Page 108 of American Hellhound
She folded her arms and gave him her best unimpressed look, given the circumstances. “What are you doing?”
His grin widened. “You don’t wanna stay back here and keep me company?”
“Decidedly not.”
“Come on, sweetheart, you know you can’t be having any fun talking about girl shit. And your man’s a stupid shit for leaving you by yourself.” He dipped his head, close enough she could smell liquor on his breath. ‘But I’ll keep you company.”
He could grab her and drag her into one of these dorm rooms. He could do anything he wanted to her, and no amount of kicking or clawing could stop him.
For the dozenth time tonight, she felt impossibly young and stupid.
But she’d been raised to think that a lady was never anything less than prepared for any situation, lessons she hadn’t expected to draw on in an instance such as this.
Shaking inside, she managed to keep her gaze steady. “Yeah, no. Do I look like one of your club sluts? Excuse me.” She made a shooing motion with her hand, a clear dismissal.
His smile stayed fixed, but she saw his eyes darken. He was offended.
“Please get out of my way.”
He stared at her a moment, then stepped aside.
“Thank you.”
He caught her by the arm as she passed, holding her in place, and her panic spiked.
Leaning in close, breath tickling her ear: “Just do me one favor, baby. You keep Ghost good and preoccupied. Keep him home, keep him in bed. We don’t need him around here.” He let go of her roughly, shoving her.
She stumbled a step, got her bearings, and hurried down the hall before he could change his mind.
She paused, though, at the mouth of the hall, and glanced back. He stood with his back to her, shoulders tense, head bowed. In the dim light, he painted a forlorn picture. It tugged at her. If she’d seen Ghost like that, she would have walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Ghost.
She shook her head and walked on.
~*~
The fires burned still, electric orange and crackling, puffing smoke signals up to the moon. The night had grown cold, but Ghost was warm. Maggie leaned into his side, enjoying the weight of his arm across her shoulders. Her whiskey buzz was wearing off and now she was sleepy. That chemical fatigue that lifted a magnifying glass to details, sent her to the second row in her mind: a careful observer of the moment rather than a participant.
Her gaze moved beyond the crowds gathered around the barrels, out toward the water, a gem-bright expanse in the moonlight. “Does the club own all this land?”
“Hmm. Yeah.”
When she turned her head, she saw his frown. “What?”
His eyes slid over. “Huh?”
She reached to press a fingertip to the corner of his mouth. “You don’t like that the club owns it?”
He glanced away. “Nah, it’s just…what a waste, you know? It’s empty.”
She sensed she’d hit the edges of a festering wound, a part of the ailment that had turned him from a young man to the cynical, depressed single dad she now knew. She pushed at it; wounds needed lancing. That was the only way to be rid of them.
“What do you want to do with the property?”
He took a deep breath. It was big, this idea of his, and he carried the weight of it all on his own.
“Ghost,” she said, quietly, gently. “Tell me.”
