His stomach cramped. “So he doesn’t know I’m here? I’m gonna be the worst surprise of the day?”
“I know my dad,” she soothed, reaching up to settle his collar. She’d done it twice at the apartment; it must be a nervous tic. “This is the best way to approach him.” But her gaze held a hint of uncertainty. If the pulse pounding visibly in her throat was anything to go by, she was in a near-panic too, same as him.
He swallowed hard. “Okay.” It didn’t feel okay, not at all, but he was here, and the only thing more shameful than his stomachache was the idea of walking away.
Through the front doors they stepped into a long black-and-white tiled hallway laid with a maroon rug, sets of half-open French doors leading into offices the size of parlors; Ghost glimpsed the brick edge of a fireplace through the glass panes of one door. Instead of droning fluorescent tube lights there were chandeliers, brass and crystal: diamond-shaped shards of light splashed across the ceiling.
Maggie walked like she knew where she was going, straight up to the reception desk at the foot of a grand staircase. This place looked the way Hamilton House once had: Southern grandeur and opulence.
The receptionist, a cool blonde with a severe bun, greeted Maggie with a smile. “Hello, how can I help you today?” There was recognition there – Maggie’s dad worked here, and this woman knew it – but professional frostiness, too.
Ghost hated her on impulse.
“We have a two o’ clock with Arthur Lowe,” Maggie said, just as cool. “He’s expecting us.”
The woman’s eyes swept to Ghost, harsh with disapproval. She took a beat too long before saying, “You can go on up, then.”
“Thank you.”
Ghost gave her his best stink-eye, rewarded when she shrank down into her turtleneck.
Maggie led the way up the stairs and down an ivory-carpeted hall to a door marked with her dad’s name. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered over her shoulder, before she knocked once and let them in.
Ghost’s first impression was of a movie set, because that was the only place he’d ever seen a room like Arthur Lowe’s office. More ivory carpet and the maroon drapes he’d seen from outside: heavy, layered folds held back with brass hooks. A massive desk was situated in front of a wall of bookcases, loaded with leather-bound books, small potted plants, knickknacks, and what looked like awards. Golf trophies, maybe, judging by the little figures on top.
Arthur sat with his hands clasped together on top of the blotter, crisp shirt cuffs peeking from the sleeves of his dark brown jacket. His sweater vest, Ghost noted, matched the curtains.
“Oh.” He sat up straighter, like he’d been caught off guard. “Hello.” His gaze shifted from Maggie to Ghost, and back again with a snap, like he didn’t want to be caught staring. He cleared his throat, a somehow delicate sound. “I didn’t know you were bringing your friend,” he said to Maggie, offering a small half-smile that said he was trying, trying really hard, and he didn’t want to hurt her.
Ghost felt his jumpy stomach settle. He figured this guy, no matter how polite and well-bread, would cheerfully murder him if given the chance, but he was going to be kind and polite for Maggie’s sake. Ghost could handle murderous fathers; what he cared about was Mags getting the respect she deserved.
“He’s the reason I made the appointment,” Maggie said, voice oddly gentle, like she was speaking to a child. It was the voice she used on Aidan when he was reluctant to go to bed at night. She settled into one of the two leather chairs across from the desk. “I – we have a favor to ask.”
Ghost sat down next to her; he imagined the chair protested, not wanting his ratty Levi’s to touch its butter-soft leather.
“What sort of favor?” her father asked, brow furrowing. In the slant of incoming sunlight, Ghost could see a fine sheen of sweat gathering at his temples.
Maggie started to respond, but Ghost beat her to it. He couldn’t sit here like a putz and let her make his case for him. Not to start with, at least. “I wanna open a garage,” he said, almost not recognizing his own voice, the low, deferential tone of it. “A legitimate one.” Shit, that made him sound like he did illegitimate things. Which he did. “For the club.”
Arthur stared at him, worry in his eyes.
Ghost wanted the fancy carpet to roll back and swallow him up.
“He’s got some really great ideas,” Maggie said, “and a business plan all worked out. It’ll be a great place – less expensive, and better expertise than the other places in town.”
“I need a loan,” Ghost said. “Please. Sir. I…” He felt like a moron. A low rent, no account idiot who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the classy girl beside him.
“Can you help us with the paperwork, Dad?” Maggie asked.
“I…” Arthur’s gaze pinged between them, stricken. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than paperwork.”
“Whatever you can do, then,” she amended. “Please, Dad, it’s…it would mean a lot.”
He stared down at his hands a moment, thumbs fidgeting. “Can…” he started, and trailed off.
Ghost felt Maggie’s hand on his arm. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he was out in the hall and the door had clicked shut. Then he sucked in a deep, desperate breath, dizzy suddenly.
There was a window at the end of the hall, framed by potted palms, a bench with a velvet seat set beneath. He walked down to it on unsteady legs and flopped down sideways on the bench, glanced out through the window at the parking lot, the orange and yellow leaves collecting in the gutters, the steakhouse next door hosting a late lunch crowd. He could almost imagine he smelled beef on the grill, and swallowed, the phantom scent making him nauseous.
He hadn’t anticipated having a physical reaction like this. He felt sixteen himself, that nervous, sweaty-palmed kid who’d been nothing but “yes, sir” and “no, sir” to Duane, his new cut shiny and flawless. The last few years, the people around him inspired humor, revulsion, sometimes affection. But this kind of nervousness had become foreign. He felt like a green colt, wobbly in the knees and short of breath. He might have given Maggie’s parents the figurative finger, might have stolen her away, ruined her, and deepened the rift in the family. All of that he’d done without undue regret.
But here in this bank, sitting across from her father – asking him for a favor – he was painfully aware that he’d stolen the innocence of someone’s little girl. That man in there had changed her diapers, had walked her to school, had bought the dress she was wearing, and in waltzed Ghost, degenerate outlaw, deadbeat dad, asking for money.
The worst part was, the part that made his nausea spike, was the knowledge that he wasn’t going to do the right thing and take a step back. Wasn’t going to let her go. Wasn’t going to apologize to her dad and say he wished things had gone differently – because he didn’t wish that. He was a bastard, and he had her, and he loved her, and he wouldn’t trade her for a damn thing, no matter how much he’d damaged her.
He could sit on a fancy bench and sweat, though, so that’s what he did, right up until the office door opened and Maggie waved him toward her.
She was smiling when he reached her, though her eyes looked damp. “You’ve got the loan,” she whispered, and ushered him inside.
~*~
Maggie waited to tell him. Until after every last bit of paperwork had been signed, and Ghost and her dad had shared an uneasy handshake and Ghost had said “thank you” like he had something lodged in his throat. Until they’d left the bank and Ghost, grinning like it was Christmas, offered to buy her lunch at the steakhouse next door. She would have waited until they were at a table, but she didn’t have the heart to do it in front of a dining room full of steak-eaters.
“Wait,” she said, as they were standing beside her car, catching at his sleeve.
“What?” His grin, when he turned to her, was wide, true. It was beaut
iful, and it pained her to watch it dim as he took in her expression. “What?” he repeated, concerned now. “You okay?”
“Maybe we should sit down,” she suggested.
“Mags,” he said, sharply.
“I’m fine. Come on, let’s get in the car.”
They did, him behind the wheel because he’d driven them over here. When the doors were shut, he turned to her, hands braced on the wheel. “Mags,” he repeated, almost desperate now.
Maggie folded her hands together in her lap and stared at them. Took a deep breath. She felt her pulse quiver in her throat, that fast flutter that meant crying was imminent. “There was a condition to your loan.”
“What do you mean?”
Another breath. This was so hard to say; her throat ached. “Dad was willing to cosign for you if I agreed to do something.”
“Maggie.”
“He said I have to move back home,” she said in a rush. “That’s the condition. You can have the money, if I move back in.”
It was silent a beat. Then: “Well fuck that.”
She finally turned to look at him and saw stark naked terror in his eyes. It frightened her; it broke her heart. “I already said yes.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no.” His hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. “That’s not happening.”
“Ghost–”
“No!” His shout was strangled, pained. He was panting, chest heaving. “You’re not living with those assholes again.”
“They’re not the worst parents in the world,” she reasoned. And they weren’t. Her mother was a tyrant, and Maggie hated living under her roof, but she wasn’t sure any parent on the planet would have gone along with a daughter who ran away and lived with her much older boyfriend.
“Mags–” His eyes were wide and wet, his voice wrecked. “Why are you…?”
It hurt to breathe. She said, “We both knew we weren’t going to be able to get away with this living arrangement long-term–”
“Both? No. I didn’t know shit.”
“It’s a miracle no one’s called the police,” she said, talking over him. The pain was sharp, right through both lungs and under her arms. She had to keep going, get it all out, before she stopped being able to speak completely. “I’m sixteen. My guidance counselor is asking about it, the leaders of all the clubs I’ve skipped out on…” It was a crushing weight, suddenly, the responsibility she’d shirked.
But it was a weight she’d happily carry if it meant she didn’t have to see Ghost this broken again.
“When I went out of the office, did you hit your head? Did he feed you happy pills or something? This is insane.”
Gloves off, then. “It’s the best way to get you a loan. It’s the only way, if we’re honest. Your uncle sucks, and you’ve got no credit, and no friends in high places – Ghost, this is it. This is your only shot at opening the garage.”
His bit his lip, hard, and turned away from her, looking out through the windshield. The wheel looked in danger of snapping between his fingers. “They’re manipulating you.”
“Duh. I know that.”
“Then why the fuck are you going along with it?”
“Because I want you to have your garage. I want you to make the money that you need. To not have to depend on Duane so much.” She laid her hand on his thigh. “Let me help you.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I need you.”
Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them away. She couldn’t break down, not yet. “I’m moving. I’m not leaving you.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
I take it back, she wanted to say. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’ll stay. Fuck my parents, we’ll find another way. But there was no other way. So she said, “I’m doing this, Ghost. Please take the money and put it to good use.”
He started the car.
~*~
The day Olivia left was, surprisingly, not the worst day of his life. That honor went to the day Mama and Cal died – rain streaking down the window above the sink, Dad’s hand white-knuckled on the phone, swish of windshield wipers, smell of bleach at the hospital. When Olivia left, it had felt correct, almost, the last slam of the door, the blank, too-white patches on the walls where she’d taken down their family photos…and burned them over the sink with his favorite lighter. Nothing had rivaled the day he saw his baby brother’s corpse in the morgue. Nothing until now.
Maggie folded and packed her clothes with careful, precise movements. She didn’t rush, didn’t cry, didn’t get sloppy. But the stiff line of her back broke his heart. It was that, seeing her methodically take dresses and skirts and jeans out of his closet, that sent him over the edge, from rage and resistance into utter despair.
He ended up on the couch, bottle in one hand. Aidan wasn’t home from school yet, but would be soon. It probably wouldn’t be smart to get blind drunk. Probably.
But rather than dull the pain, the whiskey seemed to draw new dimensions from it, little bloody nicks and cuts he hadn’t felt before, now raw and throbbing. Worse than love her, he’d grown used to her: smell of her shampoo on his pillow, feel of her body tucked against his, bright sparkle of her laugh, low murmur of her voice when she said sweet, motherly things to Aidan. She cooked their meals, and packed his lunch, and kissed him when he walked in the door every afternoon. She shoved her bare feet beneath his thigh on the couch when she did her homework, chewing on the end of her pen and whispering to herself as she tried to remember important dates in history.
He tried to think about the garage, about the luxury of having his own business, his own spending money, a credit card and new school clothes for Aidan. But he couldn’t. It was just Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
And then she was really there, her bag set by the door, standing in front of him with a look of such sympathy he wanted to scream at her. How dare she. How dare she.
She pulled the bottle from his hand and set it on the coffee table, moving slow, like he was an animal she was trying not to startle. Her voice was soft, the tone she used when she put Aidan to bed: “I’m not breaking up with you. This is just for a little while.”
“Breaking up,” he repeated, sneering. What a stupid goddamn phrase. Like people were Legos that could be snapped apart and set down in different places.
“We’re not.” To his horror, or maybe his delight, she hiked her skirt up a few inches so she could straddle his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, hands pushing through his hair and face coming in close to his. Close enough for him to see the tears standing in her eyes. “I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.”
His hands settled on her hips on instinct. A part of him – selfish, screaming, furious, wounded – wanted to shove her away. But he drew her in instead, cuddled her in against his chest so he could feel the fast flicker of her heartbeat, the rhythm that belied her outer calm.
He had no idea what to say. He thought if he opened his mouth, nothing but broken, half-formed sounds would spill out. So he said nothing, petting her hair for a long moment that he knew would end too soon.
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you soon,” in his ear. And then she was sliding away, and picking up her bag. And then she was gone, the door easing shut behind her.
And then he sat there, watching the shadows grow long across the carpet, until Aidan got home.
Twenty-Six
Then
Maggie woke before the alarm the next morning. She was caught in a nightmare in which Aidan screamed and ranted at her, shouting that she’d ruined his life, his daddy’s life, that he hated her, that he never wanted to see her again. She jerked awake with a gasp, sheets tangled around her legs, clammy with sweat.
“Crap,” she whispered to her dark ceiling. It all came rushing back, the guilt and pain and sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Dinner last night was a blur in her memory: a whirl of light and perfectly seasoned chicken and her mother’s knife-edge gaze. She’d tossed all night, imaging all the ways in which Ghost and Aid
an were lost to her now. In stolen moments, between nightmares, she’d dreamed that she was in bed with Ghost, his strong arm around her waist.
But now she was wide-awake, and the nightmare was real.
She bumped into her dad on her way out of the bathroom later, and he smiled at her, drowsy eyes brightening.
“It’s good to have you home, sweet pea,” he told her, pulling her into a hug that she didn’t reciprocate. “Your mother’s so glad you’re back.”
Was she? Maggie didn’t think Denise was ever glad about anything.
She dressed and tied back her hair; she didn’t have the energy to style it or bother with makeup. She felt drunk, her movements slow and uncoordinated. Her eyes ached from crying herself to sleep. She looked terrible, and didn’t care, shuffling down to the kitchen to choke down a piece of toast before she left for school.
The room was pitch dark, so she wasn’t expecting to see her mother sitting calmly at the table, sipping coffee, when she flipped on the flight.
Maggie started, hands flying out in front of her to form a belated, ineffectual shield.
Denise was already dressed, styled, sprayed, and shellacked for the day, a socially acceptable android who managed not to leave a lipstick print on her pristine white coffee mug. She sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, shoulders set, forearms equidistant on the table. Maggie knew her coffee contained three ounces of milk, no sugar. That her lipstick had been applied with two even sweeps across top and bottom lips, and dabbed with one press of a tissue. If she took four steps closer, she’d get a nose full of Chanel No. 5. – it was the reason she’d always hated that fragrance.
Maggie swallowed down her fright and said, “Good morning.” She had to try a little, if only so she had some grounds for justification when she continued to see Ghost.
“Good morning.” Denise’s gaze moved slowly down her, catching every frizzy hair and each speck of lint on her sweater, the scuffs on the toes of her boots. “I’ve made you a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon.”
American Hellhound Page 35
