Page 119 of American Hellhound
James looked her up and down without emotion, without any of Duane or Roman’s leering. Then his face softened. Yes, a lot like her dad, minus the frazzled, henpecked quality.
“How much do you know about what he does?” he asked.
“Enough to hate it…but I know he won’t stop until he has a better alternative.”
He nodded. “Deal went south. He’s got a good size cut on his side.” Her hand lifted and hovered over it; already, dots of blood seeped through the bandage. “It’ll heal without stitches, but it’ll leave a scar.”
“He won’t care about that.”
He nodded again. “Keep it real clean, and he’ll be fine.”
She teased the bandage’s edge with her fingertips. “Thank you.”
“He was pissed Bonita called you. He didn’t want you getting upset.”
“Chivalrous ass,” she said with a sigh.
“You don’t look upset.”
“Don’t I?” She held up a hand so he could see the tremor in it. “I thought I was going to have a panic attack on the way over.”
He studied her a moment. Assessing. “How old are you?”
Everyone wanted to know, but he was the first to ask with genuine curiosity – and nothing else.
“Sixteen.”
His expression didn’t change, still soft, still fatherly. No judgment.
“Usually, this is the part where I get an insult or a bad pickup line,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m a happily married man, and I want my guys to be happy too.”
“You’re the vice president,” she guessed.
“Yep.”
“You don’t seem very much like Duane.”
“Most people agree with you on that.”
She looked at Ghost’s face; she could envision the way the bruises would darken, purple, black, yellow. “I’m worried about him.”
“He’s not always happy about the things the club is doing. That makes it hard for him.”
“I want to help him,” she admitted, lifting her head.
James’s smile was sympathetic. “All you can do is love him. That’s the only way you can help.”
~*~
Ghost dreamed of dark, crowded warehouses, the dust up past his ankles, thick in the air, choking him. Dreamed of Duane sitting on the picnic table, cigarette cherry reflected in his eyes. Then he shifted – eyes glowing red, teeth growing into fangs. He broke apart and reworked himself into a real dog, its black ruff standing on end, growling deep and low as he leapt off the table and toward Ghost. He dreamed of fangs sinking into his side, bright pain, and Roman’s laughter.
Then he woke up. It was a slow, foggy process, his vision gummy, the pain in his side real and insistent.
He became aware that it was morning, pale light filtering through the blinds, and that there was a warm body pressed up against his good side. He tried to move his feet and found they were weighted down.
He blinked away the last haze of sleep and lifted his head. Aidan lay lengthwise across the foot of the bed, snoring like a little chainsaw. Maggie was folded into Ghost’s side, hands curled beneath her chin, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.
