Six
Then
Ghost was going to kill whoever was making that noise. It sounded like someone was hammering something. Like maybe they were beating out sheet metal with a claw hammer. Ringing some sort of Liberty Bell or something. It was like a gong, each blow echoing inside his head, catching in the tight coils of his gray matter. He entertained a vivid fantasy of wrapping his hands around the throat of whoever was making the noise, and squeezing until the guy’s eyes popped out like a cartoon character’s.
The problem was, he’d have to get up first. And that would require moving. Also opening his eyes. Neither of which sounded fun or plausible at the moment.
Last night was a blur. Somewhere between his fifth and sixth shot, one of the groupies had stood up on tiptoes to whisper “so my friend’s new around here” into his ear. It was all one whiskey-soaked orgy after that.
Now, faced with what was going to be yet another epic hangover – his third of the week so far – he wanted nothing more than to burrow his face down deeper into the pillow and return to oblivion, even as he felt himself growing more and more awake. Damn it.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall. A scuffle. And then a voice cut through the door like a buzz saw. “Look at you, standing here knocking like a pussy. That’s not how you do it,” Duane griped. “Here.” Another scuffle. And then the hammering sound grew louder, faster, more insistent. Knocking. No, pounding on the door. “Kenny!” he shouted, and Ghost groaned. His head.
The knob turned with a click and the door swung open, letting in light that burned Ghost’s eyes through the back of his skull.
“Rise and shine, dumbass!” Duane shouted, laughing. “We got work to do!” The door started to close again, but paused. “This is your first wake-up call. If I have to come back, I won’t be so goddamn sweet about it,” Duane warned, and slammed the door loud enough Ghost felt it in his teeth.
“Fuck you, Uncle Duane,” Ghost muttered into the pillow. Then he willed his stomach to stay where it was, braced his hands on the mattress, and forced himself upright.
He was never drinking again, he decided. The bed tilted and the room swirled and the light coming in through the window stabbed his eyes. “Jesus. Fuck.” He clapped his eyes shut, fought down a horrifying wave of sickness, and eased back onto his heels. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, taking inventory of the headache, the crick in his neck, the taste of metal and cardboard in his mouth. The headache defied all plausibility; he felt his skull expand and contract, his scalp crinkling over it like cheap wrapping paper.
The only thing that propelled him to open his eyes again was the knowledge that Duane would be back soon, and there would be more terrible door pounding to listen to. He cracked them, just a slit, and hissed at the pain. Then worked them open, slow, fraction by fraction.
Shit, he was so hungover.
So were the girls, he guessed, as he spotted them naked and tangled together on the bed beside him. One was Maria, who’d been around about a year now, but her friend, with the died hair and recent boob job – he couldn’t remember her name. Sucked cock like a champ, though. He wished he could remember the experience better than he did.
He heard footsteps out in the hall again – tentative, and definitely not Duane’s – and forced himself to his feet with a growl. Fucking hangover. Fucking job. Fucking Duane. Fucking divorce. Fucking life.
There was a hesitant knock. “Sir?”
“I’m up, prospect!” he snapped, bending down to grab his jeans. It made his head spin and he had to shut his eyes and grope across the floor for them. “What?”
“The president–”
“I know what that asshole wants! Tell him I’m coming.”
“Yes, sir.” But the footsteps didn’t retreat.
Ghost stepped into his Levi’s and pulled them up; they felt gritty against his skin, even the insides. He hadn’t showered in…a while. And it had been longer since he’d done laundry last. He zipped them, but left the halves of his belt dangling, and dug his smokes from the back pocket. “Babe.” He shook one out and turned toward the bed. “Maria,” he said, louder, and lit up.
“Hmm? Huh?” Maria shifted up onto an elbow, peering at him through half-open eyes. Her dark hair was wrecked and her voice came out a croak. “What?”
“I’m gonna need you to do laundry for me later.”
“Uh…yeah.” She flopped back down. “Sure.” She sounded asleep already.
The cig was good. The nicotine was the first in many steps of getting rid of his hangover.
“Prospect,” he called, cig clenched in his teeth as he did up his belt. “Why are you still there?”
“Um…” The kid sounded nervous.
Ghost’s shirt was tangled up in the sheets at the end of the bed. He extricated it, gave it an experimental sniff, and tugged it on. “Prospect.”
“He’d like to know the name of your blonde…lady friend.”
Ghost snorted. “Can’t get his own pussy, huh?”
“I was told to ask, sir. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, grunt. Hold on.” Ghost leaned forward and snagged the blonde’s foot, gave it a shake.
She startled awake, eyes flipping open, jacking upright. She had a hickey on her collarbone that Ghost didn’t remember giving her, and in the daylight he saw she was younger than he’d originally thought. Hopefully she was legal.
“Hey.” He squeezed her ankle. “What’s your name?”
She blinked a few times, gaze darting around the room, proving he hadn’t been the only drunk one last night. “Um…” She licked her dry lips and frowned. “Jasmine.”
“Thanks.” He patted her foot and stepped away from the bed. His cut was hanging off the back of the desk chair and he shrugged into it, stepped into his boots and left them unlaced.
The prospect was leaning against the door and almost fell inside when Ghost opened it.
“Her name’s Jasmine,” he said, starting down the hall as the prospect scrambled to follow. “Tell my uncle to ask her himself next time.”
The prospect looked stricken. “I can’t tell him that.”
“I told you to, didn’t I?”
His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “Y-yes, sir.”
The hallway smelled like a bar after last call: cigarette smoke, spilled beer, sex, and sweat. It was a smell that intensified as he neared the common room, and then slapped him in the face.
Early morning sunlight tilted through the gaps in the window blinds, and the scene that lay before him was no less revolting for being familiar. Furniture askew, chairs tipped over, beer glasses and tumblers on every surface, lingering warm inches of forgotten beverages. The floor was littered with crumpled napkins, peanut shells, bits of broken tortilla chip, plastic cups…and things Ghost didn’t care to identify. The boards were matte and sticky with grime. The top of the bar a cluttered mess of bottles and glassware. Justin was passed out on the couch with a groupie. Meat slept on a pile of coats on the floor. A scattering of glass shards proved that someone had broken one of the windows.
“Good morning to the world,” Ghost muttered. He stepped carefully over a discarded pink thong and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar. Dug out a fresh one and lit it.
“Late night?” a voice asked behind him, and Ghost felt a prickling down the back of his neck. Despite the headache and the uneasy stomach, his mind snapped to immediate awareness. You had to be on your toes around Roman.
“Nah.” Ghost turned slowly, because he never wanted this bastard to think he had any sway over him. Like it was his idea to turn around, and not that he’d felt compelled. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He flashed a tight, mean smile.
Roman’s too-long sandy hair clung to the back of his neck, damp from the shower. His eyes were bright and his skin smooth; no shadows beneath his eyes. He’d kept hydrated and slept well.
Ghost hated him for that. Among other things.
“You’re up nice and early,” Ghost said. “Lots of ass to kiss this morning?”
Roman’s smile held none of Ghost’s projected anger; it was all delight and mischief. “How’s the kid?”
Well if that wasn’t the exact wrong thing to say.
Ghost had to check his initial reaction, the low growl building in the back of his throat. He took a deep breath and said, “Well, he’s not looking at your ugly mug right now, so I’d say he’s doing better than me.”
Roman’s grin widened. “You’re so sensitive, Kenny. You gotta learn to loosen up.”
“Call me Kenny again and see how loose I get.”
Roman didn’t get a chance at another maddening deflection. “Where’s my ghostly nephew?” Duane shouted, coming into the room with his usual tornadic energy. He was a big, solid, fit man for his age, lantern-jawed and iron-haired and wind-scraped, all leather and road dust and charisma. But it was his energy that drew people to him; like there were updrafts in his immediate radius, sucking in groupies, and members, and rivals alike. No one was immune to the powerful hold he had on everyone he ever met.
“Right here,” Ghost said, sighing, tapping ash down onto the floor because…why not? The place was an absolute sty anyway. “What’d you need?”
“Ah.” Duane gave him a close-lipped smile and stepped in close, heel of his boot crushing the lace of the thong on the floor. He clapped a hand onto Ghost’s shoulder and squeezed harder that was comfortable. “I got a call on the main line. Rita.”
His babysitter.
His stomach gave an unhappy rumble. “What’d she want?”
Duane’s smile widened, but not in a good way. “The kid’s sick. Puking his guts up. She says she don’t get paid enough to deal with that.”
“So I’ll pay her more,” Ghost grumbled.
“Apparently, you were supposed to be back at midnight last night. She’s got work; she already left your place, got the neighbor to watch Aidan.”
“What? Which neighbor?”
“Didn’t ask, don’t know. Now.” His hand tightened again. Ghost felt the ball of his shoulder shift in the socket. “The problem here is this: Rita called the club phone. Called my office phone. About your kid.” His smile flashed teeth. “At eight in the goddamn morning. Does that strike you as something I might want to happen?”
“No, sir.” Ghost dropped his smoke and ground it out beneath his boot; it made a gritting sound against the hardwood. “I guess I should go check on him.”
“Now there’s a thought.” Any more pressure, and Duane might just dislocate his shoulder with his thick, callused fingers. “And here’s another: when you talk to Rita, you tell that bitch not to disturb me on that line unless it’s a motherfucking emergency. You understand?”
Ghost swallowed hard. Over Duane’s shoulder, he caught Roman smirking at him. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Duane released him and blood rushed back to his shoulder, the joint full of needles. “Also, what’s the name of that blonde piece you had last night?”
Ghost smiled at him, and it felt false, feral, sharp as nails. “Jasmine.”
“Good to know.”
“Might wanna check her ID first.”
Duane snorted. “Maybe you shoulda.”
It was a great way to start the morning.
Ideally, he would have sat around the clubhouse awhile, nursed some coffee, and headed out once his hangover was well in-hand. But without that choice, he dug his shades out of his cut pocket and put them on as he left the building.
They weren’t enough protection. It was like coming up to the surface after a deep-sea dive. Like walking out of a cave. The daylight was brutal. He hissed like a vampire and shaded his eyes with his hand. The pain stabbed through his temples, wrapped around the back of his head. He stood beside his bike – his gorgeous, refurbished FXR – for a full minute, breathing through his mouth, willing his abused body to overcome the sunlight.
If Olivia could see him now…well, she wouldn’t be surprised. No, she’d probably smile. He was proving her point, after all, that he was an impossible, irresponsible man-child with no hope for the future.
He almost sat down on the curb and put his head in his hands, so great was the sweeping sense of loss. He couldn’t say he still loved her, not after what she’d done to him. But he felt like a failure. He was proud by nature – by blood – and the divorce was a low blow; it cut him right in half.
And the worst part – the part he hated himself for thinking – was that Olivia had left Aidan behind. So complete was her rejection of him that she couldn’t even bear to raise the son he’d given her. How did a woman do that? How did anyone? How had he misjudged her so greatly, as to think she might be someone capable of loving her own offspring?
Ghost put his helmet on, careful of his tender scalp, and swung onto the bike. His equilibrium was still off-kilter, the parking lot on a slant around him, but he started the engine and pulled out anyway. He’d driven in worse condition before. He’d become a master of the hangover these last six months.
He rode so seldom these days – stuck in a cage carting Aidan to school and to doctor’s appointments and to various babysitters who all looked at him like he was a terrible, hopeless father – that he tended to forget that this, his Harley, and all it represented, was the basis of the club. It wasn’t about fear and subjugation, about divorce and the ruin of families, or about one-upping each other in a quest for power. The club was about freedom, first and foremost. Freedom from society, from government, from the stifling constraints of the life you were born with…and that you had the power to change.
The wind teased his face, fresh-smelling, still crusted with frost. The bike ate up the pavement, Knoxville flashing past him, a Southern city that couldn’t hope to push back against the outlaws that called it home.
This. He had to remember this.
His apartment was in a seedy section of town, two bedrooms and a tiny cramped bathroom, windows in serious need of reglazing. He wasn’t sure the building’s furnaces could keep out the chill when winter finally set in, and he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.
He left his bike in the parking space next to his truck and jogged up the stairs. His hangover was lifting – he felt more alert – but the headache was here for the duration. There were two ways to get rid of it: sleep it off, or imbibe in a little hair of the dog. He’d decide which after he saw what sort of shape Aidan was in.
His neighbor, Mrs. Simms, opened the door before he could fit his key in the lock. She wore a pink terry bathrobe cinched tight around her ample waist, her hair tied back in a sloppy bun. Like she’d been dragged out of bed – which she probably had. There were bags beneath her eyes, but her gaze was sharp. And very angry.
“Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “Where’ve you been?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Simms. You been here long?” He shouldered past her and stepped into the apartment. If possible, it looked messier than when he left yesterday.
“Long enough,” she huffed, following him. “I have a job, Ghost.” She said his name with contempt; she clearly didn’t approve of it as a name at all. “Unlike you, I have to get up and go to work every morning.”
“It’s Saturday,” he reminded, gaze falling on the sofa where Aidan was curled up, sleeping fitfully.
“I work on Saturday! And I can’t have your ne’r do well babysitter dragging me out of my apartment just because you can’t–”
He whirled to face her, startling her silent. “Thanks, Mrs. Simms. I got it. You go to work.” He gave her the same smile he’d given Roman earlier.
She drew herself up with an indignant mutter and spun away from him. “Get your shit together, Teague,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.
The sound woke Aidan, and he stirred with a groan, shifting onto his side and clutching at his stomach. His eyes opened a fraction. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, bud, I’m here.” Ghost crossed the room and dropped down to his knees beside the sofa, pushing the too-long dark curls off Aidan’s forehead and feeling for his temperature. He was burning up.
“Shit.” Ghost wasn’t a natural at this – he didn’t have that maternal magic thermometer in his palm – but this fever was bad enough it left no doubt. “Hold on. I’ll get you some…” Could kids have aspirin? “Something,” he muttered, and got to his feet.
In the bathroom, he found splotches of vomit on the floor leading up to the toilet. He wiped them up with toilet paper and looked into the medicine cabinet above the sink. He had Advil, aspirin, and ibuprofen. None of it was labeled as being child-suitable, so he scanned the labels. Aidan could have one ibuprofen tablet, he decided, and shook one out.
Aidan had fallen into a fitful sleep, legs twitching, face screwed up with pain, small hands clenched over his stomach. “Here. Hey, wake up,” Ghost said, nudging a glass of water into his hand. “You’ve got to take this.”
Aidan opened his eyes slowly, propped up on his elbow, and frowned at the oblong pill in Ghost’s hand. “Wha’s that?”
“It’ll get rid of your fever. Come on, take it.”
“I can’t take pills.”
“What?”
“No pills.” Aidan shook his head. “I need the red stuff.”
“Red stuff?”
“Mommy always gives me the red stuff.”
Ghost ground his teeth together. “Yeah, well, Mommy ran off to be with another dude. So. There’s no red stuff.”
Aidan looked like he’d been slapped, bloodshot eyes wide and mouth trembling.
“Just take it,” Ghost said, getting frustrated. “Please.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t know that for sure until you try.” Inwardly, he was panicking. He hadn’t even considered that Aidan, freshly eight, might not be able to swallow a pill. And if he couldn’t get his fever down, how could he get him feeling better? “Try,” he urged. “It’s easy. You just put it in your mouth with some water, and swallow.”
Aidan tried. But he sputtered, and coughed, and the ibuprofen tablet went flying across the room. Ghost got showered with water.
“Ugh,” he groaned. “Shit. What are we supposed to do now?”
Exhausted from the effort of trying to choke down a pill, Aidan lay limp on the pillow and stared at him, blinking.
“We’re gonna have to get some red stuff, aren’t we?”
Aidan nodded, weakly.
“Shit, hold on.” One day, he was going to feel bad about all the cussing he did in front of his kid, but today wasn’t that day.
He walked down the short hallway to his bedroom, heart knocking unhappily against his ribs, and dialed Olivia.
She picked up in the middle of the fourth ring. “What, Kenneth?”
He took a deep breath, bit the inside of his cheek, and told himself to be calm. “What’s the red stuff?”
There was a pause on the other end. “What?”
“The red stuff. Aidan’s got a fever and he says he needs the red stuff.”
“Oh. Children’s Tylenol. The liquid kind.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it, then?” Ghost took a deep breath, heart knocking. “You don’t care how he is? That he’s sick?”
“He’s your son, Kenny,” she said, and hung up.
Ghost stared at his phone a moment, its grimy white mouthpiece. Then he jammed it back onto its base. Fuck that bitch. Fuck her for real.
When he returned to the living room, Aidan was staring at the TV, which wasn’t on, still curled up like a shrimp. “We don’t have any red stuff,” Ghost told him. “Can’t you try the pill again?”
In answer, Aidan squeezed his eyes shut and tears slipped down his face.
“Fuck,” Ghost whispered. “Alright. Okay…”
His only course of action, he decided, was to call the clubhouse and get one of the prospects or groupies to run get some Children’s Tylenol and bring it to the apartment.
He dismissed the idea as soon as he thought it. Prospects and groupies were designed for running errands, doing members’ bidding, but Duane would know that Ghost had used one of them to fetch medicine for his kid, and Duane was nothing if not perpetually disappointed.
He hadn’t always been. Once upon a time, he’d thought Ghost was the most promising young member, headed for an officer position on an advanced track. But then he’d married Olivia. Joined the Army…Duane hadn’t stopped being disappointed since. No, Ghost decided, he had to deal with this himself.
The phone rang, and he was glad for the distraction, going into the kitchen to answer the second landline.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” Collier’s familiar voice greeted, and Ghost felt some of the tension leave his body. “Duane said you left early. Aidan’s sick.”
“Yeah. And I don’t even have the medicine he needs.”
“Ah shit. Hey. Jackie and I could–”
“I’d hate to–”
“What do you need?”
“Someone to sit with him while I run to the pharmacy?” he asked, wincing.
“Done. We’ll be there in five.”
“Christ, you’re a life saver. Thank you.”
“You can always pay me in whiskey,” Collier joked, and hung up.
Ghost sighed and slumped sideways against the wall. One of these days…one of these days, things had to turn around. Right?
~*~
Once upon a time, a princess named Denise Camden Lowe birthed a daughter who was destined for an elegant life.
Once upon a time, said daughter, Maggie Lowe, decided she favored rebellion.
“Margaret,” Denise called. “Where are you?”
Maggie didn’t answer right away, turning one way and then the other in the floor-length mirror inside her room. Her outfit was cobbled together, but she didn’t think anyone would be able to tell. The jeans were her own, but the rest was borrowed, mostly from her friend Rachel. The black boots were scuffed, the white tank top frayed at the hem, and the jacket had belonged to Rachel’s ex-boyfriend: black leather that swallowed her whole.
It would have to do.
She zipped the jacket up to her chin, tucked her lipstick and a twenty into her back pocket, and gave herself a stern look in the mirror.
“I’m going out,” she practiced. “I’ll be back before dark. Yes, I have money, and yes, you know who I’ll be with. Rachel’s mom’s number is on the fridge.”
Like the outfit, it would have to do.
This was the first Saturday in over a month that she didn’t have a commitment. When she wasn’t doing charity work for Future Business Leaders of America, she was tutoring elementary school children, or attending dreaded cotillion classes. Her calendar was a carefully crafted whirlwind of social (and therefore political) ladder-climbing. From the moment of her birth, her entire future had been planned out. Denise would accept nothing less than a surgeon, a lawyer, or a banker for a son-in-law. Her vision for Maggie included a mini-mansion, a new set of pearls each Christmas, and an unimpeachable reputation amongst the city’s elite.
Maggie just wanted to go to the movies and sleep late on Saturday mornings.
“Margaret!” Denise called again – shouted this time. Maggie could tell she was standing directly at the bottom of the stairs now.
“Shit,” she muttered, and went to face the dragon.
Denise stood with her foot up on the bottom step, toe of her slingback tapping against the pale blue runner, arms folded in a way that jacked her shoulder pads up high on her narrow shoulders and made her look like a linebacker. Her face was thunderous, and of course, there wasn’t a hair out of place on her head.
“Answer me when I call you,” she said, voice the low, tight snap of contained fury. She wasn’t a screamer by nature; she liked to spar up close, underhanded and dirty.
“I did.” Maggie was careful to keep her own voice neutral as she started down the stairs. “I said I would be a minute.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t say it.”
“You…” Denise trailed off, eyes widening, as she took notice of what Maggie was wearing. “Whose jacket is that? That isn’t yours.”
“No, it’s Rachel’s. I borrowed it.” Maggie reached the second-to-last step and halted, hand on the bannister, waiting to see if her mother would step aside.
“It’s hideous. It looks like a man’s jacket. Why would you want to borrow that?”
“Because I like it.”
Denise snorted. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.” Maggie tried not to take a deep breath. “I’m meeting Rachel in town. We’re going to go shopping.”
“Shopping for what?”
“Does it matter, Mom?” She shouldn’t say that, she really shouldn’t, but… “I have my allowance.”
“You need a dress to wear to next weekend’s tea social.”
“Do I have to spend my allowance on that? Also, twenty bucks isn’t going to buy the kind of dress you want me seen in.”
Denise’s lips pressed together, a thin white line. She reached forward and took a lock of Maggie’s hair between her fingers, her usual honey waves accentuated by hot rollers. “I don’t care for your hair this way.”
Of course you don’t, Maggie thought. What she said was, “I’ll be back for dinner. Promise.”
Denise surveyed her a long moment. The hair slid from her fingers, bouncing lightly against Maggie leather-covered shoulder. Thank God she’d zipped the jacket up and she wasn’t flashing any cleavage.
“I just want the best for you,” Denise said, and made it sound like a threat. “The very best.”
“I know, Mom. Can you let me by, please?”
Denise waited a moment, just because she could, just to prove that she was the mother, and Maggie the daughter. Then she retreated and stepped to the side.
“Bye, Mom.” Maggie didn’t spare a look behind her, just fled.
~*~
Ghost stepped out of the pharmacy with three different kinds of children’s fever reducer. Plus some Pepto-Bismol in case the stomach trouble persisted. At the register, he’d added a package of Skittles, because Aidan loved Skittles, and candy always made everything better. He stood on the sidewalk, plastic bag in one hand, head tipped back so he could feel the sun on his face. It wasn’t warm enough to fight the nip in the air, but he liked the way the light burned against his eyelids. Maybe, if he stood there long enough, his problems would melt away into the soothing whiteness that slowly filled his head.
The wind kicked up by a passing car tugged at his clothes, and with a sigh, he righted himself, blinked his vision back to normal, and started back toward his bike.
He glanced automatically toward the door of Hiram’s Spirits as he passed. His head still hurt, and his stomach still rolled, souvenirs of last night’s drinking. The hangover would fade when he got some food and water into him. Or he could crack open a beer and chase it away quicker than that.
No, he had to get back to Aidan. Stay focused. Plus, it was alarming how much he leaned on alcohol these days.
Two girls stood outside Hiram’s, shoulders braced against the concrete façade, wind playing with their hair. One was brunette, wore too much mascara, and regarded him with sullen defiance. The other one…
The other one was worth a second look.
She was blonde, and had a sweet face. Red lipstick. A too-big leather jacket, white tank top that clung to her breasts, tight-tight jeans. Her boots looked old and beat-up. She was smoking; he caught a glimpse of red nail polish as she lifted her cig and took a drag. In a physical sense, she was just like the groupies at the clubhouse. It was something else, something intangible, some aura she projected that raised the fine hairs on his arms – that was why he slowed down and really looked at her.
Her eyes came to his – wide, hazel – and lingered a beat too long. No smile, no wink, no pretend-seductive lip bite. He’d become so immune to the tactics of the groupies that her total lack of flirtation captured his attention. Her gaze swept down to his toes and then back up, lingering somewhere in the vicinity of the little crown patch sewn onto his breast pocket – the one that marked him as royal family. Being Duane’s only nephew had its perks, if you overlooked the burdens.
She was cute. She was hot. But like hell did he need another female complication in his life. At least with the groupies there were no expectations. They traded sex for a little security and a place to crash. Real women – and he felt his lip curl when he thought of Olivia – wanted things. Demanded them, and when they didn’t get them, left you for some other schmuck.
He kept walking.
He was three steps past them when a tentative voice called, “Sir?”
He should ignore her. He really should. But the edge of nervousness in her voice reached straight through his logical side and touched his hindbrain. It had been years since Olivia had spoken to him with anything besides frosty disapproval. The shy, uncertain lilt to this girl’s voice did things to his baser instincts.
“Sir?” she said again, and there couldn’t be any harm in seeing what she wanted, could there?
Ghost halted and turned around. “Yeah?”
The brunette snorted a laugh and turned her head away, muttering something into her hand.
The blonde stuck her cig in her mouth, slid a pair of black Ray-Bans into place, and took the cig back out again, exhaling a long, unsteady stream of smoke. “Can I ask you a favor?” Her voice was stronger this time, but he knew what the sunglasses meant: she was even more nervous now.
He felt one corner of his mouth tugging in a reluctant grin. “Depends on what the favor is. I got somewhere to be.”
She banded an arm across her middle, holding tight, but smiled, lifted her chin, and said, “Oh, it won’t take long. Promise. Just a quick favor.”
Ghost took a step toward her, and then another. Close enough to see the smattering of goosebumps across her chest. Close enough to see her throat jump as she swallowed. Close enough to see her tap ash off her cigarette with a nervous flick of her thumbnail. She was young, younger than he’d first thought. So many of the groupies slathered on the makeup and dyed their hair and tried to reclaim their glory days. This girl had smooth, smooth skin, pale as cream, a faint tracery of blue veins visible at the base of her throat. Her cheeks still had that faint hint of baby fat that meant she was younger than he was.
“Alright,” he said. “So long as it’s quick.”
She let out a breath that said she hadn’t expected him to agree. “Okay.” She reached into her back pocket, overlarge jacket gaping in front so he got a view of her narrow waist, and flared hips. She pulled out a folded twenty and extended it toward him. “We were hoping you could go in there” – tilt of her head back toward the building – “and buy us some beer.”
He wanted to laugh. Instead, he said, “You’re not twenty-one.”
“Not yet.” Her voice grew defensive. “Just…” She sighed. “Look, it’s dumb, okay, but we can’t buy any, and it’s not like there’s any at home for me to nick. So would you mind? Please? Mr…”
“Ghost.”
“Mr. Ghost?”
“Nah, that’s my club name, darlin’.”
The brunette turned around. “So you’re really a Lean Dog?” she asked, and then slapped a hand over her mouth like she couldn’t believe her own boldness.
He chuckled. “Yeah, really. And don’t be calling me ‘mister.’ Makes me feel old.”
The blonde nodded. “Fair enough. So will you do it?” She waggled the money at him. “You can keep the change.”
Ghost had never asked a stranger to buy him beer because he’d never had to. He’d grown up in the club, and alcohol had been available to him from an inappropriate age. He’d never had to leave home to get into trouble – home was trouble.
But he knew other kids didn’t have it so easy. Strict parents and curfews and the constant threat of being grounded.
“Yeah.” He took the money from her. “What kind do you want?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care. Whatever’s good.”
“You trust my judgement?”
“I figure a real Lean Dog knows plenty about drinking,” she shot back. “Yeah, I trust you.”
He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to make her regret that statement.
“Go around the side,” he said. “Wait for me there.”
“Okay.”
He entered the store grinning to himself. There were days – a lot more days than he liked to admit – that he wished he could rewind his life and go back to the time when getting beer was his biggest worry of the day. Those two girls would have larger problems soon enough; he wasn’t going to be an adult about this. Let them drink, let them have a little fun, he thought.
He grabbed a six-pack of Bud Light – because they didn’t need to have too much fun in the middle of the day – and a bottle of Jack for himself. He didn’t have any at home, and he figured he’d need it by the end of the day.
Bobby was working the register, and he greeted Ghost with familiarity. “Heard it was a hell of a party last night,” he said with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.
“Now where would you hear that, Bobby?”
“I got my sources.”
“You should come one night.”
Bobby laughed. “Nah. My girl would kill me.” He bagged the six-pack and bottle and pushed them across the counter. “You have fun, though.”
“Always do.”
Ghost pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the glass door on his way out. Caught off guard by his dim reflection.
He carried a bag in each hand. In one: whiskey and beer. In the other: his sick son’s medicine. The sad absurdity of his life hit him anew. Twenty-seven and divorced, a single father, an angry Army vet with a drinking problem, a shitty apartment, no future prospects, and a bad habit of falling into bed with women whose names he didn’t know. When he woke up each morning, it was with a sick ball of dread lodged at the base of his throat. He looked forward to nothing but the next toke, next drink, next release. He couldn’t remember what happiness looked, sounded, or tasted like.
It was a waste of a life.
And staring at his own pathetic reflection, he was furious about it.
He shoved the door open too hard, so hard it swung back on its hinges and nearly collided with the brick that served as a doorstop in the warm months.
“Hey,” Bobby protested.
The little blonde was waiting for him, as instructed, around the end of the building, leaning back against the cinderblocks with one booted foot braced behind her, a fresh cigarette burning between her fingers.
Stupid little bitch, he thought, viciously. Standing there in the middle of the damn day, ruining her lungs, giving money to total strangers. She was young, there was nothing wrong with her life, and she was already trying to fuck it up. What a waste. What a goddamn waste.
“Hey,” he said, sharply, and her head snapped around. “I got your beer.” He set the bags down and reached into the Hiram’s one for the six-pack. “Where’s your friend?” His voice was rough. He sounded like an old man, like his father, like Duane. He was just so angry, suddenly.
“A cop drove past and she got spooked,” the girl said with an airy shrug. But Ghost could read the tension in her shoulders. She was spooked too, but was pushing through. Proving something to herself, or some shit.
“Not you, though, huh?” Ghost stepped over the bags and into her personal space, right up close. She had to press her back to the wall and tip her head back to look up and meet his stare. All he saw were the lenses of the Ray-Bans…and the trembling, red bow of her mouth. She was spooked alright…scared to death. “You’re the brave one, right?” he pressed, leaning in close enough to smell the smoke on her breath.
“I…” she started, half-indignation, half-fear.
He reached up, one fast move, and pushed her sunglasses into her hair. Beneath them, her eyes were wide, shocked, a warm green-brown shot through with gold. They flicked back and forth across his face, trying to get a read on him. He could smell her shampoo, lotion, the faint chemical tang of her lipstick: feminine smells. He saw her pulse flutter at the base of her throat. Saw her nostrils flare as she took a deep breath.
There were a dozen things he could have said to her. But what came out of his mouth was: “What’s your name?”
~*~
One of the things Maggie had never understood about her friend Rachel was the way she seemed to be indiscriminately attracted to every man alive. Maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was a ruse in order to appear older and worldly, but she flirted shamelessly with everything male on two legs. She was always saying things like “isn’t he cute?” and “you should ask him out.” There appeared to be no pattern of age, looks, fitness level, or style. And when Maggie refused to “ask him out,” Rachel would shrug, tug her shirt down, and say, “Well then I will.”
If she was being honest, Maggie didn’t really give a damn about boys right now. Her whole life was locked down by her mother’s plans and expectations; the last thing she wanted was to trade her mother’s ideals for some boy’s. It was just another form of subjugation. She didn’t go on dates, didn’t make eyes at anyone, and shuddered when her cotillion class dance partners put their clammy hands on her waist. Maybe some day she’d feel a stirring of attraction for someone, but it hadn’t happened yet.
At least…it hadn’t happened prior to today.
The biker, the Lean Dog who’d told her his name was Ghost – she’d never felt anything like the frisson of energy he inspired in the pit of her stomach. He was tall and broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and sharp-featured. The sunlight turned glossy and slick in his short, dark, curly hair. He needed to shave, and the pushed-up sleeves of his shirt revealed tan, muscled, tattooed forearms. He looked dangerous enough already – miles from the cotillion boys, and a good bit older, too – and then there was the Lean Dogs cut. The symbol that incited fear and censure in Knoxville. Half the men in the city wanted to have the lot of them imprisoned. And the other half wanted to be one of them. There were rebels, there were bad boys, and then there were Lean Dogs.
If anyone was going to buy underage girls beer and think nothing of it, it was a one-percenter. She still couldn’t believe her boldness, the way she’d been able to keep her voice from shaking.
Right now, with the rough concrete wall biting into her shoulders through the jacket, she couldn’t believe the anger in his gaze. Nor the way he stepped in close and loomed over her. She tried and failed to suppress a shiver.
Just before Rachel took off, she said, “You’re crazy for messing with a Dog,” and apparently she’d been right.
Right now, Maggie felt very crazy, and very small, and very-very stupid.
“M-my name?” she stammered, trying to shrink back another inch. There was nowhere to go. She had a feeling he’d make a grab for her if she tried to duck to the side.
He grinned, all teeth, and it wasn’t friendly. Up close, his eyes were coffee and coal; little lines branched back from the corners, the effects of sun and wind against his face when he rode. He smelled like sweat, and cigarettes, and something she couldn’t place that left her short of breath.
“Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Your name.”
Her mother would keel over dead if she knew she gave her name to a man like this. Maybe that was why she said, “Maggie,” and kicked her chin up so she could meet his dark gaze.
“Maggie.” The way he said her name conjured images of all things chocolatey, velvety, sugary. Not just her name, but something dark, and sweet, and hot. Like she was something he wanted.
She shivered again, a hard shudder that gripped tight at the back of her neck. She had to wet her lips before she could speak. His eyes followed the movement of her tongue. “Yeah. Maggie.”
The moment spun out, the afternoon stalled around them. The traffic on the street, the beer abandoned a few steps away, Rachel, her promise to be home for dinner – all of it fell away, and it was just her, and this man named Ghost, and her pounding heart.
“Alright, Maggie,” he said, voice low and rough. He braced a hand on the wall beside her. The other one, to her shock, landed on her hip. He grinned when he felt her jump. “Here’s the thing. It was real damn stupid of you to ask me to buy you beer.”
She couldn’t let him see that she was afraid; she was too ashamed to. “Why?” she asked. “Are you an undercover cop or something?”
He snorted, and it stirred her hair against the sides of her face. “Nah, sweetheart. Way worse than that. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to try and pet stray dogs?”
“My mama tells me lots of things, so many I tune her out most of the time. And I wasn’t trying to pet you, if you’ll recall. I just wanted some beer.”
He smiled again, and this time there was a spark of real amusement in his eyes. “Yeah, and I got your beer. But for what? Twelve bucks? You thought that was enough?”
She bristled, lifting away from the wall, which – bad idea – brought them even closer together. She wasn’t going to back off, though. “It took you less than five minutes. It wasn’t a job worth more than twelve dollars.”
He clucked. “Nah, see, that I don’t agree with.”
She sighed, fear and frustration mounting in equal parts. “That’s all the money I’m carrying. And no, I don’t have an ATM card.”
“Hmm. That’s too bad.” He made a considering face.
“You can keep the beer if you want. Just…”
His eyes snapped back to hers. “Just what?”
Maybe if she’d paid more attention to Rachel, she’d know how to flirt her way out of this. As it was, her only weapons were stubbornness, firmness…and her last resort. A request. “Just let me go,” she said with a defeated exhale. “Please. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“One thing first,” he said. Then he ducked his head and kissed her.
It was her first kiss. It was her first kiss, and it was with an angry outlaw who smelled like smoke.
But…oh…
His mouth was hot, his tongue slick when it pressed for entry between her lips.
This wasn’t the tentative peck of a boy her own age. This was a full-on assault. And she was blindsided by the sensations, by the way he just took what he wanted; helpless to resist, she opened her mouth and let him in. And God. His tongue slid against hers. He nipped at the soft flesh of her lower lip. She felt the scrape of his stubble, the rough catch in his breath. His hand slipped up beneath the hem of her shirt and pressed boldly across her stomach, the calluses on his fingers rough against her skin.
It went on and on, drugging and deep. And then he pulled back, breathing hard through his mouth. Maggie was dizzy and lightheaded, her heart caught somewhere high in her throat.
He kissed the edge of her jaw, the sensitive place just below her ear. “You better be careful, little girl,” he murmured. “The next guy’s gonna want more than that.”
He withdrew, leaving her cold and rattled in his wake. His expression was smug as he stepped back, his eyes raking her head to toe, mentally undressing her.
“You–” he started, and tripped over the bags he’d left behind him.
He kept his footing, but the heel of his boot tore the thin plastic of the drugstore bag he’d been carrying when she first saw him. The contents spilled out onto the dirty concrete: Children’s Tylenol, Children’s Motrin, and a generic brand of brightly colored kid’s fever reducer; a bag of Skittles; Pepto-Bismol.
She stared at the bottles as her heartrate slowed, trying to make sense of his purchases. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who had trouble swallowing aspirin. No, this was for a child. Maybe his child. Probably his child.
As she watched, his entire demeanor changed. “Aw, fuck,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand back through his hair. He crouched down and started repacking the bottles with fast, hurried movements, fumbling in his haste. The bag had lost all integrity, though, and they spilled back out. “Fuck,” he hissed again. “Just fuck me. Fucking…” He gathered them up in his arms and surged to his feet.
There was color in his cheeks, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with their kiss. He ducked his head, held his purchases tight to his chest, and hurried away from her without looking back.
Maggie watched him go, dumbfounded, his shoulders tense and drawn in, his strides quick and uneven. Gone was the swaggering young man who’d first spotted her on the sidewalk. The frantic guy in his place seemed a different person entirely.
The torn bag flapped, and rolled, and set off across the parking lot like an errant leaf. The other bag rustled noisily, held in place by its contents.
When her legs felt steady enough, Maggie stepped away from the wall and bent over the Hiram’s bag. Inside was a six-pack of Bud Light, a bottle of Jack, and the change from the twenty she’d given him.
And Ghost…he was a ghost. Disappeared around the corner.