneath a neon Coors Light sign and Ghost pulled her down to sit beside him, arm never leaving her waist. She took a deep breath and wished she hadn’t, coughing on the smoke. It burned her eyes, her nose, her throat. When Ghost smoked at home, she thought it was sexy, that sharp smell and the way his mouth curved around the cigarette. This, though, was a wall of smoke. She couldn’t keep it out of her lungs, couldn’t turn her head away and wait for it to dissipate.
“Drink,” Ghost said, nudging her hand with his glass. “It’ll help.”
With the smoke? No. But she guessed it would make this whole experience more tolerable.
She was used to drinking it with Coke, and the first sip moved over her tongue like fire. The second sip was easier. And the third.
Maggie took a shallow breath through her mouth and scanned the crowd, withdrawing into herself the same way she did at cotillion, letting the scene come to her in a sequence of easily-catalogued details. If she could break something down, she could understand it; and to understand something was to find that it wasn’t as scary as she’d initially thought.
So she catalogued. The bottle-red hair on a woman – a groupie, a Lean Bitch – whose head bobbed over a man’s open fly, the same red as the lipstick on her stretched-open mouth. The gap in the smile of a man throwing small knives at a dartboard. The intricate dog tattoo on another man’s arm, the way it stretched and rippled and seemed alive with he lifted his beer bottle to his lips. The way a young member in a featureless cut that read Prospect across the bottom fetched beers and mixed drinks and carried them to the tables. The way the man doing body shots overfilled his groupie’s navel and tequila ran everywhere, all over the floor.
This was what happened, she thought, when no one told men what to do. Not mothers, not wives, not polite society, not the law.
She felt a pang of sadness, for herself, for them. For Ghost, his hand so tight on her hip she knew there’d be bruises tomorrow.
She turned her head to look at his face, the red and white sheen of neon in his eyes. He watched the goings-on with a pained expression, brows notched together, jaw clenched.
Without thinking, she reached to smooth her thumb along that tense, strong line of his jaw, saw the tendons in his neck leap in reaction. His eyes cut toward her, red, and white, and black.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “We’re animals.”
“Yeah.” She wasn’t going to disagree with the obvious. But: “It happens.”
He corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I told you you didn’t want nothin’ to do with me.”
“Yeah, well, that was stupid of you.”
A real smile spread. “Yeah, I’m stupid. And you came out with me.”
She tried to give him a taste of his one-eyebrow lift, but she had to lift both together. “We’ve been here five minutes and you’re insulting my intelligence?” Mock-offended, biting back a smile of her own now.
“Nah. Never.” He set his drink down on the end table and used both hands to pull her into his lap, a development she wholeheartedly approved of. Like this, she could lean against his chest, feel his stubble against her throat when he hooked his chin over her shoulder.
“Okay. So,” she said, settling against him. He warmed her better than any sip of whiskey. “Introduce me.”
He smiled into her neck. “Okay.” And subtly pointed out the people in the room around them.
Hound was serving as bartender tonight; Ghost said he could track a man better than any blue tick. Justin was the one with the coke habit, Bruno the now-tipsy tequila drinker who’d decided to pour the rest of the bottle of Cuervo onto the groupie’s breasts and suck it off her nipples. Desi – who did look alarmingly like Desi Arnez – was sprawled across a sofa with the girl who’d just sucked him off, completely unconcerned that his pants were still open. Knife Darts was a game that Sampson and Brutus had invented – they looked like their names ought to be Sampson and Brutus.
He didn’t see everyone in here, he said; the others must be out by the fires.
The fires – the sight of them had bothered her when they first pulled up, made her think of hell breaking loose, and Mad Max post-apocalyptic wastelands. The smell of that smoke had been considerably more pleasant, though.
She turned her head so she could whisper in his ear. “Where’s Duane?”
He put his lips to her ear in turn. “Probably in back. He’ll be out here, though. He never misses a party.”
~*~
One whiskey left her warm, and then the prospect brought them another round and she was glowing. The horrors of the party seemed less important now; she was more amused by the goings-on than repulsed by them. Safe in the circle of Ghost’s arms, with his warmth and strength all around her, she was lulled into a false sense of wellbeing. This was just a funny diversion, and soon they’d leave and go home, where Aidan was asleep, and Rita was watching crap TV, and they would fall into their bed together. Theirs. Because she was his.
And then Ghost stiffened beneath her – not in a good way.
“Duane,” he hissed in her ear, and she wished she could take back those two whiskeys.
Her first instinct was to stand; years of good manners dictated she get to her feet, smile, shake hands, say it was a pleasure to meet him. But Ghost held her hips and kept her on his lap, so she didn’t budge, glancing out of the corner of her eye as a man came into view.
He didn’t look like Ghost. That was her first impression. He had dark hair and dark eyes, yes, but the man who stepped in front of her reminded her in no way of the man who held her on his lap.
Duane Teague was about six feet, and in good shape. Wide shoulders and narrow waist, hair trimmed, clean shaven save a shadow of stubble along his jaw. The biker life had aged him, deep lines around his eyes and mouth – laugh lines, but they struck her as cruel. His nose had been broken more than once, but it was a good look on him. The word rugged came to mind. He wore a Lean Dogs t-shirt under his cut, and his forearms were tan, and scarred, and strong. Big paws for hands, and more scars on his knuckles.
He looked down at her, made eye contact, smirked, and suddenly he was Ghost. The Ghost of the future, and it terrified her. He was the worst kind of frightening: you knew he could snap you in two, but there was nothing outward to warn you off. No repulsive scar, or deformity, or a bright blinking sign over his head. Unlike the beer-bellied, bearded men around him, he was handsome. And all the parables spoke of handsome devils – sin always looked like something you wanted.
“Kenny,” he greeted, and dropped down into the chair across from their loveseat. He turned the broke-down recliner into a throne. “She came.”
Ghost sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and rearranged her on his lap. His hand went to her hip again, fingertips fitting over the bruises he’d left earlier. “Yeah. This is Maggie. Mags, this is my Uncle Duane.”
Maggie tamped down her nerves and let her training take over, extending a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
His smile broke slow and sly, eyes moving over her in a way that was almost vulgar. Just a look, but it felt physical. “Lovely,” he echoed, taking her hand in his large, scarred, callused grip. He held the shake a beat too long, gaze boring into hers. “Aren’t you a pretty piece. Ghost, you didn’t say she was pretty.”
Ghost cleared his throat and Duane let go of her hand, slowly. “Didn’t think it mattered.” Voice tight, grip tight, thighs hard beneath her own. Tensed and ready for action.
Unfazed, Duane settled back in his chair, legs spread, relaxed, and a blonde groupie appeared at his elbow as if by magic, handing him a drink. She made as if to sit on the arm of the chair and he waved her away.
“Come back in five,” he instructed, and she retreated, head bowed.
Maggie felt panic welling in her throat. She was in so far over her head, she couldn’t see the surface anymore.
Duane took a long sip of his drink, savoring it in his mouth a moment. “Maggie.” His dark eyes had never left her, black and sharp. “How’d you end up with this dipshit?”
“Duane,” Ghost started, shifting forward. She felt the thud of his heart against her shoulder blade.
Maggie silenced him with a hand against his wrist. This was supposed to be about making a good impression. Duane’s insults were something she could handle right now – maybe the only thing. Small talk had never been her forte – just ask her elocution instructor – but she’d had a lifetime of sidestepping put-downs at home.
She met Duane stare-for-stare and prayed she didn’t wind up dead by the end of the night. “If we want to talk ‘dipshit,’ I was the moron who asked him to buy me beer. We met outside Hiram’s.”
His smile widened, delighted. “That right? What’d you ask for?”
It wasn’t the question she’d expected. “Whatever he could get for twenty bucks. Whatever he thought was best.”
He chuckled. “A lady without a preference. Now that’s a sweet thing.”
She had the sense there was no way to gain traction here; a sensation of sliding sideways on ice.
“Couldn’t buy your own beer, huh?” he asked. “How old are you?”
She swallowed hard. Ghost’s fingers tapped out a rhythm on her hipbone. She started to turn her head, but realized she couldn’t be seen looking to him for answers. She swallowed again; her throat was sticking. “Old enough.”
He was enjoying this. “Ah. Okay. Old enough. Old enough to do what? Get my nephew arrested?” Still smiling. “Old enough for your record to be sealed up nice and tight?”
“I don’t have a record.”
“Right. ‘Cause he bought the beer for you.”
“Duane,” Ghost said again.
His uncle shrugged. “Hey, he gets locked up for rape, that’s his own business.” His eyes raked her up and down, lingering on her chest. “Guys have gone away for stupider shit, sure. But Ghost has a habit of getting distracted. That I don’t like.”
“I’m not trying to be a distraction.”
“Yeah, neither was the last one.”
Ghost’s arm wrapped around her waist. If Duane’s smirk was any indication, he was shooting his uncle a lethal glare over her shoulder. “I am not distracted,” he growled. “Maggie is not a distraction.”
Duane nodded. “Sure, sure. I hear ya.” His gaze moved across the room, taking in the spectacle with a wry smile. “You enjoying the party, Maggie?”
“I was before the interrogation started,” she said.
He glanced back, showing white, straight teeth as he grinned. “Oh, I like you.”
Maggie shivered.
Duane grew serious. “Leave her here, Ghost, and come have a walk with me.”
Maggie felt him gathering breath to refuse, his arm so tight she thought he might crush her. He’d said to hold onto him, and he didn’t want to let go of her. She didn’t want that either, but she could feel the charge in the air. Refusing his uncle right now wasn’t going to be an option.
She closed her hand around his wrist. As if my some miracle, she spotted a familiar auburn head moving toward them. “There’s Jackie,” she said, and a moment later Jackie emerged from the crowd, waving. Maggie waved back. “You go, I’ll be fine.”
“See?” Duane said. “Listen to your old lady, son. She don’t need you holding her hand.”
~*~
He didn’t want to leave her; every cramping muscle and aching bone a physical manifestation of his reluctance; he wanted to fly back to her, magnetized. But she was with Jackie and Nell, and he trusted those old ladies. He did. And Duane wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
But still.
“Okay,” he said, the moment they stepped outside the clubhouse. “You met her. Satisfied?”
“Not by a long shot,” Duane said with a snort. He walked slow, still carrying his drink, a king surveying his domain. “But it’ll do for now.” He took a sip and ambled along the edge of the parking lot, far enough from the crowds at the fires that they wouldn’t be overheard.
Quieter, he said, “She is pretty. I get it, you know. Young, and firm, and doesn’t know any better about anything. Looks at you like you hung the damn moon.”
That wasn’t even the half of it, but Ghost kept silent.
“That bitch you had before,” Duane continued, sneering. ‘She never would look me in the goddamn eye. This one’s at least got the balls to do that, I’ll give her credit there.” His head turned toward Ghost, smiling in the dark. “And nice tits, too.”
Ghost sighed. “She’s a nice girl.”
“Ain’t they all.”
“No, she really is. And you were trying to scare her.”
“Of course I was.” He didn’t sound remorseful. “Damn it, Ken,” he said without heat. “This isn’t some pussy weekend club. If she’s with you, she’s gonna be scared sometimes.”
“I know that,” Ghost muttered.
“We’re a one-percenter club. We are the one-percenter club, on two sides of the Atlantic. We got that way through a lotta work, a lotta force. A lot of bloodshed. When you were still shitting in diapers, I was building this thing, making it strong. When you were in the Army, too.”
Duane Teague: the only man in the world who’d resent you for military service.
“I’ve heard this story,” Ghost reminded him.
“Then actually listen to it for once. This is a brotherhood. Brother sacrifices for brother. If we don’t look out for each other, no one will.
“Women, now. They’re not brothers. They don’t care about the club, not like we do. And all it takes is one.” He held up a finger. “One pissed-off old lady who wants to stick it to her man, one word in a cop’s ear, and we’ve got a raid on our hands.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“With good reason.”
There were rumors, whispers really, about Duane in the early days, before Ghost had even prospected. Stories about a woman with dark hair, and a Texas drawl, and Duane brought to his knees, begging. Ghost wasn’t sure he believed those stories, but in his limited experience, paranoia was born of circumstance.
“You don’t know this girl,” Duane said. “Don’t be stupid enough to trust her.” It was said more seriously, something almost like care in his voice. Sometimes, Ghost thought his uncle might love him. A little.
“What do you want me to do? Fuck groupies from now ‘til forever?”
“It’d be considerably cheaper.”
“I haven’t woken up with a hangover in weeks,” Ghost said, and realized as he said it that it was true. “I’m doing better now that I’m with her, not worse.”
Duane studied him a moment. “Hmm. Not a better Lean Dog, though.”
And that was the crux of the problem: Duane didn’t see men, only Dogs.
~*~
When Hound’s wife, Nell, offered her a cigarette, Maggie accepted it. She didn’t think of herself as someone with a habit, but paired with the whiskey, she felt relaxed for the moment. The party raged around them, but the two old ladies ignored it; Maggie was following their lead.
“My first party,” Nell said, exhaling smoke, “there wasn’t even a clubhouse. Just a shed.” She laughed. “Duane was still a kid. But fine.”
Jackie chuckled. “You still think that.”
“Do you hear me denying it?”
For Maggie, knowing these women had been around for a while – and lived to tell the tale – was heartening.
“How long have you two been married?” she asked.
“Oh, God.” Nell frowned in thought. “Since we were seventeen. Just babies – no offense, hon.” She patted Maggie’s knee. “I had a crush on him forever, rolled my hair and hiked my skirt up, doing anything to catch his eye. I thought he didn’t even know I existed. But then he walked up to me at lunch one day – we were still in school – and he said, ‘Nelly Banks, I want you to come home and meet my mama.’ And that was that.” Her smile was fond, dreamy with remembrance.
“Was he a Lean Dog then?” Maggie asked. She didn’t mean to pry, but she was wildly curious about the ways women had become attached to the club in an official, old lady capacity.
“No, that came later. He always liked the bikes. He was out of work and did some repairs for Duane. They got to talking, and…” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”
But Maggie didn’t. How did one go from regular, law-abiding Joe to outlaw, willingly?
“Collier and Ghost went to school together,” Jackie offered. “Collier was already a prospect when we met. My parents didn’t like it much.” She paused, shot a look to Maggie, and winced. “Sorry.”
Maggie shook her head. Don’t be. “Did they come around?”
“Yeah. Dad walked me down the aisle and everything.”
She knew her smile was wistful. “That’s nice.”
“I’m sorry,” Jackie said again. “I didn’t mean to bring up parents.”
“My mom’s been angry with me my whole life. Ghost was just the icing on the cake.”
The women gave her sympathetic looks. But there was something else beneath, traces of doubt. Like they thought poor girl. Like they didn’t think she’d stick around.
Or maybe she was projecting her own doubts and fears onto them.
Her two whiskeys made themselves known. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Is there a restroom?”
Jackie walked her there, a small half-bath at the end of a long hall lined with closed doors. Muffled voices and thumps issues from behind some of them.
“Dorms,” Jackie explained, nose scrunching up. “This place is a frat boy’s dream.”
Maggie forced a hollow chuckle. “Thanks,” she said when they reached the bathroom.
“You won’t thank me when you get in there.”
And no, she didn’t. It was a combination of truck stop, dive bar, and yes, even frat house in there. She held her breath, tried not to look directly at anything, and cursed the lack of hand soap.
By the time she emerged – under a minute, she was sure – she was starting to regret walking all the way back here. Back where Ghost didn’t know to look for her, away from the relative safety of the crowded main room.
“Okay,” she said, stepping back out into the hall. “You were right, I–” Jackie was gone. There was a man leaning up against the wall. Tall and trim, handsome, lock of straight, sandy hair falling across his forehead. Striking nose.
It was the guy who’d been with Ghost that day at Hamilton House, when Stephanie had dragged her up there. Not Collier, but the other one.
Her throat closed up. “You.”
“Yeah, me.” He grinned. “I remember you. Maggie, right? I’m Roman.”
She gave him a stiff nod. “Hello.” And made to step around him.
He pushed off the wall and blocked her path. “Now hold on a sec. Why’re you in such a hurry?”
Oh God, oh God. This was exactly what happened when people got raped in alleys, wasn’t it? Closed-in space, poor lighting, no witnesses. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she looked up at his face.
He seemed pleased with himself. Rapist or not, she figured he wanted to get a rise out of her. She wasn’t in the business of giving anyone that kind of satisfaction.
She folded her arms and gave him her best unimpressed look, given the circumstances. “What are you doing?”
His grin widened. “You don’t wanna stay back here and keep me company?”
“Decidedly not.”
“Come on, sweetheart, you know you can’t be having any fun talking about girl shit. And your man’s a stupid shit for leaving you by yourself.” He dipped his head, close enough she could smell liquor on his breath. ‘But I’ll keep you company.”
He could grab her and drag her into one of these dorm rooms. He could do anything he wanted to her, and no amount of kicking or clawing could stop him.
For the dozenth time tonight, she felt impossibly young and stupid.
But she’d been raised to think that a lady was never anything less than prepared for any situation, lessons she hadn’t expected to draw on in an instance such as this.
Shaking inside, she managed to keep her gaze steady. “Yeah, no. Do I look like one of your club sluts? Excuse me.” She made a shooing motion with her hand, a clear dismissal.
His smile stayed fixed, but she saw his eyes darken. He was offended.
“Please get out of my way.”
He stared at her a moment, then stepped aside.
“Thank you.”
He caught her by the arm as she passed, holding her in place, and her panic spiked.
Leaning in close, breath tickling her ear: “Just do me one favor, baby. You keep Ghost good and preoccupied. Keep him home, keep him in bed. We don’t need him around here.” He let go of her roughly, shoving her.
She stumbled a step, got her bearings, and hurried down the hall before he could change his mind.
She paused, though, at the mouth of the hall, and glanced back. He stood with his back to her, shoulders tense, head bowed. In the dim light, he painted a forlorn picture. It tugged at her. If she’d seen Ghost like that, she would have walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Ghost.
She shook her head and walked on.
~*~
The fires burned still, electric orange and crackling, puffing smoke signals up to the moon. The night had grown cold, but Ghost was warm. Maggie leaned into his side, enjoying the weight of his arm across her shoulders. Her whiskey buzz was wearing off and now she was sleepy. That chemical fatigue that lifted a magnifying glass to details, sent her to the second row in her mind: a careful observer of the moment rather than a participant.
Her gaze moved beyond the crowds gathered around the barrels, out toward the water, a gem-bright expanse in the moonlight. “Does the club own all this land?”
“Hmm. Yeah.”
When she turned her head, she saw his frown. “What?”
His eyes slid over. “Huh?”
She reached to press a fingertip to the corner of his mouth. “You don’t like that the club owns it?”
He glanced away. “Nah, it’s just…what a waste, you know? It’s empty.”
She sensed she’d hit the edges of a festering wound, a part of the ailment that had turned him from a young man to the cynical, depressed single dad she now knew. She pushed at it; wounds needed lancing. That was the only way to be rid of them.
“What do you want to do with the property?”
He took a deep breath. It was big, this idea of his, and he carried the weight of it all on his own.
“Ghost,” she said, quietly, gently. “Tell me.”
“Businesses,” he said, and it sounded like the words got caught on the way out, half-choked-back. In the firelight, she thought she saw his cheeks color. “A garage. A bike shop. Hell, a boat rental place. Something. A way to make money legitimately.” His breathing grew rapid as he spoke, his ribs pressing against hers. She felt his excitement bleed over into her, their ribs catching, interlocking. “We could live better, comfortably, without scraping by one deal at a time. It we’re the club, like Duane says, then why does he cripple us? We could be powerful.”
His hand curled into a fist on her shoulder. “I know we could make it work. But he won’t even listen. He wants us to be white trash dealers. He talks about the club, about what we are – we ain’t shit.”
His eyes were feverish when he turned back to her. “We ain’t shit.”
“That’s not true,” Maggie said. “You are shit.” She winced. “That didn’t sound good. But you know what I mean.”
He looked doubtful.
“Ghost, the fact that you want to institute change means something. If you were happy with the circumstances, then you’re right, the club wouldn’t stand a chance. But you want to make it better. That’s a start.”
“Start to disappointments.”
“Right now, sure. That’s how things always start. You have to keep at it though. Convince Duane and the rest of the guys that it’s a good idea – a viable one.”
His grin was tight and humorless. “Convince him how?”
“Crunch some numbers. Draw up a business plan. You can’t just talk about something like that – you have to show him that it would actually work.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head.
“Future Business Leaders of America,” she explained. “AP Econ. Professional selling college courses last summer.” She shrugged. “My parents want me to be a CEO’s wife.” They’d never suggested she should be the CEO herself.
“And his advisor, too?”
“Wife and adviser aren’t mutually exclusive roles.” She felt a little defensive.
“Damn.” He faced forward again.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.” He gave her a squeeze. “I’m not used to that. Give me a minute to let it sink in.”
She gave him a minute. Two.
He said, “Are you hungry? Let’s blow this hole and go grab pancakes.”
She was very on board with that plan.