Page 102 of American Hellhound
“But what if it does?”
He was worrying frantically about the same thing. He said, again, “That won’t happen.”
“Ghost.”
“Don’t give him a reason,” he pleaded. “Yes, sir, no, sir, and don’t say shit about your family, or where you come from. Head down, eyes up. Mags.” He was panting a little now. “The Dogs. My brothers.” A curse in his mouth. “This isn’t like the movies. They’re scary, plain and simple. Anyone caught talking about them around town ends up six feet under.”
Her breath caught with a wordless gasp.
He got up from the chair and walked to her, each step heavier than the last. She was scared, and it was his fault.He’dput that wild look in her eyes.He’dput her in danger, simply by association.
He put his hands on her arms – soft, thin, breakable as twigs – and stared into her eyes, blue now, blue. Like storm clouds. He’d made a few big promises in his life. He knew what it felt like when one was building in his chest. Like now.
“They’re scary,” he repeated. “But I promise you. Mags, Iswear, I won’t let them touch you. Stay close to me, and I promise nothing bad will happen to you.”
A tremor moved through her, all the way to the tips of her fingers. She could have said any number of things. She said, “I believe you.”
~*~
He cut her skirt in half. Worse than half. Maggie wanted to be angry about it, but he’d asked, and he apologized, and she had the feeling she wouldn’t be needing an ankle-length navy blue skirt soon anyway. She used Scotch tape to fix a temporary hem, which now fell scandalously high against her thighs.
Ghost handed her one of his shirts to wear instead of the sweater, a blue and white plaid flannel that he knotted in front so it showed off the nip of her waist. “Leave it unbuttoned.” So her tank top flashed cleavage. He had an extra leather jacket in the hall closet, too big, but thick and well-made, warm, with lots of zippered pockets. She wore her black pumps.
She didn’t look in the mirror before they left, just a quick glimpse into the side of the toaster so she could apply her lipstick. She didn’t really want to see herself.
Rita showed up, managing to look both disapproving and indifferent. “Whatever,” she said when Ghost thanked her for coming on such short notice.
Then they were outside, getting on the bike; and it was cold, and Maggie really didn’t want to be on this damn Harley while she was wearing a too-short skirt.
Before he started the engine, Ghost twisted to look at her over his shoulder, expression serious in the moonlight. “Whatever happens tonight, just hold onto me and you’ll be okay,” he said.
She wanted to believe him – she’d told him so already – so she did.
~*~
It was a large tract of land off Industrial, right on the river’s edge. Waterfront commercial property with boundless possibilities. The city had offered to buy it a few years ago, and a boat dealership a few years before that. But Duane hadn’t agreed, and so it lay fallow, weed-choked and litter-strewn, nothing but dead cats and untapped potential. There was the clubhouse. That low gray building with too few windows, too large a pavilion, and the strange look of a business masquerading as a residence.
Ghost tried to see it through Maggie’s eyes as they approached, the wind funneling around them, her arms tight around his waist. Did she think there was anything beautiful about the moon-silvered grass, never mown, bowing and rippling? Or was it a ruin?
As they neared the driveway, he saw the blaze of fires burning in the fifty-five gallon drums, swore he could hear shouted laughter over the growl of the bike. It was in full swing.
Maggie’s arms tightened, fingers catching at his shirt when he turned into the lot. The shadows of men stood backlit by the fires, sinister and too-large. Bikes were lined up like wicked dominoes at the curb.
Please, he thought, a formless prayer. And then they were parking, and he was shutting off the bike, and they were here.
He was slow about putting down the kickstand, taking off his helmet. Maggie let out a deep breath, a rush of warm air against the back of his neck. He was so nervous, and he wanted to shake, and fret, and take a few shots of something. But this was his world; he had to keep it together for Maggie. He’d told her to hold on to him, and he’d be damned if he let her down.
He helped her off the bike and stood up, shoulders squared, face the tightest, bravest mask he could conjure. Maggie stood in his shadow, trembling like a new colt. He put his arm around her waist.
“It’s fine,” he told her, grateful his voice came out steady. “We’re gonna walk in the front door, go up to the bar, get drinks, and go sit down. No sweat.” Until he had to introduce her to Duane. “Just lean on me, sweetheart, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
“You make it sound like a medical procedure,” she joked, but it fell flat. And then she said, “Okay,” and smoothed her hair back, gave him a smile that melted his insides. “Lead the way.”
He took her hand, laced their fingers together.Please.
Snippets of conversation floated toward them as they walked to the door, accentuated by the crackle of flames.
“…no fucking way.”
