American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  “Hygienic on so many levels,” Maggie teased.

  “I’ve got a clean plate, too.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He showed it to her.

  “My apologies, then.” She sat down at the cast iron table.

  Aidan shut the lid on the grill and joined her. “How–” he started, then winced and reached back to pull his gun from his waistband.

  “Don’t shoot yourself.”

  “Way to ruin the night, right?” He set the Smith & Wesson on the table and resettled. “How are you feeling?”

  “You know. Kinda shitty. Tolerable.” She shrugged and flicked a fingernail against her Sprite can. “Craving something stiffer.”

  “Dude. That sucks.”

  She glanced over at him, his sympathetic expression, the little notch between his brows she remembered from his boyhood. She smiled. “It’s well worth it, though,” she assured. “I can’t complain about bringing another Teague into the world.”

  He rolled his eyes, but there was color in his cheeks. A pleased sort of embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Hey,” she said, sobering. “I mean it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aidan.”

  He looked at her then, soft brown eyes and curly dark hair, and the spitting image of his daddy.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  He made a face. “Yeah.”

  “No. I mean.” She ghosted a hand over her stomach. “With having a new sibling, I mean.”

  Another face. This one thoughtful…then sweet. “It’s your kid, Mags. I don’t get a say.”

  “But.”

  “But.” He sighed. “I want Dad to be good to this one. Not like he was with me and Ava.”

  “Oh, baby.” She reached to cover his hand with hers.

  “I just,” he started.

  “I know.” Then: “It’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so.”

  ~*~

  “You stole a girl.”

  “And her brother.”

  Between the cabin’s main living space and the bunk room was a sad linoleum kitchen. A folding table and chairs. This meeting, with two old rivals squared off, echoed that morning’s sit-down with the Saints. But this time, the air smelled of desperation.

  Roman was a man undone, hand cupped around the back of his neck, tawny hair falling onto his forehead. He seemed older, suddenly, lined and tired, the stubble on his jaw silver under the dim antler chandelier.

  Beside him, the girl sat close enough for their elbows to touch, her thin shoulders hunched, like she was trying to fit inside Roman’s shadow – and hide there. She wasn’t just slender, Ghost saw, but underfed, her face hollow, her eyes slick and frightened.

  “So which one’s the brother?” Ghost asked, flicking a glance to the boys.

  “He’s not here now,” Roman said. “He…” he trailed off and made a face.

  “He’s got issues,” Boomer said.

  Roman snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “So who are you, then?” Ghost asked Boomer.

  The kid’s gaze shifted away.

  Roman said, “He’s my son.”

  Ghost felt the surprise hit him like a physical shove. “Your what now?”

  ~*~

  The story went like this.

  When a member was excommunicated, he wasn’t allowed to put roots down within reach of any of the club’s chapters. So Roman set off with his bike, and his saddlebags, and his misery, and ended up in Boulder. He tended bar for a while – he was young, and strong, and his cocky grin drew the female customers. When his shift ended, he went home with said customers most nights. One was a tall, voluptuous, dark-haired hellcat whose name he never could seem to remember.

  “Cynthia,” Boomer provided in an undertone.

  Roman spent a wild week with her, and then didn’t see her again for a long time. Not for nine months, to be exact. She showed up at the bar one night, face a thunderhead, placed a baby carrier on the bar, and said, “The adoption fell through and I’ve got a job interview in Tulsa. Congrats, Daddy.”

  Roman, dumbfounded, had asked only one thing: “What’s his name?”

  “Doesn’t have one.”

  Roman’s name was on the birth certificate, though. And the baby, well, he couldn’t be No-Name. Deciding to carry on the family tradition of ridiculousness – his own father was a Jethro – he christened the roly-poly, blue-eyed boy Boomer.

  “That’s your legal name?” Ghost asked.

  “Yours is Kenny, so shut up,” Roman said.

  Eventually, when Boomer was twelve, and the worry of Family Services became real, Roman paid for a paternity test. Whatever else Cynthia was, she hadn’t lied about this: Boomer was his. Not that he’d doubted it at that point.

  The other boys had come along soon after that. Runaways, misfits, rebels in need of food in their bellies and a guiding hand at their backs. They’d become their own club of sorts: the unwanted ones.

  “But I was shit-broke,” Roman said, eyes on the tabletop. “And the Dark Saints were recruiting in Denver.”

  “So y’all became hangarounds.”

  “No. Just me. I didn’t want the boys caught up in that.”

  “How noble,” Ghost said with a snort.

  “Hey.” Roman’s head lifted, eyes flashing, his first real show of defiance. “You were a king here. You never had to scrape like I did. You don’t get to pass judgement on what I had to do.”

  Mercy, lounging against the counter, looking huge and lethal, said, “And you weren’t here to know what the king had to do. Tell your story and don’t talk shit about us.”

  Roman took a deep breath, gathered himself. “The Saints were running a rich operation – still are. I woulda made more with them than anywhere else. And we both know I ain’t got some moral compass to get in the way.” Sharp, self-deprecating grin. “So I got my prospect patch. And then–” He swallowed.

  “Kristin,” Boomer said, voice gentle. “Do you wanna go sit on the porch for a bit?”

  “No.” She still looked petrified, but there was something stubborn about the set of her jaw.

  Roman sighed and reached to palm her shoulder, a familiar, lingering touch. “Badger.” He spat the name. “You gotta understand. Ghost, he’s a monster. And I don’t mean like him.” Nod toward Mercy. “He’s…Kristin and her brother were kidnapped when they were just babies. Held by this guy. Badger bought ‘em from him, and he…” He had trouble getting the words out, expression pained.

  “He kept me on a chain,” Kristin said, touching her throat. Ghost saw the faint scar there. “It was the only way he could control Reese. My brother. He was Badger’s attack dog.”

  “Like a real dog,” one of the other boys said. The fussy one who’d challenged them when they first stepped onto the boat. The VP, Ghost remembered, Deacon. He still needed sleeves; still looked ready to shiver right out of his skin.

  Ghost turned his attention back to Roman, studied his old adversary. Noted the stress etched into the lines of his face. And he felt an impossible softening. “You got them out.”

  Roman nodded. “These guys. The Saints. If I didn’t bring ‘em here, they woulda come on their own. They don’t just want to be a major club in the game – they want to be the only one.”

  “And we’re at the top of the pile,” Ghost said.

  “Yeah.”

  Mercy said, “Whoever said it’s good to be king was a damn liar.”

  Wasn’t that the truth.

  ~*~

  The campground was no less busy at night. The sounds of laughter and snapping flames carried on the breeze. From the cabin’s porch, Ghost could see the dart and flicker of flames down the hill at the fire pits. The air smelled strongly of smoked meat and leaf mold. Autumnal, vital outdoor smells.

  Ghost lit a cigarette and leaned his hip against the porch rail. Beside him, Roman was a coin-worthy silhouette.

  “You’re a real asshole,” Ghost said, without rancor
. “You were gonna start a club war and light outta here while Badger and I were at each other’s throats, weren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not what I wanted to do. But I’m trying to look after these kids. They’re my priority.”

  “What about the dead dog? The trashed office? One of your kids do that?”

  Roman heaved a deep sigh. “That was Reese. I needed you guys to be spooked, have some grievances, you know. He took it too far with the dog.”

  Way, way too far. Ghost still got a stomach ache when he thought of that poor starving mutt. He said, “What about Kristin? You see her as a kid?”

  No answer.

  “Ah. The asshole fell in love with the damsel.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  He didn’t.

  “You should have just told me what was going on.”

  “You would have helped me?”

  “Meh. Probably not. You’re an asshole.”

  “So are you,” Roman fired back, a smile in his voice. And then, quietly, “You’re not Duane. Your guys love you.”

  “I’m not sure why. Being prez involves a lot of shitty decisions.”

  They acknowledged that truth with a beat of silence. A hunting dog bayed, a low, mournful note. Ghost felt a shiver threaten.

  Roman turned toward him, his face lost in shadow. “So what do we do now?”

  “There’s not a choice at this point. We go to war.”

  ~*~

  By the time the boys’ Harleys thundered up the street, all the kids had fallen asleep. Maggie had helped put Ava’s three down. Lucy was tucked into a sleeping bag on the floor beside Millie’s crib, and Lainie was in her Pack-‘N-Play.

  Sam and Holly began the careful process of collecting their babies without waking them, and Maggie was struck anew by the shock of her pregnancy. She’d thought she was done with that sort of thing, but in a few months, she’d be doing this all over again. It was a stressful sort of déjà vu.

  She felt displaced, older and younger all at once, caught in some strange time warp. It was…it was going to make her freak out if she thought too hard on it. So she stole out of the room, slipped silently out to the patio – this was becoming a pattern – and leaned up against the cool siding, ears tuned to the conversation making its slow way up the walk. Contemplating her own circumstances had always been panic-inducing, but she could throw herself into external problems all damn day.

  “…tomorrow?” Michael’s voice asked.

  “Noon,” Ghost said. “That gives us time to get ready.”

  “The guy’s a lying son of a bitch.” That was Mercy.

  “Yeah, but we know that,” Ghost reasoned. “He can only fuck with us if we let him.”

  Michael made a disagreeing sound.

  Then they stepped into the wash of the patio light, the shadows breaking away in jagged shards across their faces.

  Ghost looked briefly surprised.

  “Mags,” Mercy greeted.

  Michael nodded as he passed, and she nodded back.

  They left her alone with Ghost, door shutting with a muffled thump.

  “Eavesdropping?” Ghost asked conversationally.

  She hugged her middle, the cold starting to bleed through her clothes. “Just a little bit.”

  He closed the distance between them, expression preoccupied. But when he put his arms around her, she felt the tension slowly leave him. His body relaxed one muscle at a time. He kissed the top of her head. She’d always loved that particular kiss. It wasn’t sexy, but intimate. Even when he was a twenty-seven-year-old sex machine, he’d craved intimacy.

  “You found Roman?”

  “And his kid.”

  “His what?”

  “Yeah, turns out he knocked someone up twenty-one years ago and he’s been a single dad this whole time.”

  “Damn.” She was having trouble imagining it. “A boy?”

  “Boomer.”

  “Lord.” She chuckled. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  His chest pressed into hers as he took a deep breath. He sighed noisily on the exhale. “Shit, baby. I’m getting soft in my old age.”

  She poked his very not-soft abs with a finger. No one ever believed he was in his fifties. “Not from where I’m standing.”

  He hummed, amused. “Roman’s got a sob story. And…there’s a part of me that believes it.” He had a physical reaction to his admission, a quick ripple of disquiet. She felt it shiver through her skin.

  “Every great once in a while, a sob story gets to you.”

  He grunted.

  “Not often,” she added. “And not easy. You can talk to your daughter for that clarification.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But you listened to me, all those years ago. My sob story.”

  “That’s because I wanted to get in your pants.”

  She smoothed her hand across his chest – worn cotton over hard muscle – until she found a nipple, and twisted it, hard.

  He laughed quietly into her hair.

  “You can be sweet,” Maggie said. “You can be really sweet.” But he could be cruel, too. And he had been. So cruel, sometimes – she thought of Holly, of the way he’d been willing to throw her to the wolves – that he was starting to doubt his emotional instincts. Over twenty years ago, things had ended badly with Roman; she didn’t want Ghost to worry about making amends now of all times. “Just don’t be too sweet.”

  He nodded, bristle on his chin scratching against her forehead.

  “I’m serious. He killed a dog, Ghost.”

  “I know.”

  “Roman doesn’t love anybody but Roman.”

  “I know,” he repeated, harder. She felt his arms tense.

  She bit her tongue and didn’t say what she wanted to: the Lean Bitch on her wall wasn’t just a message to Ghost. It was a warning to her.

  Twenty-One

  Then

  Maggie woke up warm. So very warm. She had a habit from home that had carried over to her stay at Ghost’s apartment – to Ghost’s bed. Sometime during her last, deepest dream – usually some nightmare involving bloody-mouthed girls in cotillion gowns – she rolled over onto her side, curled in on herself, and shivered awake, too-cold and already anxious about the day ahead. She always woke before the alarm, and she was always, always chilled.

  But this morning she was warm. And loose, her legs stretched out, toes flexing dreamily in sheets worn down to a pulpy-paper texture.

  Ghost’s bed; the warmth was Ghost himself, naked behind her, his arm around her waist.

  She was naked too.

  They were both naked.

  They’d had whiskey last night, but only a little. She couldn’t claim to have been drunk; couldn’t say she hadn’t known what she was doing.

  The memories unfolded in her mind, one after the next, each more colorful than the last. She had one horrible, heart-stopping moment of clammy fear – what now, what now, what now?

  And then his fingers twitched against her belly, and she knew.

  She burrowed deeper into the pillow and pressed back against him.

  His arm tightened.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  His voice was just as unsteady when he said “hi” back.

  She felt her chest expand as his did; her body mimicked the rhythms of his, just as it had last night. Slowly, lightly, the pads of his fingers slid up her belly, up, and touched the underside of her breast. He touched her like a rose petal he was afraid to bruise, like a baby bird. Like jailbait. Something he wanted but couldn’t have.

  But Maggie knew.

  She curved her hand around the back of his and guided it up to cover her breast. Her nipple hardened against his palm.

  Ghost resisted for one tense second, then buried a groan in the back of her neck and squeezed. He curled his hips forward and his erection brushed up against the back of her thigh. “Jesus,” he whispered, tortured-sounding, circling her nipple with his thum
b. The sheets rustled as he shifted, rutting against her.

  There was electricity under his skin, little shockwaves that traveled through his hand and to her breast, her stomach, her hip when he clamped on there. It felt different from last night, not cataclysmic and careful, a transgression that demanded restraint. No, now, the morning after, rules had already been smashed to pieces. There was nothing left to lose. In the glimmer of first light, it was only wanting, and feeling, and knowing.

  He breathed raggedly against her throat, his voice a growl. “You sore, baby?” Right in her ear.

  She stretched – his fingers dug into her hipbone – and felt the pull deep, deep in her belly, the dull ache below. “Yeah. A little.”

  He breathed just under her ear, a low purr against that ticklish spot, and his hand smoothed down her thigh and back up again. Steady, possessive sweeps, warming her skin, making her squirm. “You okay?” he asked, and she sensed it wasn’t the same as being sore.

  “Yeah.” Because she was, because it was a good kind of sore, and she felt her blood warming, a slow simmer as his hand moved, teasing her.

  “You sure?” His fingers skipped back up over the ridge of her hip and then skimmed down her belly, feather-light, sliding into the line where her leg joined her pelvis.

  Her pulse fluttered, trapped and happy about it. “Y-yeah.”

  He pressed a smile into her shoulder; she felt the curve of it, the sly quirk in the corners. “You don’t sound okay.”

  She wriggled back against him, worked her ass against his hips, and was rewarded by a quick hiss through his teeth. “Whose fault is that?”

  His hand slipped between her legs, bold and expert. “Yeah, well…” He laid a wet kiss against her throbbing pulse and ground his hips against her, hard and ready.

  The heat elevated in seconds, from one flick of his finger, from a simmer to a roar, flooding her, leaving her weak, and flushed, and craving. “Ghost,” she said, helpless, and he eased her legs open with his thumb.

  “Easy, baby,” he murmured, but she felt the way it wasn’t at all easy for him, his harsh breathing and his pounding heart against her back, trying to beat right out of his chest.