Thirty-Seven
Sometimes, when he was drunk or ungodly tired, in the short span of a night that would end too soon, Ghost dreamed of Duane. It was like the bastard wanted to torture him from the grave, waiting until he was off his game, exhausted and vulnerable. Those dreams were nightmares, really, and in them, Duane laughed at him, teeth flashing white like fangs through the dark. He called Ghost weak, and scared, and pussy-whipped. A disgrace to the Teague family name and the Lean Dogs cut.
He said all those things now, his laughter jeering, echoing across the decades that separated past from present.
Fuck you, Ghost thought, and his eyes opened.
Creaked open, rusty and heavy, a struggle he wasn’t expecting. His whole head felt heavy, actually, weighted-down in the back, packed with cotton. Morphine, he realized. And it was wearing off, his body coming alive with pain.
His vision was fuzzy, but he could see the white walls and ceiling of a hospital room. He heard the quiet beeping of a heart monitor – his – and a TV rumbling on low.
Then a warm hand touched his face, and everything came into focus. The pain was nothing compared to the immense relief of hearing Maggie’s voice, warm and sweet.
“There he is.”
She pushed his hair off his forehead and raked her nails back across his scalp.
“Mmm.” His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. But he could say, “That’s nice.”
Maggie’s face appeared above his, radiant as the sun, her golden hair framing her smile. Her eyes were shiny. “Hey there, tough guy. How’re you feeling?”
“Like shit,” he croaked. “But I ain’t dead.”
“No, you’re not.”
She leaned down, her hair soft and fragrant against his face, and kissed his mouth.
See, Duane’s problem was that he’d never had a Maggie, which was why he was dead, and Ghost wasn’t.
~*~
He dozed, and when he woke next, he was clear-headed enough to raise the bed up so he and Mags were eye-to-eye.
“If it hurts, then lie back down,” she fussed, straightening his pillows so they supported his shoulders and neck. “Don’t be a hero.”
He winced; it did hurt, but he couldn’t just lie around like some kind of invalid. “Too late for that.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she amended, smiling.
“Too late for that, too.”
“Trust me, I know.”
When he was settled, she went to the Pack ‘N Play and scooped up Ash. Ghost had at least a hundred questions, but he took a moment to watch her get settled, open her shirt, set the baby to nursing.
“You two should go home and get some real sleep,” he said, throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with all the meds he was on. “No sense sitting here with me.”
Maggie sent him a yeah right look.
“You need your sleep.”
“I’m not the one who got stabbed in the gut.” She shuddered, grip tightening on Ash. In a clear attempt to change the subject: “Alright, I know you’re dying to ask me everything. Fire away.”
His first question was, “You’re alright?”
She smiled. “I’m fine.”
“The kids? The babies?”
“Also fine.”
He heaved a deep sigh, some of the tension in his chest easing. “You’re sure?”
“Sure. The whole entire family is fine, newbies and hangers-on included.” She snorted. “Roman’s in the room next door.”
“What?”
“Stab wound. Y’all are two peas in a pod.”
“Christ, don’t say that.”
She chuckled. “You can compare war wounds later.”
She then launched into a detailed, but matter-of-fact account of what had happened at the hospital, including the fake Lean Dogs cuts, Fielding’s loyalty, and Harry’s stitches.
Ghost muttered “fuck,” and “shit,” and “baby” throughout, hands curling into fists in the blankets. He thought he might puke, sick with useless worry, guilt, and anger. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Yes you can. And Dad’s fine, by the way. Came through surgery like a dream.”
“Yeah, shit. That’s good.” A thought struck. “What about your mom?”
“Freaked out. Terrified. Mostly of me, I think.” She glanced down at the baby. “Nothing like watching your daughter pump bullets into people.”
“No, there’s not,” he said fiercely, thinking of his own daughter shooting a man’s face off on a stretch of Louisiana highway. Of finding Maggie covered in Duane’s blood at sixteen, her gaze resolute and steady.
“I’m just glad they’re both okay,” she said.
“Mags.” He ached to swing out of bed and go to her, pull her in close. Shelter her. Be her man. He hated being laid up like this.
When she lifted her head, he said, “Fuck your mom if she thinks that about you. That’s on her, not you. Your kids love you. You’re the kinda mom she couldn’t even imagine being.”
She smiled at him, lips twitching like she wanted to say something. Argue with him, probably. She said, “Thank you, baby.” And then, surprising him: “They love you too, you know. Those kids. Aidan…” She caught her lip between her teeth, blinked hard. “He was so worried. God, he looked like he’d been in a horror movie, all covered in your blood.” Her voice hitched. “he wouldn’t go take a shower until you were out of surgery. He fell asleep at the foot of your bed, so sleepy he was drunk. Mercy had to help him out to the car.”
Ghost looked down at his hands, eyes burning. “He’s a good boy.”
There was a rustle of fabric, and then Maggie was sitting on the edge of the bed, baby in one arm, the other going around his shoulders. She kissed his temple, lingered there, breathing against his skin. “I love you,” she said, with incredible feeling. “I love you so much. I love our family.” Just a whisper, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
The baby squirmed, fussing quietly.
Ghost leaned into her, into them, breathing them both in. “Me too.”
~*~
“I guess we have you to thank for the fact that we’re not all in cuffs right now.”
Fielding shrugged. He was sitting in Maggie’s usual chair – and how much did it suck that he’d been here long enough for Maggie to have a usual chair? – watching Ghost eat lime Jell-O. He was still in uniform, fresh from his press conference in which he’d denied the Dogs having anything to do with the week’s chaos. “I’m a lieutenant now, I have sway. If I say that Knoxville citizens were assaulted by out-of-state bandits trying to stir up drama, it counts for something.”
Ghost set the empty plastic cup and spoon on his tray, stomach cramping in protest. He wanted a cheeseburger; he’d be lucky if he could handle the Jell-O. “Mighty convenient that we’re friends, then.”
Fielding shrugged again, but it looked, under his stress and fatigue, like he was fighting back a smile.
Ghost spread his hands out on his tray. His knuckles were turning a deep purple, his bruises darkening. Growing serious, he said, “I love this city, Vince. You know that.”
He heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
“Thanks for helping me look after it.”
Fielding rolled his eyes heavenward, like he was praying for patience. “If I’m going to hell, I might as well do something good along the way.”
“That’s the spirit.”
~*~
“I brought you real food,” Aidan said, hefting a greasy takeout bag onto the nightstand with a grin. It was a skin-deep grin, though, his eyes shadowed, his shoulders slumped as he dropped down into the chair beside the bed.
“Thanks,” Ghost said, with a longing glance toward the bag: he smelled meat and cheese and fried things. “But I’m on a mashed potatoes and Jell-O plan right now, man.”
“That sucks.” Aidan made a face. A halfhearted one, sliding down in the chair with his legs spread, arms folded across his middle.
Ghost reached over and flicked his denim-covered knee. “You been sleeping, kid? You look rough.”
“Not as rough as you.”
“Seriously.”
He blew out a breath, looking up at the ceiling. “Not really.”
“Lainie keeping you up?”
He shook his head.
Ghost sighed. “Aidan–”
“I’m not ready,” he whispered, biting his lip hard. “Okay? I’m just…I’m not ready for that.”
“For what?”
Aidan wouldn’t look at him, eyes going to the door, the wall, the flowers on the side table, his own hands, pressed flat to his thighs. “For you not to be around anymore.” His voice shook, dangerously, lashes flickering rapid-fire as he blinked.
“Good thing I’m not going anywhere then, right?”
No response.
“Aidan, come here.”
He shook his head.
“Come here. It’s alright.”
Aidan fought it a moment, running his hand under his nose. And then he shot up out of the chair and came to the bed, leaned down to fall into Ghost’s open arms, face pressed tight into his neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath that was almost a sob.
It was a bittersweet hurt, to know that his eldest baby still needed him, painful to think that he’d squandered so much of their time together, not been fully present as a dad. He was always trying to be Aidan’s president…when he’d always just needed his father instead.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, stroking the strong line of his son’s back, mind flashing back through the years to the early days, colic and crying at night and treating his fevers with red liquid Tylenol. “It’s alright, okay? We’re alright.”
Aidan’s fingers dug into his t-shirt, tight enough to pop seams.
Ghost kissed the side of his head. “Love you.”
Aidan nodded, his tears hot against Ghost’s skin, sliding down his neck and over his chest, his heart.
He felt like he’d been given a second chance, one he didn’t deserve, to finally, finally get it right with his firstborn. He vowed not to mess it up this time.
~*~
Ghost was going stir-crazy. He was due for release in the morning, but he wanted to go home now. Sleep in his own bed, gun under the pillow, Maggie at his side, Ash screaming them awake at three a.m.
Every available surface of his room was covered with flower arrangements at this point. In vases, in baskets, in clay pots, one in an expensive crystal chalice signed from Ian and Alec. Why anyone thought he wanted flowers, he had no idea. (Though the gesture tugged at his reluctant heartstrings.)
Alone for the moment, bored out of his skull, he walked next door in his sweats and flip-flops, knocking once before he let himself in.
By contrast, Roman’s room had one arrangement: a small cluster of lilies in a white ceramic vase.
The man himself was sitting up in bed, dressed in sweats and a faded Harley shirt, watching crap reality TV.
Ghost propped a shoulder in the threshold, ignoring the way the positon pulled at his stitches. “Who’re the flowers from?”
Roman stared at the TV. “Kris. I think Maggie helped her pick them out. So thanks, I guess.” His voice was flat.
“Sure.” Roman didn’t offer any further interaction, so Ghost said, “She been by? Kris?”
“A few times.”
“You ever gonna ask her out properly?”
“No sense bothering her with that shit.”
Ghost sighed. “Roman.” He finally looked over. “Thanks for looking after my old lady. I mean that.”
Roman grimaced. “I oughta be the one thanking her. She’s the fucking Terminator.”
Ghost smiled. “Yeah, she is. And it’s hereditary.”
“Jesus.”
He moved deeper into the room, standing beside the bed. “So look. I’ve been thinking while I’ve been stuck here.”
Roman’s brows went up.
“You were right before, when you said I was the boss and that precedent didn’t matter. If you want back in…I think there’s a path for that.”
Roman opened his mouth –
“But only if you’re straight with me. The second you get squirrelly, is the second you’re out on your ass. And I’m gonna strongly suggest you think about getting an old lady. You ain’t gonna make it as a bachelor.”
Roman blinked at him, face carefully blank. “That sounds…more than fair.”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“No. I won’t…boss.”