American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  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.

  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–”