Page 104 of American Hellhound
She felt a pang of sadness, for herself, for them. For Ghost, his hand so tight on her hip she knew there’d be bruises tomorrow.
She turned her head to look at his face, the red and white sheen of neon in his eyes. He watched the goings-on with a pained expression, brows notched together, jaw clenched.
Without thinking, she reached to smooth her thumb along that tense, strong line of his jaw, saw the tendons in his neck leap in reaction. His eyes cut toward her, red, and white, and black.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “We’re animals.”
“Yeah.” She wasn’t going to disagree with the obvious. But: “It happens.”
He corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I told you you didn’t want nothin’ to do with me.”
“Yeah, well, that was stupid of you.”
A real smile spread. “Yeah, I’m stupid. And you came out with me.”
She tried to give him a taste of his one-eyebrow lift, but she had to lift both together. “We’ve been here five minutes and you’re insulting my intelligence?” Mock-offended, biting back a smile of her own now.
“Nah. Never.” He set his drink down on the end table and used both hands to pull her into his lap, a development she wholeheartedly approved of. Like this, she could lean against his chest, feel his stubble against her throat when he hooked his chin over her shoulder.
“Okay. So,” she said, settling against him. He warmed her better than any sip of whiskey. “Introduce me.”
He smiled into her neck. “Okay.” And subtly pointed out the people in the room around them.
Hound was serving as bartender tonight; Ghost said he could track a man better than any blue tick. Justin was the one with the coke habit, Bruno the now-tipsy tequila drinker who’d decided to pour the rest of the bottle of Cuervo onto the groupie’s breasts and suck it off her nipples. Desi – who did look alarmingly like Desi Arnez – was sprawled across a sofa with the girl who’d just sucked him off, completely unconcerned that his pants were still open. Knife Darts was a game that Sampson and Brutus had invented – they looked like their names ought to be Sampson and Brutus.
He didn’t see everyone in here, he said; the others must be out by the fires.
The fires – the sight of them had bothered her when they first pulled up, made her think of hell breaking loose, andMad Maxpost-apocalyptic wastelands. The smell of that smoke had been considerably more pleasant, though.
She turned her head so she could whisper in his ear. “Where’s Duane?”
He put his lips to her ear in turn. “Probably in back. He’ll be out here, though. He never misses a party.”
~*~
One whiskey left her warm, and then the prospect brought them another round and she was glowing. The horrors of the party seemed less important now; she was more amused by the goings-on than repulsed by them. Safe in the circle of Ghost’s arms, with his warmth and strength all around her, she was lulled into a false sense of wellbeing. This was just a funny diversion, and soon they’d leave and go home, where Aidan was asleep, and Rita was watching crap TV, and they would fall into their bed together.Theirs. Because she washis.
And then Ghost stiffened beneath her – not in a good way.
“Duane,” he hissed in her ear, and she wished she could take back those two whiskeys.
Her first instinct was to stand; years of good manners dictated she get to her feet, smile, shake hands, say it was a pleasure to meet him. But Ghost held her hips and kept her on his lap, so she didn’t budge, glancing out of the corner of her eye as a man came into view.
He didn’t look like Ghost. That was her first impression. He had dark hair and dark eyes, yes, but the man who stepped in front of her reminded her in no way of the man who held her on his lap.
Duane Teague was about six feet, and in good shape. Wide shoulders and narrow waist, hair trimmed, clean shaven save a shadow of stubble along his jaw. The biker life had aged him, deep lines around his eyes and mouth – laugh lines, but they struck her as cruel. His nose had been broken more than once, but it was a good look on him. The wordruggedcame to mind. He wore a Lean Dogs t-shirt under his cut, and his forearms were tan, and scarred, and strong. Big paws for hands, and more scars on his knuckles.
He looked down at her, made eye contact, smirked, and suddenly hewasGhost. The Ghost of the future, and it terrified her. He was the worst kind of frightening: you knew he could snap you in two, but there was nothing outward to warn you off. No repulsive scar, or deformity, or a bright blinking sign over his head. Unlike the beer-bellied, bearded men around him, he was handsome. And all the parables spoke of handsome devils – sin always looked like something you wanted.
“Kenny,” he greeted, and dropped down into the chair across from their loveseat. He turned the broke-down recliner into a throne. “She came.”
Ghost sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and rearranged her on his lap. His hand went to her hip again, fingertips fitting over the bruises he’d left earlier. “Yeah. This is Maggie. Mags, this is my Uncle Duane.”
Maggie tamped down her nerves and let her training take over, extending a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
His smile broke slow and sly, eyes moving over her in a way that was almost vulgar. Just a look, but it felt physical. “Lovely,” he echoed, taking her hand in his large, scarred, callused grip. He held the shake a beat too long, gaze boring into hers. “Aren’t you a pretty piece. Ghost, you didn’t say she was pretty.”
Ghost cleared his throat and Duane let go of her hand, slowly. “Didn’t think it mattered.” Voice tight, grip tight, thighs hard beneath her own. Tensed and ready for action.
