“Long story,” she said with a sigh. “But there’s no way I can come.”
He made a considering face. “You could ask.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
But she did ask. By the time she got home, the thought of a night away, a distraction, had become all-consuming. She would call Ghost and invite him to come with her, she decided. Lost in the crush of teenage bodies and bad Halloween decorations, she could steal away with him, a blissful moment to themselves.
But first she had to contend with her mother.
She found Denise in the dining room, rearranging the Waterford in the china cabinet.
She didn’t think there was any reason to phrase things carefully. They’d dispensed with pleasantries by this point; what was the use in pretending?
Without preamble, she said, “There’s a party tonight. The whole junior class is invited.”
Denise hmmed and stepped back to survey her work. The way the afternoon light fractured off the cut-crystal details of the stemware and tumblers. “Will there be alcohol?”
Maggie blinked in surprise. That wasn’t the question she’d expected. “Probably. But I’ll be driving, so I won’t drink.”
“Will there be chaperones?”
“I doubt it.”
“I honestly wonder how the parents of these children stay so clueless. Teenagers aren’t that clever.”
“No, we’re not,” Maggie said, dryly.
Denise stepped forward and moved a champagne flute over an eighth of an inch with the tip of her pinky finger. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
“You may go. Be sure to use protection if you feel the need to engage in sexual activity.”
“I – I…” Maggie stuttered. “What?”
Denise gave the interior of the cabinet another careful look, head tilted, eyes narrowed. Then she turned to look at Maggie, and the concentration melted from her face, replaced by a bored, distracted gaze that seemed to look not at Maggie, but somewhere over the top of her head. Searching for smudges on the door molding, maybe.
She said, “You’ve made it perfectly clear that you plan to rebel and make a complete mockery of everything your father and I have tried to teach you. I’d just be wasting my breath to tell you to keep your legs closed. If you’re going to act like a vapid slut, you might as well take precautions.”
It had finally happened, she realized: she’d stopped expecting even the most basic kindness from her mom. She couldn’t be bothered to care that she’d been called a “vapid slut,” because the insult failed to surprise her.
“You’re actually letting me to go a party?”
“You should spend more time with children your own age. Maybe then you’ll stop moping around here pining after that biker piece of shit.”
Maggie took a step backward, prepared to leave; Denise returned to her crystal: the ice tea glasses, the sherbet goblets, the tiny sherry glasses. But Maggie paused, a lump in her throat, an incomprehensible hurt trying to break through her composure.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
Do you hate me? She wanted to ask. Do you wish you’d never had me? We can never be family, can we? But those questions wouldn’t yield true answers. Denise would only suggest that she was being dramatic. She said, “Nothing,” and slipped away.
Upstairs, she took the phone off the hall table and unwound the cord, taking it into her room to call Ghost. She called him at home; without her there to relieve Rita, he should be at the apartment.
And he was, picking up with a disinterested “Yeah?” on the third ring.
“Hey, it’s me,” she said, flooded with relief to hear his voice…A relief that stretched and grew brittle when he didn’t answer. “Ghost?”
“Yeah.” Voice flat and bored.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Look, I’m about to leave–”
“There’s a party,” she said, stomach twisting. Dread moved through her, left her cold and clammy. “At Hamilton House. Mom said I could go.” She was rushing, trying to get the words out, afraid he’d hang up on her. She’d spent the past two weeks trying to convince herself that he didn’t resent her for leaving, but she’d been wrong, very wrong. She could feel his resentment coming down the phone line, dark and jagged. Right now, he sounded as warm as her mother – which was not at all.
“It would give us a chance to see each other,” she continued, child-like hope in her voice. “For a few hours at least. We wouldn’t even have to stay there – we could go somewhere else.”
A beat of silence. Two.
“I can’t.”
“Ghost–”
“I gotta be at the clubhouse. Bye.”
The line went dead.
~*~
He wasn’t proud. He was ashamed, actually. But he couldn’t seem to help it. It would be easier to cut Maggie out of his life cleanly, pretend she hadn’t left a divot in his spare pillow, that she hadn’t packed labeled dinners away in his freezer, that he didn’t love her to distraction. “I’m not leaving,” she’d said, but she’d left. He hadn’t seen her face in two weeks, hadn’t smelled her hair, hadn’t rolled over at two a.m. and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her warm, willing shape against his chest. Now she was nothing but a hesitant voice on the phone, and a faint whiff of body lotion on his sheets. Aidan wouldn’t talk to him. He couldn’t seem to stay sober. Jackie had told him it was for the best.
And it was for the best. For Maggie.
She could go to school, and all her club meetings, and her fancy etiquette lessons. She could mend fences with her parents, field scholarship offers from all the good colleges, and eventually, when the novelty of a broke biker wore off, marry the kind of guy who deserved her.
But the idea of that made him physically ill. When he thought about anyone touching her – the way her skin warmed, the scatter of goosebumps across her chest, the quiet breathless sounds she made – he wanted to put his fist through a wall. He almost put his fist through Collier’s teeth when he said, “I know it’s tough.” Collier didn’t know shit. No one did.
Except maybe Aidan, who shuffled thoughtlessly around the apartment, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks hollow because he refused to eat. Yesterday morning, when Ghost went to wake him for school, he pulled the covers up over his head and proclaimed he wasn’t going. When Ghost tried to pick him up, he kicked, and thrashed, screaming, “No! I hate you! I hate you!” He thought Ghost had done something to drive Maggie away, just as he’d driven Olivia away.
One night, half-a-bottle deep, he’d contemplated leaving the kid with Jackie and Collier and riding his bike into a tree. He was a Teague through and through, though, and he could never make life simpler and take the easy way out.
Just like he couldn’t say, “Sure, baby, let’s go to a kid party and make out.” He couldn’t bring himself to be civil to her. She’d left to help him, and he understood that – he couldn’t comprehend that kind of generosity, but he understood that’s what she’d been showing him. But he couldn’t be half-in with her. Stolen kisses and whispered phone calls. He couldn’t live off scraps like a teenage boy. He had to cut her off, no matter how much it hurt to hear the quaver in her voice.
Collier was waiting for him at the clubhouse. He leaned in to clap Ghost on the shoulder and made a face. “Bro, did you take a bath in booze?”
“Something like that. Duane here?”
“Roman too. He wants him to come with us.”
“Great.”
Roman was at one of the tables inside, hiding baggies of weed in candy packaging. “Boys,” he greeted, smiling, in high spirits. “It’s Hamilton House tonight.”
Ghost stopped short. “That high school party?”
“Yeah. How did you–” Roman barked a laugh, delighted. “Wait. Your jailbait’s not gonna be there, is she? Shit.”
Ghost clenched his jaw so hard he thought it might crack.
“Roman,” Collier sighed, “just don’t.”
“This isn’t gonna be all awkward for you, is it?” Roman asked, badly masking his glee behind feigned concern.
“Punch him in the face,” Ghost old Collier. “If I do it, I can’t promise I won’t kill him.”
“Nobody’s killing anybody,” Duane said, stepping out of the back hallway. “Ken, come have a word.”
As he passed, Roman whispered, “You wanna stop and get her flowers on the way?”
Ghost paused long enough to kick him in the back of the knee.
“Ow! Jesus.”
“Kenny!” Duane called.
“Coming.”
In the office, Duane settled behind the desk. Idly flipping through his ledger, he said, tone mild, “The Ryders are gonna show up. Let ‘em have Roman and there won’t be a fuss.”
Ghost didn’t respond at first, struck dumb with shock. When he found his voice, he said, “Uh…what?”
“They know what he looks like,” Duane explained, unconcerned, paging through spreadsheets. “They won’t mess with you.”
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised; he’d witnessed Duane’s callousness firsthand for most of his life. But there was grinding a prospect’s face in the mud, and then there was blandly signing off on a hit on one of his members.
“You want me to go over there and let one of my brothers get shot. Just let it happen,” Ghost said.
“Are you deaf? Yeah, that’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Duane.”
His uncle heaved a deep sigh and finally looked up from his desk. “Quit acting surprised. I told you Roman had to go.”
“Yeah, and that’s a stupid plan.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re letting a buncha rednecks take credit for it!” he snapped.
“Keep your voice down,” Duane hissed, real anger flashing in his eyes now.
“I got no love for the guy,” Ghost said, though his stomach twisted to think of him dead. Disliking someone and wanting him dead were two very different things. “And if he’s stealing from us, and going behind your back, then yeah, you need to strip his patches. But this doesn’t make a point. It looks like an accident. And it makes us look weak! If the Ryders take out one of our guys, we look vulnerable, and then every gang and club within a hundred miles is gonna be trying to knock us off the top of the pile.”
Duane gave him a tight smile. “Then we’ll have to prove them wrong.”
“I don’t get this!” Ghost ranted, frustrated, breathing hard. A little bit scared. “Why won’t you just man the fuck up and kick him out? Why does every goddamn thing have to be a scheme around here?”
“Tell you what,” Duane said. “When you’re the president, you can make the decisions. Until then, shut up.”
“When I’m president,” Ghost echoed.
“Who else do you think I’m doing all this for?” Duane said, almost gently. “I ain’t gonna live forever, and this club’ll be yours one day. I’m trying to make sure it’s strong for you. The least you could do is get on board and show a little appreciation.”
Ghost had always known Duane was an asshole. But apparently, he’d never realized that the man was absolutely bat-shit insane.
It was the sort of epiphany that hit him right in the gut, a sharp pain up under his ribs. When looked at through the lens of crazy, everything Duane had done and said in the past few months took on a whole new, frightening sort of clarity. Crazy was an easy out for complicated situations, a catch-all description that dismissed patterns and coincidences. And it was terrifying. Ghost had always thought his uncle crazy like a fox…but what if there was no fox. What if he was just…nuts.
He felt sick. All the things the club stood for – resistance to a stifling conformity, personal freedom, the bravery to live the way you wanted to, and above all, brotherhood – had become, admittedly, background noise in Ghost’s life. He was too caught up in personal shit to see the big picture any more – but it was there. He leaned on it, the grounding sense that it existed and was waiting on him, ready to give him wings when he finally got back on his feet.
But maybe it wasn’t there. Maybe it was just drugs, and a psycho uncle who didn’t care about anyone or anything. Maybe the Lean Dogs were a sad mockery of an MC.
“Ghost,” Duane said. “Go make the drop. Do as I said.”
Ghost took a deep breath, held it until he felt light-headed, and then let it out slowly. There was a shift inside him, an important tipping of the scales.
Bikers talked about independence, about how they were free of all restraints, no strings, no worries. But when they formed clubs, they formed tiny kingdoms. In the case of the Dogs, a decent-sized kingdom, with satellites scattered across the world. Like any kingdom, a club could become infected, could crumble, could fall to the swords of other clans. But that never just happened – kingdoms fell victim to bad kings.
The MC wasn’t ruined – its king was.
In a moment of aching clarity, Ghost realized that no amount of new garages, or better business deals, or shows of leniency could save his club. It would take a coup. A seizure of the crown by a better leader, a stronger, smarter, more ambitious king.
A pressure valve released, deep inside his chest, a sharp stab of pain, and then an easing. He felt the hiss of stream through his ribs, warm around his heart, his belly, easing the tightness in his throat. It was high time to unmake a king.
“Okay,” he said, all mildness and agreeability. Duane’s brows lifted, surprised. “I’ll make the drop. Whatever you say, boss.”
“Good,” Duane said, and he didn’t know his days were numbered.
~*~
Maggie wasn’t stupid enough to park in the driveway of Hamilton House. She left the Monte Carlo a few yards down the road, in the drive of a house that had long since burned to the ground, hidden behind a cluster of overgrown hydrangeas. The pale, dead blossoms rustled against the car’s windows and fenders, the sound like footsteps in the underbrush. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, listening, holding her breath. Soft hoot of an owl nearby. Bark of a fox farther off. She could feel the rumble of music from Hamilton House through the soles of her boots, a faint but insistent thump.
Leave, a small voice whispered in the back of her head. But she didn’t, picking her way down the cracked pavement toward the antebellum mansion, its blazing windows and gaping doors.
Her steps faltered when she saw the decorations; lost in her own miserable thoughts, she’d forgotten it was almost Halloween.
Someone had taken painstaking care stretching cotton spider webs between the porch columns and rails, securing it up in the high corners and arranging it so that it almost looked real; Maggie thought it was aided aesthetically by the webs already in existence. Orange crepe streams were wound round the banisters, and a generator must have been working doubly hard to power all the twinkle lights. Black rubber spiders dangled from the porch ceiling, swaying in the breeze, obvious and childlike, but unnerving too.
Inside, every available surface was strung with lights, and webs, and spiders. Dozens of rubber bats had been tacked to the hallway ceiling, low enough some of the taller boys kept knocking them around with their heads as they walked. It reeked of pot smoke, spilled beer, sweat, and dozens of competing perfumes. Maggie wanted to leave immediately.
A tiny part of her wanted to believe that Ghost would show up. A larger part knew he wouldn’t. This place was choking her – but the idea of going home was even worse.
She was stuck. Miserable and feeling sorry for herself.
Stay or go – her mind was made for her when Cody spotted her from the base of the ballroom stairs and shouted, “Lowe!” at the top of his lungs, somehow louder than the music. Rachel was hanging off his arm, and she smiled and waved.
Oh, might as well, Maggie thought, and made her way toward them.
“You came!” Rachel cheered when Maggie reached her, and grabbed Maggie up in a hug. “Yes!” When she pulled back, Maggie saw that her pupils were blown; figured she was
high, they weren’t the sort of friends who hugged.
“What did you take?” Maggie asked.
Rachel shrugged. “Dunno. The Lean Dogs are bringing the weed.” She giggled. “Well, more of it. Oh, hey, is your boyfriend gonna be here?”
So that was what Ghost was up to tonight. She felt a stirring of anger…and of hope, the latter against her will. She was angry with him for being short with her before, and angry at herself for feeling more hurt than anything else.
“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “Probably.”
“Dude,” Cody said, leaning in. “Stephanie’s here, and she’s pissed at you.”
“Yeah, so? What else is new?”
“No.” He had beer-breath; sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip. “Like, your mom talked to her mom, or something, and now she’s grounded forever and her folks took her car away.”
“How’d she get here?” Rachel asked.
“Snuck out.”
Maggie frowned. “Wait. What? My mom talked to…about what?”
“Maybe about how she’s a huge fucking bitch. Who knows.”
~*~
Ghost didn’t know if he was furious or thrilled when they parked their bikes in a driveway three addresses down and found the Monte Carlo hiding behind a clump of hydrangeas.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“You gotta get better control of your woman,” Roman said. “If I had an old lady–”
“Shut up,” Ghost barked, with such force that Roman actually shut up. He and Collier were just shadows in the dark, but they were staring at him, that he could tell. “Look, the plan’s changed. Our wise and powerful leader’s got some kinda deal going with the Ryder clan. They’re set to show up here, at the party, in a half hour.”
“What are you–” Roman started.
“Shut it. Roman, Duane knows about the deals you’ve been making behind his back.”
Soft chuff of a gasp.
“And he’s decided the best way to handle it is to let the Ryders have you. That’s why they’ve shot at us twice now – they were after you.”
In a careful voice, Collier said, “You can’t know that.”
American Hellhound Page 37
