American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  He chuckled. “A lady without a preference. Now that’s a sweet thing.”

  She had the sense there was no way to gain traction here; a sensation of sliding sideways on ice.

  “Couldn’t buy your own beer, huh?” he asked. “How old are you?”

  She swallowed hard. Ghost’s fingers tapped out a rhythm on her hipbone. She started to turn her head, but realized she couldn’t be seen looking to him for answers. She swallowed again; her throat was sticking. “Old enough.”

  He was enjoying this. “Ah. Okay. Old enough. Old enough to do what? Get my nephew arrested?” Still smiling. “Old enough for your record to be sealed up nice and tight?”

  “I don’t have a record.”

  “Right. ‘Cause he bought the beer for you.”

  “Duane,” Ghost said again.

  His uncle shrugged. “Hey, he gets locked up for rape, that’s his own business.” His eyes raked her up and down, lingering on her chest. “Guys have gone away for stupider shit, sure. But Ghost has a habit of getting distracted. That I don’t like.”

  “I’m not trying to be a distraction.”

  “Yeah, neither was the last one.”

  Ghost’s arm wrapped around her waist. If Duane’s smirk was any indication, he was shooting his uncle a lethal glare over her shoulder. “I am not distracted,” he growled. “Maggie is not a distraction.”

  Duane nodded. “Sure, sure. I hear ya.” His gaze moved across the room, taking in the spectacle with a wry smile. “You enjoying the party, Maggie?”

  “I was before the interrogation started,” she said.

  He glanced back, showing white, straight teeth as he grinned. “Oh, I like you.”

  Maggie shivered.

  Duane grew serious. “Leave her here, Ghost, and come have a walk with me.”

  Maggie felt him gathering breath to refuse, his arm so tight she thought he might crush her. He’d said to hold onto him, and he didn’t want to let go of her. She didn’t want that either, but she could feel the charge in the air. Refusing his uncle right now wasn’t going to be an option.

  She closed her hand around his wrist. As if my some miracle, she spotted a familiar auburn head moving toward them. “There’s Jackie,” she said, and a moment later Jackie emerged from the crowd, waving. Maggie waved back. “You go, I’ll be fine.”

  “See?” Duane said. “Listen to your old lady, son. She don’t need you holding her hand.”

  ~*~

  He didn’t want to leave her; every cramping muscle and aching bone a physical manifestation of his reluctance; he wanted to fly back to her, magnetized. But she was with Jackie and Nell, and he trusted those old ladies. He did. And Duane wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  But still.

  “Okay,” he said, the moment they stepped outside the clubhouse. “You met her. Satisfied?”

  “Not by a long shot,” Duane said with a snort. He walked slow, still carrying his drink, a king surveying his domain. “But it’ll do for now.” He took a sip and ambled along the edge of the parking lot, far enough from the crowds at the fires that they wouldn’t be overheard.

  Quieter, he said, “She is pretty. I get it, you know. Young, and firm, and doesn’t know any better about anything. Looks at you like you hung the damn moon.”

  That wasn’t even the half of it, but Ghost kept silent.

  “That bitch you had before,” Duane continued, sneering. ‘She never would look me in the goddamn eye. This one’s at least got the balls to do that, I’ll give her credit there.” His head turned toward Ghost, smiling in the dark. “And nice tits, too.”

  Ghost sighed. “She’s a nice girl.”

  “Ain’t they all.”

  “No, she really is. And you were trying to scare her.”

  “Of course I was.” He didn’t sound remorseful. “Damn it, Ken,” he said without heat. “This isn’t some pussy weekend club. If she’s with you, she’s gonna be scared sometimes.”

  “I know that,” Ghost muttered.

  “We’re a one-percenter club. We are the one-percenter club, on two sides of the Atlantic. We got that way through a lotta work, a lotta force. A lot of bloodshed. When you were still shitting in diapers, I was building this thing, making it strong. When you were in the Army, too.”

  Duane Teague: the only man in the world who’d resent you for military service.

  “I’ve heard this story,” Ghost reminded him.

  “Then actually listen to it for once. This is a brotherhood. Brother sacrifices for brother. If we don’t look out for each other, no one will.

  “Women, now. They’re not brothers. They don’t care about the club, not like we do. And all it takes is one.” He held up a finger. “One pissed-off old lady who wants to stick it to her man, one word in a cop’s ear, and we’ve got a raid on our hands.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “With good reason.”

  There were rumors, whispers really, about Duane in the early days, before Ghost had even prospected. Stories about a woman with dark hair, and a Texas drawl, and Duane brought to his knees, begging. Ghost wasn’t sure he believed those stories, but in his limited experience, paranoia was born of circumstance.

  “You don’t know this girl,” Duane said. “Don’t be stupid enough to trust her.” It was said more seriously, something almost like care in his voice. Sometimes, Ghost thought his uncle might love him. A little.

  “What do you want me to do? Fuck groupies from now ‘til forever?”

  “It’d be considerably cheaper.”

  “I haven’t woken up with a hangover in weeks,” Ghost said, and realized as he said it that it was true. “I’m doing better now that I’m with her, not worse.”

  Duane studied him a moment. “Hmm. Not a better Lean Dog, though.”

  And that was the crux of the problem: Duane didn’t see men, only Dogs.

  ~*~

  When Hound’s wife, Nell, offered her a cigarette, Maggie accepted it. She didn’t think of herself as someone with a habit, but paired with the whiskey, she felt relaxed for the moment. The party raged around them, but the two old ladies ignored it; Maggie was following their lead.

  “My first party,” Nell said, exhaling smoke, “there wasn’t even a clubhouse. Just a shed.” She laughed. “Duane was still a kid. But fine.”

  Jackie chuckled. “You still think that.”

  “Do you hear me denying it?”

  For Maggie, knowing these women had been around for a while – and lived to tell the tale – was heartening.

  “How long have you two been married?” she asked.

  “Oh, God.” Nell frowned in thought. “Since we were seventeen. Just babies – no offense, hon.” She patted Maggie’s knee. “I had a crush on him forever, rolled my hair and hiked my skirt up, doing anything to catch his eye. I thought he didn’t even know I existed. But then he walked up to me at lunch one day – we were still in school – and he said, ‘Nelly Banks, I want you to come home and meet my mama.’ And that was that.” Her smile was fond, dreamy with remembrance.

  “Was he a Lean Dog then?” Maggie asked. She didn’t mean to pry, but she was wildly curious about the ways women had become attached to the club in an official, old lady capacity.

  “No, that came later. He always liked the bikes. He was out of work and did some repairs for Duane. They got to talking, and…” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  But Maggie didn’t. How did one go from regular, law-abiding Joe to outlaw, willingly?

  “Collier and Ghost went to school together,” Jackie offered. “Collier was already a prospect when we met. My parents didn’t like it much.” She paused, shot a look to Maggie, and winced. “Sorry.”

  Maggie shook her head. Don’t be. “Did they come around?”

  “Yeah. Dad walked me down the aisle and everything.”

  She knew her smile was wistful. “That’s nice.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jackie said again. “I didn’t mean to bring
up parents.”

  “My mom’s been angry with me my whole life. Ghost was just the icing on the cake.”

  The women gave her sympathetic looks. But there was something else beneath, traces of doubt. Like they thought poor girl. Like they didn’t think she’d stick around.

  Or maybe she was projecting her own doubts and fears onto them.

  Her two whiskeys made themselves known. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Is there a restroom?”

  Jackie walked her there, a small half-bath at the end of a long hall lined with closed doors. Muffled voices and thumps issues from behind some of them.

  “Dorms,” Jackie explained, nose scrunching up. “This place is a frat boy’s dream.”

  Maggie forced a hollow chuckle. “Thanks,” she said when they reached the bathroom.

  “You won’t thank me when you get in there.”

  And no, she didn’t. It was a combination of truck stop, dive bar, and yes, even frat house in there. She held her breath, tried not to look directly at anything, and cursed the lack of hand soap.

  By the time she emerged – under a minute, she was sure – she was starting to regret walking all the way back here. Back where Ghost didn’t know to look for her, away from the relative safety of the crowded main room.

  “Okay,” she said, stepping back out into the hall. “You were right, I–” Jackie was gone. There was a man leaning up against the wall. Tall and trim, handsome, lock of straight, sandy hair falling across his forehead. Striking nose.

  It was the guy who’d been with Ghost that day at Hamilton House, when Stephanie had dragged her up there. Not Collier, but the other one.

  Her throat closed up. “You.”

  “Yeah, me.” He grinned. “I remember you. Maggie, right? I’m Roman.”

  She gave him a stiff nod. “Hello.” And made to step around him.

  He pushed off the wall and blocked her path. “Now hold on a sec. Why’re you in such a hurry?”

  Oh God, oh God. This was exactly what happened when people got raped in alleys, wasn’t it? Closed-in space, poor lighting, no witnesses. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she looked up at his face.

  He seemed pleased with himself. Rapist or not, she figured he wanted to get a rise out of her. She wasn’t in the business of giving anyone that kind of satisfaction.

  She folded her arms and gave him her best unimpressed look, given the circumstances. “What are you doing?”

  His grin widened. “You don’t wanna stay back here and keep me company?”

  “Decidedly not.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, you know you can’t be having any fun talking about girl shit. And your man’s a stupid shit for leaving you by yourself.” He dipped his head, close enough she could smell liquor on his breath. ‘But I’ll keep you company.”

  He could grab her and drag her into one of these dorm rooms. He could do anything he wanted to her, and no amount of kicking or clawing could stop him.

  For the dozenth time tonight, she felt impossibly young and stupid.

  But she’d been raised to think that a lady was never anything less than prepared for any situation, lessons she hadn’t expected to draw on in an instance such as this.

  Shaking inside, she managed to keep her gaze steady. “Yeah, no. Do I look like one of your club sluts? Excuse me.” She made a shooing motion with her hand, a clear dismissal.

  His smile stayed fixed, but she saw his eyes darken. He was offended.

  “Please get out of my way.”

  He stared at her a moment, then stepped aside.

  “Thank you.”

  He caught her by the arm as she passed, holding her in place, and her panic spiked.

  Leaning in close, breath tickling her ear: “Just do me one favor, baby. You keep Ghost good and preoccupied. Keep him home, keep him in bed. We don’t need him around here.” He let go of her roughly, shoving her.

  She stumbled a step, got her bearings, and hurried down the hall before he could change his mind.

  She paused, though, at the mouth of the hall, and glanced back. He stood with his back to her, shoulders tense, head bowed. In the dim light, he painted a forlorn picture. It tugged at her. If she’d seen Ghost like that, she would have walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Ghost.

  She shook her head and walked on.

  ~*~

  The fires burned still, electric orange and crackling, puffing smoke signals up to the moon. The night had grown cold, but Ghost was warm. Maggie leaned into his side, enjoying the weight of his arm across her shoulders. Her whiskey buzz was wearing off and now she was sleepy. That chemical fatigue that lifted a magnifying glass to details, sent her to the second row in her mind: a careful observer of the moment rather than a participant.

  Her gaze moved beyond the crowds gathered around the barrels, out toward the water, a gem-bright expanse in the moonlight. “Does the club own all this land?”

  “Hmm. Yeah.”

  When she turned her head, she saw his frown. “What?”

  His eyes slid over. “Huh?”

  She reached to press a fingertip to the corner of his mouth. “You don’t like that the club owns it?”

  He glanced away. “Nah, it’s just…what a waste, you know? It’s empty.”

  She sensed she’d hit the edges of a festering wound, a part of the ailment that had turned him from a young man to the cynical, depressed single dad she now knew. She pushed at it; wounds needed lancing. That was the only way to be rid of them.

  “What do you want to do with the property?”

  He took a deep breath. It was big, this idea of his, and he carried the weight of it all on his own.

  “Ghost,” she said, quietly, gently. “Tell me.”

  “Businesses,” he said, and it sounded like the words got caught on the way out, half-choked-back. In the firelight, she thought she saw his cheeks color. “A garage. A bike shop. Hell, a boat rental place. Something. A way to make money legitimately.” His breathing grew rapid as he spoke, his ribs pressing against hers. She felt his excitement bleed over into her, their ribs catching, interlocking. “We could live better, comfortably, without scraping by one deal at a time. It we’re the club, like Duane says, then why does he cripple us? We could be powerful.”

  His hand curled into a fist on her shoulder. “I know we could make it work. But he won’t even listen. He wants us to be white trash dealers. He talks about the club, about what we are – we ain’t shit.”

  His eyes were feverish when he turned back to her. “We ain’t shit.”

  “That’s not true,” Maggie said. “You are shit.” She winced. “That didn’t sound good. But you know what I mean.”

  He looked doubtful.

  “Ghost, the fact that you want to institute change means something. If you were happy with the circumstances, then you’re right, the club wouldn’t stand a chance. But you want to make it better. That’s a start.”

  “Start to disappointments.”

  “Right now, sure. That’s how things always start. You have to keep at it though. Convince Duane and the rest of the guys that it’s a good idea – a viable one.”

  His grin was tight and humorless. “Convince him how?”

  “Crunch some numbers. Draw up a business plan. You can’t just talk about something like that – you have to show him that it would actually work.”

  He stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

  “Future Business Leaders of America,” she explained. “AP Econ. Professional selling college courses last summer.” She shrugged. “My parents want me to be a CEO’s wife.” They’d never suggested she should be the CEO herself.

  “And his advisor, too?”

  “Wife and adviser aren’t mutually exclusive roles.” She felt a little defensive.

  “Damn.” He faced forward again.

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know.” He gave her a squeeze. “I’m not used to that. Give me a
minute to let it sink in.”

  She gave him a minute. Two.

  He said, “Are you hungry? Let’s blow this hole and go grab pancakes.”

  She was very on board with that plan.

  Twenty-Two

  Then

  There weren’t too many companies willing to hire a known outlaw who couldn’t guarantee nine-to-five availability. On paper, Ghost was unemployed. Practically, he sold for Duane, and pulled shifts here and there with Full Circle Towing, picking up wrecks and stalls for under-the-table cash.

  He liked the work. It was mindless, safe, and low-stress. Gave him plenty of thinking time, which usually amounted to stewing over his shitty existence. Monday, though, he was thinking about what Maggie had said at the party. As he hooked up an abandoned Honda on the side of the Interstate, he asked himself if he could do it – come up with a “viable” plan for a garage.

  It was one thing to dream, another to conceptualize. He wasn’t sure he was smart enough to do the latter.

  I’m just trying to help, Maggie had said.

  He got back to the apartment a little after three and Rita handed him a message she’d taken while he was away.

  Duane: Figured out how you can pay me back. Be here at 7.

  He sighed.

  ~*~

  Maggie had known her reprieve wouldn’t last, but she kept hoping reality would stay away a little longer.

  It came back Monday. A freshman with a note popped into her third-period calc class and handed the folded paper to Mr. Dupree.

  “Miss Lowe,” he said, clearing his throat, “Mrs. Davis would like to see you.”

  Whispers moved through the room. Heads turned toward her. No one was averting his or her gaze now; it was all stares. No one got called to the counselor’s office because everything was hunky-dory.

  She gave her teacher a tight smile and gathered her things. “Okay.”

  The eyes followed her out of the room; she swore she could feel them even once she was in the hall.

  The walk to the front office took longer than it should, her blood pounding in her ears. Ahead of her, the freshman – a slight, pale redheaded girl – seemed to pull even tighter in on herself the closer they got to their destination. Like she was trying to shrink away from Maggie as she led her.