Thirty-Two
Now
“Aidan, you got a minute?”
Aidan glanced up from the FXR he was restoring on the lift and found his dad leaning into the garage, an uncharacteristic uncertainty to his expression. It was a look that had always made Aidan worry.
“Sure.” He set his tools down. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Just wanted to talk.” Ghost attempted to give him a reassuring smile, but the expression was so seldom used it fell flat.
Crap. Aidan tugged his gloves off with a frown. This had all the earmarks of a Serious Discussion, and he could count the number of those they’d had in his lifetime on one hand. These weren’t lectures, or the forceful edicts Ghost handed down as president, but the kind of man-to-man talks that always happened between fathers and sons in sitcoms, and which Ghost had never figured out how to deliver properly.
The first one they’d ever had, he remembered, had been when Ghost told him that Maggie was pregnant, and that he was going to have a little brother or sister –
Aidan chuckled to himself as he realized. That was right: Maggie had gone to the doctor today to find out the gender. And Ghost, the dork, didn’t know how to be cool and just come out and say it.
He followed his dad into the office and eased the door shut, dulling the clang of garage work to low background noise. “What’s up?”
Ghost went around to the desk – no one ever sat there, so he had to move aside a stack of parts catalogues – and sat down with a sigh, rolling over to the mini fridge to grab two Cokes. One he slid across to Aidan, who had the good chair, the swivel number with the duct tape over the tear in the seat. “Mags went to the doc today.”
“Yeah, I know.” He sipped his Coke and hid a smile. “How’d it go?”
Ghost looked caught between joyous and scared to death, rolling the cold can between his hands and staring at it. “It’s, uh, she’s having a boy.” He glanced up then, trying to see how the news would hit Aidan.
Back in the day, when Maggie was expecting Ava, Aidan had wanted a little brother. He’d been, as shallow as it sounded, looking forward to having someone look up to him. But at this point, married and with a kid of his own, he didn’t need that validation.
He cared, though. He worried about Ghost being able to raise a son well.
It must have shown on his face, because Ghost said, “Yeah. Me too.”
“Things are different now, though,” Aidan said, shrugging, playing disinterested. “You’ve learned from your mistakes, and all that.” He offered a smile. “What does Mags think?”
“That she can’t use any of Ava’s old baby clothes,” Ghost said with a snort. “And that it might be overkill to use another A name.”
“Yeah?”
“Nah. He’s totally gotta have an A name.”
Aidan felt his grin get a little truer.
“Look,” Ghost said, setting his Coke aside on the desk. “With the baby coming, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about back then. That makes me a shithead because I haven’t done enough to rectify that until now, but I’m doing it now, so…” He sighed. “I always hated Duane for the way he treated me, and I know I’ve been doing the same thing to you. I haven’t prepared you for taking over this club one day.”
“Dad–” Aidan started.
“Maybe you don’t wanna run this thing. And that’s fine. But I ought to do my job and get you ready for it. In case.” He flicked a tired smile. “I won’t be around forever, and you’ll have to look after your little brother, yeah? Be the man in his life.”
Aidan wanted to groan – Ghost had to get off this “I’m old and gonna die soon” kick he’d been on. But he understood where he was coming from. When he looked at Lainie, he went weak-kneed with fear.
So he nodded. “Of course.”
~*~
Maggie looked up at her childhood home – unchanged save for the rust-red front door – and took a deep breath before she pressed the doorbell. At her own home, Ava let herself in with a distracted “hey” as she dragged in kids and diaper bags. But here at her own mother’s house, Maggie rang the bell like a stranger.
As she waited, listening to the clip of her mother’s heels across the foyer floor, she smiled to herself, hand going to her belly. Seventeen all over again, baby bump and all.
Denise’s face appeared in the window, checking the caller, though Maggie had let her know in advance she was coming. Maggie thought she saw a frown cross her mother’s face – but maybe that was just her imagination. Then the door opened and she was greeted by the old smells: furniture polish, fresh-cut florist flowers, and Chanel No. 5.
“Hello,” Denise greeted formally. She looked thinner, if it was possible, her wrists bony where her sweater sleeves slipped down and revealed them, the veins there blue and prominent. “Lovely weather for January, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Maggie agreed, stepping inside and shrugging out of her jacket.
It was always a dance with her mother, observing all the little social niceties with breath held, waiting for the knife-slice of insult to descend.
“How are you feeling?” Denise asked. When Maggie turned to her, she saw that her face was pinched, wrinkles she normally took great care to hide showing at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Maggie didn’t know what to make of it.
“I feel good. A little tired.” Horny, she left out. And Ghost was all about that. He wouldn’t say it, but he was proud as hell, in a primal, male way, to know that he’d gotten her in this condition. He was working out more strenuously, drinking less. He looked damn good, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. “Happy,” she told her mom, smiling gently. Because she was. Being expectant parents as responsible, home-owning adults who knew what they were doing was so much more peaceful than being young and desperate.
Denise nodded, expression almost sad. She took a deep breath. “I was just about to feed your father lunch if you want to join us.”
“That sounds great.”
Arthur Lowe, sick or well, was vulnerable as a newborn when it came to feeding himself. He could barely work a microwave, completely helpless when it came to stove tops and ovens.
He looked well today, though, Maggie was happy to see, already sitting at the head of the dining room table, paging through the day’s paper, a glass of iced tea waiting on a coaster. His color was good, and he’d gained a little much-needed weight since last year’s angioplasty.
His face lit up when Maggie entered the room, and she was reminded that at least one of her parents loved her.
“There’s my Maggie girl,” he said, beaming, as he stood to intercept her with a gentle hug. He’d always hugged her like she was made of spun sugar; no one had ever given her a tight, warm, full-body hug until Ghost came into her life.
And people wondered how she ended up living on the wrong side of the law.
“Hi, Dad, you okay?”
“Oh yes, of course.” He eased her back at arm’s length and looked down at her growing belly. “Do we know what you’re expecting yet?” He seemed eager.
“Yeah, Ghost and I just left the doctor.”
“A shame he couldn’t join us,” Denise said, coming in with a tray of sandwiches.
Maggie shared a look with her dad, Arthur’s brows raised skeptically, Maggie biting back a smile.
“He had to get back to Dartmoor,” Maggie said, taking a ham sandwich from the stack and sitting down gratefully. Her back was starting to bother her the further along she got.
“She found out the gender, dear,” Arthur said when they were all seated.
Denise looked mildly curious. “And?”
“It’s a boy.”
Arthur said, “That’s wonderful!”
Denise said, “A boy,” without inflection.
“How exciting,” Arthur said, “now you’ll have one of each.” He seemed to catch himself. “Of course, Aidan–”
“Will be a great big brother,” Maggie finished for him, not wanting him to think he’d stepped in it too badly. She thought of Aidan as hers, but she knew her parents had never looked at him as a grandson – hell, she wasn’t sure they looked at Ava as a granddaughter most of the time. “He was always so good with Ava.”
Looking down at her plate, Denise said, “Kenneth must be glad to have another biker on the way.”
“Mom,” Maggie chided.
“With a girl, there might be a chance…at least, that’s what I tell myself. But Ava…”
“Mom.” Pregnancy made her bolder, brought out the mother lioness in her – well, brought it out more dramatically. “Can’t you just love them? No matter what they choose to do with their lives.”
Denise lifted her head, her eyes damp, her smile tremulous. “I’m trying,” she whispered.
It was so unexpected, Maggie felt the burn of sudden tears in her own eyes. She cleared her throat. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Denise nodded and glanced toward the window, sunlight turning her skin papery and pale, aging and fragile. A woman whose dreams had always lay in other people and superficial qualifications, who didn’t know how to reorder her priorities and live the life she’d been dealt, rather than the one she’d planned. “I’m trying,” she repeated. And then: “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
It was a start, and to be honest, Maggie had never even expected that much.
~*~
Mild for late January was still mid-forties at night, but this night, the chill was held at bay by the crackling warmth of the drum fires, their woodsy smell mixing with the tang of the pork shoulder in the ceramic egg smoker over in the corner of the pavilion. The party lights were on and the music – Skynyrd, of course – was a low pulse beneath the murmur of conversation.
Ghost had a plastic cup in his hand and it was full of…water. He hadn’t had a smoke in two days. This atmosphere, surrounded by drinking, smoking, laughing brothers lit up a craving inside him, but he was committed to living better. Living longer. He had a baby on the way, and he wasn’t anywhere close to ready to step aside and let someone else run his empire, even if Aidan was throwing himself wholeheartedly into learning the ropes.
He’d make a good president one day. One day far in the future.
“Old man!” Candy shouted, stepping through the crowd like the others were children to get to him. He had a cup in his hand too, and Scotch on his breath as he leaned in close to talk above the music. “Congrats, Papa Bear!” Though he seemed more suited to that title, clapping Ghost on the shoulder with one of his big paw hands. “How’s it feel to be a daddy at one hundred?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Ghost shot back, grinning. “How’s the kid?”
On anyone else, the delighted look that overcame the man would have been chalked up to alcohol, but as big as Candy was, there was no way he was buzzed yet. He looked absolutely reverent. “Amazing. He’s just…wow, incredible.”
Then his expression shifted. “But what’s not amazing.” He moved around to Ghost’s side and pointed through the crowd to Roman, currently propping up a support column and burying his face in his cup. “What the hell’s that motherfucker still doing around here?”
Son of a founding president, Candy of course recognized the guy. And of course knew most, if not all that had happened in the past.
Knew about Roman, anyway. He didn’t know that Roman had wandered over from the barn the night Maggie and Ghost buried Duane; that’d he’d watched them tamp the earth into place. That Ghost had sworn him to silence. Candy knew that Ghost had excommunicated Roman because he was two-faced and untrustworthy…but not that Roman was one of three people who knew exactly what happened to Duane.
Ghost winced. “I dunno. I’m getting soft or something.”
“Tell me you’re not patching him back in.”
“I’m not. Nah. His boys are hangarounds and he, well.” He shrugged. “There’s no harm in him stopping by a party now and then.”
Candy had a disagreeing face. “He’s lucky he didn’t show up in Texas. He’d be underground by now.”
Ghost sipped his water. He didn’t know how to explain the ways Duane had ruined them both, the way that, despite their mutual hatred, a bond existed, one Ghost had always been oddly hesitant to break. Keep your enemies closer, and all that.
~*~
In the months that she’d been living at the Lean Dogs clubhouse – she had her very own dorm, with a door that locked, her own bathroom, toothbrush, collection of towels and toiletries, a fluffy fleece blanket she’d bought herself at Target – Kris had learned some very important things about the way the Dogs operated.
For starters, they paid their groupies. Not much – most of them had regular jobs as well – but enough for her to scrape by. Secondly, they all wanted to hang around the clubhouse. No one was raped, or beaten, or used for dart practice – she’d witnessed that firsthand in Denver. The girls here were employees who slept with the single guys when they wanted to. If they hopped on a table and started dancing, it was their choice.
Secondly, Ghost ran a tight ship. He wanted floors clean enough to eat off of, and a spotless, well-stocked kitchen.
Kris was…well, she wasn’t sure she knew what happy felt like. But her constant, stomach-grinding fear had lessened. She was learning that the Dogs weren’t going to rescind their kindness, that they weren’t going to hurt her.
She thought this must be what real people felt like.
Roman didn’t seem so happy about her new life, though.
She was bartending for the party tonight, sliding shots and beers across the polished bar top, trying to smile, and being unfailingly polite. Some of the out of town boys from Texas had flirted a little, but the Knoxville crew were distant and polite, the way she preferred it. Roman had been by twice already for drinks, brooding and unsmiling, looking at her like it pained him to do so.
He climbed onto a stool across from her now and slid his cup over.
“You should eat something,” she suggested. “You make bad decisions when you drink too much.”
He ignored her. “You seen the boys tonight?”
“They’re working.” Boomer and the boys were stepping and fetching, carrying drinks, lugging kegs, moving chairs, making sure the bathroom stayed stocked with TP. Normal hangaround activities.
“What about you?” he asked with a nasty smile. “You working?”
She didn’t like that look on him at all. “Yes,” she said, hearing the tightness in her voice. He was staring at her. Her skin prickled and she wanted to go to her dorm, wrap herself in her blanket and think fluffy thoughts. “You can see that I am.”
“Yeah, I bet you are. Which one’ll it be tonight? Huh? The British asshole? Little prince? Or the big man himself, maybe? His old lady’s knocked up, he’s gotta want a nice thin slice.”
Kris felt her hands curl into fists at her sides, her disquiet supplanted by a sudden anger. She thought about Walsh, Aidan, Ghost, none of whom had ever looked at her the way Roman was now, leering and angry and lascivious. Like she was a piece of meat. A whore and a slave, like she’d always been.
“They’re married,” she said. “And I don’t work like that.”
“Yeah right.”
She slapped the bar and he jumped, surprised. “I don’t. Those are married, nice guys, and it’s not like that around here.”
“I know how the club works, sweetheart. Girls like you earn their keep on their backs.”
“You’ve been gone for twenty years,” she shot back, alarmed by her boldness. She couldn’t bear to listen to him accuse these people of treating her like that, though. Not after they’d taken her in and been nothing but generous with her. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like around here.”
A stare-down ensued, this one nothing like all the staring matches they’d had in the past.
Roman moved first, sliding off the stool, jaw set.
“Roman,” she tried, but he pushed through the crowd and toward the door.
It wasn’t until he was disappearing down the front hall that she realized he’d nicked an entire bottle of Jack from beneath her nose and was taking it with him.
~*~
“Hi, baby,” Ghost greeted when she slid her arm through his.
Maggie leaned her head against his solid shoulder and inhaled the scents of clean cotton and deodorant, just detectable over the tantalizing aroma of smoked meat.
He tipped his head down toward her, breath rustling through her hair, so she could hear him above the low strains of the music, and the much-louder tangle of conversation around them. “How’d it go with your folks?”
Maggie didn’t think she would ever be able to keep from sighing when she talked about her parents; she sighed now. But it wasn’t as heavy and crushing as it sometimes was. “It went okay. Dad was sweet – he looks good, by the way, totally bounced back from his procedure. And Mom was…sad. But not hateful. She’s disappointed and I don’t guess that’ll ever change.”
Ghost snorted. “Poor thing – her kid grew up to be a total badass. How embarrassing.”
She goosed him in the ribs, but smiled. “What about you and Aidan. How’d that go?”
“It was good.” Was that…a note of pride she detected in his voice?
She glanced up at him, the contented hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the party lights reflected in his eyes.
She was hit with the sudden, overwhelming sense that it was going to be okay: the club, the new baby, all three of their kids, and them. If she pressed in a little harder, she thought they might just fuse together into one creature, something with fangs, and claws, and blood on its hands, and a tender heart. All this painful love for the family they’d made together: a family made of their children, and of the lost souls they’d invited into the club together. Her eyes searched them out in the crowd: Walsh, Michael, Tango, Mercy. All the young ones Ghost had brought up in the new tradition. When she’d met her man, the club had been a den of angry, snarling heathens…but it had become a sanctuary for the misplaced and unloved, somewhere where they could finally find what had always been missing in their lives.
They’d done that. Ghost had done that. Taken a crippled club and turned into a multinational powerhouse, the strongest and most infamous MC in the world.
Such pleasant thoughts were interrupted by Roman, as he charged through the crowd, earning nasty looks and disgruntled protests. He had murder in his eyes…and whiskey. A whole lot of whiskey. Maggie could see the liquid courage sloshing around inside his head, the stripped-down fury he usually kept tightly in check.
Ghost muttered, “What the hell?”
“Ghost,” Roman said, shouting, too loud, drawing eyes. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
Ghost propped his hands on his hips and looked unimpressed. “Yeah, I know. Why’s it got your panties in a twist right now?”
Maggie felt like she shouldn’t – a fight was never a good thing – but she couldn’t help but smile a little, trying to disguise it as a concerned frown.
Roman leaned in to Ghost, got right in his face, and jabbed him in the chest with his finger. Straight out of a soap opera. “Where the fuck do you get off doing that to Kris?”
“Shut up,” someone shouted.
RJ’s voice called, “Bounce his ass, Mercy.”
“Dad!” That was Boomer. Maggie saw him fighting through the crowd to get to them.
She caught a glimpse of Aidan watching with delighted horror.
Ghost glanced down at the finger on his chest, and then back up at Roman’s face, the picture of underwhelmed. “Do what to her?”
Red in the face now, Roman said, “She’s not a goddamn groupie! She’s not your whore!”
Conversations were rapidly breaking off, brothers turning to see what the disturbance was. Some, like Aidan, looked like they couldn’t wait for the fists to fly. Others, like Walsh, looked like they wanted nothing more than to drop-kick Roman over the twelve-foot gate. (Sorry, honey, she thought to Walsh, one of the big boys will have to do that.)
Ghost sighed and shook his head. He was enjoying this now, putting on a show. “Nobody’s touched your girl, man. She works here. I pay her. To clean house and serve drinks.”
“You lying son of a–”
“Get your hand off me,” Ghost said calmly, “or I’ll break it.”
“Get your big monster to break it?” Roman sneered, tilting his head toward Mercy. “You don’t get your hands dirty anymore, do you? Too important for that now.”
Mercy, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Candy, both of them now looking gleefully bloodthirsty, cracked his knuckles.
“No,” Ghost said, brushing Roman’s finger away. “If anybody gets to hand your ass to you, it’s gonna be me.”
“I’d like to see you fucking try.”
“Here we go,” Maggie sighed to herself.
And that was how she ended up sitting on top of a picnic table beside a panic-stricken Kristen, watching Mercy and Candy appoint themselves refs. The entire party had crowded around, forming a loose circle around the two combatants.
“I’m so sorry,” Kristin kept saying, face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, oh my God.”
“It’s not your fault,” Maggie said. She was trying to sound supportive, but she was distracted. “The guys spar all the time, it’s just what they do. And this fight’s been brewing for years.”
“Oh my God,” Kristin groaned.
Maggie patted her knee, but her eyes were trained on Ghost. She felt giddy and breathless as a teenager staring at him, like that first time he’d taken his shirt off and she’d gotten a look at what was underneath.
Somehow, he was more entrancing now. The soft padding of young muscle carved down to the bare essentials by stress and hard work, the cuts of pec and ab stark, the jut of bone at his hips unforgiving. He had an assortment of tattoos, but the one of her name over his heart was her favorite.
She wanted to smooth her hands across his chest, lean in and trace his sharp collarbones with her tongue.
But they were in the middle of a crowd. And he had a fight to win.
He looked at her, briefly, as Candy was laying out the rules. In the middle of wrapping his hands, a piece of tape held between his teeth, he glanced up and shot her a wink.
“It’ll be okay,” she told Kristin.
She just couldn’t promise that Roman would be.
~*~
Mercy was the monster. And Candy was the one with the tooth-taking punch – Ghost had witnessed that enough times to know it wasn’t just a myth. Michael was mean with a knife. All his boys could handle themselves in a fight.
But Ghost was the one tried and true boxer of the bunch.
Once upon a time, he and Roman had duked it out when they were in their twenties. Ghost had no doubt this time would end the same way that one had: Roman spitting blood and too dizzy to get up on his own.
The old familiar feeling of victory filled him – a preemptory sense, one that had come to him before every sparring match of his life. He’d never fought for money, no, in shiny shorts and with name-brand gloves, but he’d won every bought with every opponent he’d ever faced. He didn’t need the fame: winning was his drug of choice. And he was going to win now; he could taste it.
“Mouth-guards, boys?” Mercy asked, just to be a shit. “Don’t wanna mess up those pretty teeth.”
“Fuck off,” Ghost told him, and he laughed.
“Alright, then. Let me get out of the way before I get caught in the middle.”
“Mercy, shut up.”
More laughter.
Ghost tuned it out. Tuned out everything except Roman across from him, looking a little more fifty-three than Ghost did. He was still trim-waisted, still had strong arms, but he wasn’t fight-ready. Not like Ghost was.
He seemed to know it, too, flickers of doubt beneath the rage in his eyes.
“Last chance to apologize,” Ghost said.
Roman spat on the ground.
Okay then.
“Gentlemen,” Candy said theatrically. “Begin!”
A whoop went up from the crowd.
Ghost settled into his stance, taped knuckles held up in front of his face, light on his feet and ready for action. And waited.
Opposite, Roman was boiling with energy…some of it alcohol-fueled. “Seriously?” he hissed. “What an asshole.” He began a slow pace, foot over foot, circling. Ghost moved with him and he said, “Come on!”
On the next pass, Ghost side-stepped in closer, closer.
Roman blocked, anticipating a punch that wasn’t there, then flinched away, cursing himself.
It was the flinch, hands up high by his head, that gave Ghost the chance to deliver a strong right to the guy’s solar plexus.
The air went out of Roman’s lungs with a startled oof and he doubled forward, punching out of reaction and not strategy.
It wouldn’t last long now, Ghost thought. But the impact had angered Roman, and he regathered himself and went on the offense. Ghost danced and parried…and grinned. Now they were fighting.
Fresh from weeks of cardio and hitting the bag, his body slid into the old routine like a hand into a well-worn glove. Block, parry, strike, connect. Again. Again. Dance, slide, advance. It was muscle memory, instinct, and training, the rational part of his brain lost to the analytics. Shouts, cheers, and gasps went up around them, but Ghost couldn’t see any faces, couldn’t focus on anything except Roman across from him, wild-eyed. Gasping. Blood on his mouth. Blood on Ghost’s knuckles, warm and wet on his fingertips.
Roman. Fucking Roman. Always wanting to be loved, wanting to be royal, but never wanting to work to get that way. Slinking around in the dark, making under-the-table deals that crossed and double-crossed the people he’d pled loyalty to. Rat. Traitor. Damn him.
Time…slipped. The way it always did when he fought. Became a blur of pain: this time only in his knuckles, because Roman didn’t get a pop in. He fell into a rhythm of punches and parries…more of the former.
And suddenly there were arms around his waist, holding him tight, dragging him backward.
He kicked once, bowed his back, tried to break away.
Mercy’s voice in his ear, “Easy, killer. You’re done, you’re done.” A gentle pat from a giant hand across his stomach. “Switch off, boss.”
And then his vision came back.
Oh.
Roman had slumped to the ground, curled in protectively on himself, hands covering his face. Hands that were bloody; Ghost knew he’d hit his mouth and nose, probably his eyes. Bright pink bruises were already coming up on his ribs.
Ghost drew in a ragged breath and became aware of his own body. He was slick and itchy with sweat, overheated, breathing like a racehorse.
His hair was in his eyes and he brushed it away with his damp forearm, searching the crowd for –
There was his Mags, watching him with round hazel eyes, lip caught between her teeth. Damn. Damn.
“I’m alright.” He patted the back of Mercy’s hand. “Let up, Monster, I’m alright.”
Mercy smacked him once, all affection, and released him.
A cheer went up from his brothers, screams of delight, boots stomping on the concrete.
He only had eyes for his girl, golden and beautiful, smiling at him.
~*~
The second the dorm room door shut, he was on her.
Maggie laughed into the kiss, hands coming up to rest on his sweat-slick biceps as their mouths slammed together.
“Excited?” she teased when he pulled back. She felt the energy flowing between them, from him and into her, through the press of his lips and the weight of his wrapped hands on her hips.
He was panting, damp hair falling onto his forehead, his eyes blown black, skin shining with sweat. He was feral in that moment, an animal high on bloodlust and victory, driven to mate.
And Maggie melted when he looked at her like that. Like he wanted to devour her.
“Yeah,” he growled, and dove back in. Sloppy, uncoordinated kisses, as his hands mapped her hips, and belly, and ass. “Shit,” he said against her throat, his thumbs hooking into her waistband. “Baby…”
She was weak with want, but she understood: so was he. He could take her apart piece-by-piece, tease her until she was squirming, wreck her down to the foundations. But not tonight. Tonight he was feral, and he needed her now.
She unfastened her jeans and shoved them down, awkwardly toed her boots off.
He knelt to help her, deft fingers making quick work of boots, jeans, socks. Sent electric pulses through her as he reached up and skimmed her panties down, the wraps on his knuckles deliciously abrasive against the sensitive skin of her hips and thighs.
Maggie looked down at him, the bunching of his slick shoulders; he seemed bronze-dipped, muscles stark and firm, glazed with sweat. Damn. Oh damn. Tremors ran up her calves, shaky anticipation.
And then he lifted his head and looked up at her, and her mouth went dry.
Holding her gaze, he slid his hands purposefully up her thighs, up beneath the hem of her shirt, between her thighs where she was already wet for him. He made a low, pleased sound in his throat, sat up on his knees, and put his mouth to her.
“God.” She kicked her head back against the wall. Raked her hands through his sweaty hair. “You are so good at that.”
His answer was a sly sweep of his tongue that threatened to take her legs out from under her.
She wanted to protest – push him back and urge him to the bed – but how could she argue with this? What about you, baby? she thought. And then she didn’t think anything, widening her stance, one hand pressed flat to the wall.
He brought her off quickly, relentlessly – and after watching him fight, it didn’t take much, honestly – and she was still coming down when he guided her to the bed, sat down on its edge and pulled her down to straddle his lap. His cock was hard and hot against her leg, even through his jeans.
“You alright?” he asked, voice tight with restraint. “Are you…can you…”
She reached down for his fly, fumbling at his belt.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He made a sound like a dying man when she sank down onto his cock, part-anguish and part-relief, eyes squeezing shut as he was overcome by sensation.
Maggie put a hand in the center of his chest and pushed him back. He went; a feather would have knocked him over at that point.
She braced her hands on his pecs and rolled her hips, languid, easy movements. She was lazy, body humming in the wake of her orgasm, and she took wicked delight in teasing him a little, drawing it out.
He pressed his head back into the mattress, breathing through his mouth, tendons standing out stark in his throat. God, he was beautiful. She felt a tightening in her lower back, pleasure mounting again. He was hot and thick inside her, perfect, just perfect. She wanted to do this for hours.
Not that Ghost had the patience for that.
He lifted his head and reached for the front of her shirt, popped open the snaps down the front. He caressed her belly – her rhythm stuttered – gentle and reverent, and then reached up and pulled down the cups of her bra, freed her breasts, heavy with pregnancy.
Her hips kicked faster, watching the way he looked at her, a helpless sound catching in her throat.
His hands moved to her hips, holding her steady, and he lifted his own, driving up into her with a powerful thrust. Taking over, setting a stronger, faster pace.
Maggie surrendered to it, hands braced on his skin, overwhelmed by the sight and the feel and the strength of him.
“God,” she chanted. “God, God…”
He sat up, pulling her down hard on his cock, kissed her roughly. It was too much: the friction, the heat. Her belly between them, a reminder of what they’d created together.
They came at the same time, panting into each other’s mouths.
Maggie bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper. “God, I love you.”
His hands smoothed down her quivering sides, tape rough on her skin. Lapped up the blood she’d left on his lip and gave some back to her with a long, thorough kiss. “Love you, too.”
~*~
He must have blacked out, because one moment Roman was lying on the cold concrete with Lean Dogs standing over him, the crowd cheering, and the next he was aware of something soft beneath him. A bed. He smelled detergent and furniture polish. He was in a dorm, then.
His eyes didn’t want to open. At least, one of them didn’t. The right one cracked, his vision blurry, and he squinted against the warm glow of lamplight.
“Roman,” a quiet, female voice said. “Can you hear me? You awake?”
Kris.
“Yeah,” he said, but it came out an indistinct mumble.
The bed dipped and he felt her sit down at his hip, heard the soft sound of her jeans brushing up against his. Something cold touched his face, an ice pack, he figured, going by the way it burned. He hissed and tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go, his head already pressed into the pillow.
“You alright to be alone with him?” someone asked over by the door. It sounded suspiciously like that giant blond Texan who’d been outside earlier.
Roman made a face – which hurt like hell – when he recalled that guy. Tall and broad, and golden-haired, an Adonis. He didn’t like the thought of anyone who looked like that within Kris’s presence. Not that he was currently in a position to do anything about it.
“It’s fine,” Kris said, and he could tell by her voice that she was giving that small, shy smile of hers, the one that was all politeness, but never touched her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Yell if you need anything,” the Texan said, and Roman heard the door shut.
Candy. That was his name. Candyman. He’d been just a kid the last time Roman saw him. Jesus.
The ice pack lifted off his face. “Roman, I know you’re awake,” Kris said.
He made a monumental effort to focus, to blink his vision clear and prop up on an elbow. The room swayed a moment before it settled, and then he saw her worried face just in front of his.
“I think you have a concussion,” she said.
“I think you’re right.”
Her expression was unusually stern. “Lie back down.” When he didn’t, she pushed at his shoulder. “You have a black eye; I need to put ice on it.”
With a sigh, he flopped back and let her put the cold pack on him again, wincing at the sting of the cold. “What happened?”
“Ghost beat the shit out of you,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not a very good boxer.”
It was the boldest thing she’d ever said to him, and he wanted to smile in response. He couldn’t, though, because it hurt to know that she was bold because of these people – because she wasn’t under his care anymore. And because the Lean Dogs were using her. That wasn’t how her happy ending was supposed to go: a vessel passed from Dog to Dog until she grew lined and haggard, a washed-up groupie smoking two packs of day, a litany of stories to tell her illegitimate children.
He ached when he thought of that. She deserved better than that. So much better.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Kris made an exasperated sound. “I was telling the truth before. I get paid to tend bar and clean up. I’m not a slut, Roman.”
The swelling around his eye tugged when he frowned. Impatient, he swatted the ice pack away. “I didn’t say you were a slut. You’re not.”
“And you’re not hearing me.” She leaned in close, her breath clean and minty across his face. She hadn’t been drinking or smoking tonight; she didn’t do vices as a rule. “I’m not sleeping with any of them.”
His muddled, concussed brain struggled to keep up. “But…”
“I’m not.” He’d never seen her face so set, firm and implacable.
“You’re…not?”
“That’s what I just said!”
“Okay, okay. But…”
“What?”
“I thought…”
She sighed. “I know. But you were wrong. No offense.” She pressed the ice to his eye again.
Every second that he was conscious, he grew more alert, his vision cleared a little more. Which meant he was aware of his headache; it felt like a living thing behind his eyes, pounding in his temples. He wanted to shut his eyes and go to sleep.
A knock sounded at the door. It cracked open a moment later and Roman was convinced his concussion had launched him back in time, because it was the old Ghost, young and curly-headed, who stepped into the dorm, the pale-haired boy, Tango, on his heels. His stomach lurched – but then he blinked and realized it wasn’t Ghost, but Ghost’s kid. What was his name? Aidan. He was the spitting image, straight down to the scowl.
“Give us a minute?” he asked Kris, and she stood, nodding.
Roman wanted to ask her to stay…but she wasn’t his old lady. Wasn’t his anything, really. So he watched her go, hand curling around the ice pack where she’d left it on top of the covers. And then he was alone with the little prince and his sidekick.
Aidan folded his arms and propped a shoulder against the side of the room’s dresser. “Dude.” His brows went up. “You knew my dad in his heyday and you still thought it’d be a good idea to take him on?”
“I’m a little bit drunk.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Aidan’s face, in this light, looked eerily like his father’s. The slanted eyebrows, the smirk, the shadow of bristle on his chin. He didn’t have the same edge of cruelty, though. There was a hard-to-pin-down softness about his expression. Traces of forgiveness. “You get that no one’s messing with your girl, right? Nobody’s touched her.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
“She’s–” He tried to sit up and the room tilted sharply.
“You should sit still,” the friend suggested. What was his name? Samba? Some kind of dance. Cha-cha…Tango. It was Tango. Roman had no idea where Ghost had found that one: he looked like he belonged on a runway in Milan modeling androgynous leather jumpsuits. When he came forward to steady Roman with a hand on his shoulder, Roman noted that one of his ears was pink and ragged at the edge with scar tissue, and the other boasted a half-dozen shiny piercings, all the way up to the top of the cartilage.
“I’m fine,” Roman said, waving him off, though he was anything but. He felt like he was coming unglued, like the binding of an old book that had been dropped in a puddle, all his important hinges gummy and pulling apart.
Aidan studied him a long moment, until he wanted to squirm under the scrutiny. Finally, he said, “I wanted to make sure you’re not dead. You’re not. So.” He shifted toward the door, then pulled up. “You can stay here tonight, ‘til you feel good enough to ride.”
Thanks got caught in Roman’s throat, and he didn’t voice it.
“Most people,” Aidan went on, “wouldn’t give you a second chance. Dad is. Don’t be a dick about it.”
~*~
Ghost woke the next morning with his face buried in Maggie’s soft, floral-smelling hair, pale stripes of early sunlight teasing at his closed eyes, heat humming through the vents. He woke to the knowledge that his family was under this roof, that in just another couple hours they’d all be awake and bustling about, pouring coffee, telling the new hangarounds to clean the place up, sipping spiked coffee to take the edge off their hangovers.
He smoothed his hand across the gentle swell of Maggie’s belly and smiled against the back of her neck. She murmured something in her sleep, but didn’t wake.
He slid out of bed without waking her – she slept like the dead when she was pregnant – and pulled on last night’s smoke-smelling clothes. He grabbed his cigs off the dresser and went down the hall, through the common room, outside into the clear, cold morning, pulling in stinging lungfuls of fresh air.
He’d thought to find himself alone with the steaming river and the sunrise, but he wasn’t. Boomer was collecting plastic cups and utensils from the ground, stowing them in a garbage bag.
The kid froze a moment, when he realized Ghost was there, then resumed his chore with self-conscious care.
“Hey.” Ghost lit up a smoke and sat down on top of a picnic table. “Come here a sec.”
Boomer glanced over his shoulder, like there might have been someone else Ghost was talking to.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you. Get over here.” When he was closer, walking with his head down, fingers flicking with nerves: “You gotta quit looking so spooked all the time. Can’t have my crew getting that kind of reputation.”
“No, sir,” Boomer said, drawing himself up straighter as he reached the table, attempting to smooth his features into a blank mask.
Ghost gave him a smile. “You’ll get better at it. Your dad didn’t ever talk you through it much, did he?”
Color bloomed on his cheeks and he glanced away, out toward the water. “Only a little.”
Duane would have called it getting soft, but Ghost knew Maggie would have said it was his paternal instincts – his pulse of empathy for Boomer and his brothers of choice. Maybe he was maturing – finally – because he could distrust Roman, and still want to show some kindness to the guy’s son. It wasn’t Boomer’s fault his old man was an idiot loser.
Just like it wasn’t Aidan’s.
Shit, he was doing better, but he still felt the crushing weight of not enough all the time.
“I’m gonna recommend Aidan be your sponsor when you prospect,” Ghost said.
Boomer’s head snapped around, gaze startled and unguarded. “But…”
“Yeah. You’re not done with your hangaround period, I know. But you’ll get your prospect patch, no problem. And when you do, I think Aidan’ll be good for you. He’s been where you have.”
Boomer’s brows went up.
“Son of an asshole.”
Slowly, like the dawn breaking across the Tennessee River, the boy grinned.