Seven
Then
Maggie was fourteen when she realized she could jimmy open the downstairs powder room window and slip through in the dead of night without either of her parents knowing about it. But it was only recently that she started putting that knowledge to use. Tonight, she escaped in record time, interior pocket of her borrowed jacket weighed down by the bottle of Jack Ghost had left behind that afternoon.
Her breath misted and her shoes crunched through the frosted dew on the grass as she made her way down to the street, sticking to the shadows and skirting the sensors of the security lights. The jacket wasn’t warm enough, but her white wool coat would have drawn eyes like a beacon.
It was a long, tense, cold walk down the street and around the corner to where Rachel waited in her brother’s Camaro. The lights were off, but the engine was running, gray steam snaking out of the tailpipes. The passenger door opened as Maggie approached, and Rachel hissed, “Get in.”
Rachel’s brother, Trevor, was behind the wheel, which meant Rachel had to lean her seat so far forward her chin hit the dash in order for Maggie to scramble into the tiny backseat. They managed, though, and then Rachel locked the seat back and Trevor pulled away from the curb with too much accelerator, so the engine growled.
Maggie reached for her seatbelt, and saw that it wasn’t there. It had been sliced neatly at the top, a useless tongue remaining at the source point, flapping a little as the car surged forward, too fast, too loud, no doubt waking people up. She wanted to tell Trevor, the huge idiot, to slow down, but that would only get her kicked out.
“Where’s the party?” she asked instead, toeing a small pile of cheeseburger wrappers out from under her boots. The interior of the Camaro smelled like fast food, sweaty gym gear, and whatever cologne Trevor had doused himself with: a nauseating combination.
“Hamilton House,” Rachel said excitedly, twisting around so she could smile at Maggie. The dash lights illuminated a massive set of silver hoop earrings swinging over her shoulders. “It’s totally a haunted house party.”
Maggie stifled a groan. “Why can’t it just be a regular party? I thought we were going to someone’s house?”
“We’re going to a house,” Trevor said with a laugh.
“Yeah, a house the cops always show up to. Guys, if we go there, we’ll end the night in handcuffs,” Maggie tried to reason.
“Psshhh,” Rachel said, facing forward again. “You don’t have to be faster than the cops, just faster than the people you’re with.”
“Planning to outrun me?” Maggie muttered.
“Look, the Peterson brothers are running this thing,” Trevor said. “They’re one strike from being expelled from school. If anyone’s gonna take the rap for this party, it’s them.”
“And even our grandmother could outrun them,” Rachel said. “Fucking stoners.”
Maggie let her head slump back against the seat, the weight of the bottle in her pocket tugging the jacket’s collar tight against her neck. She had a very bad feeling about this party.
~*~
Ghost’s day had started out poorly…and gone downhill from there.
By the time he got home from his pharmacy-errand-turned-impromptu-makeout-session, Aidan had been in worse shape, fitfully dozing on the couch, his fever raging. He’d thrown up again, Jackie said, and Ghost had felt immeasurably guilty that the poor woman had been the one to hold a bowl for the kid. Though, thankfully, that meant there was no mess to clean up. They’d roused Aidan long enough to dose him with Tylenol, and Jackie had used a flashlight and a lot of coaxing to show Ghost Aidan’s inflamed tonsils.
“I think he’s gonna need to go see the doc,” she’d said, an apology in her voice. “It might be strep.”
Ghost spent an hour going back and forth with the nurse at the pediatrician’s office, being told the doctor was all booked up for the day and that they couldn’t see Aidan until in the morning.
Around three, Aidan managed another dose of Tylenol, some heated up tomato soup, and the Skittles Ghost brought. When he threw up fifteen minutes later, he left a multi-colored stain of Skittles barf on the carpet that no amount of Resolve had been able to remove.
At eight, Duane called to both demand where he’d been all day, and insist that he had a job tonight.
“My kid…” Ghost started.
“I’ll send someone to watch him,” Duane said, and hung up.
Which was why an airhead chick who went by Juicy Jeana around the club was currently babysitting Aidan, and Ghost had a pocketful of weed when he pulled up to Hamilton House.
What was his life these days?
There was a party in full swing, battered cars – and a handful of sweet rides – were parked at odd slants in the driveway, poised for a quick getaway. The sagging porch was host to two tapped kegs, colorful plastic cups lined up along the railings, waiting to be filled. The windows shone a dim gold, the house lighted by the usual assortment of lanterns and Kliegs; there hadn’t been electricity in the falling-down antebellum house for a generation.
When he cut the FXR’s engine, he could hear the murmur of voices coming from inside, shrill laughter and excited shouts. He felt ancient, suddenly, standing here tired and grouchy, the only adult on the premises. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d been sixteen and swigging beer in the mildewed rooms of this house, totally careless. And now his mind was filled with worry, his shoulders sore beneath his current weight of responsibility.
He took a deep breath through his nostrils – smell of mold, of old plaster, of water damage, of the sharpness of night – and let it out through his mouth, breath pluming white. The sooner he dealt out his stash, the sooner he could collect Duane’s money and get back home, he reasoned. With that thought, he climbed the porch steps and entered the party.
~*~
Given her mother’s penchant for running her life, Maggie hadn’t been to that many parties. So she wasn’t one to judge, but, well…as far as parties went…this one was lame.
The Peterson brothers were Knoxville High seniors who lacked enough credits to graduate. Knowing they’d be stuck in the city at least another year, they’d given up all hope of turning into responsible young adults and thrown all their efforts toward smoking as much weed as possible. At least, that’s the way it looked from an outside perspective. Maggie thought her own mother-planned existence was extreme, but this one was too. Only…much less productive. The Petersons liked to have parties, but lacked the mental faculties to plan or carry out good ones. This one had beer, some stale Cheetos no one could pay her to touch, and old construction lights set up in the living room that threw spooky shadows up onto the second-story ceiling above the double staircases.
Maggie trolled the lower level of the house with her hands in her pockets, unimpressed with the night, with the way Rachel had abandoned her in favor of a “cute boy,” and with being sixteen in general. She actually wished she’d stayed home.
That was until…
“Alright, you little shits,” a familiar, gruff voice announced from the center of the living room. “Who’s got my money?”
Maggie whirled around, and there was Ghost, backlight by the Kliegs, his silhouette harsh and handsome. He was dressed the same as before, in a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, his cut, and tight jeans. He had a brown paper bag in one hand, and scanned the faces around him with a scowl.
Maggie couldn’t look away from him, assaulted by a tangle of confusion, curiosity, disapproval, and doubt. Why was he here? Was this going to turn into a Lean Dogs party? And if it did, how wild was it going to get?
When his gaze landed on her, she saw a little jolt move through him, a flicker of tension in his arms, his neck. His brows jumped. But then he moved on, eyes moving to the next face, and the next.
She let out a slow, shaky breath, and she swore the whiskey in her jacket grew just a little heavier. Like it recognized its master and wanted to return to him.
Or maybe she was projecting her own thoughts onto a damn bottle.
“Guys,” Ghost barked. “I don’t got all night. If you want the shit, I need the cash. Plain as that.”
Jacob Peterson coughed, and stepped forward, digging into his back pocket. “Yeah. I got the money.”
The shit. Drugs, then.
So Ghost was a drug dealer.
Her stomach soured.
Not wanting to stay and watch the transaction, or partake in what was to follow, she ducked out of the room, down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The entire house was a ruin, but in some ways the kitchen seemed the saddest. Rather than an empty shell, like the other rooms, the kitchen still bore the cabinets, island, and long plank table that had once served as the heart of the great house. Most of the cabinet faces had come off, or hung by a single hinge. The tile countertops had been busted up with crowbars, hammers, baseball bats, and whatever else teenage boys liked to smash things with, only a few scraps remaining to cover the plywood bases. Every surface was coated in dust, grit, and bits of ceiling plaster that had crumbled and fallen. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, crumpled plastic cups, beer cans, crunchy leaves, syringes, and a broken lighter or two. The room was lit with candles tonight, and the flickering light only furthered the haunted atmosphere. More than any other room, this was the one that felt full of ghosts to her.
And then a real Ghost joined her.
She heard the crackle of debris under his boots and spun around to find him filling up the doorway, all shoulders and dark eyes, most of his face cast in the dancing shadows of the candlelight. She recognized him, but he scared her all the same. He looked demonic in that moment, blocking her in and staring at her with unreadable intent.
“Hi again,” she greeted.
“Hi yourself.” He was neither the flirtatious cad, nor the embarrassed mystery he’d been earlier that morning. This was a third, inscrutable version of the man. He smelled like, and looked like, and projected danger.
He didn’t walk, but prowled into the room. Maggie’s instinct was to shrink away from him, but she resisted it, holding her ground as he brushed past her – scent of motor oil, of fake cherries, of smoke again – and moved deeper into the room, toward the table. The way out was clear now, but she turned around, watching him as he went.
“So you’re a drug dealer, then. That’s why you tried to scare me before.”
He smiled, a quick mean flash of teeth in the low light, and turned to lean back against the edge of the table, hands braced on it. “No. I’m not that.”
“Then what would you call someone who sells drugs?”
“Keeping his president happy.”
“President?”
“That’s the club boss. The president.”
“Learn something new every day.”
His grin widened. “Stick with me and you’ll learn a lot.”
“Yeah. Like how to make a graceful exit,” she said with a snort.
The smile slipped off his face. His jaw clenched. His body tightened all over like he was preparing to get up. “Yeah, well…”
For reasons she didn’t want to examine, Maggie didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. “Oh,” she said, and unzipped her jacket. Even though he looked angry, his eyes followed the path of the zipper. “I’ve got your whiskey.” The bottle caught the glow of candle flames as she withdrew it, trapped them in the glass.
“You’ve got my whiskey,” he said back, without inflection. His gaze fixed on the bottle a moment, and then shifted to her face. “The seal doesn’t look broken.”
“It’s not.”
His brows lifted. “You didn’t even have a sip?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
“I was curious. But it wasn’t mine to open.”
“Curious.” The corners of his mouth twitched, a smile threatening. “You’ve never had Jack before?”
“It smells like lighter fluid,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. Her dad kept a bottle stashed behind his garage workbench at home, in a place where Denise would never find it. Wine, cocktails, and cognac were served at every Lowe party; Denise thought sour mash was vulgar. Sometimes, Maggie would venture out into the garage with her dad. He wasn’t very handy, but he enjoyed puttering around with tools, sanding wobbly chair legs and assembling the occasional bird house. He would pour Jack into a coffee mug, and he’d always offer Maggie a sip. Up until now, she’d never been willing to let it touch her tongue.
But now she was standing across from a scruffy no-good biker, who’d doubtless seen and done things she couldn’t hope to imagine. She wasn’t about to play the blushing child in front of him.
She’d never been any good at resisting a challenge.
“I’ll try it now, though,” she said, and then, thinking better of it, “if you’re offering, I mean.”
He opened his hand, his grin wicked, and she put the bottle in it. “Oh, I’m offering.” He twisted the cap off and took a hard slug for himself, neck strong and golden in the candlelight, rippling as he swallowed.
He dashed the back of his hand across his mouth, licked his lips. Offered the bottle back. “Here. Go on and have that taste.” He laughed at his own suggestive tone. “Unless you don’t wanna swap spit with a drug dealer.”
She gave him an unimpressed look and took the bottle. “I thought you weren’t a drug dealer.”
“Ah. You listen.” He sounded approving.
“I try to, despite what my mother would tell you.”
“Hmm.” He chuckled, low in his throat. “So that’s what it is.”
“What what is?”
“The reason you’re standing in this nasty-ass house accepting drinks from nasty-ass strangers. You’ve got mommy issues.”
“I do not–”
“I’ll admit, I prefer daddy issues. Those usually work more in my favor. But hey, I’ll take what I can get.” He shot her another of those sharp, wolfish grins.
She sighed. “You just called yourself nasty-ass.”
He shrugged.
“Are you always this charming?”
His eyes danced, bright with candle flame. “No. Never.”
“Well don’t I feel special,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“You should.”
Her stomach gave a strange leap; that swooping, wondering sensation at the top of a hill on a roller coaster. She shook it off and lifted the bottle to her lips. The smell of the stuff was overpowering. “Bottoms up, I guess,” she said, and took a sip.
Huge mistake.
The burn was immediate, flooding her mouth, clogging her throat, shooting up into her sinuses. She felt her eyes bug comically, and couldn’t stop the distressed sound that built in her throat.
Ghost was laughing. “Spit it out,” he said. “Don’t choke on the shit.”
To her complete mortification, she did as he suggested, and spit whiskey all over the floor. And the toes of her boots. She let her head hang a moment afterward, gulping air through her mouth in the vain hope it would cool her tongue. It was on fire.
She coughed…and coughed…and coughed. And finally wiped her mouth and chin on her sleeve – which didn’t work so well, since the jacket was leather – and dabbed around her eyes, sure her mascara had smudged in the whole embarrassing process.
Ghost was still laughing.
“Oh my God.” Her voice came out ragged. “How do you drink that awful shit?”
“Frequently,” he said, still chuckling. “And usually with ice.”
“Ugh.” She swiped at her mouth again and brushed her hair back, too ashamed to make eye contact. “Too bad the floor won’t open up and swallow me,” she tried to joke, and felt, to her horror, the faint sting of tears behind her eyes.
No. She would not lose her cool in front of this man. No way, no how.
“Hey,” he said, tone gentling. “Hey, look.”
She blinked a few times, making sure her expression was locked down before she met his gaze.
His expression was unexpectedly kind. “Every single person who’s ever tasted whiskey does that the first time. Even me. Everybody.” He tilted his head, thinking. “I mean, maybe not Chuck Norris…”
“Yeah, but that’s Chuck Norris.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled. “Thanks.” And shoved the bottle toward him. “Please take this back.”
“Gladly.” He took another swallow, straight back, like the stuff was water. “You just gotta get used to it is all. ‘Cause you look like the kinda girl who drinks whiskey.”
The comment startled a laugh out of her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dunno. It’s just the impression I get.” His gaze narrowed as he studied her, and his smile tweaked to the side. “You don’t look like a wine coolers and hunch punch kinda woman to me.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”
“Oh it is, trust me.”
A wall she hadn’t recognized or understood seemed to have come down from between them. She didn’t feel nervous, suddenly, only curious. Maybe a little magnetized, if she was honest. He looked handsome in the candlelight; better than that, he looked interesting. The way his eyes shone, the way he was quick to smile, or frown. He seemed, in that moment, more alive than any of the nervous boys her own age she’d ever interacted with.
They were standing closer together than she’d first realized; their knees almost touched.
“Did you really just come here to sell the Petersons weed?”
One dark brow lifted. “You gonna call the cops on me?”
She shook her head.
“Yeah, that’s why I came. That’s what the boss sent me to do.”
“And you just… did it?” Her tone was curious, but not accusatory. At this point, she just wanted to know. He seemed too self-possessed to be the kind of man who did what someone else told him to do.
“That’s how it works, darlin’. I’m not an officer, so I don’t make my own to-do list. When the president says, ‘jump,’ I say, ‘how high.’ See.” He leaned toward her, voice dropping to a conspiratorial volume. His breath was warm and whiskey-scented against her cheek. “I’ve got uncle issues.”
“Your uncle’s the president?”
“Yes, ma’am. The most powerful man in the city.”
She gave him a doubtful look.
“What, you thought it was the mayor? The police chief?” He shrugged but didn’t elaborate.
Maggie wanted to press the issue – were the Dogs really as powerful as rumor made them out to be? – but decided that wasn’t her concern. She certainly wasn’t going to get caught up in biker politics.
And she had better questions to ask, anyway, because now that she was in this conversation, she didn’t want to get out of it anytime soon. Ghost was by far the most interesting thing – human or otherwise – to cross her path all week.
“Why is your club name Ghost?”
“You’ve got a lot of questions, don’t ya?”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright. Just…it’s a story, is all.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” she prodded.
He gave her a look.
“Okay, well, nowhere I want to be.”
He smiled, a different smile from the ones he’d shown her before, this one smaller, softer. “Alright.” He patted the table beside him, wanting her to sit.
She sat, despite the dirty table, despite the danger of proximity. He was solid and warm beside her, and she fought the momentary urge to lean against him. She rested her hand next to his on the edge of the table, marveling at the stark difference between them: her skin soft and pale, his tan and rough from work, and riding.
“You don’t get to pick your own club name. Uncle Duane started calling me Ghost when I got back from the Army. I thought he wanted me to go – he said it’d be good for me. I think maybe it was.” He shrugged. “But when I got back, he said I’d disappeared on the family. I’d ghosted.” He shrugged again, like he didn’t care, but his frown told her his uncle’s accusation had affected him deeply. “And by family I mean club,” he said. She could hear him swallow, a quiet gulp. “The club is family.”
She glanced down at their hands again, and without stopping to think about it, shifted her fingers over the top of his. A soft touch, almost hovering.
“Sometimes,” she said, hesitantly, “family treats us worse than anyone else.”
When she lifted her head, Ghost was staring at her, gaze intense, but hard to read. “True,” he said, quietly, and the smoky sound of his voice made her shiver.
“Earlier today,” she said, her pulse accelerating. She didn’t know if she was leaning toward him, or he was leaning toward her, but they were even closer now. “Why were you trying to scare me?”
“I wasn’t really,” he said, and his lips were just a fraction from hers. Close enough for her to feel their warmth. “I just wanted to kiss your pretty mouth.”
Maggie sucked in a breath. “You–”
“Cops!” someone shouted, and the moment was gone.
“Fuck,” Ghost muttered, rearing back from her. He turned his head away and wiped a hand down his face, snatching his other hand out from under hers. “Jesus, of course. Fucking amateurs.”
The sounds of stampeding kids echoed through the living room beyond, terrified shouts and the thunder of running feet.
Maggie’s pulse jumped from a steady pound to a gallop, rushing through her ears. She leapt to her feet. “Shit, I have to get out of here. If I get caught…”
“You’re not getting caught,” Ghost said, rising too. She’d forgotten how tall he was. “At least you won’t if you come with me. Stay with that bunch and you’ll need bail money for sure.” He jerked a thumb toward the doorway, and the chaos unfolding beyond it.
Sitting here with him, a roomful of witnesses just on the other side of the wall, she’d let her guard down. But now, hearing him say she ought to leave with him, her fear returned, a little shiver that rippled down her back and brought goosebumps out on her arms.
“I…” she started to protest.
Ghost grabbed her arm. “Come on, sweetheart. We can’t just stand here.” With his other hand, he picked up the Jack and handed it to her. “Here, hold on to this for now.”
She heard sirens, faint, but growing closer.
It was no doubt a bad idea to go running off into the dark with a near-stranger. A near-stranger who was a Lean Dog, at that.
But what choice did she have?
Maggie stuck the whiskey bottle into her jacket and nodded. “Lead the way.”
~*~
Maggie lived on the kind of street where the residents looked at passing bikes with alarm and disdain. Thankfully it was the middle of the night, so there was no one to ogle the two of them now. Though he didn’t doubt his tailpipes were going to wake someone; there was a good chance one of these stuffy residents was going to call the police and say there was a bad biker man disturbing the peace.
As far as nighttime rides went, this had been one of his favorites as of late. Maggie – no surprise – hadn’t ever been on the back of a bike before, and so she’d held tight, hands locked together at his waist, the lush softness of her breasts, and the hard edges of the whiskey bottle digging into his back. She was nervous; he could feel the tremors of energy moving through her. But she leaned when he needed her to, and shifted her weight in a way that was helpful and not a hindrance. He liked her back there; liked the feminine shape of her, the way she kept his back warm, the way little puffs of breath struck the back of his neck, just under the edge of his helmet.
He pulled to a halt at the curb when she tapped his shoulder, as per their discussion earlier. They were five houses down from her own, parked beside a stand of pear trees whose autumn foliage concealed them in a pool of shadow. Ghost killed the engine and braced his feet on the pavement, the night still and quiet around them.
Maggie let go of him, pushed lightly on his back with both hands as she sat back and then slid off the bike. She bobbled on the landing and he caught her around the waist, holding her steady.
“Whoa. You got it?”
“Yeah.” She sounded a touch breathless.
He let go of her with reluctance, but needed both hands to take off his helmet and put the kickstand down. The breeze ruffled his hair, cold against his sweat-damp scalp, sharp on the back of his throat.
This was, he realized with a start, the soberest he’d been at any point in the last month. This was the first night in a long time that hadn’t ended with a drunken stupor, a dorm room bed, and a girl or two.
Well, there was one girl. But despite her borrowed leather jacket and her eye makeup, she was nothing like the women who warmed his bed at the clubhouse.
He watched, smiling to himself, as she fought with the strap of the spare helmet he carried, somehow managing to tighten it rather than undo it.
“Here.” He swung off the bike and closed the distance between them, reaching for the stubborn strap. “Let me get it.”
Maggie froze.
In the speckled moonlight that filtered through the branches overhead, Ghost saw her eyes widen; heard the faint rush of her indrawn breath. Strands of escaped hair, glimmering silver in the shadows, framed a face that projected surprise. Not that he’d reached for her, he didn’t think – no, hers was the face of a girl surprised by her own reaction to his proximity.
It was the sort of thing he was used to – women having reactions to him – but it was never like this, never so undemanding and raw. Like this was new for her.
Ghost had had many things in his life; new wasn’t usually one of them.
“Here,” he said again, softly, and gripped the chin strap with great care. He unbuckled it, careful not to pinch her, and then drew the helmet off. Slowly, slowly, like she was a wild animal he was trying not to startle.
The wind caught her hair and dragged it across her face. She pushed it back and stared up at him, gaze gentle, and wondrous, and just a little bit afraid. She was beautiful. Not just hot, or sexy, or pretty. But honest to God beautiful. His awareness of her shifted, reached in deep between his ribs and clawed at vulnerable places.
Shit.
“I think you oughta get some new friends,” he said, to keep from saying something he might regret later.
Some of the surprise eased in her face, replaced with a smirking half-smile. She could handle the ribbing better than the kindness. “Friends who don’t hang out in nasty-ass houses?”
“Definitely.”
“You volunteering to be one of the new ones?” He tried to tell himself there was nothing hopeful in her voice. Nope. No way.
“Nah,” he said, giving her one of this patented, don’t-bother-me smiles that worked so well on the groupies. “You don’t want anything to do with me.”
Which was maybe the worst thing to say to a girl you were trying to push away from you.
Maggie’s smile widened, her eyes shining. “You might be handy for a quick getaway, though, if I ever need to run from the cops again.”
He lifted an admonishing finger and aimed it at her face. “Don’t get tangled up with illegal shit anymore.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, chuckling, and his stomach somersaulted in reaction.
“Good,” he said, covering the fluttery feeling in his chest with gruffness. “I’m too busy to be rescuing damsels all the time.”
“Too busy selling all those drugs.”
“Jesus.” He rolled his eyes and took a step back. “Get going before I change my mind about walking you to your door.”
Her eyes widened; she’d told him earlier, when they pulled over at Leroy’s, that she didn’t want her parents waking up and peeking out the window to see him. Not a surprising proclamation; he wasn’t the sort of man parents ever liked to see near their daughters.
Maggie took two steps away from him, and then turned back, poised in a moonbeam like something out of a kid’s movie, all silver and marble and disarming softness.
“Who was the medicine for?” she asked, expression concerned.
And just like that, all the leaping and jumping in his gut vanished, replaced by the familiar, heavy dread that had weighed him down like concrete for the last few months.
It was so easy to flirt with her, to engage in the back and forth and enjoy bantering with a pretty girl who didn’t know anything about him, no strings attached. He hadn’t expected it to last – didn’t even want it to – but the moment he mentioned Aidan, the charade would end…as would whatever this relationship was between them.
He swallowed hard. “My kid.”
Somehow, her expression softened further. “I hope he starts feeling better soon,” she said, and walked off into the shadows.
~*~
He needed to get home. Make sure Aidan was okay, relieve the “babysitter,” scrounge up something to eat before he started pouring whiskey down his gullet. There was no doubt a party raging at the clubhouse, but he didn’t have the heart for it. He didn’t want anyone’s company tonight.
But he lingered, just a little longer, walking down the dark, expensive street with his hands in his pockets. He followed Maggie at a distance, far enough she couldn’t see him, watching her reach her parents’ driveway, skirt the lights, and finally slip inside through a downstairs window.
He waited until the window was shut – locked too, he hoped – and then went back to his bike.