American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  Her dim reflection in the window glass looked impossibly young. It was a miracle, probably, that their waitress hadn’t called the cops and claimed Ghost had kidnapped a minor. “Sometimes I feel really helpless because I’m sixteen,” she admitted quietly. “But you’re twenty-seven and things aren’t any easier for you.”

  “Things are rough for me because I ain’t ever made a smart decision in my life,” Ghost said. “You…you could get outta this, if you wanted to.”

  She turned to him and stared, not willing to dignify the stupidity of his remark with a verbal response.

  “You could,” he insisted, shrugging, glancing away from her. “My problems don’t have to be your problems.”

  “Ghost. Shut up.” To soften it: “We’ll think of something.”

  In fact, she was already thinking of something. It made her a little nauseous, but it might be their best option.

  “Like what?”

  “Let me get back to you on that.”

  “Mags–”

  “Ugh.” Aidan climbed back into the booth beside her, sneaker soles squeaking on the vinyl.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Stupid kids said I had to get off. Assholes,” he said, viciously, the word ugly in his little-boy voice.

  “Aidan, you shouldn’t use that word,” Maggie said, on instinct, and then bit her lip, guilty on two counts. One, she cussed herself, and so did Ghost, right in front of the kid. And two: she wasn’t his mom; she couldn’t make the rules for him.

  “What kids?” Ghost asked, scowling, already half-out of the booth. “Where?”

  Aidan pointed toward the Ms. Pac-Man machine and the lanky teenagers who’d taken it over.

  “Little fuckers,” Ghost said, sliding to his feet.

  “Ghost,” Maggie started, and he sent her a questioning look, face already dark and tense, spoiling for a fight.

  She swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

  He cut a striking figure, tall and strong and dark. Patrons were staring. At his face, sure, because it had been rendered with a few bold cuts of some wicked sculptor’s knife, all angles and planes and shadows. But also at his leather and patches, the wallet chain, the scuffed boots – the things that branded him outlaw. Other. Abnormal. Amid soccer moms and little league coaches, suburban families with soft middles and neatly pressed khakis, he was a freak show of muscle and threat and smoke. One of these things is not like the others. In the weeknight bustle of the pizza parlor, he was a wolf among sheep. He had at least two guns on him now – that she knew of. God knew how many people in this city had lit up, or snorted, or injected something he’d sold to them.

  A waitress took the long way around to avoid walking past him.

  A dad a few tables over had thrown his napkin on his plate and was looking like he might step up and interfere if he needed to, if the reckless outlaw did something he shouldn’t in this nice family establishment.

  Maggie loved him so much it hurt.

  And she hated everyone who looked at him like he was less than. The people in this restaurant, his uncle, Roman, everyone at school who’d asked her to score them drugs. Everyone looking at him now who saw a thug about to make trouble.

  She saw a beaten-down man too afraid to dream, an angry father who couldn’t turn his life around, but who could by God stand up for his kid when bigger kids pushed him around.

  She loved him.

  She nudged Aidan out of the booth and said, “Let me up, sweetie.” To Ghost: “Sit back down. I’ve got this.”

  He looked furious. “Mags–”

  “I’ve got this.”

  She walked purposefully – but not aggressively – over to the arcade games and cleared her throat in a soft, polite way when she was standing behind the two boys who’d commandeered it. They were about thirteen, greasy, unwashed, reeking of hormonal boy.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and they half-turned, expressions dull and unimpressed. “I’m sorry, but my boyfriend’s son was playing and he says you made him leave.”

  The one on the left – pimple-faced and overweight – wiped his nose on the back of his hand and made a disinterested sound. “Yeah. So.”

  She smiled at them. “Well that wasn’t very polite, was it?”

  The one on the right – string-bean skinny, skullcap – shrugged. “So?”

  “So I think it’d be nice if you’d let him play a few more minutes.”

  “Whatever,” they both said, and started to turn away in unison.

  Maggie leaned in close – damn, they smelled – and, smile still fixed, tone a cheery whisper, said, “Look here, shit-for-brains. This isn’t a request. I’m not asking nicely – I’m telling you that if you don’t give my kid five more minutes on this damn machine, I will put both your ugly heads through its screen. Do you understand? I’m not some stupid bitch you can say ‘whatever’ to. I’m a Lean Dog old lady, and I will hurt you if you don’t walk away right now. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  When she slid back into their booth and told Aidan, “Five minutes, kiddo, okay, then we need to head home,” Ghost stared at her, astonished.

  “What’d you say to them?”

  “Oh you know. Just used my debutante charm.”

  He blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

  She grinned and reached for her Coke. “You think you’re the only one in this relationship who can scare the pants off people?”

  “I don’t think that anymore.”

  ~*~

  “Hey, Maggie,” Aidan said as she was slipping out of his room.

  She paused, hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at him all tucked cozy under the blankets. He was really too old for this nighttime routine, but it had started that first night she’d stayed with him, when she’d been his babysitter instead of his daddy’s live-in girlfriend. (Old lady, she reminded herself; that was what she’d told those kids.) That night, uncertain, nervous, she’d followed him to his room at bedtime, fluffed his pillows, made sure he’d brushed his teeth and didn’t need a drink of water. The next time, he’d gotten shy, wiggling his toes in the carpet, ducking his head. “Maggie, can you…” he’d started, biting his lip. He didn’t have to ask anymore; every night, she walked him to bed, perched on the edge of his mattress for a moment, and told him she hoped he had good dreams.

  “Hmm?” she hummed now, questioning.

  “Those boys thought you were really scary.”

  She had no idea how to respond. It felt cruel to be pleased that she’d frightened a couple of middle school boys. But when Aidan flashed her a smaller version of his father’s crooked grin, she thought she’d do anything to make him smile.

  “It was cool,” he said.

  “Cool? You weren’t scared, were you?”

  “No!” he said, scandalized, and she laughed.

  “I guess it’s okay, then. I don’t mind being scary sometimes.”

  His smile softened, bashful. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sweet boy. Sleep tight.”

  “G’night.”

  She walked to the master with a full heart, warm and smiling to herself…and even more sure about what she had to do now. When she first left home, it was personal; it was what she had to do for her. But now, her concerns weren’t just immediate, but big picture, and she had more than herself to worry about.

  Ghost was fresh from the shower, skin flushed from the hot water, hair damp and slicked back from his face. He was in black boxers, towel around his shoulders, farmer’s tan and ink on display.

  Maggie leaned back against the door after she shut it, admiring. Just the sight of him elevated her heartrate, and she let herself enjoy it. Right now, in this moment, without a restaurant full of onlookers, without the club, or her classmates, or her mother, or Aidan, alone with him, she looked her fill. The flex of muscle as he scrubbed his hair with the towel, tattoos leaping, shadows painting deep grooves between his abs.

  Most days, she was too busy worrying about all the bumps in the r
oad ahead to be a properly smitten teenage girl mooning over a cute boy. So right now, she was taking the chance to feel like one. Drool a little.

  Because…

  Damn.

  He balled up the towel and threw it in the hamper; it unfurled at the last minute, landing half-in and half-out. Ghost said, “Ah, fuck it,” and left it there, turning to face her, expression going from curious to smug. He rolled his shoulders, shifted his hips, and went from sleepy to posed, in full CK model mode. “See something you like?”

  She tried and failed not to laugh. “Oh my God, that is a line.”

  He gave her a wicked grin and prowled up to her, crowding her against the door. He braced his forearms on the door, leaned in until they were pressed together. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes.

  “Is it working?” he asked, voice a low, throaty whisper.

  She shivered. “A little bit.”

  He curled his hips, tucking into her belly. “Just a little bit?” Right in her ear, gust of hot breath, nip of his teeth against her diamond stud.

  She shivered again and pressed into him, t-shirt gluing itself to his damp stomach. “Okay, working a lot. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Hmm,” he hummed against her neck. “That sounds a lot less fun than what I had in mind.”

  “Trust me, I know.” He was getting hard, and his boxers were doing nothing to hide it. Her hips twitched, an involuntary seeking of friction. But she put a hand on his hot, slick chest and pushed him back. Tried to – he resisted. “Ghost, come on.”

  He heaved an exaggerated sigh and eased back a fraction, giving her an unimpressed look. “Fine.”

  “When you pout you look like Aidan.”

  “I always look like Aidan.”

  “Yeah, but when you pout you look eight.”

  He stuck out his lower lip.

  “Okay stop, stop. I’m trying to be serious.”

  “You gonna go shank some Girl Scouts if they don’t get off your turf?”

  “Ghost.”

  He chuckled. “Alright, fine. Okay. I’m listening.”

  She felt her smile slip. He wasn’t going to like this plan of hers, not at all, and dropping it on him was going to ruin this playful mood.

  “What?” he asked, expression going concerned.

  Here went nothing. “I know how you can get a loan for the garage.”

  He looked skeptical. “Okay.” Touch of doubt in his voice. Like he didn’t see how a teenager could solve his financial problems.

  It gave her the resolve she needed to push him back another step and say, “My dad works at a bank.”

  “Okay,” he said, mildly, like she was crazy. “I don’t have any credit, number one. And number two, your parents want me drawn and quartered. So thanks, but no.”

  “My dad doesn’t hate you,” she corrected. “He’s sad, and disappointed, and worried, sure, but he doesn’t hate anyone. If I ask him to do this for you, he’ll do it.”

  In a sequence of hilarious eyebrow twitches, the horror of her seriousness dawned on him. He staggered back as if she’d shoved him, both hands scratching through his hair, standing it up in black spikes. “You’re shitting me,” he said, tone hopeful. “This is a joke, right?”

  “Ghost,” she said with a sigh. “You want to start the garage. You need to.” And he did, she thought. He needed to get out from under his uncle’s poisonous thumb, strike out on his own. In the über macho world of one-percenters, men made their statements with action. With sweat, and blood, and violence. Duane couldn’t respect Ghost until he became, in his eyes, a man. Maggie couldn’t help him bash heads, or arm wrestle at truck stops, or whatever physical labors these biker boys revered, but she could do this for him. If he’d let her. “Let me help.”

  He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, ribs expanding as he hauled in a deep breath; his running black dog tat seemed to stretch, as if it was prepared to leap off his skin down onto the carpet. “I won’t take money from your family. I won’t.” He sounded affronted by the idea.

  She moved to sit beside him, close enough to feel the heat and unhappiness rolling off of him. “It wouldn’t be from my family. It would be a real loan, from the bank. Dad would just put all the paperwork together.”

  “I have no credit!”

  “He could cosign for you.”

  He made a face. “Yeah. Here, let me cosign a loan for the creepy fuckhead who’s nailing my teenage daughter. Right, because that’s a thing that people do.”

  “He–” she started.

  “No,” he cut her off, surging to his feet. He paced a tight line from wall-to-wall, kicking viciously at his discarded jeans when he stepped over them. “Stop talking about it. It’s not happening.”

  “You can’t just dismiss it.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You don’t have a lot of options, so you need to seriously consider the ones you do have.”

  “I said to shut up about it,” he growled, whirling to face her, hands balled into fists at his sides. He might have been an actual Lean Dog then, all raised hackles and poorly-leashed menace, eyes flashing, glint of black in the lamplight.

  When she was ten, her next-door neighbors bought a new dog: a Belgian Malinois, imported, expensive, professionally trained. A gorgeous, smart, very effective dog – when handled properly. But Mr. Vega enjoyed frightening neighborhood children with it. The dog had been designed to intimidate burglars and home invaders, but Vega would let it out into the front yard, delighted when he’d venture into the Lowes’ yard and bark at Maggie.

  There were two ways people reacted toward aggressive dogs. They ran. Or they growled back. One afternoon, set upon by the snarling beast in her own yard, Maggie stood up on her tiptoes, puffed out her chest, and pushed her voice as low as it would go, a shouted “Hey!” that started the dog…and herself. “Knock it off!” And he knocked it off, and didn’t bother her again.

  So Maggie knew what it looked like when a pissed-off dog tried to dominate her. And in this instance, just like the last, she growled back. Maybe it was second nature, maybe it was some of her mother’s blood bubbling to the surface, but it wasn’t a conscious decision. She just did it.

  “Hey.” She jumped up, hands curling into fists of her own. “Don’t tell me to shut up. You don’t ever get to tell me that.”

  He stopped breathing. His chest expanded…and then nothing.

  She, however, had flipped some sort of switch inside herself. Later, she’d groan to think it was more of her mother’s influence, but in the moment, she could only go along with it.

  “You’re pissed off, and scared, and worried, and maybe some other things. I get that, okay? I do. Trust me, I’m all those things all the time too. But you’re not my parent, or my teacher, or my boss, or my freaking parole officer. I love you. I love you so much, but I don’t answer to you. You don’t want my help? Fine. Screw you. But if you ever tell me to shut up again, I’m gone. Right after I kick you in the damn balls. Understand?”

  His face had smoothed over, blank with wonder. His eyes moved slowly across her face, down her arms to her ineffectual fists, and back up again. “Uh…”

  She lifted her brows.

  “Yeah. Um.” He cleared his throat. “Understood.”

  She let out a deep breath and eased back down to the bed, spent after her adrenaline surge. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know.” Quiet voice now, head ducked, embarrassed or ashamed. A little bit defeated: “I don’t know what to do, Mags. Maybe I ought to forget the whole thing.”

  “No. You know you can’t.”

  “I know.” He sank down next to her, shoulders slumped. He looked as tired as she felt. “Damn.”

  In the silence that followed, Maggie wondered if Aidan had heard their voices through the wall, if he knew they’d been arguing. She hoped not, but knew it was likely.

  “He’ll never go for it.” He said it so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.


  She pressed her arm into his, leaning into his side. “He will if I ask him to. Mom’s nuts, but Dad is the least scary person on the planet.”

  Ghost slouched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, spine curled up in a vulnerable way. “Do I have to wear a suit?”

  “Do you have a suit?”

  She smoothed a hand across his back; the muscles were rock-hard with stress beneath her palm. “It’ll be alright.”

  “Not really.”

  ~*~

  His collar was choking him. He reached to loosen it, but it wasn’t buttoned; stress was choking him.

  He didn’t have a suit, but he had black jeans, and a black button-up shirt, and a tin of boot polish in the back of his closet. He put on his favorite leather jacket, but left the cut at home.

  The bank where Maggie’s dad worked was a freestanding structure designed to look like a Greek Revival mansion: tall columns, second-story balcony out front, pediment. If not for the handicapped parking spaces snugged up to the porch, no one would have known it was a place of business. Ghost’s eyes tracked over the tasseled, maroon drapes he could see through the windows, the little plaque beside the double doors, the dazzle of sunlight on the Beamers and Benzes out front.

  His breath came in shallow little pants, not deep enough to expand his lungs properly. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck, trickled down his spine and gathered at the small of his back. “He knows we’re coming?”

  Beside him, Maggie looked beautiful and all grown up in a knee-length blue dress and heels. His oversized jacket should have ruined the effect, but if anything it lent her an edge. Yes, I’m elegant and competent, it said, but I can kick your ass, too.

  “I asked him to set aside an appointment for me,” she said. “I thought it’d be best to talk about the loan face-to-face.”