American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  “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, an
d 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.

  Eight

  Then

  “I do like the blue,” Denise said, holding up the dress in her left hand. “But the pink brightens your complexion so nicely.” She lifted her right hand, and the pink dress she held in it. “Which do you prefer?”

  Maggie had wilted down onto the bench outside the dressing r
oom about ten minutes ago, feet, legs, and back sore from a day-long shopping trip. They’d started at the mall – at nine a.m. – and spent two hours there before Denise declared the shops there “hopeless.” Then it was back to city center and the upscale dress boutiques. For hours. Hours. With no lunch break.

  “Whichever one you think is most appropriate, Mom,” Maggie said, and tried not to sound as weary as she felt.

  Denise gave her a thin-lipped, impatient look. “This is for our tea social on Thursday with the Bateses. Which do you prefer?” she repeated, and her tone demanded an answer.

  Maggie withheld a sigh. “The blue.”

  “But the pink looks so nice.” She extended the knee-length pink number toward her.

  “You asked me what I think, and I like the blue.”

  “Well,” Denise huffed. “There’s no need to have an attitude about it, honestly.”

  Maggie bit her lip and said nothing.

  “The blue. Really?” Denise spun to face the mirror and judged both dresses again, for the seventeenth time. “If you’re sure…”

  “I am.”

  Denise sighed. “Well alright. I’ll have Melissa wrap it up for us.” On cue, Melissa the sales associate stepped up to take the blue dress and carry it over to the register. “Oh,” Denise continued. “I was thinking we might pop in and look at shoes while we’re–”

  “No,” Maggie said, standing. “I have plenty of shoes at home.”

  All the oxygen seemed to go out of the little shop. Over at the register, Melissa’s head snapped up, expression startled. In the years that Denise had been dragging Maggie into this place, Maggie had never contradicted her mother publicly.

  Denise sucked in a breath, visibly taken aback. Maggie could see impulses clashing in her eyes: the urge to go on as if nothing was amiss, because a good Southern woman would rather die than reveal unrest within her family; and the urge to slap her right there. She’d never done such a thing, but Maggie knew that it had always been a possibility. Like living with a well-behaved dog with a gleam of violence in its eyes.

  Denise would have also rather died than be compared to a dog.