American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  “Nuh-uh!” one of them called back. “He promised me blood! An eye-for-an-eye, he said, like in the Bible.”

  The buzzing sensation again, all down his neck and between his shoulder blades, itching, tickling like insects. “Who promised?”

  “Duane Teague!” Echo of a deep, shuddering breath. “But now you…you shot…” His voice cracked. “I’ll kill all of you now!”

  “Justin,” Ghost whispered. “Shit.” Louder: “Hey, hey, whoa, let’s not do that. I dunno what kinda deal you made with Duane, but you shoot us, and you’re gonna have a problem with the whole club.”

  “I already do.”

  Ghost could see the speaker now, he was facing him, into the shadows, shoulders squared, hands fists at his sides. Furious and featureless.

  Ghost shot him.

  He ducked back around behind the cabinet as a return volley erupted.

  “They’re gonna kill Justin. Jesus Christ.” Ghost pressed his head back against the cool metal. Shit, shit, shit.

  A thought struck. He kicked Roman hard, earning a yelp. “Did you know about this?”

  “They were trying to shoot me! You think I was in on it?”

  “Duane promised them blood, he said, and they’re not creative types, the Ryders.”

  Around them, bullets thunked into the wood of desks, ricocheted off cabinets and concrete.

  “I swear, Ghost, I didn’t know!” Roman sounded desperate.

  Ghost didn’t believe him – not all the way – but he didn’t have time to hash it out now. “When they reload,” he started, and suddenly it was silent. “Go!”

  They rushed them. Ghost got a running start and jumped onto a desk, across to a table, took a flying leap, aware of Roman beside him. They were quick in the dark, quicker than seemed humanly possible. Dogs coursing down the hill after a kill.

  It was a stupid, impossible, reckless gambit, the kind his CO would have chewed his ass for.

  But it worked.

  Ghost reached the first one, and saw that it was Neil, his familiar, awkward features horror-struck. He caught him in the temple with his gun and they tumbled to the floor. He heard an oof as Roman impacted another.

  He’d miscalculated, and Neil fell, but he stayed conscious.

  “Fuck you!” Neil shouted, and Ghost felt a sudden heat along his side, a bright strike of pain. The bastard had a knife.

  He wrenched away and brought his elbow down onto Neil’s face. Hardness of teeth, jaw, crunch of his nose.

  Neil tried to buck him off and the knife pricked him again, shallow, but too near his belly.

  Ghost head-butted him. Which gave him just enough time to take a firmer hold of his gun and smash it down across Neil’s face once, twice, three times. Then he went limp beneath him.

  He sat up on his knees, side blazing with pain, and felt the warm touch of a gun muzzle against the back of his neck. “You started this,” he said, proving to himself that he wasn’t willing to beg, even in the face of death.

  A gunshot exploded, echoing off the walls. But Ghost was still alive, still on his knees, his breath caught in his lungs. Roman stood in front of him, his gun still aimed over Ghost’s head.

  There was a muffled thump as the man behind him hit the ground.

  “One got away,” Roman said, and Ghost heard an engine turn over outside. The Jeep, by the sound of it.

  Justin sat up and said, “Uh…what just happened?”

  ~*~

  All the windows were lit up at James and Bonita’s place, a cozy glow that striped the lawn. It didn’t look like the sort of house where a Lean Dog would live – at least not a Lean Dogs of today. It was Ghost’s dream to see the club as something vital and important in this city. But they’d have to become something besides unsuccessful drug dealers first.

  The slice on his side had managed to clot on the ride from the factory, but he felt it open back up when he swung off the bike. A sharp pain, a well of hot blood that began a slow trickle down his stomach. Damn – he was lightheaded, too. He clapped a hand to the wound and headed up the sidewalk, staggering like a drunk.

  James answered the door in a robe and slippers. A robe and slippers. Ghost stood there with his blood seeping through his fingers and goggled.

  James’s gaze swept him head to toe. If the numbness in his face was anything to go by, his bruises were already impressive.

  “Jesus, son, what happened?”

  Ghost opened his mouth to answer and a grunt came out instead. Oh. His side hurt bad. And…yeah, he was passing out.

  “Shit,” James said, and Ghost felt a strong pair of arms around him before his vision went black.

  He didn’t lose consciousness completely, was aware of being shuffled down the hall, managed to take a few steps of his own, albeit leaning on James. When his vision cleared, he was stretched out on a bed, Bonita standing over him, brows knit with concern.

  “Pobrecita,” she lamented, clucking. “What happened?”

  She was in high-waisted slacks and a pristine white shirt with the sleeves folded back, hardly a nursemaid candidate. Even on a relaxed evening at home, her makeup was flawless, her dark hair a shimmery curtain down her back. He couldn’t tell if she was more concerned for him, or her furniture.

  “Shit,” Ghost said, with every intention of sitting up, not wanting to bleed all over her fancy bedspread – she was definitely more worried about the furniture, he decided – but pain lanced through his midsection, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “No, no.” Bonita waved him back down with a scowl. “Stay.” Over her shoulder: “James!”

  “Here I am.” He entered the room carrying a first aid kit with a red cross on the side. “You dying?” he asked Ghost. Coming from Duane, the same question would have been sneering, condescending, maybe even hopeful. But from James it was only kind, concerned, meant to make light of the scenario as a means to take Ghost’s mind off the pain.

  It worked. Ghost forced a grin. “Not yet I don’t think.”

  James set the kit down on a desk that looked decorative, with its dainty chair and crystal drawer-pulls. The kit’s lid clattered against the wood, the sound out of place amidst the silk lilies and vanilla candles.

  “Shirt off,” Bonita instructed.

  Which proved more difficult than he thought, what with not being able to sit upright and all. At one point, the collar got stuck on his ear and Bonita nearly ripped it off.

  James crammed a wadded-up towel against his injured side to staunch the blood flow. “Honey,” he addressed Bonita, “why don’t you go get Ghost one of those pills and something to wash it down with?”

  She harrumphed, but complied, high-heels clipping across the floor as she retreated.

  When she was gone, James sat down at his hip, alcohol and cotton balls in-hand. “What happened?”

  Ghost winced at the feel of the first dab. “Deal gone wrong.”

  “I figured.”

  “It was the Ryders.”

  “That redneck family?” James’s brows went up. He dabbed some more; it burned like a mother.

  “Yeah – shit. Damn. Yeah, they were waiting at the drop-off point. It was shady as hell. Roman moved in with the stuff, and they started firing on us.”

  “You handle it?”

  “Yeah. Three dead, one running, one on the way back to the clubhouse.” Roman had packed an unconscious and duct-taped Neil into the back of the Caddy and was taking him back for questioning. Ghost was grateful he wasn’t involved for the moment.

  “Hmm. That guy you shot out in the woods – was he a part of their crew?”

  “Dunno. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  James frowned in concentration as he worked. The alcohol felt like acid. “What did Duane say?”

  “No idea. I haven’t talked to him yet.”

  James flicked a glance to his face. “You didn’t just come to get patched up.”

  “I didn’t realize I was bleeding this bad,” Ghost admitted. “Thank you, by
the way.”

  “Sure.” James kept dabbing and frowning. “What do you think’s happening?”

  Ghost was surprised. No one asked for his opinion, least of all his president. Most of the time, James kept out of club politics, but every once in a while the VP proved he wasn’t blind and deaf. Like now.

  “I think it’s one of Duane’s sick games. No president could be this calm about someone shooting at his guys. Either he’s setting this up just to fuck with me…” Blood for blood, Ryder had said. Duane had promised them a body. Ghost? Roman? Justin? All disturbing possibilities to contemplate.

  “Duane’s got a sick streak, I’ll give you that,” James said. “But people are dying. He ain’t that sick.”

  “Then why did our buyers seem to think he was okay with three of us walking into that factory, and two walking out?”

  “The guy was lying.”

  “Let’s say he was. Why didn’t Duane react to that first guy, the one I shot out in the woods?”

  James shrugged. “I figure he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

  “James, that’s not good enough. Shit, that hurts.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bonita returned, humming under her breath, glass of bourbon in one hand, pill in the other. “Here you go, bebé.”

  He reached obediently for the pill. “What is this?”

  “Oxy,” James said.

  It went down with a warm swallow of Jim Beam.

  “I called your apartment,” Bonita said, and Ghost jackknifed upright.

  Big mistake.

  “Shit!”

  James pushed him back down.

  Bonita said, “You’re hurt and someone needs to come pick you up.”

  “I could have driven him,” James said, but it wasn’t really a chastisement.

  “I talked to Maggie. Is she your new old lady?” She smiled. “New old lady. Ha!”

  “No,” Ghost said. “Maybe. She’s…” He sighed. This night sucked.

  “She said she’s on the way,” Bonita said.

  “Jesus Christ.” The last thing he wanted was for Maggie to see him like this.

  “Is she the one who…” James trailed off with a meaningful eyebrow lift.

  “Yeah. She’s the one.”

  James grinned. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

  ~*~

  Maggie was not panicking. She was not. She was just white-knuckling the steering wheel, breathing unevenly through her mouth, and shaking so hard it affected her vision. She was attempting to keep it together for Aidan.

  He yawned in the passenger seat, all bundled up in his Spider-Man PJs, wrapped in a spare blanket she’d found in the linen/gun safe closet.

  “Can we get pancakes after?” he asked sleepily.

  “We’ll see, baby. Maybe.” If Ghost was okay, she’d make them all pancakes when they got home.

  She pitched forward in her seat, wildly scanning the street signs ahead. She was looking for Midway…Midway…there! She took the turn too fast, the truck’s brakes squealing, Aidan saying, “Whoa!”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Can we do that again?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  She searched the mailbox numbers – who was she kidding, she was panicking – and said, “Yes! There!” when she spotted the right one.

  The house wasn’t anything she would have associated with an outlaw biker: a cozy blue ranch with thoughtful landscaping, warm buttery light spilling from the windows. Maggie parked behind a powder blue Crown Victoria and took a moment to gather her composure. Her hands ached from gripping the wheel so hard. All her hyperventilating had fogged the windows.

  A small hand touched her arm. “Maggie?” Aidan asked, tentative now.

  She took one last deep breath and forced a smile before she turned to face him.

  His dark eyes were huge, brimming with fear. “If Daddy dies, will I have to go live with my mom?”

  She tried and failed to hold back a distressed sound.

  “Can’t I stay with you?”

  “Oh, Aidan,” she said, heartbroken. She wanted to say yes, you can stay with me, I want that, because she did. She hadn’t just fallen in love with Ghost, but with this precious boy too. And the thought of letting him go back to a mother who’d abandoned him made her sick. But she wasn’t his parent, his legal guardian, not even his stepmother. And she was sixteen. There wasn’t a judge in the world who’d let her look after him.

  So she said, “Your daddy’s fine, okay? Let’s go see him.”

  When they were out of the truck, she took his hand, and they went up the sidewalk like that. Maggie caught a flicker of movement at the window, and the door opened before they reached it, light flooding the porch.

  A curvy brunette stood in the threshold. “Are you Maggie?” she called in the same musical, Spanish-accented voice Maggie had heard on the phone a few minutes ago. The call that had launched her heart up into her throat.

  “I am. How is he?”

  Aidan squeezed her hand tight.

  “Oh, he’s fine.” The woman waved as if it was nothing. “Complaining. You know men – all babies.” Her gaze narrowed. “I’m Bonita, James’s wife.” She’d said the same thing over the phone, but Maggie hadn’t responded.

  She offered a handshake now, gritting her teeth in impatience. She needed to see Ghost now, with her own eyes, and make sure he was okay. She didn’t have time for pleasantries.

  “Nice to meet you,” she forced out. “I’m afraid I haven’t met James yet. He wasn’t at the party Friday.”

  “He never goes to the parties. Too loud. Too stupid.”

  Maggie nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Hola, Aidan,” Bonita greeted.

  “Hola, Miss Bonita.”

  “Ghost?” Maggie prompted, patience in tatters at this point.

  “Si, si, follow me.” Bonita ushered them into a bright foyer and relocked the door. Despite the immediate cheerfulness of the house, Maggie noted there were three deadbolts on the door.

  She strained her ears, but didn’t hear any moaning or manly sobbing, no sounds of distress. In their absence, the silence was loud, broken only by the sharp strike of Bonita’s high-heels moving across the hardwood. Too quiet, and Maggie’s stupid manners took over.

  “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Gracias. My James takes good care of me,” Bonita purred.

  The Lean Dogs, Maggie decided, and those attached to them, never stopped testing newcomers. A brag here, a dig there. Every word out of this woman’s mouth had sounded like a challenge.

  Somewhere across town, Denise was laughing her ass off. Maggie had gone from one gladiator arena to another – only these fighters had guns and knives and drugs, instead of fake nails and loose lips.

  Bonita led them down a hall to what was obviously a guest bedroom, dressed in impersonal blues and whites, unremarkable art prints on the wall.

  Ghost’s cut was a dark stain against the cream of the rug.

  His blood bright on the duvet.

  He lay stretched out on the bed, shirtless, midsection wrapped with bandages, his face red-going-plum with bruises, deep circles beneath his closed eyes.

  Smudges of black grease marred his boot soles, and in her first crippling moment of terror, she noticed that first. Her mind wanting to delay the horror of really taking him in, injured and vulnerable.

  A sound caught in her throat and she seemed to fall into the room, tripping to the bed, the floor rushing up toward her. She sank down onto the mattress beside him, hand braced on the pillow beside his head.

  He was going to have two black eyes, she thought, and it gave his face the look of a skull. His mouth was open, breath whispering through his lips.

  “Ghost? Can you hear me?”

  “Daddy?” Aidan asked from the doorway. He hadn’t stepped into the room yet.

  “Shit.” Maggie twisted to look back at him, and her vision swam. “Bonita, can you–” Aidan’s pale, terrified face blurred in
front of her and she blinked furiously.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” Bonita said, hands landing on his shoulders.

  On the other side of the bed, a man’s voice said, “He’s fine, darlin’. Just the booze and pain meds. Needs his sleep is all.”

  Maggie turned to find a bland-faced man sitting at a desk, dressed in a plaid flannel robe and slippers. There was an air of her father about him.

  “James?” she guessed.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “What happened to him?” She rested a hand on Ghost’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his ribcage a comfort. She blinked again and her tears were gone. Her lungs pulled in her first deep breath since the phone call.

  Bonita’s heels retreated down the hall, accompanied by the scuff of Aidan’s sneakers.

  James looked her up and down without emotion, without any of Duane or Roman’s leering. Then his face softened. Yes, a lot like her dad, minus the frazzled, henpecked quality.

  “How much do you know about what he does?” he asked.

  “Enough to hate it…but I know he won’t stop until he has a better alternative.”

  He nodded. “Deal went south. He’s got a good size cut on his side.” Her hand lifted and hovered over it; already, dots of blood seeped through the bandage. “It’ll heal without stitches, but it’ll leave a scar.”

  “He won’t care about that.”

  He nodded again. “Keep it real clean, and he’ll be fine.”

  She teased the bandage’s edge with her fingertips. “Thank you.”

  “He was pissed Bonita called you. He didn’t want you getting upset.”

  “Chivalrous ass,” she said with a sigh.

  “You don’t look upset.”

  “Don’t I?” She held up a hand so he could see the tremor in it. “I thought I was going to have a panic attack on the way over.”

  He studied her a moment. Assessing. “How old are you?”

  Everyone wanted to know, but he was the first to ask with genuine curiosity – and nothing else.

  “Sixteen.”

  His expression didn’t change, still soft, still fatherly. No judgment.

  “Usually, this is the part where I get an insult or a bad pickup line,” she said.