American Hellhound

by Lauren Gilley

  Just like it wasn’t Aidan’s.

  Shit, he was doing better, but he still felt the crushing weight of not enough all the time.

  “I’m gonna recommend Aidan be your sponsor when you prospect,” Ghost said.

  Boomer’s head snapped around, gaze startled and unguarded. “But…”

  “Yeah. You’re not done with your hangaround period, I know. But you’ll get your prospect patch, no problem. And when you do, I think Aidan’ll be good for you. He’s been where you have.”

  Boomer’s brows went up.

  “Son of an asshole.”

  Slowly, like the dawn breaking across the Tennessee River, the boy grinned.

  Thirty-Three

  Then

  While James looked on, mild and smiling, the most true to life figurehead imaginable, Ghost began the recruitment process. As boys flushed out, went to prison, transferred to other chapters, and dropped off the face of the earth, he started bolstering their ranks with members who would contribute to the club, rather than take from it.

  But he supposed his first recruit was Maggie. She was the one who shored him up, completed his transformation from boy to man. Who helped him think like a leader. Like a president.

  ~*~

  “I hear you’re trying to build yourself an empire,” Phillip said, amusement radiating through the phone line. A chuckle all the way from London. “And last I checked, an empire needs capital.”

  “Why do I get the impression you’re trying to sell me something?”

  “Not sell. Offer you the services of. I’ve got a little brother who’s a genius with numbers. You could have your very own Money Man.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yeah.” Phillip sighed. “Look, he’s a good kid. He’s little, quiet, he don’t eat much. And I gotta get him away from Charlie before one of them winds up dead.”

  Which was how Ghost and Maggie found themselves at the airport three days later, waiting on Phillip Calloway’s little brother to show up.

  “Daddy, how far away is London?” Ava asked, clutching her raggedy stuffed dog to her chest, eyes wide as she watched the people coming and going across the slick terrazzo floor.

  “Far,” he said, because he had no idea what the mileage was.

  “We’ll look it up in the encyclopedia when we get home,” Maggie suggested, smoothing a stray lock of hair back behind Ava’s ear. When she looked up, her eyes went past Ghost to a point beyond. “I think that’s him.” And then soft, motherly: “Oh, Ghost.”

  He turned to look.

  Phillip hadn’t lied: the young man walking toward them was little. Phillip had said he’d been a jockey, and Ghost believed it, seeing his slight, wiry frame, no doubt much stronger than he looked. His jeans had big rips in the knees, and his jacket was faded and dusty at the cuffs. His face was too skinny, like he hadn’t grown into it yet, his nose beaky. He carried a lone rucksack over one shoulder, hand curled around its fraying strap.

  His wheat-colored hair was in his eyes, and when he reached to push it back, he revealed the family eyes – that eerie crystal blue – and not a scrap of emotion.

  With robotic precision, he walked up to Ghost, squared his battered Docs together, and said, “Ghost, sir?”

  “That’s me.” Ghost stuck out a hand; the kid had a firm shake, all business. “I take it you’re Kingston.”

  “Just Walsh. Please.”

  The silence that descended was awkward, at best. Ghost hadn’t expected this emotionless, self-contained, dutiful adult. Though maybe he should have. Devin Green’s bastards were all unexpected in their own ways.

  Maggie said, “Walsh, do you like spaghetti?”

  And Ghost knew he was invited to dinner, and that, like always, Maggie would make sure everything was okay.

  ~*~

  Maybe it was her constant forced shopping trips as a little girl, but Maggie wasn’t one of those women who shopped for hours and hours. She went in, got what she wanted, and came back out, no muss, no fuss. So it surprised Ghost when he got home and found that she wasn’t back yet. But he thought he understood.

  Kev started school the next day, and she’d taken him to get outfitted.

  The sun was setting when her headlights finally cut across the lawn. She and Kev and Aidan came in bearing pizza and a dozen shopping bags.

  Maggie put a hand on Kev’s too-thin shoulder and made an expansive gesture toward his baggy jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket – all of it new, and fashionable, and just like what Aidan would wear. They’d had his hair cut too, while they were out, the sides of his head shaved, the pale blond strands long and falling onto his forehead in front. Ghost caught the wink of an earring.

  “Doesn’t he look handsome?” she asked Ghost.

  Kev chewed his lip, blushed, and looked down at his toes.

  Aidan looked at Ghost, expression saying don’t mess this up, Dad.

  Ghost felt something soft and warm unfold in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

  ~*~

  Bob Boudreaux had a bad habit of yelling when he was on the phone. He was a big man with a big voice, and sometimes he forgot that.

  “You son of a bitch, how you been?” he boomed, and Ghost pulled the phone back from his ear. Across the kitchen table from him, Maggie smiled into her coffee.

  “I’m good,” Ghost said, in a regular voice, thank you very much. “Hound tells me if I’m looking for a bodyguard, I ought to talk to you.”

  “For you?”

  “No. For my old lady and my little girl. Shit’s kinda shaky up here right now.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” Bob said. “I think I got just the boy for the job. I’m trying to get him outta town anyway. How do you feel about a real big motherfucker who don’t mind getting his hands dirty? And I mean real dirty.”

  Ghost said, “Tell him to pack a bag.”

  ~*~

  Hosting new transfers for dinner became a routine over the years. Maggie would make something delicious and when the conversation lulled – as it always did among strangers – she would dive right in, polite and inquiring, but never prying. The sort of easy chitchat that never failed to put people at ease.

  Michael, though…

  “He’s weird,” Ghost said, after, when they were standing at the kitchen sink. She washed and he dried. “I mean – weird. Possibly Hannibal Lector weird.”

  “He can’t be any weirder than the rest of you,” she said briskly, though he saw the corner of her mouth quirk down as she scrubbed at the roasting pan.

  Ghost sighed. “So long as he doesn’t kill us all in our sleep one night.”

  ~*~

  Now

  April. One of those half-clear days with tumbling gray clouds along the horizon, a distant promise of thunder that wouldn’t come any closer. Wind raced through the parking lot, tumbling errant bits of paper, tugging at the clothes of patients and staff alike.

  Ghost paused at the window, his ghostly reflection staring back at him, to glance across the greening treetops, toward the shadow of the mountains, cradling the small warm bundle in his arms. Just a moment to gather himself before he introduced the next Lean Dog to the rest of his huge, insane family.

  Maggie had been asleep when he slipped out of the room, snoring softly, beautiful. She’d worked so hard, gritting her teeth instead of screaming, squeezing his hand until he’d thought she would break it. She was perfect, and she deserved her nap.

  “Alright,” he said, only partly to himself, and continued on down the hall, through the swinging door into the waiting room.

  It was a sea of black and white out there, cuts and jeans, the glint of silver rings and wallet chains. Ava spotted him first, popping up out of her chair, eyes going straight to the baby. Then the rest of them, murmuring excitedly.

  “Guys.” Ghost was surprised by the rusty croak of his voice, wrung-out and tired. Brothers and sisters crowded in close, but slowly, carefully, all peering down at the tiny pink face inside the white blan
ket. “This is Asher. We’re gonna call him Ash.”

  And the club kept growing.

  Thirty-Four

  “I feel like we’re turning into the kind of family they write about in sitcoms,” Maggie said as they ambled down the sidewalk, Ava steering the stroller. “Us with our three generations.”

  “Baby, hold onto the side,” Ava said to Cal, reaching to guide his hand back to the stroller. To Maggie, she said, “Forget sitcom. This is Pulitzer-winning novel territory we’re getting into.”

  Maggie snorted and glanced at their reflections in the shop window as they passed. Millie was in the front seat of the double stroller, smiling and waving at strangers who seemed delighted to wave back, charmed by her sweet grin. Ash was in the back, in the shade, and when Maggie peeked in on him, he stared up with wide, grave dark eyes.

  He was going to be another Teague: black curly hair, brown eyes, the propensity for frowning. Her man had some dominant DNA.

  There were three generations of them out together. Millie was delighted by Ash, always calling him “my baby.” She had no concept that he was her uncle.

  It was a strange déjà vu having a baby in the house again – one that was hers. Mercy and Ava stayed over plenty, and vice versa, but the hungry, wet-diaper cries that echoed through the house in the wee hours were always followed by the soft thump of feet as Ava or Mercy went to answer the call. Now, Maggie and Ghost rolled toward one another in bed, groggy and grumbling, and then jerked at the same time.

  “Shit, that’s ours,” Ghost said that first night home from the hospital. The stricken look on his face in the dark – Maggie had laughed so hard it had distressed Ash further, and it had taken twice as long to shush him back to sleep.

  Maggie felt so much older than she had the last time she’d done all this. Looked in the mirror these days and saw a grandmother, rather than a new mother. Cupped Ash’s fragile, smooth head in her hand and saw the sun freckles on her knuckles. Imagined she felt the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She wasn’t old, she knew that, but she felt a little stretched and tired.

  Cal, little chatterbox, kept up a steady stream of observations as they walked down the storefronts and turned the corner to head toward Stella’s. He was currently obsessed with comic books, and Maggie didn’t pretend to take note of any of the names, just nodded and said “uh-huh” where applicable.

  Stella’s was full of its usual bustling lunch crowd, and they had to wait until a table opened up that would accommodate a high chair for Millie. When they were settled, Julian came hurrying over, all smiles to take their drink order, and to coo over Ash.

  “He’s beautiful,” he told Maggie, smile absorbed as he stared down at him.

  “Especially when he’s sleeping,” Maggie joked.

  “Looks just like his papa.”

  “None of his apples fell far from the tree, did they?”

  Ava made a face across the table that Cal then mimicked.

  “Oh,” Julian said, as if he’d just remembered something, looking up at her face, growing concerned. “I saw the prison break on the news in back. What does Ghost say?”

  Maggie’s stomach clenched. “What does Ghost say about what?”

  “Prison break?” Ava said.

  ~*~

  The TV was on when they walked into the clubhouse. Maggie carried Ash in her arms, his warm, solid weight a comfort against her chest. He fussed quietly, picking up on her stress maybe.

  Walsh was sitting on a table, holding the remote, and bumped the volume up as they entered.

  “…associated with outlaw motorcycle gang the Dark Saints…”

  Club, Maggie corrected in her head. Though maybe the Saints didn’t deserve that distinction.

  The stern-faced news commentator said, “Authorities are also searching for prison employees” – two photos flashed up on the screen – “believed to be involved with the prisoners’ escape.”

  Ghost turned toward them, arms folded, muscle in his cheek twitching, face a harsh mask. He was angry, furious – and he was scared.

  Maggie’s heartrate increased every time she saw him spooked like that.

  “It was Badger,” he said, voice tight. “Him and his VP. From what they can tell” – gesture to the TV – “they had guards on the take and the rest of the crew started up a big fight as a distraction. Badger and his boy got out in a goddamn laundry cart.” He sounded disgusted. “Cops found their jumpsuits and sneakers about a hundred yards into the woods, and an empty garbage bag.”

  “Someone left them clothes,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah. Best they can tell, they’ve been in the wind for five hours.”

  “Plenty of time to get here,” Aidan said, voice grim.

  Roman spoke up from over the bar; Maggie hadn’t noticed him before. He was drinking Jack out of the bottle. “He won’t make a move on his own. That’s not how he works.”

  “The rest of his boys are still in lockup,” Ghost said, frowning at him.

  “The ones he brought here, yeah,” Roman said like Ghost was an idiot. He didn’t look steady on his stool; clearly, the drinking had been going on for a while. “But he’s got other chapters. He’ll pull in out of town boys for this. Then he’s gonna hit you hard.”

  Ghost went to him in two long strides and snatched the bottle out of his hand, spattering Roman’s shirt and jeans with whiskey droplets.

  “Hey!”

  “Get some coffee in you. You’re the reason these assholes are knocking on my door. You’re by God gonna help me fix it.”

  ~*~

  “Baby,” Maggie said, and Ghost realized he was mindlessly massaging his chest, the hard line of his sternum and the meat beside it, like he was trying to soothe his jumping heart with his fingers. He dropped his hand to his lap and let out a deep breath that made his lungs ache. He wanted a cigarette so badly his skin vibrated with the need, but he wouldn’t do that with Mags and the baby in the room with him.

  She sat across the desk from him in the office, Ash quietly alert in her arms, his eyes tracing the dark-paneled walls.

  Walls that seemed to be closing in on him, laughing at him. A laugh that sounded disturbingly like Duane.

  “I fucked up,” he said.

  She sighed, rolled her eyes, that move she always did when she thought he was being overly dramatic. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did,” he insisted. He wondered if she knew how close he was to panicking; of course she did, she knew everything about him. She could read him like a psychic. “I wanted it to be over and done with, and I took the easy way out.”

  “You took the safe way,” she said. “The bloodless way.”

  He frowned down at his desk, his open day planner on the blotter, full of his cramped handwriting.

  “You were looking out for all of us. The whole city. Anybody else would have turned Main Street into the OK Corral,” she continued. “But you didn’t. You tried to do it the right way.”

  Duane’s voice filled his head, and he felt the corner of his mouth lift in reaction. It wasn’t a smile, but it probably looked like one. “I hate selling drugs,” he said, quietly, an admission. He’d never been to church a day in his life; his marriage was his confessional, Maggie his priest. “Duane said, once, when I was still a prospect, ‘It ain’t about what you want. What you like. Whether it feels good to you. It’s about being in control. If you control the sin, you control the man who commits it.’” Somewhere in the cosmos – more like in hell – Duane was laughing himself sick over this, delighted as he watched Ghost come to the same bitter realizations he once had.

  “Every time I look at Kev,” he said, voice starting to fray at the edges, “I remember that I sell the shit that almost killed him and I just…” His hands tightened to fists in his lap. “I tell myself if I didn’t sell it, someone else would.”

  “They would,” Maggie said.

  “And that at least this way, I’m in control of it.” He shrugged, helpless. “But I’m just as bad as
he was. And the world’s just as dangerous as it was when he was sitting at this desk.”

  When he met Maggie’s gaze, she stared back at him levelly. “You’re not God, Kenny.”

  “What?”

  She snorted, thoroughly unimpressed. “Don’t get me wrong, baby, you’re hot shit, and you do a damn good job around here. But you aren’t actively making the world a more terrible place. It’s plenty terrible all on its own. Don’t get ahead of yourself there.”

  He felt a true smile touch his lips.

  She got to her feet and came around the desk, perched sideways on it and leaned down to pass him Ash. The baby came with a little disgruntled squeal and Ghost tucked him up under his chin, high on his chest, one hand supporting his diapered butt.

  “We do what we do for our babies,” Maggie said. “Maybe we’re horrible people – but our motivation isn’t. Don’t forget that.”

  He felt Ash’s heartbeat against his throat, light as butterfly wings, but steady. Strong in its own little way. He smelled like Johnson & Johnson, and Maggie’s milk, and that sweet new-baby smell that lingered in his skin. Ghost breathed it in, let the warmth and weight of him sink through his own skin, tried to draw it down into his bones.

  “So what’s the plan, boss?”

  Ghost spanned his son’s tiny back with his whole hand, felt ribbons thinner than his fingers, soft baby rolls of fat. Breathed in the smell of his hair. “The same as it always is: wipe ‘em off the face of the earth.”

  ~*~

  The shaking started somewhere in her chest and quickly spread, down her arms and legs, into her fingers, weakening her muscles until she could barely walk. Kris made it to her dorm – not wanting to be seen like this, weak – and collapsed onto the bed, sitting with her hands braced on her thighs, breathing, staring down at the carpet.