Twenty-Five
Then
Everyone around the table in the chapel looked half-asleep. Ghost couldn’t decide if that was a point in his favor, or if everyone was twice as likely to start throwing cigarette butts at him. His stomach was a mess of nerves; he felt sweat gathering under his arms and between his shoulder blades. Shit, here went nothing.
He cleared his throat and opened up the manila file folder he’d brought. He’d recopied his plan onto fresh, unfolded paper, and laid it out sheet-by-sheet, the new ink black beneath the lamp. “Okay. So. Um.” Damn it. Be confident.
He thought of Maggie’s sweet face sitting across from him on the kitchen floor, and started again. “You guys know I’ve been wanting to open up a garage – here, on club property – for a while now. I still want to, and I think now’s a good time. Some of the shit that’s been happening on deals lately” – he glanced at Roman, saw him wince – “ain’t good. We need a backup plan; we could make money fixing cars and bikes. Capital” – thank you, Mags – “we could invest in other places.”
He tapped page one in his lineup. “This is my plan. I’ve already talked to some contracting firms and gotten estimates for the construction, already picked out a location on the property. If we run promotions, take out ads, we could turn a profit in the first year.”
Graciously, James said, “Walk us through it, son.”
And so he did, gaining momentum as he went. He recalled everything Maggie had hammered into him, all the line items and eventualities, ROI, ideas to grow the business. Some interested gazes fastened on him: Hound, Bruno, even Desi. Justin stared glassy-eyed into his coffee, but that was normal. Collier smiled at him and flashed a covert thumbs-up.
Duane was the one he couldn’t read. Though his uncle had told him to bring this to the club, he sat slouched back in his chair, arms folded, the picture of disinterest…unless you bothered to notice his eyes. Dark and sharp, they cycled constantly around the table, judging the reactions of others.
By the time he finished, Ghost was wired like he’d snorted a line, wet with flop-sweat, skin vibrating.
It was silent a few beats.
Then Hound said, “All of us are good with engines.”
Bruno nodded. “My neighbor’s always asking me to look at his old Camaro. I don’t charge him, but I could. We could.”
“We’ve got tons of space,” Desi said, grinning. “Why not use it, huh? I’m in.”
Sampson said, “Bro, you thought this up?” He gestured to the plans being passed around the table. “When’d you get smart, huh?”
“You’ve got my vote,” James said, and Ghost breathed in inward sigh of relief. “I think it’s high time we diversified.”
“You do?” Duane asked, tone mild, flicking a glance to his VP.
“Yeah,” James said, exhaling smoke, and if Ghost didn’t know him so well, he wouldn’t have caught the touch of resistance in his voice, that little bit of push-back. He felt indescribably thankful for James in that moment, for sticking up for his idea, but a little scared, too, because arguing with Duane never turned out well for anyone.
Collier said, “We gonna vote on it? I’m ready.”
A chorus of agreement moved around the table.
Duane stubbed out his cigarette, fixed Ghost with a bored look, and said, “What about a loan?”
Ghost’s stomach turned over. “What?”
“A loan. You can’t break ground and build a building without a big chunk of change – one you ain’t getting from me. If you want to run this legit, then you need a legit loan. Where’re you gonna get it?”
His entire plan hinged on Duane’s cooperation. This was to be a club business, and he’d taken for granted that, if everyone was board, he could use club funds to build.
He felt the blood draining from his face, cold and tingly all over, the heat intensifying in his armpits. “I…”
“Well?” Duane prompted, smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I’ll give you the green light, but you’ve got to come up with the money somehow.”
His heart was racing, painful in his chest. “I will,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
He was so fucked.
~*~
Maggie shut her locker and found Cody’s face waiting on the other side of the door. “What?”
He grinned.
“What?” Maggie repeated, already turning away. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she was ninety-nine percent sure she didn’t have time for it.
He snagged the edge of her jacket – it was the one Ghost had given her to wear to the party, and it smelled of him: cigarette smoke and sharp cologne, road dust – and held her in place. “Hold up, wait.” His smile was even wider.
Maggie twitched away, the jacket sliding from his fingers, and stared him down. “What, Cody? I’ve got to get to class.”
“Is it true you’re shacking up with a Dog?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“But aren’t you?”
Students passed in laughing, chattering groups, voices bouncing off the locker faces. Maggie noted several girls shooting her nasty looks; not only was she now the resident whore, but she was standing here with Cody. Leave him alone, their gazes said. Keep your slutty hands off him.
Hilarious. Like she wanted anything to do with this sixteen-year-old doofus and his razor-burned face.
She sighed. “Yes. Happy?”
His eyes bugged. “No shit. Really?”
“I thought you already knew,” she said, tone nasty. Whatever. She was tired of everyone’s obsession with her love life. Since she wasn’t a cheerleader or part of the popular clique, she’d always been blessedly invisible. But now she was an oddity, a freak show spectacle, and all because of her living arrangements.
She wanted to blame it on teenage stupidity, but her mother was proof that people who cared about the personal lives of others never changed.
“Whoa, look, you don’t gotta be all mad,” Cody said. “I just wanted to know.”
“You just wanted to know,” she repeated.
“Yeah.”
“Because we’re such good friends.”
“You used to be nicer, Lowe, damn.”
She felt a little bad. A little.
But then he said, “But…I mean…” He scratched the back of his neck and glanced at the passing students, lowering his voice. “Since we’re friends, I was wondering…”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“What, you want drugs? Sorry, I’m not a dealer,” she said flatly. “Try getting them the old-fashioned way.” She turned away while he was still sputtering for her to wait and just listen.
She had just reached the water fountain outside her history class when a hand closed around her arm. It let go when she whirled, but still, it frightened her. More than it should. Before Ghost, before meeting Duane and Roman, she wouldn’t have thought much about a boy’s strong hand taking hold of her like this, but now, she read the veiled threat of those kinds of touches.
“What?” she snapped.
Cody lifted his hands, palms toward her. It’s okay. “I just wanted to ask you something,” he started.
“Cody.” She closed her eyes a moment, willed herself some patience. “Please just leave me alone.” When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with dropped shoulders and a guilty face. “What do you want?”
“A little bit of weed,” he said in a small voice, holding up his thumb and forefinger a hairsbreadth apart.
“No.” She shook her head. It was only ten a.m. and she was exhausted already. “Why would you even ask that?” And then, growing angrier by the second, “I’m an honor student. I volunteer at the retirement home. Just because I’m dating Ghost, I’m suddenly a drug dealer? Jesus. No. I can’t get you any. Don’t ask again.”
“Okay, okay.” He looked sincere. As sincere as he was capable of looking.
“Tell your friends.” She was still worked up and wanted to vent. “I don’t use that stuff or sell it. Got it?”
“I got it. Yeah, okay.” He backed up a step.
The crowd was starting to thin, kids disappearing into classrooms, lockers slamming shut.
Cody risked a grin. “Damn, girl. I told you to get ruined, and you went and got ruined, huh?”
She sighed. “So they tell me.”
She wouldn’t have thought anything else of it – Cody was harmless, after all, comparatively – if she hadn’t walked out of history an hour-and-a-half later and found Vince Fielding waiting by the water fountain.
“Shit,” she said, and tried to give him the slip, ducking between two girls and hustling toward her locker.
He’d seen her, though, hurrying after her. She almost kept walking, all the way down the hall and into the restroom, but her life was enough of a mess as it was and she needed to swap her books. Damn it. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and watched him approach from the corner of her eye.
“Maggie,” he said when he reached her, breathless. “Hey, hold up.”
She dumped her history book and snatched up chemistry and English.
He said, “Your parents–”
“I’ve said all I care to say to my mother,” she said, “so kindly butt the fuck out of my family life, Vince.”
But of course, Vince being Vince, he didn’t take her oh-so-subtle hint. “Everyone’s been saying,” he started with a cringe. “They’re worried. Like, really worried.”
“They’re worried about what everyone’s been saying. Shocker.” She shut her locker and turned toward her next class, a clear dismissal.
Vince rushed around to get in front of her, walking backward, tripping over his own feet. “Maggie!” he pleaded, voice getting high. “It would really mean a lot–”
Six months ago, if someone had told her she’d be intentionally rude to Vince, she wouldn’t have believed them. Different than Cody, but harmless in his own way, or so she thought. But now, she was just done. “Get out of my way,” she said, elbowing past him.
“Maggie, your dad!” He grabbed at her arm. “He’s really worried! Please, it would mean a lot if you talked to him.”
She paused and he blinked at her, hopeful, adoring.
“I will say this once,” she said. “One more time, and after that, I’m going to punch you in the damn face.”
He blanched.
“Stop talking to my parents. Stop talking to me about my parents. Stay the hell out of my business, Vince, and mind your own.”
~*~
“We’ll figure something out,” Collier said.
Ghost snorted. “We?”
“You know I’m behind you on this, brother.” He sent him a smile he probably meant to be encouraging.
Ghost was in a state of self-pity that couldn’t be helped by kindly encouragements. Collier could be supportive – could even be sincere about it – but he had a job at a real garage. Jackie had a job. He was staying afloat and he couldn’t sympathize – not fully.
He’d put his mask up on his forehead when he was done spraying, and pulled it off now, chucked it into the plastic caddy a few feet away. The driver’s side of the Monte Carlo sparkled, slick and shiny with fresh paint. At least he’d accomplished something today.
“Duane wants to know you’re serious.”
“He’s a dick.”
“And he’s a dick,” Collier agreed. “He’s just fucking with you. Don’t let it get to you.”
He snorted again. He wondered sometimes why anyone who wasn’t the nephew of the president would join the club. He knew – everyone in this crew had closets full of skeletons, arrest records, daddies with big ham fists and mamas who’d never bothered to kiss their bruises. Misfits, outsiders, freaks – they’d never belonged anywhere…until the club. So Ghost understood, he even agreed with them, but more often than not he couldn’t imagine submitting to Duane’s rule if you weren’t his last living blood relation. If he hadn’t raised you, withholding love and warping your brain with every smile.
“Hey, Maggie’s here,” Collier said.
Ghost turned to see his truck pulling in at the gate; the sun through the windshield caught Maggie’s golden hair, illuminated Aidan’s pale face. The sight of them made his stomach hurt. He wanted to climb in the cab with them and drive, just drive away, away, away, from every damn one of their problems, find some backward Appalachian town where no one knew who they were, nor held any strong opinions about them being together.
That wasn’t an option, though. He was Duane’s nephew; he was a member of this club.
It horrified him for one brief moment, that knowledge. That he was stuck, that anyone he loved would be stuck with him. But then Maggie opened her door, and Aidan came spilling out, shouting, “Daddy!” And he felt resolve settle through him, bright, strong-and-shiny like new steel, shoring up the weak places where he doubted and worried and wondered. It was Duane’s club, yes, but it wasn’t just Duane’s. It belonged to all of them; it belonged to Ghost, in a way. He was set to inherit it, and damn if he wasn’t going to make something of it.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and found that once he started forcing a smile, it turned true.
Aidan barreled into him, babbling excitedly. “Daddy, Maggie said we could get pizza, can we, can we please?”
“Sure, bud.” He raked his disheveled curls off his forehead so he could see the bright spark in his eyes. Even if she hadn’t done anything for him personally – and she had – Maggie had made his kid happy, and she deserved an award for that.
She walked up behind Aidan at a reasonable pace, her smile more reserved. “Hi, Collier,” she greeted, and then her eyes came to Ghost, full of all the sparkle she was trying not to project. “Hi,” she said again, lower, softer. Just for him.
Maggie Lowe was proof positive that maybe, just maybe, God didn’t hate him as bad as he’d always thought.
~*~
“It looks great,” she said, gaze seeking out the Monte Carlo through the big plate glass window again.
“You sure you haven’t gotten attached to my truck?” Ghost teased from across the booth. When she glanced at him, he was giving her that crooked smile she’d come to love so much, half-cocky, half-unsure. Most of the time he looked at her like he couldn’t believe she was still here.
“No offense to the truck, but no. Definitely not.”
“Car snob,” he said with a chuckle, lifting another slice of pepperoni onto his plate.
She grinned. “Yeah, and who made me that way?”
“Just some asshole.” He shot her a wink.
Maggie rolled her eyes and caught sight of Aidan beside her, mouth full of pizza, eyes wide and moving from her face to Ghost’s, back and forth, mystified.
Ghost didn’t like to talk about his ex – Maggie knew her name was Olivia, that she had high ideas of herself, and didn’t give a damn about her son. Ghost had said they fought, that by the end that was all they did. Aidan, she realized with a pang, wasn’t used to this kind of flirtatious banter. To be fair, Maggie wasn’t all that familiar with it either, though her parents never fought. Her house was full of quiet meals and polite chitchat.
“Aidan, your dad thinks he’s hilarious,” Maggie said with another, more exaggerated eye-roll.
Aidan giggled.
“Wait.” Aghast. “You don’t think he is, do you?”
His giggles turned into snorts. “Sometimes.”
She feigned shock and he erupted into bright peals of laughter, that good little-kid stuff that left you breathless and lightheaded. The kind of laughter that bubbled up in a person’s soul and altered their entire worldview.
When she snuck a look across the table, Ghost’s expression was warm, thankful.
And then it dimmed.
“Here, kid.” He dug a handful of change out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Aidan. “Go try your luck with Ms. Pac-Man, alright?”
“Yes!” Aidan snatched up the quarters and launched himself from the booth, barely dodging a waitress as he sprinted for the machine.
“Will he be alright by himself?” Maggie asked, frowning.
Guido’s Pizza had been around since her parents were dating, and it looked its age: musty carpet, Formica tables, rips in the vinyl booths. The pizza was the best, though, and there were always kids over at the arcade games set up next to the bar – Maggie suspected the design allowed bartenders to keep an eye on things. She’d played the games herself when she was Aidan’s age, her parents glad to send her off with a handful of quarters so they could have a little adult time. But now, watching Aidan clamber up onto the stool, she wondered the sorts of things she’d never wondered before: would he be safe? Were there child predators in here? Was some bigger kid going to pick on him?
Damn, she was thinking like a parent.
“We can see him,” Ghost reasoned.
“Yeah.”
He pushed his plate to the side and reached for his beer. “I made the pitch this morning.”
She’d known he was going to, but hadn’t wanted to ask in front of first Collier, and now Aidan. While they ate, she’d managed to talk herself back from her nerves and forget about it. But they returned full force, her stomach as jittery as if it was her project and her club.
She set her half-eaten slice back down on her plate. “How’d it go?”
“Everyone was on board.”
“Babe, that’s fantastic.”
He held up a hand. Let me finish. “Duane said he won’t give me the startup money. I have to go get a loan.”
Her dinner settled heavily in her gut. “What?”
His smile was thin and humorless. “Guess I gotta buy a suit and take my ass down to the bank or something.” He groaned and scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “Fuck, I don’t even have a credit card – I have no credit. Nobody’s gonna give me a loan.”
“But…it’s going to be a club-owned business. The club’s going to earn the profits, so it only makes sense for the club to put up the money.”
“He says it’s my plan, my risk – my money.” His brows jumped for emphasis.
“But he told you to pitch the plan to everybody. He said–”
He cut her off with another miserable smile. “Welcome to life with Duane Teague, sweetheart. He’ll fuck you over every time.”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from responding, but then couldn’t help it. “What an asshole.”
“Pretty much.”
Her face felt hot with agitation, her pulse too quick. She sat back in the booth and stared through the window a long moment, gaze tracking aimlessly across the parking lot, the cars sitting under the streetlamp. Traffic moved past on the road, a parade of headlights. People getting off work, going home to their families. Families with similar problems, no doubt, but right now, the quiet murmur of dinner conversation around them, Maggie felt like she and Ghost were on an island together, stranded, and that not one person was willing to throw them a flotation device.
Her dim reflection in the window glass looked impossibly young. It was a miracle, probably, that their waitress hadn’t called the cops and claimed Ghost had kidnapped a minor. “Sometimes I feel really helpless because I’m sixteen,” she admitted quietly. “But you’re twenty-seven and things aren’t any easier for you.”
“Things are rough for me because I ain’t ever made a smart decision in my life,” Ghost said. “You…you could get outta this, if you wanted to.”
She turned to him and stared, not willing to dignify the stupidity of his remark with a verbal response.
“You could,” he insisted, shrugging, glancing away from her. “My problems don’t have to be your problems.”
“Ghost. Shut up.” To soften it: “We’ll think of something.”
In fact, she was already thinking of something. It made her a little nauseous, but it might be their best option.
“Like what?”
“Let me get back to you on that.”
“Mags–”
“Ugh.” Aidan climbed back into the booth beside her, sneaker soles squeaking on the vinyl.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stupid kids said I had to get off. Assholes,” he said, viciously, the word ugly in his little-boy voice.
“Aidan, you shouldn’t use that word,” Maggie said, on instinct, and then bit her lip, guilty on two counts. One, she cussed herself, and so did Ghost, right in front of the kid. And two: she wasn’t his mom; she couldn’t make the rules for him.
“What kids?” Ghost asked, scowling, already half-out of the booth. “Where?”
Aidan pointed toward the Ms. Pac-Man machine and the lanky teenagers who’d taken it over.
“Little fuckers,” Ghost said, sliding to his feet.
“Ghost,” Maggie started, and he sent her a questioning look, face already dark and tense, spoiling for a fight.
She swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
He cut a striking figure, tall and strong and dark. Patrons were staring. At his face, sure, because it had been rendered with a few bold cuts of some wicked sculptor’s knife, all angles and planes and shadows. But also at his leather and patches, the wallet chain, the scuffed boots – the things that branded him outlaw. Other. Abnormal. Amid soccer moms and little league coaches, suburban families with soft middles and neatly pressed khakis, he was a freak show of muscle and threat and smoke. One of these things is not like the others. In the weeknight bustle of the pizza parlor, he was a wolf among sheep. He had at least two guns on him now – that she knew of. God knew how many people in this city had lit up, or snorted, or injected something he’d sold to them.
A waitress took the long way around to avoid walking past him.
A dad a few tables over had thrown his napkin on his plate and was looking like he might step up and interfere if he needed to, if the reckless outlaw did something he shouldn’t in this nice family establishment.
Maggie loved him so much it hurt.
And she hated everyone who looked at him like he was less than. The people in this restaurant, his uncle, Roman, everyone at school who’d asked her to score them drugs. Everyone looking at him now who saw a thug about to make trouble.
She saw a beaten-down man too afraid to dream, an angry father who couldn’t turn his life around, but who could by God stand up for his kid when bigger kids pushed him around.
She loved him.
She nudged Aidan out of the booth and said, “Let me up, sweetie.” To Ghost: “Sit back down. I’ve got this.”
He looked furious. “Mags–”
“I’ve got this.”
She walked purposefully – but not aggressively – over to the arcade games and cleared her throat in a soft, polite way when she was standing behind the two boys who’d commandeered it. They were about thirteen, greasy, unwashed, reeking of hormonal boy.
“Excuse me,” she said, and they half-turned, expressions dull and unimpressed. “I’m sorry, but my boyfriend’s son was playing and he says you made him leave.”
The one on the left – pimple-faced and overweight – wiped his nose on the back of his hand and made a disinterested sound. “Yeah. So.”
She smiled at them. “Well that wasn’t very polite, was it?”
The one on the right – string-bean skinny, skullcap – shrugged. “So?”
“So I think it’d be nice if you’d let him play a few more minutes.”
“Whatever,” they both said, and started to turn away in unison.
Maggie leaned in close – damn, they smelled – and, smile still fixed, tone a cheery whisper, said, “Look here, shit-for-brains. This isn’t a request. I’m not asking nicely – I’m telling you that if you don’t give my kid five more minutes on this damn machine, I will put both your ugly heads through its screen. Do you understand? I’m not some stupid bitch you can say ‘whatever’ to. I’m a Lean Dog old lady, and I will hurt you if you don’t walk away right now. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
When she slid back into their booth and told Aidan, “Five minutes, kiddo, okay, then we need to head home,” Ghost stared at her, astonished.
“What’d you say to them?”
“Oh you know. Just used my debutante charm.”
He blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”
She grinned and reached for her Coke. “You think you’re the only one in this relationship who can scare the pants off people?”
“I don’t think that anymore.”
~*~
“Hey, Maggie,” Aidan said as she was slipping out of his room.
She paused, hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at him all tucked cozy under the blankets. He was really too old for this nighttime routine, but it had started that first night she’d stayed with him, when she’d been his babysitter instead of his daddy’s live-in girlfriend. (Old lady, she reminded herself; that was what she’d told those kids.) That night, uncertain, nervous, she’d followed him to his room at bedtime, fluffed his pillows, made sure he’d brushed his teeth and didn’t need a drink of water. The next time, he’d gotten shy, wiggling his toes in the carpet, ducking his head. “Maggie, can you…” he’d started, biting his lip. He didn’t have to ask anymore; every night, she walked him to bed, perched on the edge of his mattress for a moment, and told him she hoped he had good dreams.
“Hmm?” she hummed now, questioning.
“Those boys thought you were really scary.”
She had no idea how to respond. It felt cruel to be pleased that she’d frightened a couple of middle school boys. But when Aidan flashed her a smaller version of his father’s crooked grin, she thought she’d do anything to make him smile.
“It was cool,” he said.
“Cool? You weren’t scared, were you?”
“No!” he said, scandalized, and she laughed.
“I guess it’s okay, then. I don’t mind being scary sometimes.”
His smile softened, bashful. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sweet boy. Sleep tight.”
“G’night.”
She walked to the master with a full heart, warm and smiling to herself…and even more sure about what she had to do now. When she first left home, it was personal; it was what she had to do for her. But now, her concerns weren’t just immediate, but big picture, and she had more than herself to worry about.
Ghost was fresh from the shower, skin flushed from the hot water, hair damp and slicked back from his face. He was in black boxers, towel around his shoulders, farmer’s tan and ink on display.
Maggie leaned back against the door after she shut it, admiring. Just the sight of him elevated her heartrate, and she let herself enjoy it. Right now, in this moment, without a restaurant full of onlookers, without the club, or her classmates, or her mother, or Aidan, alone with him, she looked her fill. The flex of muscle as he scrubbed his hair with the towel, tattoos leaping, shadows painting deep grooves between his abs.
Most days, she was too busy worrying about all the bumps in the road ahead to be a properly smitten teenage girl mooning over a cute boy. So right now, she was taking the chance to feel like one. Drool a little.
Because…
Damn.
He balled up the towel and threw it in the hamper; it unfurled at the last minute, landing half-in and half-out. Ghost said, “Ah, fuck it,” and left it there, turning to face her, expression going from curious to smug. He rolled his shoulders, shifted his hips, and went from sleepy to posed, in full CK model mode. “See something you like?”
She tried and failed not to laugh. “Oh my God, that is a line.”
He gave her a wicked grin and prowled up to her, crowding her against the door. He braced his forearms on the door, leaned in until they were pressed together. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes.
“Is it working?” he asked, voice a low, throaty whisper.
She shivered. “A little bit.”
He curled his hips, tucking into her belly. “Just a little bit?” Right in her ear, gust of hot breath, nip of his teeth against her diamond stud.
She shivered again and pressed into him, t-shirt gluing itself to his damp stomach. “Okay, working a lot. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Hmm,” he hummed against her neck. “That sounds a lot less fun than what I had in mind.”
“Trust me, I know.” He was getting hard, and his boxers were doing nothing to hide it. Her hips twitched, an involuntary seeking of friction. But she put a hand on his hot, slick chest and pushed him back. Tried to – he resisted. “Ghost, come on.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh and eased back a fraction, giving her an unimpressed look. “Fine.”
“When you pout you look like Aidan.”
“I always look like Aidan.”
“Yeah, but when you pout you look eight.”
He stuck out his lower lip.
“Okay stop, stop. I’m trying to be serious.”
“You gonna go shank some Girl Scouts if they don’t get off your turf?”
“Ghost.”
He chuckled. “Alright, fine. Okay. I’m listening.”
She felt her smile slip. He wasn’t going to like this plan of hers, not at all, and dropping it on him was going to ruin this playful mood.
“What?” he asked, expression going concerned.
Here went nothing. “I know how you can get a loan for the garage.”
He looked skeptical. “Okay.” Touch of doubt in his voice. Like he didn’t see how a teenager could solve his financial problems.
It gave her the resolve she needed to push him back another step and say, “My dad works at a bank.”
“Okay,” he said, mildly, like she was crazy. “I don’t have any credit, number one. And number two, your parents want me drawn and quartered. So thanks, but no.”
“My dad doesn’t hate you,” she corrected. “He’s sad, and disappointed, and worried, sure, but he doesn’t hate anyone. If I ask him to do this for you, he’ll do it.”
In a sequence of hilarious eyebrow twitches, the horror of her seriousness dawned on him. He staggered back as if she’d shoved him, both hands scratching through his hair, standing it up in black spikes. “You’re shitting me,” he said, tone hopeful. “This is a joke, right?”
“Ghost,” she said with a sigh. “You want to start the garage. You need to.” And he did, she thought. He needed to get out from under his uncle’s poisonous thumb, strike out on his own. In the über macho world of one-percenters, men made their statements with action. With sweat, and blood, and violence. Duane couldn’t respect Ghost until he became, in his eyes, a man. Maggie couldn’t help him bash heads, or arm wrestle at truck stops, or whatever physical labors these biker boys revered, but she could do this for him. If he’d let her. “Let me help.”
He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, ribs expanding as he hauled in a deep breath; his running black dog tat seemed to stretch, as if it was prepared to leap off his skin down onto the carpet. “I won’t take money from your family. I won’t.” He sounded affronted by the idea.
She moved to sit beside him, close enough to feel the heat and unhappiness rolling off of him. “It wouldn’t be from my family. It would be a real loan, from the bank. Dad would just put all the paperwork together.”
“I have no credit!”
“He could cosign for you.”
He made a face. “Yeah. Here, let me cosign a loan for the creepy fuckhead who’s nailing my teenage daughter. Right, because that’s a thing that people do.”
“He–” she started.
“No,” he cut her off, surging to his feet. He paced a tight line from wall-to-wall, kicking viciously at his discarded jeans when he stepped over them. “Stop talking about it. It’s not happening.”
“You can’t just dismiss it.”
“Watch me.”
“You don’t have a lot of options, so you need to seriously consider the ones you do have.”
“I said to shut up about it,” he growled, whirling to face her, hands balled into fists at his sides. He might have been an actual Lean Dog then, all raised hackles and poorly-leashed menace, eyes flashing, glint of black in the lamplight.
When she was ten, her next-door neighbors bought a new dog: a Belgian Malinois, imported, expensive, professionally trained. A gorgeous, smart, very effective dog – when handled properly. But Mr. Vega enjoyed frightening neighborhood children with it. The dog had been designed to intimidate burglars and home invaders, but Vega would let it out into the front yard, delighted when he’d venture into the Lowes’ yard and bark at Maggie.
There were two ways people reacted toward aggressive dogs. They ran. Or they growled back. One afternoon, set upon by the snarling beast in her own yard, Maggie stood up on her tiptoes, puffed out her chest, and pushed her voice as low as it would go, a shouted “Hey!” that started the dog…and herself. “Knock it off!” And he knocked it off, and didn’t bother her again.
So Maggie knew what it looked like when a pissed-off dog tried to dominate her. And in this instance, just like the last, she growled back. Maybe it was second nature, maybe it was some of her mother’s blood bubbling to the surface, but it wasn’t a conscious decision. She just did it.
“Hey.” She jumped up, hands curling into fists of her own. “Don’t tell me to shut up. You don’t ever get to tell me that.”
He stopped breathing. His chest expanded…and then nothing.
She, however, had flipped some sort of switch inside herself. Later, she’d groan to think it was more of her mother’s influence, but in the moment, she could only go along with it.
“You’re pissed off, and scared, and worried, and maybe some other things. I get that, okay? I do. Trust me, I’m all those things all the time too. But you’re not my parent, or my teacher, or my boss, or my freaking parole officer. I love you. I love you so much, but I don’t answer to you. You don’t want my help? Fine. Screw you. But if you ever tell me to shut up again, I’m gone. Right after I kick you in the damn balls. Understand?”
His face had smoothed over, blank with wonder. His eyes moved slowly across her face, down her arms to her ineffectual fists, and back up again. “Uh…”
She lifted her brows.
“Yeah. Um.” He cleared his throat. “Understood.”
She let out a deep breath and eased back down to the bed, spent after her adrenaline surge. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.” Quiet voice now, head ducked, embarrassed or ashamed. A little bit defeated: “I don’t know what to do, Mags. Maybe I ought to forget the whole thing.”
“No. You know you can’t.”
“I know.” He sank down next to her, shoulders slumped. He looked as tired as she felt. “Damn.”
In the silence that followed, Maggie wondered if Aidan had heard their voices through the wall, if he knew they’d been arguing. She hoped not, but knew it was likely.
“He’ll never go for it.” He said it so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
She pressed her arm into his, leaning into his side. “He will if I ask him to. Mom’s nuts, but Dad is the least scary person on the planet.”
Ghost slouched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, spine curled up in a vulnerable way. “Do I have to wear a suit?”
“Do you have a suit?”
She smoothed a hand across his back; the muscles were rock-hard with stress beneath her palm. “It’ll be alright.”
“Not really.”
~*~
His collar was choking him. He reached to loosen it, but it wasn’t buttoned; stress was choking him.
He didn’t have a suit, but he had black jeans, and a black button-up shirt, and a tin of boot polish in the back of his closet. He put on his favorite leather jacket, but left the cut at home.
The bank where Maggie’s dad worked was a freestanding structure designed to look like a Greek Revival mansion: tall columns, second-story balcony out front, pediment. If not for the handicapped parking spaces snugged up to the porch, no one would have known it was a place of business. Ghost’s eyes tracked over the tasseled, maroon drapes he could see through the windows, the little plaque beside the double doors, the dazzle of sunlight on the Beamers and Benzes out front.
His breath came in shallow little pants, not deep enough to expand his lungs properly. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck, trickled down his spine and gathered at the small of his back. “He knows we’re coming?”
Beside him, Maggie looked beautiful and all grown up in a knee-length blue dress and heels. His oversized jacket should have ruined the effect, but if anything it lent her an edge. Yes, I’m elegant and competent, it said, but I can kick your ass, too.
“I asked him to set aside an appointment for me,” she said. “I thought it’d be best to talk about the loan face-to-face.”
His stomach cramped. “So he doesn’t know I’m here? I’m gonna be the worst surprise of the day?”
“I know my dad,” she soothed, reaching up to settle his collar. She’d done it twice at the apartment; it must be a nervous tic. “This is the best way to approach him.” But her gaze held a hint of uncertainty. If the pulse pounding visibly in her throat was anything to go by, she was in a near-panic too, same as him.
He swallowed hard. “Okay.” It didn’t feel okay, not at all, but he was here, and the only thing more shameful than his stomachache was the idea of walking away.
Through the front doors they stepped into a long black-and-white tiled hallway laid with a maroon rug, sets of half-open French doors leading into offices the size of parlors; Ghost glimpsed the brick edge of a fireplace through the glass panes of one door. Instead of droning fluorescent tube lights there were chandeliers, brass and crystal: diamond-shaped shards of light splashed across the ceiling.
Maggie walked like she knew where she was going, straight up to the reception desk at the foot of a grand staircase. This place looked the way Hamilton House once had: Southern grandeur and opulence.
The receptionist, a cool blonde with a severe bun, greeted Maggie with a smile. “Hello, how can I help you today?” There was recognition there – Maggie’s dad worked here, and this woman knew it – but professional frostiness, too.
Ghost hated her on impulse.
“We have a two o’ clock with Arthur Lowe,” Maggie said, just as cool. “He’s expecting us.”
The woman’s eyes swept to Ghost, harsh with disapproval. She took a beat too long before saying, “You can go on up, then.”
“Thank you.”
Ghost gave her his best stink-eye, rewarded when she shrank down into her turtleneck.
Maggie led the way up the stairs and down an ivory-carpeted hall to a door marked with her dad’s name. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered over her shoulder, before she knocked once and let them in.
Ghost’s first impression was of a movie set, because that was the only place he’d ever seen a room like Arthur Lowe’s office. More ivory carpet and the maroon drapes he’d seen from outside: heavy, layered folds held back with brass hooks. A massive desk was situated in front of a wall of bookcases, loaded with leather-bound books, small potted plants, knickknacks, and what looked like awards. Golf trophies, maybe, judging by the little figures on top.
Arthur sat with his hands clasped together on top of the blotter, crisp shirt cuffs peeking from the sleeves of his dark brown jacket. His sweater vest, Ghost noted, matched the curtains.
“Oh.” He sat up straighter, like he’d been caught off guard. “Hello.” His gaze shifted from Maggie to Ghost, and back again with a snap, like he didn’t want to be caught staring. He cleared his throat, a somehow delicate sound. “I didn’t know you were bringing your friend,” he said to Maggie, offering a small half-smile that said he was trying, trying really hard, and he didn’t want to hurt her.
Ghost felt his jumpy stomach settle. He figured this guy, no matter how polite and well-bread, would cheerfully murder him if given the chance, but he was going to be kind and polite for Maggie’s sake. Ghost could handle murderous fathers; what he cared about was Mags getting the respect she deserved.
“He’s the reason I made the appointment,” Maggie said, voice oddly gentle, like she was speaking to a child. It was the voice she used on Aidan when he was reluctant to go to bed at night. She settled into one of the two leather chairs across from the desk. “I – we have a favor to ask.”
Ghost sat down next to her; he imagined the chair protested, not wanting his ratty Levi’s to touch its butter-soft leather.
“What sort of favor?” her father asked, brow furrowing. In the slant of incoming sunlight, Ghost could see a fine sheen of sweat gathering at his temples.
Maggie started to respond, but Ghost beat her to it. He couldn’t sit here like a putz and let her make his case for him. Not to start with, at least. “I wanna open a garage,” he said, almost not recognizing his own voice, the low, deferential tone of it. “A legitimate one.” Shit, that made him sound like he did illegitimate things. Which he did. “For the club.”
Arthur stared at him, worry in his eyes.
Ghost wanted the fancy carpet to roll back and swallow him up.
“He’s got some really great ideas,” Maggie said, “and a business plan all worked out. It’ll be a great place – less expensive, and better expertise than the other places in town.”
“I need a loan,” Ghost said. “Please. Sir. I…” He felt like a moron. A low rent, no account idiot who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the classy girl beside him.
“Can you help us with the paperwork, Dad?” Maggie asked.
“I…” Arthur’s gaze pinged between them, stricken. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than paperwork.”
“Whatever you can do, then,” she amended. “Please, Dad, it’s…it would mean a lot.”
He stared down at his hands a moment, thumbs fidgeting. “Can…” he started, and trailed off.
Ghost felt Maggie’s hand on his arm. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he was out in the hall and the door had clicked shut. Then he sucked in a deep, desperate breath, dizzy suddenly.
There was a window at the end of the hall, framed by potted palms, a bench with a velvet seat set beneath. He walked down to it on unsteady legs and flopped down sideways on the bench, glanced out through the window at the parking lot, the orange and yellow leaves collecting in the gutters, the steakhouse next door hosting a late lunch crowd. He could almost imagine he smelled beef on the grill, and swallowed, the phantom scent making him nauseous.
He hadn’t anticipated having a physical reaction like this. He felt sixteen himself, that nervous, sweaty-palmed kid who’d been nothing but “yes, sir” and “no, sir” to Duane, his new cut shiny and flawless. The last few years, the people around him inspired humor, revulsion, sometimes affection. But this kind of nervousness had become foreign. He felt like a green colt, wobbly in the knees and short of breath. He might have given Maggie’s parents the figurative finger, might have stolen her away, ruined her, and deepened the rift in the family. All of that he’d done without undue regret.
But here in this bank, sitting across from her father – asking him for a favor – he was painfully aware that he’d stolen the innocence of someone’s little girl. That man in there had changed her diapers, had walked her to school, had bought the dress she was wearing, and in waltzed Ghost, degenerate outlaw, deadbeat dad, asking for money.
The worst part was, the part that made his nausea spike, was the knowledge that he wasn’t going to do the right thing and take a step back. Wasn’t going to let her go. Wasn’t going to apologize to her dad and say he wished things had gone differently – because he didn’t wish that. He was a bastard, and he had her, and he loved her, and he wouldn’t trade her for a damn thing, no matter how much he’d damaged her.
He could sit on a fancy bench and sweat, though, so that’s what he did, right up until the office door opened and Maggie waved him toward her.
She was smiling when he reached her, though her eyes looked damp. “You’ve got the loan,” she whispered, and ushered him inside.
~*~
Maggie waited to tell him. Until after every last bit of paperwork had been signed, and Ghost and her dad had shared an uneasy handshake and Ghost had said “thank you” like he had something lodged in his throat. Until they’d left the bank and Ghost, grinning like it was Christmas, offered to buy her lunch at the steakhouse next door. She would have waited until they were at a table, but she didn’t have the heart to do it in front of a dining room full of steak-eaters.
“Wait,” she said, as they were standing beside her car, catching at his sleeve.
“What?” His grin, when he turned to her, was wide, true. It was beautiful, and it pained her to watch it dim as he took in her expression. “What?” he repeated, concerned now. “You okay?”
“Maybe we should sit down,” she suggested.
“Mags,” he said, sharply.
“I’m fine. Come on, let’s get in the car.”
They did, him behind the wheel because he’d driven them over here. When the doors were shut, he turned to her, hands braced on the wheel. “Mags,” he repeated, almost desperate now.
Maggie folded her hands together in her lap and stared at them. Took a deep breath. She felt her pulse quiver in her throat, that fast flutter that meant crying was imminent. “There was a condition to your loan.”
“What do you mean?”
Another breath. This was so hard to say; her throat ached. “Dad was willing to cosign for you if I agreed to do something.”
“Maggie.”
“He said I have to move back home,” she said in a rush. “That’s the condition. You can have the money, if I move back in.”
It was silent a beat. Then: “Well fuck that.”
She finally turned to look at him and saw stark naked terror in his eyes. It frightened her; it broke her heart. “I already said yes.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no.” His hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. “That’s not happening.”
“Ghost–”
“No!” His shout was strangled, pained. He was panting, chest heaving. “You’re not living with those assholes again.”
“They’re not the worst parents in the world,” she reasoned. And they weren’t. Her mother was a tyrant, and Maggie hated living under her roof, but she wasn’t sure any parent on the planet would have gone along with a daughter who ran away and lived with her much older boyfriend.
“Mags–” His eyes were wide and wet, his voice wrecked. “Why are you…?”
It hurt to breathe. She said, “We both knew we weren’t going to be able to get away with this living arrangement long-term–”
“Both? No. I didn’t know shit.”
“It’s a miracle no one’s called the police,” she said, talking over him. The pain was sharp, right through both lungs and under her arms. She had to keep going, get it all out, before she stopped being able to speak completely. “I’m sixteen. My guidance counselor is asking about it, the leaders of all the clubs I’ve skipped out on…” It was a crushing weight, suddenly, the responsibility she’d shirked.
But it was a weight she’d happily carry if it meant she didn’t have to see Ghost this broken again.
“When I went out of the office, did you hit your head? Did he feed you happy pills or something? This is insane.”
Gloves off, then. “It’s the best way to get you a loan. It’s the only way, if we’re honest. Your uncle sucks, and you’ve got no credit, and no friends in high places – Ghost, this is it. This is your only shot at opening the garage.”
His bit his lip, hard, and turned away from her, looking out through the windshield. The wheel looked in danger of snapping between his fingers. “They’re manipulating you.”
“Duh. I know that.”
“Then why the fuck are you going along with it?”
“Because I want you to have your garage. I want you to make the money that you need. To not have to depend on Duane so much.” She laid her hand on his thigh. “Let me help you.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I need you.”
Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them away. She couldn’t break down, not yet. “I’m moving. I’m not leaving you.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
I take it back, she wanted to say. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’ll stay. Fuck my parents, we’ll find another way. But there was no other way. So she said, “I’m doing this, Ghost. Please take the money and put it to good use.”
He started the car.
~*~
The day Olivia left was, surprisingly, not the worst day of his life. That honor went to the day Mama and Cal died – rain streaking down the window above the sink, Dad’s hand white-knuckled on the phone, swish of windshield wipers, smell of bleach at the hospital. When Olivia left, it had felt correct, almost, the last slam of the door, the blank, too-white patches on the walls where she’d taken down their family photos…and burned them over the sink with his favorite lighter. Nothing had rivaled the day he saw his baby brother’s corpse in the morgue. Nothing until now.
Maggie folded and packed her clothes with careful, precise movements. She didn’t rush, didn’t cry, didn’t get sloppy. But the stiff line of her back broke his heart. It was that, seeing her methodically take dresses and skirts and jeans out of his closet, that sent him over the edge, from rage and resistance into utter despair.
He ended up on the couch, bottle in one hand. Aidan wasn’t home from school yet, but would be soon. It probably wouldn’t be smart to get blind drunk. Probably.
But rather than dull the pain, the whiskey seemed to draw new dimensions from it, little bloody nicks and cuts he hadn’t felt before, now raw and throbbing. Worse than love her, he’d grown used to her: smell of her shampoo on his pillow, feel of her body tucked against his, bright sparkle of her laugh, low murmur of her voice when she said sweet, motherly things to Aidan. She cooked their meals, and packed his lunch, and kissed him when he walked in the door every afternoon. She shoved her bare feet beneath his thigh on the couch when she did her homework, chewing on the end of her pen and whispering to herself as she tried to remember important dates in history.
He tried to think about the garage, about the luxury of having his own business, his own spending money, a credit card and new school clothes for Aidan. But he couldn’t. It was just Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
And then she was really there, her bag set by the door, standing in front of him with a look of such sympathy he wanted to scream at her. How dare she. How dare she.
She pulled the bottle from his hand and set it on the coffee table, moving slow, like he was an animal she was trying not to startle. Her voice was soft, the tone she used when she put Aidan to bed: “I’m not breaking up with you. This is just for a little while.”
“Breaking up,” he repeated, sneering. What a stupid goddamn phrase. Like people were Legos that could be snapped apart and set down in different places.
“We’re not.” To his horror, or maybe his delight, she hiked her skirt up a few inches so she could straddle his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, hands pushing through his hair and face coming in close to his. Close enough for him to see the tears standing in her eyes. “I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.”
His hands settled on her hips on instinct. A part of him – selfish, screaming, furious, wounded – wanted to shove her away. But he drew her in instead, cuddled her in against his chest so he could feel the fast flicker of her heartbeat, the rhythm that belied her outer calm.
He had no idea what to say. He thought if he opened his mouth, nothing but broken, half-formed sounds would spill out. So he said nothing, petting her hair for a long moment that he knew would end too soon.
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you soon,” in his ear. And then she was sliding away, and picking up her bag. And then she was gone, the door easing shut behind her.
And then he sat there, watching the shadows grow long across the carpet, until Aidan got home.